Documentary

You know that saying, 'Still waters run the deepest'. Docu-lady is that saying personified.

She came over, she sat opposite me, she fiddled about with her fancy video camera, she asked me questions about my virginity and asked me to repeat myself on more than one occasion. She was making a documentary in the name of research. And I was the subject.

And during our two hour session she burned herself whilst unscrewing my bedside lamp (lighting is so important), grew increasingly frustated with her camera which wouldn't do as she was asking and felt her legs go numb as she knelt down for far too long. And all this I know because she told me. Because on the surface she is an ocean of calm. Because this lady only wants people to know what she tells them. I've always admired that quality in people. To keep up a facade of normality even when you just want to scream. I get the feeling this lady hasn't really screamed in a long long time. Screaming is long overdue.

I suppose the reason I allowed her to come and visit me was because I was curious. Attention is the thing I love most and the thing I hate most. The biggest contradiction of my life.

And as the camera started to roll, I suddenly felt myself change. I was slowly unraveling. Becoming a victim of my own decisions. It frightened me, that I could feel so weak in front of a glass lens. Suddenly my story became a little too personal.

I have still to analyse what exactly happened this evening, but I haven't felt this strange in a long while. Docu-lady insisted I was 'a natural' and appeared rather smug (she won't mind me saying) in the way she assumed and continues to assume that I will allow her to make a documentary about my journey from purity to filth. This evening has taught me that some projects are best worked on alone. In the deep deep dark.

Spurt (pun always intended)

Going back to somebody's house to watch a DVD is the cutting edge version of going back for coffee. Apparently.

It's ridiculous. Let's imagine it. You're in a bar and you're chatting up some attractive Russian. She's laughing at everything you say, a constant smile is plastered to her face. She follows you as you go to get the next round in and, to be perfectly blatant about it, is into you. Whatever you did was right. And as the music is pumping and the smoke is swirling, and there's a semi-erection bouncing inside your trousers, you lean over and whisper carefully into her ear 'Maybe we could go back to my place and watch a DVD'.

It simply doesn't sound right. Under these circumstances, why can't we be more direct. Do you fancy coming back to mine? Do you fancy having some wonderful sex back at mine? Shall we continue this conversation back at mine. I just think the DVD line is a bit... fogey. It's a bit childish. It's what you might have said at the age of ten had you the guts.

This is yet another of my problems. The lack of suitable chat lines that I can use when out on the dating scene. There must be something I can say which'll make people dissolve into a puddle at my feet. No?

On another note: Lady Macbeth has been in touch. She's forever spread smoothly half over the world. It's not that she's a feisty older woman with a great wisdom and splendor that attracts me to Lady Macbeth. It's the fact that she is eternal. She's one of the few women I know who are in full control of their destiny. She also has a flock of men strutting after her, sticking to her, like moths to a flame. Only, she's just as picky as I am, and we're on a journey to find the politest way of saying 'no thank you' because sometimes these words don't appear to have the desired effect.

Passive listening

I'm guilty of it. Tonight is the perfect example. I met up with a friend for dinner. His long term relationship has recently come to an end. It made me sad. But I couldn't be sympathetic. I couldn't say things to make him feel better. Instead I kept telling him to grab a hold of himself and move on the way his ex probably has. I told him that he shouldn't keep stewing in the juices of his relationship as this will achieve nothing. And I agree with this full heartedly. What can you achieve by cultivating sadness. How long do you have to mourn the death a relationship before you can make footprints in the unspoiled sand?

Does that fact that you can move on rapidly mean that the relationship never meant anything important to you in the first instance? I think not. Sometimes you need to realise that wanting something badly, not understanding where it went wrong and why are all blessings in disguise. For if you knew these things, you'd never be able to rest. You'd simply beat yourself up over the thoughts of what you might have done differently. If you don't look towards the future there is a grave risk of drowning in your past.

So, this friend was dissecting his relationship and I was listening intently at the beginning, because what he had to say was intelligent and thoughtful. And it remained so, although I felt myself zooming out. Thank god I'm a good actor. This passive listening thing is very unflattering. My inability to stay interested for any length of time will prove detrimental in the future. Mark my words.

How exactly am I supposed to help somebody post breakdown? What am I meant to say? Am I meant to share the sadness? Am I meant to say 'You could have done better'. Am I meant to tell him off for being a fool and letting some silly boy trample all over him? Am I meant to offer a mercy fuck? Am I meant to bring him out of his shell and find him a nice piece of man meat? I have no idea. Any suggestions?

This is an area where my virginity glows in the dark, fiercely.

The resolution

M and I talked things over. Two nights ago. In the simplest terms we’ve come a decision; talking - yes, continuation of the friendship – yes, sex (all forms) – no.

Sex with a person who is not your boyfriend is wrong. This is what we’ve decided. So, even though M doesn’t regret a single minute of our relationship, those six years were ethically wrong.

M wanted to know why I was ‘bitter’. What was it about our relationship that made me bitter? I should say, it was never M (wholly), but our situation. I felt short-changed and rejected and these two things together can make a person bitter.

One thing I’ve come to realise, perhaps more now than ever before, is just how much M cares for me. As silly as this may sound, I had little idea. At least no idea how much affection could pour from M’s heart. I always assumed That M regarded our relationship as another sexual endeavour. Just another way of coming. But I was wrong and M was quick to point this out. What we have, according to M, is beyond sex. I agree. But we became complacent. We expected sex and when we were horny we usually got it. It was easy. And this complacency is perhaps the reason behind my often feeling that our conversation outside of sex was running dry.

My comments earlier in this blog regarding M has upset M, not because what I was saying was wrong or deceitful, but because it was truthful. Because sometimes, when somebody holds a mirror opposite you, for the first time, you are forced to confront the reality of what it shows. You, for what you really are. For what you’ve done.

I found this hard to believe at first. That M could spend years doing something they would one day consider to be wrong, and not once would this occur to them in times past. I think sometimes we refuse to see what’s there, in that hope that life will somehow sort things out before it becomes too late. And usually, life does. But sometimes, when you sweep too many things under the carpet, one quick sweep is unlikely to clear everything.

It was important to me to tell M that I resented feeling jealous about M’s boyfriend, that I often felt like an inferior ‘bit on the side’ (as opposed to a yummy side dish), and that I wanted to get so much more in return than what I did get. Most importantly, I was annoyed at myself for allowing somebody to wrap me up in this emotional vortex only so that I couldn’t free myself the way I’d planned. I was indeed walking into a well with little hope of ever re-emerging. Curiosity eventually killed the cat I guess. But in the process I made a friend who I share something quite special with. I think beneath is all, there is a simple strand of longing that will forever hold us together. So fragile yet so strong. Strong with determination for what could have been.

M has made it clear that there is no intention of breaking things off with the boyfriend and this fact alone has allowed me to feel some sort of satisfaction at being able to draw a line under our relationship-past and concentrate firmly on our relationship-present.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about what this means. Have I wasted six years of life hoping for something that I should have turned away from many years ago. Are the things I have gained from our relationship likely to outweigh the feelings of sadness on its demise? Do I regret M?

The answer is no, because although now there is sadness, it is only once I’ve stepped inside my future that I’ll know just what an impact this relationship has had on my life. That I’ll be able to look at my relationship with M and realise that it has shaped who I am. I think M has built up inside me a sexual confidence that is now so admired, so hard to break. M has taught me the power of desire and this is something you take with you as you climb the ladder.

What does it really mean to regret when your feelings take a hold, and you have no choice. Nothing. So I won’t do it. I feel a certain stillness inside me these days. A simmering. I know that the world is waiting there, and before long I’ll feel ready to go and explore it. M has given me the skills I need.

Thank you M

songs to listen to

Two songs which have caught my attention. Have a listen.

1. Keysha Cole - 'I should have cheated'

"I might as well have cheated on you
As much as you accused me of cheating
I might as well have lied to you
As much as you accused me of lying
I might as well have gone to the club
As much as you accused me of clubbin'
I might as well have threw away my love
As much as you accused me..."

(Some people spend too much time cultivating their insecurities rather than cultivating their relationship. If your partner is going to cheat, you've already failed. So don't try and make up for that loss by accusing them of things you know you'd do, if you were in the same situation. Have trust in your relationship, because nobody else will.)

2. Cassie - 'Me & U'

"you've been waiting so long, I'm here to answer your call
I know that I shouldn't have had you waiting at all
I've been so busy, but I've been thinking 'bout what I wanna do wit you
I know them other guys, they've been talking 'bout the way I do what I do
They heard I was good, they wanna see if it's true
They know you're the one I wanna give it to
I can see you want me too...Now it's Me & U "

(if there something about you that makes your sexual partner go hot and gooey, well done to you. Persistence is attractive. If somebody really really wants you, why not give them what they want, even if you sacrifice your desires for one brief moment. Something givers should be allowed to give freely.)

critical period

And now, back to normal.

Desdemona has become an aunt to a beautiful niece. I haven’t seen her as yet; though all babies are beautiful I’m sure. Each one. In his or her own way.

One thing this child has been blessed with is an aunt who is likely to spoil her and, as she grows older, teach her the art of love and sex. This is precisely what the youth of today require. A decent role model. Somebody to look up to, unashamedly.

Congratulations to Desdemona’s family.

To think, there are people in this world for whom the sole purpose of sex is procreation. As sexy as sex for recreation is, I’m always amazed that it can produce another human being. Somebody completely new. Somebody for whom life is full, to the brim, of infinite possibility.

This has me thinking. Years ago I studied psychology. Might explain this compulsive need to analyse. I learnt that there is a critical period for all children in which they should try to form strong bonds with the people around them. These bonds then act as templates for future relationships the child has. An unsuccessful critical period could therefore lead to dysfunctional future relationships.

