There are two things in life I simply refuse to believe.:
1. That every man hasn’t tasted his own come (spunk/man juice/love liquid/male cream/squirty (made this one up myself), call It whatever you wish).
2. That every woman hasn’t dipped a finger inside the fleshy mound and had a little try-before-you buy inclination.
A few days ago, Desdemona and I chatted about this over the course of the slag meeting. She doesn’t agree.
All men, in her experience, have wanted to put up a fence between themselves and her after they’d come over her, or into her. What are men so afraid of? Perhaps men think tasting their own spunk might just tip them over into the gay category, god forbid. And not once does it cross their minds that it is in fact them producing what they won‘t taste. Ever heard of the butcher who won‘t eat his own steak? No. Neither have I. In fact, most people with their own vegetable patch won’t even step inside the vegetable section at Sainsburys. It’s their very own fuel in the bomb, the soft centre of the candy. Uh huh.
And most guys truly enjoy coming inside their partner. The spunk is a dribble of male authority. Nope, I still refuse to believe any men past the age of 17 haven’t tasted it. Curiosity over enjoyment, for it doesn’t really taste of much.
And to women. Females are so accustomed to hearing from an early age that their vagina is a glorified fish kebab, that I’m sure it takes little more than a few months post puberty for them to delve into the kebab shop. A clean pussy, a natural smelling pussy (Desdemona doesn’t particularly enjoy the soapy lux smell that can sometimes linger in the folds of a recently washed pussy.) can sometimes be all intoxicating.
Oh, the flavours I have yet to savour.
Thursday, November 30, 2006
Conversations of a sexual nature.
Internet Friend (IF) - So how many hearts have u broken?
Me - none. Of course, I like to think I've broken at least 12 without knowing about it, and I like to think of them all being straight females. Ha!
IF - lol about the str8 females, why?
Me - Because i like to think that there are some people in this world to whom my sexuality will always remain a mystery. Because i like the idea of thus not becomming pigeon holed, and because i like the idea of appealing to both sexes.
IF - and number of sexual partners?
Me - Oh, one night-long fumble..no kissing, no cumming. And you?
IF - I don't count my conquests.
later that evening...
IF - I love sex
Me - well I’ve never had it
IF - I don’t have enuff, but I do enjoy it. Haven’t you? Why?
Me - because im a virgin, and i want to have sex with brad pitt and Aiswariya Rai before I do anybody else
IF - Oh I see
Me - In fact, they’re both coming over for christmas....
IF - u know.. I haven’t had full sex...
Me - define.
IF - Just a bit of everything that isn’t anal (receiving)
ME - so you’ve poked, but haven’t been poked yourself?
IF - I poke, and don’t get poked myself.
Me - there are too many pokers and not enough pokees, that’s the problem. and gay men live under the delusion 'ill only let the love of my life poke me' Give me a break!
If he's gentle, with a nice dick, and there's a condom, why not?
IF - wot r u? I’m guessing ur versatile or bottom, god I hate using those terms, they’re so seedy.
Me - I love seedy. Well I’m top, I’d prefer to fuck before I am fucked, although I won’t die unprodded, I can assure you.
Me - none. Of course, I like to think I've broken at least 12 without knowing about it, and I like to think of them all being straight females. Ha!
IF - lol about the str8 females, why?
Me - Because i like to think that there are some people in this world to whom my sexuality will always remain a mystery. Because i like the idea of thus not becomming pigeon holed, and because i like the idea of appealing to both sexes.
IF - and number of sexual partners?
Me - Oh, one night-long fumble..no kissing, no cumming. And you?
IF - I don't count my conquests.
later that evening...
IF - I love sex
Me - well I’ve never had it
IF - I don’t have enuff, but I do enjoy it. Haven’t you? Why?
Me - because im a virgin, and i want to have sex with brad pitt and Aiswariya Rai before I do anybody else
IF - Oh I see
Me - In fact, they’re both coming over for christmas....
IF - u know.. I haven’t had full sex...
Me - define.
IF - Just a bit of everything that isn’t anal (receiving)
ME - so you’ve poked, but haven’t been poked yourself?
IF - I poke, and don’t get poked myself.
Me - there are too many pokers and not enough pokees, that’s the problem. and gay men live under the delusion 'ill only let the love of my life poke me' Give me a break!
If he's gentle, with a nice dick, and there's a condom, why not?
IF - wot r u? I’m guessing ur versatile or bottom, god I hate using those terms, they’re so seedy.
Me - I love seedy. Well I’m top, I’d prefer to fuck before I am fucked, although I won’t die unprodded, I can assure you.
Turning over
Once the sex is over, how long must you wait before turning over and falling asleep without it looking like you've just used your lover and now you're done?
Chances are that we all feel the same, that post-sex comfort is something we could all do without. That sometimes, post-fuck, one can feel sticky, tired and asexual.
And despite this, most lovers feel the obligation of a post-fuck cuddle (stroking of the hair inclusive). Perhaps a 'I'm shattered' quickly after the act is completed would ease things a little.
Then again, I suppose people today (yes, even Londoners) are polite enough to muster conversational butterflies and ease themselves into that sleep that way.
I've often wondered what it must feel like to wake up beside someone after a one-night stand and not know exactly what they do or who they are. Of course, night-before sex is often followed by morning-after sex, so the need for conversation is somewhat dissolved anyways.
When i sleep with somebody for the first time, I think I'll start the post-fuck conversation with 'oh, well that was good'. No?
Chances are that we all feel the same, that post-sex comfort is something we could all do without. That sometimes, post-fuck, one can feel sticky, tired and asexual.
And despite this, most lovers feel the obligation of a post-fuck cuddle (stroking of the hair inclusive). Perhaps a 'I'm shattered' quickly after the act is completed would ease things a little.
Then again, I suppose people today (yes, even Londoners) are polite enough to muster conversational butterflies and ease themselves into that sleep that way.
I've often wondered what it must feel like to wake up beside someone after a one-night stand and not know exactly what they do or who they are. Of course, night-before sex is often followed by morning-after sex, so the need for conversation is somewhat dissolved anyways.
When i sleep with somebody for the first time, I think I'll start the post-fuck conversation with 'oh, well that was good'. No?
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
Gili Gulu
All you can eat Sushi for £15. All you can have conversation. Priceless. Gili Gulu is the sort of restaurant that isn't that hot on service, isn't that hot on variety, but is filling and rather spacious. And let's not forget the reasonable price for sushi which can be so expensive otherwise.
Yes, another slag meeting with Desdemona and myself. It's always fun. We can talk about sex the way others talk about the weather, or what happened to Lindsay Lohan last week at X Awards. She never looks bad. How do people manage it in the winter? I'll never know.
Having a cock up your bottom makes you feel like going for a poo. Apparently. The fingers up my own bottom make me want to piss however. Either way, shoving objects up that particular orifice messes with your bowels. And, the revelation that women don't have a prostate gland begs the question:
why, when women get no pleasure from it, do they have anal sex?
Desdemona further divulged that she had yet to have a penetrative orgasm. AH! I couldn't believe it. That such a sexual goddess could spend life still searching for that G-spot! I asked whether she'd prodded around in pursuit of it, to which she replied in the affirmative.
Where on earth has her g spot gone? Do other women have similar problems. Is there any point fucking if it never makes you cum? Is the clit as far as men need go?
On the subject of fucking, M and I.
I've been trying to rape M over the phone (though, am almost near the end of trying, very near). And M is due to come down to London for a stint of Christmas shopping. Image: The two of us hauling bin liners filled with goods down oxford street during rush hour. Ecstatic! See the things I do for M. Anyways, more to the point, M doesn't like to wear clothes inn bed. M will be sleeping in my bed as I spread myself over the floor.
Is provocation a defence to rape?
Yes, another slag meeting with Desdemona and myself. It's always fun. We can talk about sex the way others talk about the weather, or what happened to Lindsay Lohan last week at X Awards. She never looks bad. How do people manage it in the winter? I'll never know.
Having a cock up your bottom makes you feel like going for a poo. Apparently. The fingers up my own bottom make me want to piss however. Either way, shoving objects up that particular orifice messes with your bowels. And, the revelation that women don't have a prostate gland begs the question:
why, when women get no pleasure from it, do they have anal sex?
Desdemona further divulged that she had yet to have a penetrative orgasm. AH! I couldn't believe it. That such a sexual goddess could spend life still searching for that G-spot! I asked whether she'd prodded around in pursuit of it, to which she replied in the affirmative.
Where on earth has her g spot gone? Do other women have similar problems. Is there any point fucking if it never makes you cum? Is the clit as far as men need go?
On the subject of fucking, M and I.
I've been trying to rape M over the phone (though, am almost near the end of trying, very near). And M is due to come down to London for a stint of Christmas shopping. Image: The two of us hauling bin liners filled with goods down oxford street during rush hour. Ecstatic! See the things I do for M. Anyways, more to the point, M doesn't like to wear clothes inn bed. M will be sleeping in my bed as I spread myself over the floor.
Is provocation a defence to rape?
Monday, November 27, 2006
Food
Text from Ophelia last week:
‘ thought you might like to know a colleague of mine @ lunch said to me u look like you’re making love to that pizza rather than eating it!’
Ophelia, you’ve been paid a compliment (in my view). Embrace it and keep seducing food the way you do. You are the only person I know apart from myself who can make food look sexy. We are a couple of food fucking foodies, and proud. Oh, and let’s not forget Ms Lawson herself, the Queen Seductress Of Gastronomy.