I wonder whether relationships and, most importantly, virginity, have a similar critical period. If we don’t have sex during our teenage years, are we doomed for a difficult ride through the streets of desire once we hit the big 20. One thing I’m sure of is that things don’t get any easier. The older you are the more likely to need a great confidence boost. And though I advocate strongly against offering your virginity the way you would a mars bar in your packed lunch, at least it’ll be done. A quick rough and tumble and you’re past stage 1. Then you can get on with cultivating your sex life.

The problem I have is that I don’t want to give it to just anybody, even though I know that doing so would ease me into a rampant sex life. I guess I have always figured that the flower I’ve fed and watered for 22 years shouldn’t be given to somebody for whom it would mean very little. My virginity, more than myself, deserves better.

So, this critical period does exist, I’m sure of it, after which things become much more complex. But also, what time offers us is a choice. I now have a choice. It’s much harder to develop a choice in these matters when so much boils down to social norms and pressure. I have it, it means a great deal and I will be damned if I let it fizzle out at the drop of some trousers.

The only difference is, the critical period, whilst providing ease of manoeuvre in your life, won’t damage the eventual sex life you embark upon. If anything, you’ll have thought about it so much, stewed over it so much that it’ll be as though you’d been doing it all along.

Warning:

In response to the spat of pathetic comments on this blog, as you will have seen, I have deleted each and every one of these. And will continue to do so.

There are millions of other pretty non-sexual blogs for you to read. It’s time you moved on and stopped wasting time.

Virginity defined

As I spoke with docu-lady, an issue we came across was the definition of virginity. After all, we can’t have the docu-lady making a documentary about virgins only to discover that her subjects were actually whore all along. I know she’ll appreciate my help on this matter. The dreadful term really is impossible to define. Of course this is precisely the reason I’d like to attempt some sort of definition.

Let’s start with the OED definition:

Virgin n. a person (esp. a woman) who has never had sexual intercourse.

So a man who hasn’t had sexual intercourse might fall under some other definition? Perhaps weirdo?

Step two – define sexual intercourse;

Sexual intercourse n. copulation, insertion of the penis into the virgin.

Step three – define copulation

Copulate v. have sexual intercourse. Copulation.

There we are, trapped in the humping cycle. Didn’t take long did it?

So we have a whole heap (and believe me there are heaps and heaps of them) of gay folk who remain virgins (unless of course they’ve had a rumble (actually, more than a rumble) with somebody of the opposite sex.

Desdemona thinks I’ll lose it once I’ve actually fucked somebody. To be clear, I have to put my x inside somebody. I have to be active. Doing is crucial to her definition. Of course, this definition comes from a straight female who must conversely believe that to have it put inside you (if you’re a woman) would amount to the same thing. Because women don’t own natural intrusive devices (At least not that I’m aware).

The TV exec says, “I always thought it was unless you'd been fucked.” So here we have a passive definition. He who receives an X up his bottom is no longer a virgin. I must admit, this is closer to my definition. And this is an experienced gay man talking who has also slept with women.

So, as we are able to ascertain, the issue requires a complex dissection. Comments from Ophelia, The Dame, Arthur and Adriana would be highly welcome at this point.

Now it’s down to me to inject a degree of practicality into the otherwise archaic definition. NOTE: This definition comes from an almost-virgin.

Loss of virginity: The moment you provide mutual sexual pleasure to one of more person.

Thus:

Pure Virgin n. Somebody who has never provided or received sexual pleasure of any form to a group of 1 or more persons, kissing included. Pure is the operative word.

Almost Virgin n. Me. Groping, though no sucking or inserting, no kissing, merely jerking things. And definitely no coming.

Pretentious Virgin n. A person who has performed oral sex and foreplay. Insertion of the fingers is included in this definition. Everything apart from putting something into something.

Non-Virgin aka Whore n. All other people.

Argh! Defining this blasted term has proved harder than I’d imagined. Await a revised definition in the near future.

Interior decoration : A Poem

There was a young woman from Ealing,
who had a peculiar feeling.
She lay on her back,
opened up her crack,
and pissed all over he ceiling.

Sheer poetry!

Ugh!

Yet another movie this evening (Orange Wednesdays are one of the best ever inventions). And Indian film called ‘Don’. Stylish and raunchy with a few absurd stunts. Worth checking out.

Ah, so, the last entry drew 9 comments! Please have a read of these if you haven’t already. They’re highly interesting.

I believe my relationship with M is officially on the rocks. I feel terrible about it. Horrible. How do you tell somebody you have great feeling for them when you know, that as you think these thoughts, they are curled up with somebody else. What right do you have exactly? That in fact, your fate is only two days away. And there will be a telephone call and it’ll all be over. As though it never happened. What do you do?

The reason I didn’t give M’s character description the same humour as the others is because I was bitter. It had occurred to me earlier that night that what I had been doing for the past two years was giving out my emotions, giving them out so freely and walking into a well I’d eventually find it difficult to come out from. I thought to myself, why is it that M has all of my feelings and I have few of M’s?

So, I admit it, I wanted to make a point. And this has upset M considerably, which I’m able to understand, though I don’t know exactly what has tipped M over the edge where M now appears to be so unreachable.

Another point to mention is that M, of all the people I know, doesn’t require flattery in order to know that what I feel is something far greater than what I should be feeling. And M should know this. And this fact alone granted me the liberty of writing the description the way I did.

I am now required by M to justify my writing, to justify my observations and to justify my emotions. And I would (and am) though I don’t feel they should require justification in order to afford them validation.

This is becoming overly sentimental so I should stop and save the rest for the person to whom it matters most. Though, what remains a fact is that I’m a far better writer than I am a speaker. And this coupled with my inexperience renders me vulnerable. I wish people could understand that.

Moving on…

The documentary producer continues to woo me. It’s flattering that somebody thinks what I have to say is interesting. Indeed, it’s interesting speaking with her. She’s so different to me. But there’s something here I can sense. Something I could learn from this woman. The lessons however need coaxing out of her, but I feel on the verge of some spillage. Glasses at the ready.

Right, day = 70% shit (weather, M, lack of achievement.) 30% good (home is a comfort zone, family are free, food and a good film). Though, 70% it hasn’t been in a very long time.

Spurt (pun always intended)

As I'm currently behind, there are a few things I need to catch you up on.

The good looking Norwegian I met a few entries ago. We had, how should I put it, an interesting discussion. He called me up for phone sex and demanded photos of my cock. But this is besides the point. If you recall, he's the one who won't let me poke him (poking is such a cool name for fucking. For pokers always poke out of curiosity. I'm a poker through and through). Our discussion led to how our next date might progress. I told him I'd like to get him drunk and put it up his bottom (it's okay to be so direct, flattering almost, wouldn't you agree?). He maintained that poking was for special people with whom there was a 'connection'. Now, I've grown far too dubious of this 'connection' theory. All it boils down to is being comfortable with somebody. Anyways, so I would have let it go, had he not then followed this by informing me that the guy at the gym who he has a mad crush on could fuck him (even though this guy probably has little clue of the crush and is straight). So, it's not really a connection at all. It's a judgment. What he was saying was that only those he completely desired were entitled to fuck him. Okay, so he half-desires me or thinks of me as an easy phone sex provider. And now for the most interesting bit of his rant. Apparently, my body shape doesn't help the situation (although he's said that finds my body attractive on numerous occasions). My body is apparently too thin to fuck him slightly fatter existence. Because it simply won't match. You know, like the fat white girl and the younger slim black guy. An eyesore. Though, I'm not quite sure who'll be watching apart from his mind's eye. And the conversation ended with the words 'we should meet up and do dirty things'. I can't help but laugh.

On an entirely separate note, the weekend past has been very successful in terms of my cultural awakening. Saw two great films and participated in my first reading group. It's my view that everybody should join a book club. The intelligence level is almost a guarantee (thick people simply don't read books apart from playboy) and you might even have a sexual encounter on your hands (don't worry, I'm trying). The films I saw were 'Little Miss Sunshine' which I have mentioned previously and also a film called 'The Namesake' (yes, an adaptation of the book) which I saw alongside The Dame as part of the London Film Festival. The director was about too, a fantastic woman who I was then able to meet and ask questions to. Am becoming quite the socio-cultural elephant (butterfly does sound nicer, though with such a short life span, I wonder whether it's wasted here).

Both films will have their reviews in due course, fear not. In the meantime, if you can see either or both, do it.

Another observation. Two comments on the blog have caught my eye. Somebody has commented "Exploration before acceptance" - sounds like denial to me!'' in reference to a previous entry (slag meeting (Desdemona and Arthur)). It made me laugh. What exactly am I denying? These half hearted comments really make me wonder. Whoever you are, please clarify the nature of the denial to which you're referring so that I can confirm or deny the allegation. The comment made me laugh because I'm being accused of denial on a blog, the purpose of which is to let out every truth that I've ever known. I suspect this person probably thinks the blog is one big gay closet. In which case, they're so not getting it.

24 and feisty. Ha, I know who you are! And thank you for the comment. It made me smile. And yes, I agree with everything you say. Not many of us would like to think that the person we spent hours licking out/sucking off eventually came at the thought of somebody else. All that hard work gone to waste. Rotting in the trash can. Selfish bastard.

Desdemona and Ophelia agreeing with The Dame on this whole hetero sex issue. I'll stand my ground on this one. A dildo is an object for sexual enhancement, not a declaration of yours sexuality. If a woman had a cock (no, think about it) you might still be attracted to her. Sexuality really has little to do with sex and more with communication between the lovers. It's about the mind set. Lesbians are attracted to the female mind. Cocks and pussies are so irrelevant. I need to hurry off, though, this debate is far from over.

Ciao

Awakening

Yes, it's true, I should have posted an entry yesterday. And the truth is that I tried. But the computer died shortly before I went to publish the post. Computers do that I'm afraid. The love between my Laptop and I often blossoms too quickly and dies at the drop of a hat. And the computer knows full well that there really is shit all I can do about it. Hands up, I'm the submissive to my electronic mistress time and time again.

So, here I am (Now at home, away from London) writing to you from a full blown PC.