The ability to seduce food and eat a pizza the way you do is a skill let’s not forget. The true enjoyment of food comes with the ability to eat it whenever you like, which ever way you like. How many of us have taken a sandwich home (one that’s full of saucy substances) and eaten it without shame of the world once inside the four walls of your abode. Yes, me too. Eating like nobody is watching is an emancipating experience let’s not forget.
Further Ophelia poses the question:
‘Can food be seductive?’
Yes. Yes.! And sometimes, even if you’re eating something controversial, you can make it look sexy and highly appetising. But this doesn’t come naturally. Sonia form Eastenders doesn’t have the ability to make sucking an oyster look sexy, let alone anything else. You’ve got it Ophelia!
Good food coupled with good sex is perhaps all that my life requires for now. The sex bit is somewhat a figment of my imagination, although rather a striking figment it is, I assure you.
Whilst on the subject of food, Arthur is rather problematic in this department. Texture is a problem for Arthur. Raw fish is out of the question. And so are peas and grapes. Chicken breast and steak are the only things I can imagine him enjoying. Of course, it’s always nice getting stuck into a piece of well cooked meat. It’s just that sometimes in life, dipping your face in a plate of raw salmon hit’s the spot. My spot. In order to be an accomplished foodie, you need to embrace diversity. I can’t see any other way around it.
And now, to the sex:
Perhaps the colleague, whilst making his observation, was wishing that Ophelia was in fact seducing him/her. The sight of a mouth in motion and a wet tongue is often enough to drive the sexually deprived insane. And as he/she watched you seduce your slice I’m sure s/he couldn’t help but wonder how good you were in bed. Whether, in fact, you’re tongue moved quite as seductively over genitals as it did over the slice. Whether in fact, your lovers had similar degrees of fortune. Let’s just say I’m sure Ophelia probably knows how to apply to Pizza Principle in real life in-between-the-sheets situations.
Bon apetit.
‘ thought you might like to know a colleague of mine @ lunch said to me u look like you’re making love to that pizza rather than eating it!’
Ophelia, you’ve been paid a compliment (in my view). Embrace it and keep seducing food the way you do. You are the only person I know apart from myself who can make food look sexy. We are a couple of food fucking foodies, and proud. Oh, and let’s not forget Ms Lawson herself, the Queen Seductress Of Gastronomy.
The ability to seduce food and eat a pizza the way you do is a skill let’s not forget. The true enjoyment of food comes with the ability to eat it whenever you like, which ever way you like. How many of us have taken a sandwich home (one that’s full of saucy substances) and eaten it without shame of the world once inside the four walls of your abode. Yes, me too. Eating like nobody is watching is an emancipating experience let’s not forget.
Further Ophelia poses the question:
‘Can food be seductive?’
Yes. Yes.! And sometimes, even if you’re eating something controversial, you can make it look sexy and highly appetising. But this doesn’t come naturally. Sonia form Eastenders doesn’t have the ability to make sucking an oyster look sexy, let alone anything else. You’ve got it Ophelia!
Good food coupled with good sex is perhaps all that my life requires for now. The sex bit is somewhat a figment of my imagination, although rather a striking figment it is, I assure you.
Whilst on the subject of food, Arthur is rather problematic in this department. Texture is a problem for Arthur. Raw fish is out of the question. And so are peas and grapes. Chicken breast and steak are the only things I can imagine him enjoying. Of course, it’s always nice getting stuck into a piece of well cooked meat. It’s just that sometimes in life, dipping your face in a plate of raw salmon hit’s the spot. My spot. In order to be an accomplished foodie, you need to embrace diversity. I can’t see any other way around it.
And now, to the sex:
Perhaps the colleague, whilst making his observation, was wishing that Ophelia was in fact seducing him/her. The sight of a mouth in motion and a wet tongue is often enough to drive the sexually deprived insane. And as he/she watched you seduce your slice I’m sure s/he couldn’t help but wonder how good you were in bed. Whether, in fact, you’re tongue moved quite as seductively over genitals as it did over the slice. Whether in fact, your lovers had similar degrees of fortune. Let’s just say I’m sure Ophelia probably knows how to apply to Pizza Principle in real life in-between-the-sheets situations.
Bon apetit.
Saturday, November 25, 2006
Gay Friends
An inkling that you might be gay, or partially gay, and every ‘straight’ woman begins to suck on you like a leach. I can’t help but smile.
Why is it that straight women want gay friends? Or, ‘a gay friend’. Hands up gay men who’ve heard a straight woman wail ‘You can be my gay friend’. Just the way that dress she owns is ‘my little black dress’. Every woman wants one. Very few women actually have one.
When the ‘gay’ comes before the ‘friend’, the milk begins to bubble over (no, not that milk).
So, what exactly are the qualities of a ‘gay friend’ (you straight girls might like to help me out, because I’m having difficulty with this one):
Somebody who you can talk about sex with openly. You can say cunt and even cock(!) and they won’t be shocked or think you’re trying to hit on them. Okay, so the second part, maybe. But the first part – it may surprise some girls that a few gay guys are actually quite uptight and prudish about matters of the A. Yes, they are.
Somebody you can watch ‘sexually explicit’ films with at the cinema (by sexually explicit, I mean naked bodies and a bit of the odd hump hump on screen).
A fellow gossip/confident. You can bitch away about your female and male friends and he is likely to remain un-phased. He might even join in on the little cat venture. Some guy gays find this judgement quite baffling. Gay men aren’t all bitches. Some don’t have a bitchy bone in their body (note: bone, not boner).
Somebody you can go dancing with without feeling as though every man wants to push his finger deep onto your clitoris? Hmm. Sorry girls, every straight doesn’t fancy you. A select few might try and get their fingers in and those few might also be a little off their trolley.
And I won’t even begin to talk about the straight girl’s need to get all camp and queeny whilst chatting to her supposedly gay friend. Germaine Greer one minute, Dale Winton the next as soon as her friend comes along. Wrists are flying and voices are rising. Sigh.
Will straight women ever realise: gay guys are just as much competition if not more so than your female counterparts. Every guy you fancy, they’ve probably assessed their levels of fuckabilty twice over already. Gay guys are quick on the sexual rampage.
Straight girls feel judged by straight men. This is what it boils down to. Of course, gay men can be just as judgemental. Take out the sexuality and we are all the same really aren’t we? Yes, straight men don’t really know which shoes Mariah Carey wore to the MTV awards (no, neither do I).
What fun it would be if the gay friend wasn’t actually ‘gay’!
Why is it that straight women want gay friends? Or, ‘a gay friend’. Hands up gay men who’ve heard a straight woman wail ‘You can be my gay friend’. Just the way that dress she owns is ‘my little black dress’. Every woman wants one. Very few women actually have one.
When the ‘gay’ comes before the ‘friend’, the milk begins to bubble over (no, not that milk).
So, what exactly are the qualities of a ‘gay friend’ (you straight girls might like to help me out, because I’m having difficulty with this one):
Somebody who you can talk about sex with openly. You can say cunt and even cock(!) and they won’t be shocked or think you’re trying to hit on them. Okay, so the second part, maybe. But the first part – it may surprise some girls that a few gay guys are actually quite uptight and prudish about matters of the A. Yes, they are.
Somebody you can watch ‘sexually explicit’ films with at the cinema (by sexually explicit, I mean naked bodies and a bit of the odd hump hump on screen).
A fellow gossip/confident. You can bitch away about your female and male friends and he is likely to remain un-phased. He might even join in on the little cat venture. Some guy gays find this judgement quite baffling. Gay men aren’t all bitches. Some don’t have a bitchy bone in their body (note: bone, not boner).
Somebody you can go dancing with without feeling as though every man wants to push his finger deep onto your clitoris? Hmm. Sorry girls, every straight doesn’t fancy you. A select few might try and get their fingers in and those few might also be a little off their trolley.
And I won’t even begin to talk about the straight girl’s need to get all camp and queeny whilst chatting to her supposedly gay friend. Germaine Greer one minute, Dale Winton the next as soon as her friend comes along. Wrists are flying and voices are rising. Sigh.
Will straight women ever realise: gay guys are just as much competition if not more so than your female counterparts. Every guy you fancy, they’ve probably assessed their levels of fuckabilty twice over already. Gay guys are quick on the sexual rampage.
Straight girls feel judged by straight men. This is what it boils down to. Of course, gay men can be just as judgemental. Take out the sexuality and we are all the same really aren’t we? Yes, straight men don’t really know which shoes Mariah Carey wore to the MTV awards (no, neither do I).
What fun it would be if the gay friend wasn’t actually ‘gay’!
Thursday, November 23, 2006
Love for sale - Cole Porter
I listened to Lady MacBeth as she opened up her vocal chords completely. You see, this friend of mine has a great voice. And as i listened to her rendition of this song, the thought occured to me that these lyrics were rather fine. The song is just as beautiful. Do have a listen when you get the chance, dear readers. Lady MacBeth, this one is for you.
Love for Sale - Cole Porter
When the only sound in the empty street,
Is the heavy tread of the heavy feet
That belong to a lonesome cop
I open shop.
When the moon so long has been gazing down
On the wayward ways of this wayward town.
That her smile becomes a smirk,
I go to work.
Love for sale,
Appetising young love for sale.
Love that's fresh and still unspoiled,
Love that's only slightly soiled,
Love for sale.
Who will buy?
Who would like to sample my supply?
Who's prepared to pay the price,
For a trip to paradise?
Love for sale.
Let the poets pipe of love
in their childish way,
I know every type of love
Better far than they.
If you want the thrill of love,
I've been through the mill of love;
Old love, new love
Every love but true love
Love for sale.
Appetising young love for sale.
If you want to buy my wares.
Follow me and climb the stairs
Love for sale.
Love for sale.
Let the poets pipe of love
in their childish way,
I know every type of love
Better far than they.
If you want the thrill of love,
I've been through the mill of love;
Old love, new love
Every love but true love.
Love for sale.
Appetising young love for sale.
If you want to buy my wares.
Follow me and climb the stairs
Love for sale.
Love for sale.
Love for sale.
Love for Sale - Cole Porter
When the only sound in the empty street,
Is the heavy tread of the heavy feet
That belong to a lonesome cop
I open shop.
When the moon so long has been gazing down
On the wayward ways of this wayward town.
That her smile becomes a smirk,
I go to work.
Love for sale,
Appetising young love for sale.
Love that's fresh and still unspoiled,
Love that's only slightly soiled,
Love for sale.
Who will buy?
Who would like to sample my supply?
Who's prepared to pay the price,
For a trip to paradise?
Love for sale.
Let the poets pipe of love
in their childish way,
I know every type of love
Better far than they.
If you want the thrill of love,
I've been through the mill of love;
Old love, new love
Every love but true love
Love for sale.
Appetising young love for sale.
If you want to buy my wares.
Follow me and climb the stairs
Love for sale.
Love for sale.
Let the poets pipe of love
in their childish way,
I know every type of love
Better far than they.
If you want the thrill of love,
I've been through the mill of love;
Old love, new love
Every love but true love.
Love for sale.
Appetising young love for sale.
If you want to buy my wares.
Follow me and climb the stairs
Love for sale.
Love for sale.
Love for sale.
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
Scanners
Cinema club last night (Belle de Bengal where were you?)
The thing about groups and communities (of any sort) is that you are able to meet people who share the same, often quirky, passions. Having friends who are just as weird about a certain thing as you are is often a highly liberating experience.
So, there we were, post-film, talking about what we’d just seen when I came across a lady. She has that fiery-art-teacher-used-to-be-a-hippy look. I love it. Have always loved women like that. Women who pave the road to creative salvation.
When asked what she did she said she’s an ex docu lady (I seem to be doing extraordinarily well on this count). And now she was taking up acting and writing ’seriously’.
Then she told me about this book she’d be reading. A book which was on the path of changing her life. Hmm. Too many books proclaim to do this. Change your life. And no, I don’t think many do. Some books you’ll come to love, others will make you think for months after you’ve flipped over the last page and others will stay on your bookshelf without ever being read, because something better always came along.
Now to this book:
In life, apparently, there are some people who have one goal. ‘I want to be an accountant‘ for example. And they will spend their entire life working towards that goal, achieving it and then spending their life still wanting to be an accounting. And then there are scanners (of which I am most definitely one). Scanners don’t feel satisfied just doing one thing in their life and want to try everything. Further, ambitious scanners want to be successful at everything they try. Everything. Sort of like me wanting to win the booker prize. Or the award for best orgasm giver 2007.
So, they’ve finally found a word to describe me. And it couldn’t really be a truer indication of who I am. Try everything, be good at everything. Life is too short to give solely to one thing. Of course, the biggest question of all I ask myself on a daily basis is ‘What shall I do when I want to do everything’.
This theory applies to work and play equally. There are a million holes that could be filled. A trillion. So you have to be selective. Which holes are worthy. Which holes won’t you survive without filling? Short listing all the way. Too much scattered ambition can lead to you feeling unsatisfied all the time with each of your endeavours. Take the best things and keep at them. And plan. Planning is the only way of making sure it all gets done.
On that note. I have two months in which to lose the virginity if I want to fulfil the promise. Must put this at the top of my list. May the scanning (of the other sort) continue. Now.
The thing about groups and communities (of any sort) is that you are able to meet people who share the same, often quirky, passions. Having friends who are just as weird about a certain thing as you are is often a highly liberating experience.
So, there we were, post-film, talking about what we’d just seen when I came across a lady. She has that fiery-art-teacher-used-to-be-a-hippy look. I love it. Have always loved women like that. Women who pave the road to creative salvation.
When asked what she did she said she’s an ex docu lady (I seem to be doing extraordinarily well on this count). And now she was taking up acting and writing ’seriously’.
Then she told me about this book she’d be reading. A book which was on the path of changing her life. Hmm. Too many books proclaim to do this. Change your life. And no, I don’t think many do. Some books you’ll come to love, others will make you think for months after you’ve flipped over the last page and others will stay on your bookshelf without ever being read, because something better always came along.
Now to this book:
In life, apparently, there are some people who have one goal. ‘I want to be an accountant‘ for example. And they will spend their entire life working towards that goal, achieving it and then spending their life still wanting to be an accounting. And then there are scanners (of which I am most definitely one). Scanners don’t feel satisfied just doing one thing in their life and want to try everything. Further, ambitious scanners want to be successful at everything they try. Everything. Sort of like me wanting to win the booker prize. Or the award for best orgasm giver 2007.
So, they’ve finally found a word to describe me. And it couldn’t really be a truer indication of who I am. Try everything, be good at everything. Life is too short to give solely to one thing. Of course, the biggest question of all I ask myself on a daily basis is ‘What shall I do when I want to do everything’.
This theory applies to work and play equally. There are a million holes that could be filled. A trillion. So you have to be selective. Which holes are worthy. Which holes won’t you survive without filling? Short listing all the way. Too much scattered ambition can lead to you feeling unsatisfied all the time with each of your endeavours. Take the best things and keep at them. And plan. Planning is the only way of making sure it all gets done.
On that note. I have two months in which to lose the virginity if I want to fulfil the promise. Must put this at the top of my list. May the scanning (of the other sort) continue. Now.
Monday, November 20, 2006
Classroom
Here's the trouble.
If you're in the same class as somebody you'd quite like to fuck, so many of us, it seems, would shy away. That's correct. Rid our mind quickly of the idea, or perhaps one toe curling orgasm for...What?
Why don't people mix business with pleasure. And why does business usually always come first? Sometimes finding the perfect orgasm is far harder a task than securing that perfect job. And despite this, so many of us will do this quite happily, without even a second thought.
Back to the issue in question, why?
Because if then we decide not to pursue a full blown relationship, we risk having to sit through an entire year of discomfort as the other person sits in our class.
Because, if you decide to become buddies de fuck, then you risk an entire year of thinking of that classmate in entirely sexual terms. And that's going to be a distraction. Cocks do get in the way of concentration when your mind deserves to be elsewhere.
Also, if that person is a bad fuck, you're going to want to tell your friends and it WILL come out. Sexual inability always does in the end. And so, not only do you have to pretend to still like them as a person and not be bothered about your fake orgasm(s) - if you can pull off more than one then hats off to you. But, you have to refrain from telling those closest to you who just happen to be your classmates.
And despite all of the above (and the understanding that sex doubles the complication) I remain puzzled as to why people are so quick to dismiss opportunities once they arise. Surely it's possible to have no strings sex with a classmate. After the initial look of inside-information-wink-wink, you can trust that the secret is in fact safe. That you of all people can pull off such a relationship and still get top marks. Because you're clever. Aren't you? And who knows, it could become a regular thing in between revision sessions.
The biggest risk of all is that they might be a terrible fuck.
Balancing sex and life is perhaps the most difficult thing for us to do.
If only it were as simple as waiting until after school. Education runs forever when you're inside the cycle.
If you're in the same class as somebody you'd quite like to fuck, so many of us, it seems, would shy away. That's correct. Rid our mind quickly of the idea, or perhaps one toe curling orgasm for...What?
Why don't people mix business with pleasure. And why does business usually always come first? Sometimes finding the perfect orgasm is far harder a task than securing that perfect job. And despite this, so many of us will do this quite happily, without even a second thought.
Back to the issue in question, why?
Because if then we decide not to pursue a full blown relationship, we risk having to sit through an entire year of discomfort as the other person sits in our class.
Because, if you decide to become buddies de fuck, then you risk an entire year of thinking of that classmate in entirely sexual terms. And that's going to be a distraction. Cocks do get in the way of concentration when your mind deserves to be elsewhere.
Also, if that person is a bad fuck, you're going to want to tell your friends and it WILL come out. Sexual inability always does in the end. And so, not only do you have to pretend to still like them as a person and not be bothered about your fake orgasm(s) - if you can pull off more than one then hats off to you. But, you have to refrain from telling those closest to you who just happen to be your classmates.
And despite all of the above (and the understanding that sex doubles the complication) I remain puzzled as to why people are so quick to dismiss opportunities once they arise. Surely it's possible to have no strings sex with a classmate. After the initial look of inside-information-wink-wink, you can trust that the secret is in fact safe. That you of all people can pull off such a relationship and still get top marks. Because you're clever. Aren't you? And who knows, it could become a regular thing in between revision sessions.
The biggest risk of all is that they might be a terrible fuck.
Balancing sex and life is perhaps the most difficult thing for us to do.
If only it were as simple as waiting until after school. Education runs forever when you're inside the cycle.