Yesterday I went to meet a couple of documetary makers. What they are in the process of doing is talking to a whole bunch of quirky virgins (yes, I'm quirky) and following their journey once they decide to lose it, the blessed thing that it is. Three things are very clear. MUST be a virgin (apparently there are people in this land who like to play the virgin fantasy a little bit too much, though I'm still unsure how exactly they'd test mine). MUST be willing to be filmed (potentially a great marketing ploy for this blog and would thus enable me to achieve one of my commercial objectives). And MUST want to lose it (the virginity that is)(though, ensuring any such loss took place wasn't a part of the plan). It's to be screened late at night and is on a national television channel.

There are two reasons I can't do it.

1) Because I have parents who are still alive. And like most parents, they wouldn't like to think their spawn was anything other than a perpetual virgin. Although, if you produce them a cute little chubby bundle of joy, I'm led to believe they might turn a blind eye to your incredibly male and dirty moment of weakness.

2) Documentaries are for voyeurs. People like to sit back and watch weird people tell a weird story. for if it was 'normal' in the bigger scheme of things, nobody would be quite so excited about making a film about it. So, a desire not be a part of a freakshow. Because, although virgins are many many things (most of them non-sexual), we are a dying breed, a rare species we are not freaks. Not even similar.

actually there are 3

3) I never once thought of my virginity as a burden and I never felt it turned me into a victim. Not once. Virginity has always been and will remain a weapon. A sword to my sanity, to my independence. So, if people are watching me and thinking...'oh, I feel sorry for him, he must find it so hard..blah f*cking blah. Not having any of it.

Of course there is a reason to do it. It would put me on a creative platform. It would be the branch from the tree that is the blog. And most importantly it would enable me to dispel every single myth about virginity.

What if somebody saw it. The sexuality and the virginity might just render me homeless. The people in my home town are incredibly good at Chinese whispers. Too good.

So, am still considering, though it might have to be a no.

Meeting the two documentary makers was great though. They were both incredibly attractive. I guess I always imagined people who worked behind the camera as not quite having the potential to face it. But they did. I'm wrong. I asked the guy (there was a guy and a girl) whether he was confident and if he was, what made him confident. He replied 'There's always a fear of rejection, it's human. But after a while, you just think, sod it.' I never quite thought of that. But it's bang on. Sod it. People in this life will say yes and others will say no, just like I do. In fact, I do it all the time and much of the time it's a no no no. Sod it.

So, the ball keeps rolling...

Sleeping with The Dame.

The better looking a woman the more likely she is to be straight. The better looking a man the more likely he is to be gay. It's true, though I wish it wasn't. The idea of a herd of ugly lesbians doesn't sound too appealing.

There we have it. The reason why so many men seem to be gay in comparison to the number of women. I tell you, whenever I've been out in Soho, the number of men prancing about far far exceeds the lesbians. And this is precisely why I feel sorry for The Dame. It's never nice choosing from a pack of six when men seem to be choosing from pools of a hundred. And it doesn't help matters that the only women she spotted who she fancied was, she was convinced, straight. Of course, due to The Dame's lack of confidence, we will never know whether she was or whether she was in fact a girl who was looking for a Dame of her own.

This weekend (and a happy Diwali and New Year to my fellow Indians) I spent with The Dame. And what a wonderful weekend it was. A string of films, books and food. Orgasms of a non-sexual nature don't really come much better than this. A good friend is somebody fits into your life so easily that you don't really notice anything different when they're around. And despite this, the pleasantness of being is increased twice over.

I dragged The Dame along with me to my cultural orgy that is the cinema club. And what a fantastic film we saw. 'Little Miss Sunshine'. I shall write a review of this one tomorrow. Though, I will say, if you are bored, looking for a date movie, or in need of something that makes you think and laugh at the same time (yes, that rare combination), then take yourself along immediately. Of course what added to my smiles was seeing The Dame's face at having to pay £3.80 for some popcorn. Now, The Dame is a country girl through and through, though even I am forever shocked by the price of a bit of corn. £3.80! Yikes!

For supper, The Dame and I visited a sushi/noodle joint in Soho. Was nice and I'm growing more and more addicted to Sashimi. Now, without wanting to sound crude (though I have every intention) what's a supposedly gay man doing enjoying slabs of raw fish? Clearly Arthur's theory is wrong wrong wrong!

Okay readers, take note. My top three Soho places to visit: (this is based solely on the past three weeks and the list is bound to change)

1. Thirst Bar. Cocktails to die for. And make sure you watch them as they do that groovy cocktail thang.

2. The Friendly Society. Being the social climber I am, this particular underground gay basement is extraordinarily full of the gay high society. And there are some hotties. Older and firmer and damn right handsome. Mental note: Get three numbers the next time you visit.

3. G-A-Y (though can't wait for it to drop to No10). Arthur is right, it's a tourist attraction and probably so popular due to its name. It's great for cruising. And full of cheesy pop music. The drinks are expensive and the queues are ghastly and so not worth the wait. Otherwise fine, though am looking to move on..and fast.

Club of the moment.

Heaven. It's simply awesome, Talent, great music, more than one level, places for discreet sex and a diverse range of whores. Beautiful. Desdemona and I are planning to go there very shortly.

Highlights of the weekend:

Spending a few hours in Waterstones reading and drinking hot chocolate (for it's only The Dame who I can do this alongside). Hot chocolate with a dash of hazelnut syrup. Delicious. And why is it so? Because it's complete. Here is something in life that doesn't need updating, or enhancing or developing, it simply needs enjoying. And that's where the sex comes in. I mean, yes, it can always improve, but sex is rounded and complete. The experience of sex is I mean. What hazelnut infused hot chocolate and sex have in common really boils down to the ability to make one feel better. In fact, sex is the only thing I can think of that can make you feel so much better without actually costing anything. A lot of sex is free. And granted, a lot of sex is expensive. All of it has potential of being great and about 3/4 of it probably is. The remaining 1/4 simply isn't.

And finally, sleeping with The Dame in a lumpy rearranged single bed was a somewhat enticing experience. She's probably the only girl I could sleep with (barring relatives) and for there to be nothing weird or perverse in the situation. Only friends of the purest kind can sleep together and be the required number of miles apart at the same time. Perfect.

Slag Meeting (Desdemona and Arthur)

Friday night's are always run through with the anticipation of sex. Most people who go out have the intention of pulling. Even though they may have a boyfriend in a Marks and Spencer jumper waiting for their return. And those of us who harbour no such anticipation continue to assess the fuckability of each and every person we cross on our jolly out across London town.

And my Friday evening was divided into two clear slag events.

8.00pm: Was running awfully late for a meeting with Desdemona. Satsuma was the venue, and we were in the basement. The thing about Desdemona is that we can spend weeks apart and when we eventually meet it's as though we're meeting after the night before. We always have things to talk about. And of course, the conversation takes yet another step on the rung of my revolutionary ladder.

Now, the main point of discussion was an email I had received earlier that morning. It was in response to the advert I placed on Gumtree looking for a 'beautiful confident sexual mentor'. It went something like this:

"I'd love to talk to you about your search! I'm currently doing research for a sensitive Channel... Documentary about younger men seeking instruction from older, more experienced sexy women. Would it be possible to speak, or email? My number is ... And my name is... Thank you."

Who would have thought. As you can probably imagine I was quick in my response. Immediate almost. And later that afternoon I received a phone call. Of all the comments made, two struck me as interesting:

Can I just ask, are you really a virgin? I mean, I know there are some people who have a fantasy as coming across as a virgin, and if you're one of those them I'm really not interested'.

To which my response was

'Firstly, I AM a virgin though some people choose not to believe me as I am rather sex obsessed. I think about it all the time, in fact, I have a blog entirely based on my sexual musings (I wonder if they read the blog?) and secondly, how will you prove that I am in fact a virgin. If I had a man-hymen I would have masturbated it into extinction many many years ago.

So, we are meeting tomorrow afternoon. A posh cup of hot chocolate and perhaps even a slice of posh cake if the offers there. I couldn't appear on television. I really couldn't.

Right, so Desdemona thinks it'll be exciting and I'm totally inclined to agree. She also expressed a certain level of confusion over my latest slag adventure (the good looking Norwegian. Desdemona believes that I'm actually quite straight and am too desperate to paint over my sexual canvas with as many different colours as possible which is correct. But she also believes that I should find myself a 'nice' woman who'll give me all the sex and more. Experience is important to me. I have come to realise that having sex makes you sexy. 22 years it has taken me to reach this conclusion. If only I'd known sooner.

In contrast, Arthur, as we were dancing away in 'Shadow Lounge', (gay club and no pun intended, gas chamber) where I thought I was going to suffocate, said that he'd 'always known that I was gay'. Oh, how I hate that line! How can somebody know you're gay before you know it yourself? All he was saying was that he's always thought of me as camp. And therefore I must, like all other camp guys, be gay. I admit, many gay men are camp. But also, many straight men are camp. And many butch women are straight (just no fashion sense whatsoever). How can I know which sex I prefer until I've slept before. Arthur would argue against this notion I'm sure and suggest that it all boils down to a chemical feeling in the gut whenever you see somebody. But sometimes in life, a gut feeling isn't enough. And sometimes you have to give sex a chance, yourself a chance, the pussy a chance, the cock a chance. And chances are, you'll end up in greater confusion. but also, you may become demystified. And that's the stage that I'm at. Exploration before acceptance.

Back to the club. No room to move. It forces sex. And forced sex is never a good thing, no matter how up-for-it you might be. And to think all those big brother Z-list celebs were boogying down there. Ah, what an orgy of bitching that will have been.

10.30pm After a few cocktails I'm walking Desdemona back to the tube station. Arthur knows she is around and is supposed to be meeting us before she leaves. And, in the nick of time he does.