Sunday, November 19, 2006
Spurt (pun always intended)
Things Not to do on a Saturday afternoon whilst living in London:
Go long-black-winter-coat-hunting on Oxford Street five weeks before Christmas. And, if you must, then go as early as possible. In at 9am, out at 11am. I'm sure you all know this is true enough, though I feel it's one of those facts of life that everybody could benefit from hearing every now and again, just in case it slipped their mind the way it did mine.
A further note: if you do see a coat you like, but they haven't got your exact size (because after all you were never a happy medium), don't go to a line of other shops looking for that exact shame coat because none will have it. You might like to convince yourself they will, but I'm telling you they won't. Change what you're looking for, or go back when it's less manic and try to find the one in your size.
Friday night : feeling fluey I was glad to be at home and slept my way through the entire evening in the warmth of my single bed. Sometimes it can be nice to just do nothing and have no desire of pulling, going out drinking, or anything of that sort. Just eat food, listen to music and sleep. The influenza does seem to have come to a semi-halt. A few more days and I'll be back to the bubbly self. Fear not.
Last night: a reunion of sorts with the London Bridge Drugs Circuit. It's always nice to see them, and the conversations can always take us on down interesting roads, no fear of that. Though, I wonder whether my anal sex dissection (conversation that is) might have been more appropriate anywhere else but in a public house. Not that people seemed to notice. Although, the girl in the group seemed to blush which always worries me. If people can do it why are you scared of talking about in public? I've come to the conclusion, perhaps being overtly sexual in terms of conversation is something I need to calm. People's eyes seem to dart from side to side at the mere mention of anal probing.
Arthur can't seem to understand why I have this need to over analyse everything. Hmm, perhaps it's so that I can get it out from cluttering my mind. Move the rubbish that lies at the foot of your car and you can get a move on. That's the easiest way I can put it. I love thinking about and I love talking about it, but it needs to spew forth when I'm with people who like talking about just as much.
A rant: Haven't been able to go the Erotica 2006! Sigh. Things just seem to go wrong at the last second. Never mind, next year. The trick to going is buying the tickets well in advance, once the money has gone, the time seems to emerge from nowhere.
Go long-black-winter-coat-hunting on Oxford Street five weeks before Christmas. And, if you must, then go as early as possible. In at 9am, out at 11am. I'm sure you all know this is true enough, though I feel it's one of those facts of life that everybody could benefit from hearing every now and again, just in case it slipped their mind the way it did mine.
A further note: if you do see a coat you like, but they haven't got your exact size (because after all you were never a happy medium), don't go to a line of other shops looking for that exact shame coat because none will have it. You might like to convince yourself they will, but I'm telling you they won't. Change what you're looking for, or go back when it's less manic and try to find the one in your size.
Friday night : feeling fluey I was glad to be at home and slept my way through the entire evening in the warmth of my single bed. Sometimes it can be nice to just do nothing and have no desire of pulling, going out drinking, or anything of that sort. Just eat food, listen to music and sleep. The influenza does seem to have come to a semi-halt. A few more days and I'll be back to the bubbly self. Fear not.
Last night: a reunion of sorts with the London Bridge Drugs Circuit. It's always nice to see them, and the conversations can always take us on down interesting roads, no fear of that. Though, I wonder whether my anal sex dissection (conversation that is) might have been more appropriate anywhere else but in a public house. Not that people seemed to notice. Although, the girl in the group seemed to blush which always worries me. If people can do it why are you scared of talking about in public? I've come to the conclusion, perhaps being overtly sexual in terms of conversation is something I need to calm. People's eyes seem to dart from side to side at the mere mention of anal probing.
Arthur can't seem to understand why I have this need to over analyse everything. Hmm, perhaps it's so that I can get it out from cluttering my mind. Move the rubbish that lies at the foot of your car and you can get a move on. That's the easiest way I can put it. I love thinking about and I love talking about it, but it needs to spew forth when I'm with people who like talking about just as much.
A rant: Haven't been able to go the Erotica 2006! Sigh. Things just seem to go wrong at the last second. Never mind, next year. The trick to going is buying the tickets well in advance, once the money has gone, the time seems to emerge from nowhere.
Thursday, November 16, 2006
It has been said too often for me to remain silent.
C1 wants me to join Facebook. Cordelia also wants me to join Facebook. In fact, it appears the entire universe is on a mission to have me sign up to that whore endorsement campaign.
‘Why don’t you join face book? You’ve SIMPLY GOT to join it, it’s awesome, it’s amazing’ said C1 with that look of puppy bitch bewilderment. She actually felt sorry for me. That I hadn’t yet stumbled on the virtues of having my best photo online for the world and his mistress to see.
She looked at me the way one might look at their sister upon hearing that Rackhams won’t refund that dreadful dress she bought without their permission.
Upon giving her my look of great pity beyond relief C1 continued to glare. If you’re going to offer me pity, why can’t it be accompanied by you signing yourself up to Facebook? Sort of look.
Of late, it has been featuring in my sleep. Facebook, Facebook, Facebook, said a thousand times over by the girls I often hear ogling over it during the day.
Cordelia (now this does surprise me) offered a slightly different take on matters: ’It’s private so that only your friends can see your photos and nobody else.’ Cordelia quite clearly forgot the likelihood of anybody in this world viewing face book for their own private pleasures. It’s normally done with a group of perving men or ladies flicking between a thousand screens, pointing out who looks fit and who doesn’t. And just when you thought your life couldn’t possibly get any worse, it transpires that the whole world is somehow related and that life is, after all, one big episode of Eastenders.
‘You mean, you’re his friend too?’ a girl jumped up and down on her chair causing the silent study area in the library to undergo a sudden change of meaning.
So yes, his friend is also your friend and his sister in fact knows the ’fittest girl on the whole of Facebook’. So now, you know that guy who she thinks is really hot, well you can go and harm him and have the girl all to yourself. Wicked!
And let’s not forget, it’s all photos! For people to judge. Good looking, not good looking, ugly, in need of a chemical facial peel urgently. Facebook is a perving facility. It’s no wonder the perv gang at uni have all signed up. In fact, it wouldn’t surprise me if they were in fact the founding fathers.
And to think, all of the people who ridicule this blog for being too open and explicit. Ha. I bet you’re all on Facebook aren’t you?
C1 wants me to join Facebook. Cordelia also wants me to join Facebook. In fact, it appears the entire universe is on a mission to have me sign up to that whore endorsement campaign.
‘Why don’t you join face book? You’ve SIMPLY GOT to join it, it’s awesome, it’s amazing’ said C1 with that look of puppy bitch bewilderment. She actually felt sorry for me. That I hadn’t yet stumbled on the virtues of having my best photo online for the world and his mistress to see.
She looked at me the way one might look at their sister upon hearing that Rackhams won’t refund that dreadful dress she bought without their permission.
Upon giving her my look of great pity beyond relief C1 continued to glare. If you’re going to offer me pity, why can’t it be accompanied by you signing yourself up to Facebook? Sort of look.
Of late, it has been featuring in my sleep. Facebook, Facebook, Facebook, said a thousand times over by the girls I often hear ogling over it during the day.
Cordelia (now this does surprise me) offered a slightly different take on matters: ’It’s private so that only your friends can see your photos and nobody else.’ Cordelia quite clearly forgot the likelihood of anybody in this world viewing face book for their own private pleasures. It’s normally done with a group of perving men or ladies flicking between a thousand screens, pointing out who looks fit and who doesn’t. And just when you thought your life couldn’t possibly get any worse, it transpires that the whole world is somehow related and that life is, after all, one big episode of Eastenders.
‘You mean, you’re his friend too?’ a girl jumped up and down on her chair causing the silent study area in the library to undergo a sudden change of meaning.
So yes, his friend is also your friend and his sister in fact knows the ’fittest girl on the whole of Facebook’. So now, you know that guy who she thinks is really hot, well you can go and harm him and have the girl all to yourself. Wicked!
And let’s not forget, it’s all photos! For people to judge. Good looking, not good looking, ugly, in need of a chemical facial peel urgently. Facebook is a perving facility. It’s no wonder the perv gang at uni have all signed up. In fact, it wouldn’t surprise me if they were in fact the founding fathers.
And to think, all of the people who ridicule this blog for being too open and explicit. Ha. I bet you’re all on Facebook aren’t you?
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
Points
I was snubbed by the lady who sits behind checkout No. 4 in the Sainsburys near where I live. The reason for her dismissal-cum-disapproval ? Not possessing a Nectar Card.
She wasn’t seething malice or anything. She simply gave me one of those what’s-the-point-of-not-having one-when-everyone-in-the-universe-does? The fact that I haven’t a nectar to my name means that I can be dismissed without so much as a smile. And, there was none of this ’Would you like to apply for one?’ either. She made her mind up far far too quickly about me.
Mental note: MUST apply for Nectar Card and return to Checkout 4 where I will use it first. The reason I don’t have one is because I’ve always used my mother’s. And now that I’m living alone I saw little point in obtaining one myself. But it’s true, they save you money and free shopping once every few months is something we could all do with.
Whilst I was off travelling I collected frequent flier miles. A very good initiative and now I can fly for free to certain places. Double points on four Muller fruit corners never rocked my boat in quite the same way, not to say that they aren’t delicious. And then there remains that lifelong mystery: can you buy that yoghurt without the fruit on the side?