A background history is required. Sort of. Arthur would like to sleep with Desdemona. In fact, never grew tired of telling me this once she had left and we continued our Soho rampage. She's, and I quote, 'the only white girl I find attractive'. Which I believed (he has a thing for every other colour bar his own), had he not then introduced me to a Polish ex shag-ess who was also white and whom he tried desperately to re-pull. I have yet to discover whether anything has happened between them, though I would be totally unsurprised if something has. In her defence (though she doesn't know he has a girlfriend, so no defence is truly required), she makes a mean Daiquiri. And she can open beer bottles almost sado-masochistly. Yummy.

Arthur mentioned to me that he had a dream.
In the dream Desdemona was wearing one of his new Alexandar McQueen woolen jumper/jacket thingies (the technical term escapes me). And they were stood opposite each other. And they kissed twice, as the result of a pang of passion (the chemical gut feeling I mentioned earlier you understand). Long, passionate, all encompassing kisses I was told. And then he woke up with an erection. I must admit, he was much more flowery in his description, though flowery language is too much for me to muster this Sunday evening.

Desdemona and Arthur could have wild and wonderful sex with no strings. Nope, not even one. But I don't think she would. For fear of what it might be like. For fear of her self. For fear that she might jeopardize everything in her life, which at this moment, is so worth fighting for. It's only when faced with temptation of such an extreme level that the distinction between Desdemoma and Arthur becomes apparent. Whereas one would embrace the sexual urges the other, despite feeling those urges, will register them and push them far away. Which one of these methods is correct I have no idea. And for once, I'm left perplexed at the dismal confusion and failure of lust.

Sometimes when you want it the most, saying no is a self-sacrifice every one of us should make at one time in our lives.

Answers

Thank you for the burst of sudden comments on a number of entries. It would make better sense for me to write one entry solely dedicated to the reply/demystification of these comments.

Arthur and Desdemona. Disappointed? But why? Phone sex is a great thing. It’s different not inferior. And the reason I didn’t sleep with him was probably due to a sheer lack of self confidence. And now that we’ve had phone sex, ‘real’ sex should flow freely. Getting to know the sexual mind is equally as important as getting to know the sexual body.

Another interesting fact. Now, in the gay community, we have apparently what is known as ’top and bottom’ theory. He is top and so am I. This is with regards to anal penetration (for what else could we possibly penetrate?). The ‘top’ likes to fuck and the bottom likes to receive. What became apparent is that this guy only allows ‘special’ people into his opening. And unfortunately, I just wasn’t special enough. Two tops don’t make a bottom. What they make is fantasy followed by frustration. And when I asked him what happened what two tops got together (my feeble attempt at pulling), he responded that it got rather boring after a while. So, that’s another reason we didn’t fuck.

Interesting fact No 2. The desire levels were fluctuating. Up and down, up and down. The only time I really felt he desired me was towards the end of the evening and during the middle when he was feeling merry and grinding heavily to one of those sex songs or other. And while he was dancing I felt out of place, the sort of feeling I’ve felt for so many years in whenever I got clubbing. Fuck! I thought I would have progressed passed at least this stage of pre-shag development. Ugh!

And so, when we were post tipsy, about to bid farewell, it all started spewing out. All my sexual inhibitions seeped out of my mouth quicker than I can shove them back in. And I acted the way desperate people do. I was grappling for him to want me. I guess it didn’t register that he did. And as we stood a metre apart, erections firmly embedded in out jeans, something drew us together. And there it was, desire raging. That’s what I’ve craved all along. I wish I had felt that earlier. Something might have happened.

So, once I was home he called and we had phone sex. Desdemona, I do have M. M is fantastic and so much more than a phone sex buddy. But fucking this guy was different. I was able to cultivate my imagination. The reason I like phone sex is because I’m a master of the trade. That’s one thing I know I’m good at.

Arthur, as to the choice of bar. Well, KU Bar was rather quiet when we arrived, however it gave us a chance to talk. And then GAY, well I wasn’t impressed with this choice, but there’s no point arguing on the first date is there? As for the friendly society, I did like it. Very lusty and confined. And full of sugar daddies (ever slag must plan for his/her future). Lesson number 1 of the sugar daddy pension plan - you don’t have to be posh to become privileged.

The restaurant was fantastic. Satsuma. So quirky and interesting. In fact, I have a sneaky suspicion I might be going there tomorrow night with Desdemona if she can be bothered to text me back (Desdemona, this is so unlike you).

And, as to the point regarding my love filled Aisleyne episode, Ophelia, yes….read and weep, for it was I who blew her a kiss and not you!

Ophelia. You made a very good point. Have I ever said I wanted to become a Sex GOD? I have said I’d love to become the best fuck in the world, at which point I’ll focus my attention on learning about something totally different. Origami or stamp collecting perhaps. But you’re right. You never stop learning. Those who stop learning stop living quite frankly and there’s too much life left to live inside this slag’s slender body. And learning is fun. Growing, developing, nurturing, that’s what this life is all about. And that’s what we slags are doing. Successfully.

The Cast

For those of you who are new to this blog ( a mighty welcome from myself). Below is a list of the characters for your information. Enjoy.

The Dame:
Lesbian (though am trying to rub the slate clean).Friend of many years, fellow pioneer of the lose-all-sexual-inhibitions-without-fear-of-the-Lord revolution. Slag of the mind, and on a journey to becoming a slag of the body, minutes before she is catapulted into sainthood and becomes a slag of the soul. Can't do a push up, though will try everything at least once. Also, not into red meat (now, that's clearly wrong on many many levels). Looks like a hip lesbian cross bred with a polite glue sniffer. Lessons to learn: All comes to those who actively go out and get it. The longer your vagina remains unprodded, the longer your confidence will suffer. Go out and embrace obsessively.

Desdemona:
A true slag, uninhibited, wonderful. Very similar to me on the sex level. Though, quite surprisingly, a vast ocean of experience separates us. Commitment -phobic and at the same time a marriage basher. Good in groups of five of less, any more and she vanishes. Complete loyalist through the thick and thin of the sexual revamp. Body of a petite goddess, face of a model, a sheer get up and go attitude to sex. Self-confessed unapologetic home-wrecker and bunny boiler, though, she could have any wo/man she wanted (The Dame often drools over Desdemona unashamedly) so what does it matter. Lessons to learn: Sometimes happiness is within your control. Sometimes people need a chance. Sometimes you don't know what's best for you. And yes, no excuses for a bad fuck (we are both firm on this one).

Ophelia:
An unslag (though a fully fledged member of the slag society). She and I melt quite comfortably into each other. Beneath the calm waters lies a tornado of seedy gratification. She's the sort of girl who wouldn't mind a dirty weekend as long as it was in the Dorchester. The seedier the better I say. Looks like a voluptuous eastern temptress. A few drinks and will flirt like there's no tomorrow. A sexuality that is calm and controlled, until the Gin comes out (both her and I love our Gin you see). Lessons to learn: Talking about sex isn't the same as doing it. Talking about whores won't make you one. I understand that sex isn't always easy to discuss, though sometimes its nice to let it ooze and flow (full of puns today).

Arthur:
Addict (of life). Founder of the London Bridge Drugs Circuit. Soho Mentor. Man of three dicks. Dick 1, for his girlfriend. Dick 2, for everybody else. Dick three, something long and curved resembling a five pound note which he sticks up his nose every so often. I so admire him, and he does have a wicked fashion sense. And he's probably the most 'open' on this list. There isn't much he has left to prod, inject or smoke (apart from Heroine; apparently it's 'really filthy nasty stuff'. I sometimes wonder whether Arthur knows who he's talking to. Looks like he belongs on the runway, and the perfect example that well dressed doesn't always equal fag. Lessons to learn: Addiction can sometimes be a bad thing. It takes a master to learn how to deal with his erection and a visionary to know whose hole is the right one.

M:
Never met M. Though have known M for 5 almost 6 years. Phone sex buddy (master in the truest form). A scientist. Finds ultimate satisfaction in winding me up and pissing me off (no..Take your mind out of the gutter!), cyber sex through to phone sex, knows how to make me come and taught me how to make others come. M is the fueller of my imagination. M also has a boyfriend (we phone-hump when he's at work). M wants my dick and I want M. Looks, well I have seen a photo, but wouldn't like to comment. If I said Next plc and casual trendy, you'd know exactly what I was saying. Lessons to learn: being greedy can sometimes make you sick. Even 'I' know how to win an argument. It doesn't look professional when you say you hate lying and continue to live the biggest lie of all.

Othello:
Desdemona's man. A man who has recently graduated with a distinction in Taming the Beast (that is Dessie) diploma. Cares for her a great deal. A slag in the making. Mental note: must catch up with Othello.

Adriana:
The three-prong methodical girl, super intelligent, genuinely nice. Don't you hate her already? Haven't spoken of her yet, though will do shortly.

Cordelia:
Yet to make an appearance. Have known her the longest, nine years. School together, college together, traveling together, very similar, though so different. Cordelia doesn't know that I write about her. Not sure if she ever will. The people closest to you are often the hardest people to confide in. Funny that.

Mercutio:
Hater of formal education, though wiser than Prince Harry. Friend from when I used to hang up socks in a posh department store. Looks that many women have fallen prey to. Silver tongue and probably a good cunnilingus provider. Further mentions to follow.

C1 and C2:
Two strict Christians who I study alongside. C1 has only ever watched one film certified 18. No sex before marriage. Bible school. It's funny how these people gravitate towards me.

Lady Macbeth:
One of those half Australian half English older powerful feisty women who I met on my travels, who is currently traipsing around the world yet again, who I admire and am scared of in equal measures. Danger can be such an exciting thing. She'll crop up in due course, fear not.

[Act Two Scene 1 begins]

The Devil wears Prada

'Oh don't be ridiculous. Everybody wants this. Everybody wants to be like us'

Yes, she does wear Prada (for the purposes of this entry the Devil is a she) and she carries it off so well.

But this has me wondering. If the Devil wears Prada, what is the Devil's nemesis, our Lord, seen out in. Chanel I should imagine. Though, it would make sense for God to own a pair of Manolos. Clattering about on the streets of heaven. Maybe God has finally discovered Vivienne Westwood or Mark Jacobs. Perhaps I'm stretching my imagination a little too much. Perhaps being totally 'out there' isn't totally 'in there'?

So, The Christian girls C1 and C2 and one of my best friends (Whom I shall call Cordelia) together with a boy from our class, went to watch the film.

It's Sex and the City, it makes you feel ugly, it poses the question we all have on our lips. If it's a choice between the perfect career and the perfect relationship, which do we choose and what's the price we pay.

And this is where the success lies; Fashion succeeds when you come out feeling everything you own is either too yesterday, or simply boring. It makes you wish you had more money and a personal shopper. And all because you like the idea of walking onto Oxford street (or any street) and having people comment on what a fabulous dress sense you have. That, you, yes you, yes, pretty little you, should be a model.

Meryl Streep, I'm convinced, in the princess of poise. I can't imagine another person doing the role so well. She can say things with a smile and make you want to cry. She can belittle with a whisper and diminish you with the flick of the eyes. And still, you come out wishing you were like her character. She represents success and the arrogance that is so often part and parcel of it. But to be so respected. To be so sharp, the centre of a universe.

The rest of the cast was good too. But, it was a little too Sex and the City. Yes, dear readers, there can always be too much of a good thing. And the ending was silly. So silly.

I have yet to read the book. Though it's lingering on my shelf like a bar of fruit n nut.

Surprisingly, there wasn't any sex in it. It's a PG! The Sex and the City bit came entirely from the bitchiness and downpour of designer shoes and dresses. The costume changes were almost bollywood.

I really should head off. I have a book to read for my book club (am disastrously behind).

Ciao

Free and Raw

I seem to have come to London at a time when free newspapers seem to be descending from the heavens. 'The Metro' in the morning, 'The London paper' in the evening. And, just Incas you want an ineptness we have 'The London Lite'. Now, what exactly are these people thinking. As if HEAT magazine wasn't enough. Now we have to hear about Pete and Nikki in the papers.

Either they're being considerate and providing relief from an often boring journey home, or they're insistent on turning us into those women, you know, who read HEAT magazine. I refuse to become one of 'those'.

Now, if the papers actually contained anything interesting, anything 'mind-developing', anything un-gossip-mongerish, we might have our brain fucked on our ways to and from work. Instead we have foreplay without so much as a promise of an orgasm. Shame shame.

Now, the 'Financial Times' is a sexy paper. The sexiest. If you can pull off reading a Financial Times and look interested in the recent merger deal between Bitch and Slag Ltd, you've made it. Consider it done.

So, that observation over and done, I can move on.

The reason I missed last night's entry was because the computer decided he would die for a while. And after twenty attempts at resuscitation I let him wilt. Simple. And now he's in top form. Sometimes in life, you have to leave the bastards be, and more often than not they'll come running, gagging.

And well, the reason behind tonight's entry is due to my returning late from a blind date. Yes, that's correct, a blind date.

Person : another GR (though Scandinavian) - Deals with computers and gambling (not another word)
Location : Rupert Street bar in Soho followed by Satsuma (for some delicious miso soup and Sashimi), followed by KU Bar (charring Cross Road), followed by GAY. Still unsure why I always end up there. It was nice not to have to wait in a blasted queue this time around. That would have tipped me over the edge I'm sure.
Conclusion: Nice, the best looking yet. Blonde hair blue eyes. Masterful qualities. And if there was one thing I wasn't impressed with it was myself. There was so much possibility I was almost drowning. But I froze. I came to realize there's still so much to learn. So much to overcome. Maybe I'm not as comfortable with all this as I had initially imagined. I was however, to my surprise, described as 'in control'. The biggest compliment (though wish this could come without rigidity). And we left with erections, erections despite my furiously gobbing down a slice of pizza smothered in chilli sauce outside Tottenham Court Road tube station. And once I returned to the boudvoir we had phone sex. Just like that. Like it was the desert to the main. And it was good. I really think I sense something. The smell of potential is hanging around me. That soporific scent of possibility.

What will M think?

SEX: defined

Two lesbians walk into a bar...

Later that night, back at Lesbian No1's flat, they are about to emark on a rampant journey of womenly fornication. Lesbian No2, at this point, gets out her vibrator (which is pink, glossy, half bumpy/half smooth, with an inbuilt sound card which plays 'Barbie girl' by Aqua). As she is about to slip it inside, Lesbian No1 recoils in horror...

'Isn't this ''straight'' sex?

Now, The Dame and I have had this chat many many a time. Whilst The Dame insists that anything which actually, or creatively shows itself to be a phallus penetrating a vagina automatically identifies 'hetero sex', I myself fight fearlessly against this proposition.

The Dame thinks that if you insert a dildo into your lesbian pussy, you are somehow being unfaithful to the lesbian race. Now why would you do that? She herself doesn't like the idea of a vibrator for this reason alone. That, in using such a contraption, she is becomming something she is not, something that goes against the oath of Gayism.

Now, what do you think? Is there such a thing as Hetero Sex and Homo Sex? And can this be defined by what goes into what? What about the straight bendy boys who like things up their bottom? What about the Gay male who loathes anal sex? What about the Lesbian with a rampant rabbit or two (Maybe even, if the physics allow, both at the same time (M should be able to clarify the science)), What about the girl who is a phantom pantie- grabbing masturbator? Are these people in need of a sexual re definition? Is the straight boy really gay?

I myself prefer to think of sex as one big all-encompassing w(hole). And within this sphere we have a thousand different fetishes, toys and sexual positions. And the aim of my sexual revolution is merely to open up all the doors, so that we can go wherever we like without fear of any queues (Still so bitter about last night). I think sex is one, forms are many...Sort of the like Hinduism. One God many forms. Almost interchangeable.

So, what do we think? Is there such a thing as hetero sex? Can you be a true lesbian if you require a plastic phallus to get you off? Is a dildo even really a cock?

Dear readers, I need some answers....

Mary Poppins

A busy busy weekend, therefore, you'll have to forgive the late entry.

Now, if there's one thing that really rubs me up the wrong way, it's having to wait in an eternal queue which has no hope of ever diminishing. I suppose this is where the British part of me runs out screaming. Can't stand waiting around. Especially if the queue leads into a gay bar which is all hype and not much else.

GAY (the bar) is a place where you can wear your sexuality on your vivienne westwood sleeve and roam the floors (of which there are two) as you blatantly assess the fuckability of each of the people around you. And shame is something that really ceases to exist.

So, I went to meet yet another Gumtree Random (a 'GR' for future references as I'm sure there will be plenty yet to come). And after running around town trying to get there are early as I could, I managed to find myself at the back of the trecherous queue at 10pm. Innocently enough, the virgin in me thought that most queues disappear after around 9.30pm. Ha!...I laugh at myself and I laugh at my virginity.

So..in the queue, wondering if anything (anything) would faciliate me in my queue jumping ambitions,Ii came to the quick conclusion that quite frankly nothing would. A blowjob I could give would be beaten hands down by a thousand others. Why try when you're already a failure?

So I waited. And it get's worse. Those of you have been to this particular bar will know just how close a certain theatre is to the bar. And the queue runs along side the entrance to this theatre. And Mary Poppins is the current production on display.

And, little to my knowledge, the shows ends at 10pm also.

There we are, hundreds of Mary-Poppins-lovers gushing out onto the pavement, filling every inch of concrete available. And ofcourse, with every Mary-Poppins-lover comes a Mary-Poppins-Lover's husband/boyfriend/friend/escort. So we have a thousand Mary-Poppins-Lovers and Mary-Poppins-Lover's partners trying to find their way home, pushing up alongside an already bitchy angry queue of wannabe Mary Poppins'. By the time I eventually made it to the front, It would have taken much more than a spoonful of sugar to help the medicine go down. So much more.

And for the first time, I wished that I too had a magic broomstick...oh the damage I could do.

So, once inside, I met the GR and his mate, and he was fun. The sort of bloke who belongs to the blazing squad...the asian version (yes, yet another one). Now, I know he'll read this and I know he'll text me to tell me that he thinks that I'm a tosser, but It's all a joke. In fact, I had a really good time with him. It's good when you can just have a fun time. Period.

And, the GR's mate has made me realise the importance of the 'fashion kiss' (I know it's european, but...well...it's still a fashion kiss').

Must kiss on both cheeks at first meeting.
If you like the guy, must kiss three times upon leaving.
If you don't like the guy, say goodbye and head for the tube (kiss less).

If it's a girl, kiss kiss kiss.. Kissing suddenly goes from queeny to classy.

Now, the best part of an evening out is the part where you have just bid farwell to your fellow sloshers and are scoffing down a slice (or two) of lovely london pizza, topped with chilli sauce. It brings the evening to a close. The pizza man will soon come to recognise me.

The highlight of last night was however seeing Big brother contestants Aisleyne, Pete, Nikki, Lea and Richard emerge onto the common London streets from a gay club called 'Shadow Lounge'. Mental note to visit this place in the future.

And I felt a little light headed. So, skipping over to the flashing lights (GR in tact), I couldn't help but yell..

'Aisleyeneeeeee, Aisleyeneeeeee....I love you....'.(topped with a blown drunken, kiss)

And she turned around and said thankyou. Though I know she didn't fancy me as she didn't look back. Oh, how I would have loved her to look back.

Soooo Ho

Walking into a sex shop. I should start again. Walking into a SOHO sex shop for the first time is a pantie ripping, tongue drooling, splishing sploshing experience everyone should experience.
Don't tell me, you already have...

Arthur and I met up after quite a long time for a Soho bar hopping session (though, I hear sessh is what people are calling it these days. 'We had a sessh, was such a cool sessh'!)

Four bars, a drink in each, two in one ( the second bought for me buy an American stranger who was out in London for the first time....shoulda bedded that one...what was I thinking!)