Reverting back to the points issue, why oh why hasn’t anybody thought up frequent fucker miles yet? It would seem a logical conclusion to draw. Provide ten good orgasms and have the eleventh one on us. Oral sex (double points this week), rimming and inserting fingers up the bottom are triple!, normal sex is pointed according to the number of deep exhalations which occur from start to finish. Who knows, some of us might obtain a free orgasm (without having to provide one ourselves) after just five good humps. This would be both an incentive to lead wholesome sex lives and keep those of us who are good at it getting more and more. If there’s one thing sex doesn’t like, it’s complacency. ‘Okay, so you knew how to make me come three weeks ago, but my vagina has developed. It requires more now.’
So, perhaps this is something I should initiate. Frequent fucker miles. Apply online. Buy heart monitoring equipment. And when you’re done, swipe away. Now, the best thing about this idea is that both boys and girls have their very own swipe machines. Mental note: always keep a spare wet wipe just in case..you know.
And as for added extras. Lubricant and condoms (double points). Dildos and Strap-ons - 2000 miles. You should note, miles refers to how close to heaven you’re likely to get at the end of all this. I only wish there were points available for willingness to try and levels of passion. A commercial objective for the future I suppose.
She wasn’t seething malice or anything. She simply gave me one of those what’s-the-point-of-not-having one-when-everyone-in-the-universe-does? The fact that I haven’t a nectar to my name means that I can be dismissed without so much as a smile. And, there was none of this ’Would you like to apply for one?’ either. She made her mind up far far too quickly about me.
Mental note: MUST apply for Nectar Card and return to Checkout 4 where I will use it first. The reason I don’t have one is because I’ve always used my mother’s. And now that I’m living alone I saw little point in obtaining one myself. But it’s true, they save you money and free shopping once every few months is something we could all do with.
Whilst I was off travelling I collected frequent flier miles. A very good initiative and now I can fly for free to certain places. Double points on four Muller fruit corners never rocked my boat in quite the same way, not to say that they aren’t delicious. And then there remains that lifelong mystery: can you buy that yoghurt without the fruit on the side?
Reverting back to the points issue, why oh why hasn’t anybody thought up frequent fucker miles yet? It would seem a logical conclusion to draw. Provide ten good orgasms and have the eleventh one on us. Oral sex (double points this week), rimming and inserting fingers up the bottom are triple!, normal sex is pointed according to the number of deep exhalations which occur from start to finish. Who knows, some of us might obtain a free orgasm (without having to provide one ourselves) after just five good humps. This would be both an incentive to lead wholesome sex lives and keep those of us who are good at it getting more and more. If there’s one thing sex doesn’t like, it’s complacency. ‘Okay, so you knew how to make me come three weeks ago, but my vagina has developed. It requires more now.’
So, perhaps this is something I should initiate. Frequent fucker miles. Apply online. Buy heart monitoring equipment. And when you’re done, swipe away. Now, the best thing about this idea is that both boys and girls have their very own swipe machines. Mental note: always keep a spare wet wipe just in case..you know.
And as for added extras. Lubricant and condoms (double points). Dildos and Strap-ons - 2000 miles. You should note, miles refers to how close to heaven you’re likely to get at the end of all this. I only wish there were points available for willingness to try and levels of passion. A commercial objective for the future I suppose.
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
Mistress
Lots of men have affairs. It takes a different sort of man however to acquire and maintain a mistress.
By mistress I mean a woman who knows that it is her sole purpose to provide the man with sexual gratification and to fill up his voids with love, on demand.
In order to have a mistress, the man must also be married. A mistress who hasn't the competition of a wife is more of a girlfriend, or a fancy bit on the side. A mistress is a second wife. A mistress is the free spirit you wish your wife was.
I once heard a story about a man who had a wife, children and a mistress. Each knew of the other, and as there was no divorce on the cards or children threatening murder, each accepted it. This had me thinking.
Why would somebody do it? What might possess a woman to open her eyes to competition and to embrace it, to accept it without so much as a question why? Of course, every woman wants to know why her husband can't be faithful to her. Every woman wants to know why, when she can give birth to his children, she doesn't deserve his love for as long as she lives.
The story I'm referring to had full acceptance. The father had a mistress who he'd known for a number of years. Weekends away would be spent with his mistress and the family would know precisely where he was and what he was doing. The reason the wife said nothing was probably as she was thankful knowing that whatever her husband was doing, he was at least safe. Once she had made it past the hurdle of fury and resentment, she saw it for what is was. Something over which she had little control. She always knew he would never leave her, for she was the one who woke up early in the morning so that he was fed and watered before he went off to work. The mistress would do no such thing. That's the thing about being a mistress, you can take complete charge. You're at the top of the hierarchy from day one. Of course, a long term mistress seems to fluctuate between love and lust quite rapidly. There must have been a day when she either wished that the man in question would leave her alone or that he would leave his wife and become hers forever.
Mistresses are clever women of course, and they all fear the same thing. If he could have a mistress with her, he can have a mistress with me. Mistresses never want to be the wife hanging by. Once a man has had the joy of a mistress, it's almost as though he can't do without one. It's as though he needs two points of view over his life. And choice, the man feels he deserves a choice.
So, why doesn't the wife leave him? Why doesn't she try to find somebody who'll be faithful to her?
1. She no longer trusts men.
2. For the children (no matter how old they might be)
3. Because sometimes it's better to be secure in the knowledge of where your husband is going, rather than cut yourself up wondering which bitch he's screwing this time. Consistency can make infidelity seem so much nicer. Not nicer, sorry, more acceptable.
And I can't help but wonder, is a life in the shadow of a mistress really a life worth anything? When you hand over your joy and sanity to a woman more powerful than you ever were, is it like offering her a pistol and opening up your blouse to reveal a target. Or are you simply taking a loan out and paying interest for all of eternity?
By mistress I mean a woman who knows that it is her sole purpose to provide the man with sexual gratification and to fill up his voids with love, on demand.
In order to have a mistress, the man must also be married. A mistress who hasn't the competition of a wife is more of a girlfriend, or a fancy bit on the side. A mistress is a second wife. A mistress is the free spirit you wish your wife was.
I once heard a story about a man who had a wife, children and a mistress. Each knew of the other, and as there was no divorce on the cards or children threatening murder, each accepted it. This had me thinking.
Why would somebody do it? What might possess a woman to open her eyes to competition and to embrace it, to accept it without so much as a question why? Of course, every woman wants to know why her husband can't be faithful to her. Every woman wants to know why, when she can give birth to his children, she doesn't deserve his love for as long as she lives.
The story I'm referring to had full acceptance. The father had a mistress who he'd known for a number of years. Weekends away would be spent with his mistress and the family would know precisely where he was and what he was doing. The reason the wife said nothing was probably as she was thankful knowing that whatever her husband was doing, he was at least safe. Once she had made it past the hurdle of fury and resentment, she saw it for what is was. Something over which she had little control. She always knew he would never leave her, for she was the one who woke up early in the morning so that he was fed and watered before he went off to work. The mistress would do no such thing. That's the thing about being a mistress, you can take complete charge. You're at the top of the hierarchy from day one. Of course, a long term mistress seems to fluctuate between love and lust quite rapidly. There must have been a day when she either wished that the man in question would leave her alone or that he would leave his wife and become hers forever.
Mistresses are clever women of course, and they all fear the same thing. If he could have a mistress with her, he can have a mistress with me. Mistresses never want to be the wife hanging by. Once a man has had the joy of a mistress, it's almost as though he can't do without one. It's as though he needs two points of view over his life. And choice, the man feels he deserves a choice.
So, why doesn't the wife leave him? Why doesn't she try to find somebody who'll be faithful to her?
1. She no longer trusts men.
2. For the children (no matter how old they might be)
3. Because sometimes it's better to be secure in the knowledge of where your husband is going, rather than cut yourself up wondering which bitch he's screwing this time. Consistency can make infidelity seem so much nicer. Not nicer, sorry, more acceptable.
And I can't help but wonder, is a life in the shadow of a mistress really a life worth anything? When you hand over your joy and sanity to a woman more powerful than you ever were, is it like offering her a pistol and opening up your blouse to reveal a target. Or are you simply taking a loan out and paying interest for all of eternity?
Spurt (pun always intended)
Apologies for the recent delays in my entries. The truth is, I'm rather unwell. Influenza is a ghastly thing! Spent all of yesterday and the majority of today sleeping. My body is aching, there's a ball of phlegm in my body that needs clearing, head is pounding and cock is really disinterested. Ugh. And perhaps the worst thing of all, I was feeling incredibly horny yesterday. The bug seems to have run away with my testosterone.
I should ask for M's forgiveness. Ever since our vow of non-sexual obedience, I've become obsessed. Obsessed with getting M to spread their legs. Getting M to have that awesome sex we once bound ourselves too. M simply doesn't want to know! I've taken it upon myself to break M's composure in the face of this adversity, though I know it'll be difficult if not impossible. Of late I have spent many hours considering whether there are any loop holes to our no sex policy. 'what if I wank whilst we're talking, without me ever telling you?' Ha. Utter desperation.
I should ask for M's forgiveness. Ever since our vow of non-sexual obedience, I've become obsessed. Obsessed with getting M to spread their legs. Getting M to have that awesome sex we once bound ourselves too. M simply doesn't want to know! I've taken it upon myself to break M's composure in the face of this adversity, though I know it'll be difficult if not impossible. Of late I have spent many hours considering whether there are any loop holes to our no sex policy. 'what if I wank whilst we're talking, without me ever telling you?' Ha. Utter desperation.
Monday, November 13, 2006
Silly
Okay, I've been bad. I telephoned the Norwegien guy. I don't know why. I arranged to meet him on Wednesday. I don't know why. I've probably put myself into a hole from which I shall never emerge. I don't know why. I don't want to meet him anymore. I think I'll cancel. But what's the excuse? Because it's not what I wanted? Big sigh.
The sequence
Those of you who read this, please please do me a favour.
Put the following in order of sequence. By sequence, I mean, you're personal preference. What should happen first and what should happen last. Post your sequence under the 'comments' section at the bottom of this entry with a full and frank reason why you've chosen the order you have:
1. Take your lips and lick around your partner's tongue before you kiss them deeply and push your tongue as far back as it'll go.
2. Perform oral sex with such class and style that your partner's legs curl over and body begins to spasm. The girl squirts a miniature fountain and the boy spray paints the ceiling (or floor).
3. Guide your partner's fingers over your cunt/cock so that he she can get a feel for who you truly are.
4. Lick up every last drop of cunt juice/spunk and guide it, using your tongue over your partner's body until you reach their mouth after which the juices mingle mid-tongue-thrash.
5. Meet his/her mother for fish fingers and baked beans.
6. Insert a body part into one of their orifices and keep pounding/pushing until they climax and for a moment, you catch a glimpse of heaven in their eyes.
7. Ask them to call you.
8. Put on a condom or pop a pill (lesbians excluded from this category).
9. Kiss them gently. If it never happens again, you won't be too disappointed.
10. Undress them using your teeth alone.
I look forward to your responses. A few of the best ones will be placed on the main page in a few days.
Put the following in order of sequence. By sequence, I mean, you're personal preference. What should happen first and what should happen last. Post your sequence under the 'comments' section at the bottom of this entry with a full and frank reason why you've chosen the order you have:
1. Take your lips and lick around your partner's tongue before you kiss them deeply and push your tongue as far back as it'll go.
2. Perform oral sex with such class and style that your partner's legs curl over and body begins to spasm. The girl squirts a miniature fountain and the boy spray paints the ceiling (or floor).
3. Guide your partner's fingers over your cunt/cock so that he she can get a feel for who you truly are.
4. Lick up every last drop of cunt juice/spunk and guide it, using your tongue over your partner's body until you reach their mouth after which the juices mingle mid-tongue-thrash.
5. Meet his/her mother for fish fingers and baked beans.
6. Insert a body part into one of their orifices and keep pounding/pushing until they climax and for a moment, you catch a glimpse of heaven in their eyes.
7. Ask them to call you.
8. Put on a condom or pop a pill (lesbians excluded from this category).
9. Kiss them gently. If it never happens again, you won't be too disappointed.
10. Undress them using your teeth alone.
I look forward to your responses. A few of the best ones will be placed on the main page in a few days.
Sunday, November 12, 2006
Slag Meeting (Friday 10th November 2006)
There should have been four, instead there were two. The Dame and Desdemona couldn't make the slag meeting. It could have been even greater than it was. Though, great it did end up being.
Ophelia and I started the meeting in a cocktail bar. Two Raspberry Caiparinhas, one Strawberry Daiquiri and one Moscow Mule later ( two for one, delicious) we went in search of a Belgian restaurant, Belgos. A rustic restaurant, chips galore, mussels and over 80 varieties of beer. I've always been surprised by people who drink beer through choice, the vile concoction it is. It was for this reason that I was surprised at just how delicious the strawberry and passion fruit flavored beers tasted. For those of you who are due to go to this restaurant, try them.
During the meeting Ophelia expressed her surprise over the Snow White story. The Dame seems also to be somewhat perplexed by it:
'When you're a child, the story is magical and uncomplicated. Then you bring sex into the equation and it becomes complicated.'
Okay, sex is complicated, yes it is. And hats off to the whores who have diplomas in no strings sex. I intend on getting a diploma myself eventually. Another evening class to add to the list of a thousand. I do however continue to believe that not all sex has within it the power to overcomplicate so as to remove the 'magic' from the story, as The Dame was suggesting.
In my opinion, sex injected a bit of much needed va va voom into a story that had existing magical foundations. Magical plus sex equates to greater magic. At least, this is what I've always thought.
And, let's face it, Snow's life was never uncomplicated. A step mother, jealousy, vanity, poisonous apples, seven dwarfs each with separate character traits, and let's not forget that horrid ending, when the dwarfs are left behind for a hunky prince. Tall over Short, beauty over ugly, wealth over poverty. Quite frankly, discrimination of the sickest form. You'd imagine, from a list of seven, she could have found happiness with at least one. Then again, I suppose there remains a Snow White inside us all. Judgmental. Who'd have a dwarf when you could have a Prince. Only those who see beyond the obivous. And there aren't many of those. I hope I can work myself up to the position where a dwarf with a cracking personality would do. At the moment, I can't see far beyond the royalty.
Worry not, the Snow White story is here to stay. I'd always known (and it surprises me that others do not), that 'Happily ever after' doesn't really exist if we take a good fuck out of the question. Perfection does include good wholesome sex. The people who are irked by Snow White having sex, I can't help but wonder; is the narrow mindedness seeping through? Do you think of sex as dirty, a de-purifier? If so, shame on you.
On an entirely separate note,
Am at home over the weekend. Three reasons why home is a good place to be:
1. I can eat whatever I like and every type of food I enjoy is within a three mile radius.
2. I can wear ancient clothes and prance around.
3. I can breathe more easily. This is something difficult to explain. This isn't the same as freedom you realise. The ability to exhale and the notion of freedom are entirely separate.
My father has decided to chop down an apple tree and a fern, both of which have been in garden since we moved in many years ago. All this in preparation for a potential conservatory. Meanwhile I feel as though i've lost two siblings. All I have now is a pear tree. The thing is, i'm somebody who appreciates organic things. And, anybody with a vegetable patch can have a place under my duvet, no problem. The natural cycle is something I love. The purity of it. Untouched. Virgins are organic too you know. And let's not forget the multi -purpose functioning of a carrot. Feed and be fed. This alone is enough to have the government advocate everybody to build their own vegetable patch.
Hi ho hi ho, it's off to work we go.
Ophelia and I started the meeting in a cocktail bar. Two Raspberry Caiparinhas, one Strawberry Daiquiri and one Moscow Mule later ( two for one, delicious) we went in search of a Belgian restaurant, Belgos. A rustic restaurant, chips galore, mussels and over 80 varieties of beer. I've always been surprised by people who drink beer through choice, the vile concoction it is. It was for this reason that I was surprised at just how delicious the strawberry and passion fruit flavored beers tasted. For those of you who are due to go to this restaurant, try them.
During the meeting Ophelia expressed her surprise over the Snow White story. The Dame seems also to be somewhat perplexed by it:
'When you're a child, the story is magical and uncomplicated. Then you bring sex into the equation and it becomes complicated.'
Okay, sex is complicated, yes it is. And hats off to the whores who have diplomas in no strings sex. I intend on getting a diploma myself eventually. Another evening class to add to the list of a thousand. I do however continue to believe that not all sex has within it the power to overcomplicate so as to remove the 'magic' from the story, as The Dame was suggesting.
In my opinion, sex injected a bit of much needed va va voom into a story that had existing magical foundations. Magical plus sex equates to greater magic. At least, this is what I've always thought.
And, let's face it, Snow's life was never uncomplicated. A step mother, jealousy, vanity, poisonous apples, seven dwarfs each with separate character traits, and let's not forget that horrid ending, when the dwarfs are left behind for a hunky prince. Tall over Short, beauty over ugly, wealth over poverty. Quite frankly, discrimination of the sickest form. You'd imagine, from a list of seven, she could have found happiness with at least one. Then again, I suppose there remains a Snow White inside us all. Judgmental. Who'd have a dwarf when you could have a Prince. Only those who see beyond the obivous. And there aren't many of those. I hope I can work myself up to the position where a dwarf with a cracking personality would do. At the moment, I can't see far beyond the royalty.
Worry not, the Snow White story is here to stay. I'd always known (and it surprises me that others do not), that 'Happily ever after' doesn't really exist if we take a good fuck out of the question. Perfection does include good wholesome sex. The people who are irked by Snow White having sex, I can't help but wonder; is the narrow mindedness seeping through? Do you think of sex as dirty, a de-purifier? If so, shame on you.
On an entirely separate note,
Am at home over the weekend. Three reasons why home is a good place to be:
1. I can eat whatever I like and every type of food I enjoy is within a three mile radius.
2. I can wear ancient clothes and prance around.
3. I can breathe more easily. This is something difficult to explain. This isn't the same as freedom you realise. The ability to exhale and the notion of freedom are entirely separate.
My father has decided to chop down an apple tree and a fern, both of which have been in garden since we moved in many years ago. All this in preparation for a potential conservatory. Meanwhile I feel as though i've lost two siblings. All I have now is a pear tree. The thing is, i'm somebody who appreciates organic things. And, anybody with a vegetable patch can have a place under my duvet, no problem. The natural cycle is something I love. The purity of it. Untouched. Virgins are organic too you know. And let's not forget the multi -purpose functioning of a carrot. Feed and be fed. This alone is enough to have the government advocate everybody to build their own vegetable patch.
Hi ho hi ho, it's off to work we go.
Snow White
Some of you have expressed shock and surprise at my re-telling of Snow White And The Seven Dwarfs. It's almost as though you weren't aware of Snow's sex life. Of course, I've known all along.