The conversation bounced from sex to..sex...to.......sex. Oh yes, and drugs. What more could I ask for? No, it was good. The more I hear about Arthur's sex life, the more it occurs to me that he might just be a sex god. I mean this in it's purest form.
How many times have we wished that we could give somebody, anybody their best ever orgasm. I'm talking toe-curling-almost-breaking, legs spilitting, water gushing..world rocking orgasms. I think the man may have accomplished this. And many many time.

I've signed up for one-on-one tutorials in due course, once I find somebody worth unleashing the dragon on.

And it's not really how he describes what he does as opposed to me simply knowing that the girlies he fucks have a hell of a good time (orgasm included).

What it means to know a pussy so well. To be a pussy specialist. To be an academic in pussy. It probably means more than you could ever imagine. Ofcourse, when you've reached this state of excellence, your reputation surely leads wherever you go. How fucking amazing.

So, there I was, gushing down a slice of margerita before Arthur decided he wanted to buy some porn. Some new porn, to work the imagination. Porn is good until you've come over the best scenes fourty million times after which getting an errection can even prove difficult.

So we went to his 'regular' one of those dodgy little hip and happening hardcore joints in the side streets of Soho (spoken knowing full well that there are thousands..thousands!)

It had everything. So many cocks and pussies, double pounding, cum sucking, bondage queens and MILF hunting, POV (Don't ask), Interracial lust, big ass frolicks, teachers and students, blowjobs from around the world, south american humpathon, swallowing, spitting, gay porn, lusty lesbians, sex books, sex guides, porno mags...and that was just as we turned the corner.

I could have stayed there all night and left just as clueless.

I suppose for me, the best porn is Amateur. Nothing quite like the girl who lives opposite being had by the local milkman. Simply can't stand any of that 'oh yes, fuck my pussy, aaaaahh, fuck it hard, oh yes....come on baby, fuck me harder' hollywood brand of sexual enticement. I like it raw and dirty. People who don't know just how good a fuck they really are. I like to see people have the desires fucked out of them, one by one. The learning is what turns me on the most. Now, one thing that struck me. Porn can be so expensive. Like that jacket you really want and it's a weekly toss up between fashion and starvation. You know what I mean.

So, you can all guess who'll be racing down the streets of Soho come the christmas sale. Ho Ho Ho indeed.

CUNT

There. I said it. Now take that hand away from your mouth immediately.

I never understood what people found so offensive about this word. I quite like it. It reminds me of fruit. A soft fruit with a stone. A nectarine perhaps. Or a tough shell with a soft inside. A coconut. It makes me thirsty simply thinking about it. I can just imagine Delia

'Now, here we have a fruit which is becomming more and more available in the local supermarkets. It has a bitter tough shell and the sweetest flesh imaginable. It's called a Cunt and although they aren't the cheapest fruit to put into your fruit salad, they're worth every penny. And let's not forget the juice that pours out once the shell has been broken. Now, even though I have friends who like to make Cunt trifle, I myself prefer to make a Cunt tart with shortcrust pastry and an almond crumble top. For this recipe you'll need..'

It sounds so easy, doesn't it? Almost delicious. I can just imagine a bunch of cunts hanging off a tree.

So, why do people hate it so much.

M suggested that it might be due to the 'harsh sounds' of the word. Cunt is a word that upsets M. Personally however, I can't stand 'pussy'. It's a word that takes power away from the woman. Everybody wants to stroke a cute and cuddly pussy, but nobody wants to mess with a Cunt. A Cunt offers a woman power. So then why do so many women fall sick at its sound?

On another note..

Had phone sex with M this evening (just before writing this entry in fact). M did all the talking whilst I merely unzipped and panted, and boy was it good! You know it's good when you can close your eyes and vanish. So completely. Until something sticky brings you back to reality. That's probably the only thing I can say against spunk. It's sticky, makes everything messy. Which would be fine, if only I had nothing to do afterwards but turn to my side and fall asleep.

Of late, I have found the rings around M and I begin to expand. In fact, I often trash about in our hula hoop, trying to make the ring wider. It's almost as though I've seen something new, something worth grabbing, something unusual just outside the ring. I wonder what this means. I wonder if the rings are slowly beginning to melt.

Taming the Beast by Emily Maguire

"The Ancient Greeks believed that at the time of Creation every human being was made up of two seperate people, joined together in body, heart and mind. Angry that these creatures were perfectly content within themselves and therefore had no time or deference for the gods, Zeus tore them apart, seperating each whole into two halves. Ever since, human beings have been miserable and lonely, wandering the planet searching for their other half. Everybody feels dissatisfied and empty until they find the one person who completes them; once the match is made, they need nothing else. Not work. Not family. Not gods."

Taming the Beast
Emily Maguire
Serpent's Tail Publishers

A book review should never give away too much plot. Nor should it focus too heavily on detail. Atleast mine won't.

I think it's only right that I mention on this blog the books I read (many of which are based solely on desire, more specifically, how it twists and turns inside your gut before you have the courage to cut yourself open). The slags and I started this way you see, through books, until reading wasn't enough. The power of literature is seen however in our inability to put a stop to the books even now that we are fully formed slags.

Now, 'Taming the Beast', comes half way through a string of erotic novels that I have had enormous satisfaction/gratification (whichever you prefer) in reading over the past few years. And with time, those too shall feature here, though let's start with this one shall we.

It's about a student teacher affair, in it's simplest form. At it's most complex level, it's about how destructive, soul destroying, physically abusive, all consuming the power of desire is. About how desire trancends the passage of time only to erupt quicker and faster than anybody had ever anticipated. It's the Pompei of lust.

This book made me sad. And erotic books NEVER make me feel sad. This book made me question what it means to want somebody. To really want them so badly that you can't control yourself whilst with them. And It made me realise that desire is lethal. So sharp, so poised. A blink of the eye and you're gone.

The female protagonist, Sarah, is a vivacious, incredibly sharp and intelligent girl with a keen keen eye for literature. She's equally turned on by the sight of an enormous blossoming bell end as she is by Shakespearian sonnets. Now, dear reader, this is sexy. And these two desires combine to form her object of infatuation, Mr Daniel Carr (her english teacher). He seduces her whilst she's 14. So young and so mature, so innocent and so wise. The perfect afrodisiac. Splendid.

Then he leaves her for his wife and children. He leaves a hole in her heart. And the biggest mistake this girl makes is to mistake her heart for her pussy, which, in Mr Carr's absense, she fills with every possible size and shape of cock imaginable. Her greed for sex is something ferocious. The vast majority of this book centres on that time she spends alone and the latter part of the novel focuses on Mr Carr's returns, some eight years later, when Sarah is fully grown. And her vagina is still just as empty as it was when he left her. And the destruction begins....

But this book has me thinking. What if you desired someone so much that all lines of morality and desire vanished. What if you trusted someone so much that you could find pleasure in hurting them, physically hurting them. If this is the ultimate desire, the ultimate happiness, do we even want it?

If you could command somebody's body more than your own, would you? Can seeing someone suffer, making someone suffer, be the ultimate fulfiling of desire?

And how many of us are willing to hurt somebody we love in order to make them pay for the time they spent away from us, even when their with us?

Random

Received an email earlier today from somebody who is enjoying the blog (I love hearing it, it’s fuel to my fire).

He wondered why everything I wrote was to do with sex or virgins. Um, this is probably because that’s what I am. That’s what I know. Sex from the point of a view of a virgin. Though, recently, I spend so much time thinking about it, I often feel shagged out. The site of another cock/pussy might just tip me over the fleshy edge.

He also said that we shared ‘similar beliefs’. That this surprised him, because he thought he was the only one who thought that way. Welcome to the slag group!

In fact, I’m pretty positive there are thousands, millions of people who are just as sexually famished as I am (we’re talking both physically and mentally you understand). So many questions, coming out of our ears, spurting out with our come, questions questions questions!

Of course, the purity of fucking itself is something which we must never lose in our flurry of questions. Sometimes, and I DO believe this, we should simply DO as opposed to battle profusely with our million questions. And then, after the act is complete, after we have exited the stage from the right and fallen into a deep sleep (or made our way back on the Piccadilly line), we can evaluate what just happened, and our evaluation will be weighty, bursting with the experience of being fucked by some random stranger.

Ah, fucking a stranger. This one act has always struck me as being THE act of self realisation. For, once it’s over, you feel like somebody had injected you with happy liquids. Was it really you who did that? Fucked some random on the last carriage of the train? Was that whore really you??

Yes it was. Yes it was!

Now, you do realise, I have slept with a stranger before, have fondled and groped a stranger before, and it was awesome, though there was no fucking. Fucking wasn’t necessary. Now, how many people can say that? That fucking, during sex, isn’t necessary?

A show of hands please…

Case of the Ex

Last night, in a conversation with an e-acquaintance, I tried to prod around his emotional cellar. He has recently returned to his ex, so that they can make a go of it. They missed each other, apparently, and ofcourse now the relationship will be ten times better because you can..LEARN from your mistakes.

I wanted to know why. Why do people do it. Why do they go back expecting it to be stronger when we all know it boils down to a lack of patience and hunger for familiarity.

I never would. Once bitten twice shy. And really, if it can break down once, is it really ever going to be its gleeming smooth, shiny self ever again?

I applied this principle to jobs. Once a job ended, I took it upon myself never to return. And I always expected better money. Without such hope, the purpose of life is somewhat deflated. Afterall, there's so much more out there for you to experience. So much. More than you'll ever know. And it's all for the grabbing.

Security: It can be a wonderful thing. And yes, that's probably why people return to their Exs, but is it necessary? Afterall, the reason you broke up, in the first place, was due to a clash of one thing or other. And the fact that this very thing ended your relationship would suggest that it was rather a fundemental characteristic. So, when you know things aren't going to work out once, why do people keep testing the water and burning themselves. Because pain is good? Because familiarity is less frightening? Because getting back out there on the dating scene expends too much time, energy and money? Probably.