This is precisely what the words 'happily ever after' refer to. A rampant and satisfying sex life. Don't tell me you thought she was celibate? A virgin eats a poisonous apple. A virgin suffers a near death experience. A virgin wakes up to find a Prince buy her side. A virgin suddenly realises that importance of living. A virgin marries as quickly as possible in order to obtain complete sexual emancipation. Marriage is required so as not to offend her Uncle, the Pope. Snow spent her entire life thinking of others, and it is only now that she is faced with a life that seems so precious that she decides to take it completely into her own hands.
Bravo!
This is precisely what the words 'happily ever after' refer to. A rampant and satisfying sex life. Don't tell me you thought she was celibate? A virgin eats a poisonous apple. A virgin suffers a near death experience. A virgin wakes up to find a Prince buy her side. A virgin suddenly realises that importance of living. A virgin marries as quickly as possible in order to obtain complete sexual emancipation. Marriage is required so as not to offend her Uncle, the Pope. Snow spent her entire life thinking of others, and it is only now that she is faced with a life that seems so precious that she decides to take it completely into her own hands.
Bravo!
Thursday, November 09, 2006
The Dame
It's only right and proper that I inform you all of The Dame's date tonight in what seems like an eternity of almost four years. Sorry, she'll chastise me for saying that it was anything more than a 'friendly informal chat'. Although, I do hope she has her fingers in a pie tonight.
The lady The Dame is meeting comes from an online background and they seem to have hit if off rather well. Similar interests, that lesbian idiosyncrasy, a love of food and good conversation. Gents cross those balls, and ladies, tie a knot with those lady lips. This is a cause for celebration. The Dame's emancipation is well on it's way. We have both tread carefully onto the first rung of our sexual revolutionary ladder. And there remains this feeling, as though we're both finally levitating.
The lady The Dame is meeting comes from an online background and they seem to have hit if off rather well. Similar interests, that lesbian idiosyncrasy, a love of food and good conversation. Gents cross those balls, and ladies, tie a knot with those lady lips. This is a cause for celebration. The Dame's emancipation is well on it's way. We have both tread carefully onto the first rung of our sexual revolutionary ladder. And there remains this feeling, as though we're both finally levitating.
Marie Antoinette
''Let them eat cake, and let them spread it over their phallus' and lady gardens for all to enjoy.'' (Okay, so I made the last bit up). Marie Antoinette is rather a delightful film (up until the end, where we are thrown out of her world abruptly and without reason).
It's sort of like a lady. Beautiful and charming to look at. Fills you with promise and then loses steam towards the end. Women are known for not being able to fulfill the promise of their good looks, but this one (the film) does so quite literally.
It could have been such a great film about a woman who really is quite intriguing. But it wasn't. Because the director cut the damn thing too short without any explanation. Yes, I wanted to see her hang, and I wanted to know exactly why she did. Yes she was married to quite obviously a gay man who wouldn't fuck her. And yes, she drunk lots of champagne and ate the most delightful cakes as a result of her rejection, but what was she truly feeling. That's what I wanted to know and this is what was missing.
Go and watch it make up your own minds, but for such a good director, this was a film that didn't live up to her promises. I feel let down.
It's sort of like a lady. Beautiful and charming to look at. Fills you with promise and then loses steam towards the end. Women are known for not being able to fulfill the promise of their good looks, but this one (the film) does so quite literally.
It could have been such a great film about a woman who really is quite intriguing. But it wasn't. Because the director cut the damn thing too short without any explanation. Yes, I wanted to see her hang, and I wanted to know exactly why she did. Yes she was married to quite obviously a gay man who wouldn't fuck her. And yes, she drunk lots of champagne and ate the most delightful cakes as a result of her rejection, but what was she truly feeling. That's what I wanted to know and this is what was missing.
Go and watch it make up your own minds, but for such a good director, this was a film that didn't live up to her promises. I feel let down.
Snow White And The Seven Dwarfs
And they lived happily ever after...
That was the promise, as they took their vows and as Snow White became Snow Patel (It would make her life so much easier if she were to marry somebody who was a white Christian so I decided she should go for an Indian Prince instead. This way, she can have her curry and eat it too). And the double wedding wasn't bad either. The church wedding went well, each dwarf shed a bucket of tears (and three of them, no names mentioned, found difficulty in suppressing their erections) as she strode down the aisle. She was truly ravishing, was the then Snow White. The smoke from the holy fire of the Indian ceremony got in her eyes and reminded her to pop a bottle of moisturizing cream into her handbag before they retired to the palace chamber.
Two hours after the buffet (pappudumss and mango chutney included) they went home and had toe curling sex (which is rather amazing for a first time). No matter how many times you scratch ferociously at your panties, or tug at your boxers, nothing will quite prepare you for the real thing. If truth be known, the Prince didn't know which hole was which and decided to unknowingly test my anal-sex-on-the-first-date theory. Had it not caused her to feel a sharp pain, Snow Patel would never have known that the hole he had penetrated was in fact her anus and not her vagina like the guidebooks had instructed. Cinderella had told her many times of the virtues of anal sex, she equated them to finding God herself and coined the phrased 'A-hole is the Only hole'.
'Ouch' she squealed, certain that Grumpy's advice that she would experience a subtle more enjoyable pain had clearly been dealt against. The Prince was nice and withdrew immediately, kissing her lovingly on her cheeks and down the side of her neck in an attempt to regain his once towering erection. I'm sorry, but I have little experience in the art of sex. I have also left my glasses on the bedside table and I must have lost my aim. Won't Snow forgive her husband this one error?'
Snow felt relieved that the Prince was able to understand why she had squealed, and thought him cute for being able to admit that he was unaware. Pulling him close she inserted her tongue ferociously into the Prince's mouth. For a brief moment the Prince hoped he'd been drunk enough so as to discard the taste of crab ravioli that seemed to dive from her mouth into his. Despite this, Snow was a great kisser. Her tongue swam sumptuously inside his mouth and led him into oblivion.
Gradually she spread the Prince's legs wide apart and took his entire length down in one go, a shot of lust, if you will. What turned the Prince on most was not that he could see her enjoy his phallus, but that she was gagging. That his phallus could potentially choke and kill her. And as she jerked her mouth up and down his cock, she felt the phallus grow and blossom. It pleased her to be pleasing the Prince. Snow was a giver. A complete giver.
As the hours struck past, Snow decided to offer the Prince that which she knew he would enjoy. Turning away from the Prince, Snow pushed apart her bum cheeks, inviting the Prince's entry. Without so much as a second's hesitation the Prince was inside her, thrusting her in directions she had never thought possible. During moments of her what seemed eternal orgasm, she felt he would break her, that his cock would somehow enter from her A-hole and emerge from her mouth. That she might die. And she grew to love the pain, for it was pain which derived from lust, which derived from pleasure.
During her anal initiation it occured to Snow that, once the deed was done, the Prince might think of her differently. For, up until this moment of anal unity, they had merely kissed (and of course who can forget the grope in the carriage between their respective castles). Easing her arse off his pulsating cock, Snow turned to face her husband and swiftly guided it into her pussy. As much as she wanted to give the Prince the pleasure he deserved, Snow wanted his love more than anything in the world. What she couldn't risk was his judgment now that she had lost her inhibitions. Virgins weren't supposed to open up both holes so rapidly after all.
Pulling her face close to his, she asked 'Am I any good?' to which the response came 'Yesssssssss' as he filled her up with his man juice. She believed him you see, every girl would have. But linguistics during orgasm can often lead to misinterpretation. The following morning, the first question the Prince asked Snow was where she learnt to fuck so well. And this is where the story begins...
That was the promise, as they took their vows and as Snow White became Snow Patel (It would make her life so much easier if she were to marry somebody who was a white Christian so I decided she should go for an Indian Prince instead. This way, she can have her curry and eat it too). And the double wedding wasn't bad either. The church wedding went well, each dwarf shed a bucket of tears (and three of them, no names mentioned, found difficulty in suppressing their erections) as she strode down the aisle. She was truly ravishing, was the then Snow White. The smoke from the holy fire of the Indian ceremony got in her eyes and reminded her to pop a bottle of moisturizing cream into her handbag before they retired to the palace chamber.
Two hours after the buffet (pappudumss and mango chutney included) they went home and had toe curling sex (which is rather amazing for a first time). No matter how many times you scratch ferociously at your panties, or tug at your boxers, nothing will quite prepare you for the real thing. If truth be known, the Prince didn't know which hole was which and decided to unknowingly test my anal-sex-on-the-first-date theory. Had it not caused her to feel a sharp pain, Snow Patel would never have known that the hole he had penetrated was in fact her anus and not her vagina like the guidebooks had instructed. Cinderella had told her many times of the virtues of anal sex, she equated them to finding God herself and coined the phrased 'A-hole is the Only hole'.
'Ouch' she squealed, certain that Grumpy's advice that she would experience a subtle more enjoyable pain had clearly been dealt against. The Prince was nice and withdrew immediately, kissing her lovingly on her cheeks and down the side of her neck in an attempt to regain his once towering erection. I'm sorry, but I have little experience in the art of sex. I have also left my glasses on the bedside table and I must have lost my aim. Won't Snow forgive her husband this one error?'