Because, it's so much easier to go back to routine than it is to take a pick axe and carve yourself a new road.

Perhaps I'm wrong. Perhaps all it takes it is a rattle of the loved up cage to show you who means what. It could put things into perspective. Make you stronger. Still unconvinced.

Returning to the ex for sexual purposes I can just about understand. Crap at love, excellent at making each other come. Yes. But no strings sex with an ex really truly, honestly, officially doesn't exist. The strings are there alright, you have just wrapped yourself in them tighter than ever before. And once again you'll need a pair of new boyfriend scissors to cut yourself free.

Sometimes you can find it tremendously difficult to move on after a relationship because when something as important as this ends, it's almost as though somebody puts your life completely into your lap.

'Here, take it, it's all yours'

So many of us wouldn't have a clue what to do. We'd stare at it, maybe coo and caa, throw it a rattle. The truth of the matter is this: When it comes to our old relationships, we are all about as clueless as the non-maternal mother gifted with a new child. Helpless and pathetic.

And the cure: an evening class in childcare. You see, it's all in our hands. Sometimes we refuse to see it.

Experience is the key. Try harder to move on and you will. Why suffer and settle for something already proven to be unsuccessful.

Any comments?

Consumption

I never used to enjoy clubbing. I was always too tired by 1am, or too insecure to really let me hair down. And I always thought the people who went and enjoyed clubbing were somehow below me. Somehow, slappers, slags, for all they were really going for was complete submersion in the land of lust (for that's precisely what a club is).

Oh, how the tables have changed. Now it's me who can't wait for friday to come just so I can go and cruise some other joint and decipher it the following day. I love it.

Arthur and I will be frequenting a series of gay bars/polysexual bars (I officially hate straight bars and Yates's is the worst bar ever) over the next few months, I've already told him this is to be the case, and he has taken on the role of my mentor. The next time I see him I shall whip out the contract.

I think I'll always be just as fascinated by the amount of drugs Arthur takes. And every time he takes a line of the white stuff up his nose, I'll still need to take a sharp intake of breath. It's one of those things that will forever shock me. Though I do hear that it's frankly awesome to have sex whilst high on coke. And apparently, as Arthur's brother pointed out quite rightly, Coke is very popular in the Gay community (yes, those that keep rejecting me). In fact, if you rub it over your ....rosebud...or your.....helmet (notice how even I can skirt around the words), it can give you the most thrilling orgasm.

Anyways...

Thinking back to Arthur, It's recently occured to me that he might be a sex addict. Not to say that that's a bad thing. I mean, what IS a sex addict? Having sex three times a week with regular people, though constantly looking to have your end away every time you see something pretty...And what about the times when you 'cheat' on your girlfriend? If you can't keep the snake in the charmer's basket, it could cause havoc!..And yes, I suppose desire is poisonous, as are drugs. The reason I come to this conclusion is that I firmly believe that if Drugs and Sex ceased to exist, so would Arthur.

Is it really so wrong to be selfish? We are all selfish in our own ways. Seeking the ultimate happiness whilst not really caring how many toes with tread over, or how many orgasms we give out undeservedly. I know I'm selfish.

I wonder what it might be like to give something and not even think about wanting something in return. It's possible surely wouldn't you agree?

Back to Arthur, Isn't it admirable? To be so consumed by something that you lose yourself. IT becomes you. How many of us could give up everything for pleasure? Everything? Even ourselves? Because this is what Arthur has done effectively. I wish I could do that.

I wonder who thought up the idea of monogomy. I wonder who decided it was right and moral to spend your life with just one other person? He's probably dead now and laughing at me as I write this...bastard!

Heaven

Well, in terms of the gay scene, the club comes close.

The strangest things happened last night. And the most exhilirating.

6.00pm - The daily gumtree search (and my ad still hasn't appeared, though I'm led to believe it may take the most of two days!...not a happy bunny)

6.05pm - Came across an ad:

'Hi Guys, am looking for someone to go clubbing with. Was thinking Heaven tonight. I don't want anything more, just to have a good time and go to a club. Please contact me on..... if you're interested.'

So I did. Without even flinching. Sitting home alone on a Saturday night is enough to make even the most highly equipped socialite feel the lonely London chill.

7.30pm - a text. 'Hi, I have already found once person to go with, but you are more than welcome to join us if you'd like.'

10.00pm - Outside 'Heaven' (World famous gay club and door way to homosexual enlightenment...I expected what it said on the tin)

Now to the guys:
Both were Indian (funny that). One looked like a dark weasel, with a nice american accent. The other, a camp moody queen type (but he was!), and myself. An interesting combination, but quite satisfying for I felt this was a great idea. People who are known solely for their clubbing tendancies. Clubbing buddies, as opposed to fuck buddies (although I'm positive one might become the other given time and chemistry).

So, we met up and I had to deal with the questions..oh those blasted questions!
'So, are you 'out' to your parents?', 'Have you ever been in a relationship?' 'What are you looking for'

An answer in the form 'I don't really know' wouldn't really suffice I thought so answered them the best way I could. Now, how on earth am I supposed to explain the theory of open, eager sexual awakening to some stranger in the space of half an hour? Precisely, so I didn't.

And then we went inside after being man handled by the bouncers. Inside it was very seedy; now I love seedy, it makes me feel at home. The red lights and smokey purple hazes that climb througout the building (for it's a biggie, it has five floors, three of which were open last night. And there was a huge mixture of music. The main floor was pumping dirty house (I wonder what's so dirty about it?), the second RnB (coupled with the P diddy and Kelis wannabes humping with an arse so high it could almost have touched heaven and hell in one jerk).)

And the mixture and layout of the club means that I now prefer to G-A-Y. It's a bit more sophisticated, with a heap more talent. Beautiful women and men all crammed in. And lots of pulling, tongue thrashing, coming in your trousers (I wish) and going home as though nothing ever happened. And no, I didn't pull, though did see some potential masters, both of whom had boyfriends...F*** B*****

So, me and the dark weasel partied hard, dancing like we were the only one's in the world, was great. And the other boy seemed eager to go it alone. He prefered to 'stay on the first floor' whilst we explored further. And then we saw him, in the corner, getting down and dirty with a old dirty blonde cowboy type (ewww). That's what 'staying on the first floor' really meant. What made me curious was the fact that he would never do anything in front of us. He prefered to go it alone, slut around and come back looking like he's a dog who's just had three bitches in a row. His eyes held that post orgasmic look, and his tongue was still sticking out slightly...rather unsightly.

Now, in all fairness I'm far better looking and a better dancer than both of these boys put together, so why the hell didn't I pull. I put it down to standards (hear hear) and lack of sexual oozing ( something I really need to work on..and NOW). It probably wouldn't be so hard to pull if i was willing to suck off a dirty blonde grandad/bear.

So, we live and we learn and we have a great time in the process.

The lesson to learn for next time: Go with people who are good looking and who can dance well. Most importantly, If you don't end up pulling, atleast you'll have him to take home. Fingers in every pie. Covering your back is all so important in the gay community as the world is dog eat dog (bitch eat bitch doesn't sound as nice I'm afraid).

Ps. I did see two guys getting it on, hands down each others jeans, as they grinded. Sex on the dancefloor can be sexy, but the idea of receiving a cock shock, a flash or his stash, isn't the most appealing of sights. There are certain lines that even I would draw.

Escorts (1)

You know how, a couple of entries ago, I toyed with the idea of prostitution and you all read and laughed because it was a joke and it was funny?

Well....this evening I printed off an application form for a position advertised ala Google for 'a Non sexual Escort'.

If I haven't the balls (quite yet) to fuck for money. I can atleast make a quid or 40 by meeting a lot of weird and wonderful women without any obligation being placed on my phallus. It's comfortable middle ground surely.

So, the form is rather clean and simple, just the way I like them. My only worry relates to the possibilty of being rejected. Can you imagine....the rejected whore. I'd never live it down.

And I was speaking with a friend not so long ago who was all in favour.

'I love sex, and if I'm getting paid for it, why not?'

I would be inclined to agree.

Every time you go to a bar and some greasy man grabs your waist and asks you if you'd like a shag, isn't he turning you into a whore there and then? Now, if he paid for the privelege, I think suddenly the tables would be turned. You'd be the one overpowering the greasy desperado. In fact, so many people are expected to be whores in their everyday life. And they do. Because filth and lack of self control is apparently clean and nice. But throw a fiver (or 70) down onto the table and soon the club will be empty and you'll be left alone with the sounds of Kylie as you bounce beneath the disco ball.

So, I've managed step one. We have fourty more to go, but we're still one step closer than we were before.

As soon as I mentioned the form to The Dame she decided that filling it in should be a joint enterprise (It's more of an occassion in my eyes).

I shall keep you informed of the progress readers, worry not.

Ciao

Trial and Error

On Second thoughts, the ad needs changing.

M: 'The lady garden bit is too corny, soooo corny'.

Desdemona: 'Well yes, I did think that bit was rather odd'.

Now, dear readers, I'm anything but corny and odd and therefore one must rip out the lady garden and order a full landscaping.

I think I pussy footed (quite literally) around the subject. What I should have said was this:

''Hi there,

About me: 22, Male, Anglo-indian, slender build, 5 ft 8, dark hair and eyes. Sexually inexperienced. The body of a virgin, the mind of a whore, as I like to put it. Recently moved to London (a month old Londoner to be exact)

Am looking for an experience with a sexually active and confident femme. Somebody who will be my sexual mentor up until I graduate (from the sex academy ofcourse).

I want someone who is, to put it bluntly, willing to open wide and show me which bits needs proding, which bits to lick and which bits to insert my fingers and other devices into.

It might sound a bit scientific, but all I really want is someone who can teach me how to become a good fuck. The best fuck. Would prefer somebdoy slim yet curvy, attractive, clean and well kept. Above all, an open mind and a sense of humour is a MUST, so that if I'm crap, we can laugh it off.!''

Please reply if this could be you. (And I'm not some filthy perv...honest)

I look forward to your response.''


That should do it.

Searching

I've put it off far too long.

60 replies! That's the kind of interest an ad placed on gumtree can generate. I need to get in on the action.

Where to begin:

What do I look like: (Bare in mind this is an exercise in effective marketting)
5 ft 8, slender, anglo indian, dark hair and eyes, some facial hair, stylish/well dressed (well I am)

What do I want:

A) In a woman
- Somebody intelligent who knows how to explore the realms of desire.
- Somebody willing to show a virgin how to get stuck in via a guided tour of the lady garden. (can't afford an admission fee, must be free entry).
- Slim, attractive, caucasian or asian (what turns me on the most for now), clean (so very important).
- Open minded with very few sexual inhibitions.
- Pretty pussy is also a must. Something that looks nice and edible. Hairy ponds of flesh need not apply.
-Medium sized breasts.

B)In a man
- All of the above, just with a nice clean average or above average phallus.
- Must be a master in the slut profession. (A PHD will put you miles ahead of your competitors ..no really....it will.)
- A certain level of controlled experience is also imporant.

What do I want to do.

Learn, through a decent sexual partner/number of partners, how to become the world's greatest lover. I want somebody who is willing to teach and be taught through a string of sensuous, exhilirating and tasty experiences.

Ofcourse, we can start it all with a drink. It's a shame, but I doubt I could go through with this while completely sober. Sloshed is also a bad thing. We need a swaying middle. A few bricks pulled from the dam.

Right, so there we are, the contents of the ad. It still lacks a little something. A bloody mary without the dash of Worcester Sauce, wouldn't you agree.

And now for the science of ad formulation:

'Hi there,

About me: 22, slender, Anglo Indian, 5 foot 8, dark hair and eyes. Recently moved to London, five weeks old to be precise! Enjoying the freedom and searching for a use to which I can put the freedom. Open minded, into 'culture' (reading things and watching things), looking for an enticing sexual experience from which I can learn something useful.

About you: 21-25 years old. Caucasian or Anglo Asian, Slim, well kept, clean, open minded. Sexually experienced or atleast very eager to learn. Two virgins should, by the theory of negatives, equal a positive highly thrilling orgasm. Somebody intelligent who can see beyond the sex, even whilst we're having it..! Would prefer curves of an average size to flatness. Above all, cleanliness and a pretty lady garden where you'll be willing to take me for a long guided walk.

You have to be good at sex, regardless of whether it's in the mind or the body. I want a sexual goddess. That's the most important thing. I want somebody who is a master and a slave rolled into one.

If any of the above sounds like you, or even close, please please get in touch. Will try and respond to each advert as soon as possible, though might take a day or two as I'm a busy chappy these days.

Kind regards'

Right, let's see what kind of response this one generates. In fact, I dread to think..

I shall post it up now and keep you informed on the response(s).

Let the recruitment process begin.

Getting to know each other

Chapter one

Two gins followed by two bloody marys (in case you were wondering).
All drinks were doubles, so that’s six in total. And after feeling like the tube station was melting beneath me, I have quickly come to realise just how many drinks it’ll take before that nice feeling is transformed into something beastly.

I’ve never been drunk and the near-drunkeness of last night has clarified exactly why this has been the case. That anybody could enjoy walking on a concrete ocean and feel like their person was a few centimetres out of their reach is beyond me. Dreadful.

Having said that, a full stomach might have helped. And the night went well. Though, not quite as I’d expected.

We met in a gay bar. The difference between us was of 16 years. It showed. And, I felt like it was perhaps something, in that relationship, that I would never quite forget.
How mature can a 22 year old really be after all?

I walked in, beneath dim lights, the atmosphere smoky, the haze of sexuality gently falling over my head as I sat at the bar, before I spotted him.

‘Ah there he is’ he said, once he’s caught sight of me
‘Hi’

And then he kissed me on each cheek (totally unexpected. Probably should have known better).

‘Oh, a fashion kiss..!’ (worst mistake ever)

‘OH Sorry’ (now imagine Cruella De Vil Saying it)

‘no no no no no no, it’s fine, I wasn’t…’

Chapter two

As the night progressed in came to realise the following facts:

1. That I had been whittled down to 4 of a potential 60 replies this person had received upon placing the advert on gumtree (shocked! Not because I was part of an official recruitment exercise, but that a gumtree advert could generate such vast interest). I think later tonight, I shall form my very own.

2. That the selection process consisted of his friends analysing each of the photos/applications turn by turn. Apparently my photo met with a mixed reaction. An ‘ahh’ with a crumpled face (ish) (Charming)

3. That he really was every bit the Oxford University Professor I had imagined all along. With a sharp, dry sense of humour to match. He was the sort of man you might need to take a course on (a supplementing evening class). So that you weren’t offended by the humour/insult. I felt like I needed to think carefully about everything I said. Three times, the same thing, over and over. But this isn’t necessarily a bad thing. I think I expected something a bit more…’natural’. But then, what I was doing wasn’t exactly ‘natural’. My journey itself isn’t exactly natural either. It’s an enforced opening of the soul, and that’s the wonderful thing about it.

Now, we all now he’s a TV Exec, so I asked him ‘Have you always been media savvy’?

‘How do you mean? Do you mean media savvy in terms of my profession or do you mean media savvy about the performance aspect of what I do?’ (He’s a TV presenter too, don’t you know)

I was referring to the latter to which he replied yes. Thinking back, I suppose every presenter is media savvy in that sense. Perhaps it was a pointless question.

That said and done, as the evening progressed I really settled into the conversation. What we have here is a man who doesn’t really let much on. And this is probably a detrimental thing as neither do I. I never quite understood what he wanted apart from somebody to share things with (though, for somebody who struck me as rather a socialite, his friends should more than make up for this lack, shouldn’t they?). So, I’m guessing sex is probably on the agenda somewhere, though he struck me as the kind of man who wouldn’t suffer if he spent the rest of his days without it.

And we talked about the blog. He more or less hates it.
‘Half way through, I just thought ‘get on with it! Pull yourself together’. It’s so difficult.’

He didn’t quite understand that this was exactly what I was trying to do. I think I’m too…what’s the word…airy fairy (pun most certainly not intended) for him. Though, I wouldn’t mind meeting him again. The next time I see him I’m determined to find out what frightens the man.

The bar we attended apparently has an infamous reputation for its ability to put people together. A pulling machine is just what I could do with. And the people weren’t bad looking at all. (tick tock tick tock)

I feel like I’ve slagged him off, which really isn’t what I wanted to do at all. He wasn’t masterful enough. Or perhaps too too masterful for me. Either way, the balance wasn’t there last night. And another date should help matters. He’s the kind of guy who I’d need to chip into with a hammer and chisel.

Preparation

So, a date is pending. A TV Producer. I'm not sure why I'm going. Maybe the thirst for some interesting conversation. Maybe I'll have found the master I've been looking for. Somebody to mould the flesh. A carpenter of the soul. Yes please.

How are you meant to prepare for a date? I could only come up with the following:

Trimming - almost check
Cleaning - check
Brushing - check
Hair Fluffing - almost check
Tightening up of confidence and conversational skills - Ofcourse
Placing stylish swanky garments over your body - Without question

And once I'm there, what drinks are a good bet?

A Bloody Mary is always wholesome and satisfying. It's also quite a sexy drink if taken by the right sort of person. I'm just afraid of looking older than I am, sipping on something which could also be soup of sorts.

A Gin, mmm, class never loses style, though some might think of it as boring.

Beer, abso-f*cking-lutely not. No way!

Southern Comfort, Perhaps.

Cocktails, yes yes yes so long as it's something unusual, something that paints a picture of you.

And most importantly, you need to leave the inhibtions (not the standards) at the door. You go in the way you want people to perceive you. And slowly, that hallucination becomes you.

To be perfectly honest, having suffered great rejection from both the straight and gay communities, I've resided to the fact that ANY date is a good thing. That someone is willing to take time out and have a drink and a chatter is a good thing. It's a great thing.

I have a friend (yes, another one), who works through her relationships in the most methodical and self controlled way imagineable. I need to follow her three prong approach:

Take note:

1. Take a few days to get over your previous relationship. Rub away those terrible white marks on the blackboard that is your life. Spend a day sulking, or less, if appropriate and reasonable to do so, and reach the conclusion early one morning, that you have learnt something through the process. That you have grown and embraced and that this love really is trial and error through and through.

2. Find a website you rely on. A reliable source is of paramount importance. Browse, short list and be selective whilst doing so. Once you have a list, start emailing and chatting as soon as possible to avoid some bitch or bastard getting there before you do. Ask all the relevant questions and find out as much as you can about their interests. Make notes as you do, as these may well be your saving grace if a formal date materialises. Read a quick synopsis of the book they love or last read (wishful thinking that. Hoping that somebody might actually pick up a book as be passionate about it).

3. Arrange a date in a public place. Try and make conversation. Ofcourse, by now you should know whether they are good looking enough, tall enough, blah blah blah. This is primarily a test of personality. Remember, a good conversationalist knows how to make best use of a tongue. Further, somebody who can't string together a sentence is really not worth the bother. For every dumb ass there are five decent conversationalists. If there is an overwhelming sexual current pulsing between you, act impulsively. That rule about not kissing on a first date is a load of dung. Self satisfying opportunities don't come around that often for you to dismiss any that do. I always suggest asking the other person to choose a restaurant or bar or both, just so you can get a taste of their tastes. A pint at the woolpack might be just what you're looking for, but i hope it's not.

Finally, you musn't let those standards fall for even a second. Compromise and willful consideration of your own held beliefs is permitted, but nothing more. I'll be damned if any of my friends are sacrificial virgins out for the slaughter.

The friend who adopts these tactics is well on her way to finding the one (and she knows who she is). She is two through and ready to return to step 1 of the regime.

Right, I need to dress before the drink.

Await further instruction.