Snow felt relieved that the Prince was able to understand why she had squealed, and thought him cute for being able to admit that he was unaware. Pulling him close she inserted her tongue ferociously into the Prince's mouth. For a brief moment the Prince hoped he'd been drunk enough so as to discard the taste of crab ravioli that seemed to dive from her mouth into his. Despite this, Snow was a great kisser. Her tongue swam sumptuously inside his mouth and led him into oblivion.
Gradually she spread the Prince's legs wide apart and took his entire length down in one go, a shot of lust, if you will. What turned the Prince on most was not that he could see her enjoy his phallus, but that she was gagging. That his phallus could potentially choke and kill her. And as she jerked her mouth up and down his cock, she felt the phallus grow and blossom. It pleased her to be pleasing the Prince. Snow was a giver. A complete giver.
As the hours struck past, Snow decided to offer the Prince that which she knew he would enjoy. Turning away from the Prince, Snow pushed apart her bum cheeks, inviting the Prince's entry. Without so much as a second's hesitation the Prince was inside her, thrusting her in directions she had never thought possible. During moments of her what seemed eternal orgasm, she felt he would break her, that his cock would somehow enter from her A-hole and emerge from her mouth. That she might die. And she grew to love the pain, for it was pain which derived from lust, which derived from pleasure.
During her anal initiation it occured to Snow that, once the deed was done, the Prince might think of her differently. For, up until this moment of anal unity, they had merely kissed (and of course who can forget the grope in the carriage between their respective castles). Easing her arse off his pulsating cock, Snow turned to face her husband and swiftly guided it into her pussy. As much as she wanted to give the Prince the pleasure he deserved, Snow wanted his love more than anything in the world. What she couldn't risk was his judgment now that she had lost her inhibitions. Virgins weren't supposed to open up both holes so rapidly after all.
Pulling her face close to his, she asked 'Am I any good?' to which the response came 'Yesssssssss' as he filled her up with his man juice. She believed him you see, every girl would have. But linguistics during orgasm can often lead to misinterpretation. The following morning, the first question the Prince asked Snow was where she learnt to fuck so well. And this is where the story begins...
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
Text
The text following the night before.
''Hey (Malaysian)! Hope you're ok. Was nice meeting last night. I did have a think and I really didn't find the click that I thought there might be. I hope you understand and that you find what you're after. It's better to be honest than to just disappear. Take care.''
I hate these types of texts. What else is one supposed to say?
The reply -
''Hi dude, I understand. We can still say hi when we bump into each other. Good luck and take care.''
The chances of me bumping into him on a jolly are far greater than I'd first imagined. I can imagine, in a years time, I'll know a lot of gay people. And a lot of straight people.
''Hey (Malaysian)! Hope you're ok. Was nice meeting last night. I did have a think and I really didn't find the click that I thought there might be. I hope you understand and that you find what you're after. It's better to be honest than to just disappear. Take care.''
I hate these types of texts. What else is one supposed to say?
The reply -
''Hi dude, I understand. We can still say hi when we bump into each other. Good luck and take care.''
The chances of me bumping into him on a jolly are far greater than I'd first imagined. I can imagine, in a years time, I'll know a lot of gay people. And a lot of straight people.
Beer goggles
How could I not have seen it? Beer goggles is a theory I would have happily accepted, had I been drunk. Beerless beer goggles are a strange, frightening thing.
So, two nights ago I met a Malaysian who, at the time, fit my definition of attractive. Clever coupled with sexually active and floating. I whored out my number and spent two subsequent nights talking with him over the telephone. All good. I was liking him even more. Though, yesterday evening I came to realise that he wasn't master material in the sense I'm looking for. He said he wasn't good at 'this sort of thing'. Apparently.
At the time, he had short hair, and fuller cheeks. And yes, it was dark. Though, my sense of judgment can't be this appalling.
I admit, the levels of desperation were slightly higher on that night out. I wanted to pull somebody attractive, I needed reassurance that It was possible, that I was possible.
So, we met today, and as I saw him, I realised that he had long wavy hair. How did it grow so fast. I thought it was short. And the rest was history I suppose. From that moment on I knew there would be no sex. I know that he wasn't attractive and that I had been deluded. I did try imagining him without the hair. But if it wasn't the hair, it was the cheeks, flat and dented. And if not those, then the lies he'd fed me. He said he was 39 and later admitted that he was 28. I asked him why he'd lied. He said I'd fallen for it. Why would I have had any reason to doubt him? What do you get from lying? Of course, he must have enjoyed me telling him how he didn't look a day over 27. Tut tut.
Half way through our meet he said he wanted to head downstairs so that he could buy some condoms (Yes, I think I attract those as weird as myself, some even weirder). Again, what was I supposed to say. I believed him. On his return, he said that he'd in fact gone to purchase some cigarettes.
Such a waste of time, the entire thing. Don't like long hair on men. Nope. Cigarettes. Most certainly not. Lies. Nuh uh. And this coupled with a distinct lack of personality was mere catastrophe. Ophelia, all Malaysian men are not attractive.
I feel totally gayed out. I need a woman. And I'm gonna get me one. Immediately.
So, two nights ago I met a Malaysian who, at the time, fit my definition of attractive. Clever coupled with sexually active and floating. I whored out my number and spent two subsequent nights talking with him over the telephone. All good. I was liking him even more. Though, yesterday evening I came to realise that he wasn't master material in the sense I'm looking for. He said he wasn't good at 'this sort of thing'. Apparently.
At the time, he had short hair, and fuller cheeks. And yes, it was dark. Though, my sense of judgment can't be this appalling.
I admit, the levels of desperation were slightly higher on that night out. I wanted to pull somebody attractive, I needed reassurance that It was possible, that I was possible.
So, we met today, and as I saw him, I realised that he had long wavy hair. How did it grow so fast. I thought it was short. And the rest was history I suppose. From that moment on I knew there would be no sex. I know that he wasn't attractive and that I had been deluded. I did try imagining him without the hair. But if it wasn't the hair, it was the cheeks, flat and dented. And if not those, then the lies he'd fed me. He said he was 39 and later admitted that he was 28. I asked him why he'd lied. He said I'd fallen for it. Why would I have had any reason to doubt him? What do you get from lying? Of course, he must have enjoyed me telling him how he didn't look a day over 27. Tut tut.
Half way through our meet he said he wanted to head downstairs so that he could buy some condoms (Yes, I think I attract those as weird as myself, some even weirder). Again, what was I supposed to say. I believed him. On his return, he said that he'd in fact gone to purchase some cigarettes.
Such a waste of time, the entire thing. Don't like long hair on men. Nope. Cigarettes. Most certainly not. Lies. Nuh uh. And this coupled with a distinct lack of personality was mere catastrophe. Ophelia, all Malaysian men are not attractive.
I feel totally gayed out. I need a woman. And I'm gonna get me one. Immediately.
Monday, November 06, 2006
Closure
Have just returned from a drink with the docu-lady and her assistant. Such nice people. If only losing my virginity was as easy as talking with them. I think we’ve decided that the documentary really wasn’t for me. That sometimes in life, even once we’ve opened wide and spread our legs over the world, there are still some things which remain hard to bare.
Talking about sex, the way wise people do (The wise virgin. Chuckle.), is such an exhilarating experience. It’s better to discuss rampant sexual awakening with a group of people as opposed to one horny beggar. The ideas seem to bounce in the air and not once do they hit the floor, deflated. After all, this is what fucking boils down to. Trying to lose touch with reality. Grappling the airs of lust so that you can stay there for as long as possible. Or until the last tube train leaves the station.
Bets will now be placed in docu-lady’s office. Will I lose the v-badge to a woman, or to a man. Although I can’t help but wonder that docu-lady has already made up her mind. I asked her If I could place a bet too. She said that would be insider dealing. Who exactly would I be ‘dealing’ with?
One of the highlights of the evening had to be our conclusion that every human being has inside their little being a homosexual tendency or five. That, for men, every hole, even their own, needs a good filling. And that women sometimes just want to unplug their sockets and nurture the fleshy nerve endings that stick out at the opening of their crater. That some people, in moments of utter freedom, see somebody of their same sex as potential as opposed to repulsion. The open mind is perhaps the most important thing in this world.
Docu-lady and her male assistant - I hope to see you soon, and if you’d like to come to Erotica 2006 (which I have no doubts you’ll enjoy), don’t hesitate to get in touch. And yes, docu-lady, the show itself is not erotic. What It aims to do is facilitate eroticism. You but a pvc cat suit and pink revolving dildo. And you go home and use it. Only then does it become erotic. I suppose they could have called it ‘become a fully equipped slag 2006’ but then they wouldn’t have as many advertisement boards on the underground and not so many people would attend, apart from us of course.
Moving on…
How long must one wait before one inserts a finger up his girlfriends bottom? If you ask me, the first sexual encounter is your best opportunity. She may decide that she’s washing her hair for all of eternity, or she may just clamp her muscles and take you in that little bit further.
And now to the A-hole.
‘I’d love to fuck a girl up the arse’ came a friend’s (past, though not for this reason) comment, one summer evening.
‘Well, why don’t you?’ came my response.
‘Well it’s taboo isn’t it?’
‘Is it? We’re talking about it aren’t we? Surely it’s just another hole.’
Now, I’ve never thought of anal sex as taboo. Simply another hole to fill. Of course, it’s only common courtesy to ask the prodee whether you as the prodder can have a go. Of course, you know it’ll hurt. And you know that if you were taken from behind, you’d be feeling torn (and we’re not talking emotionally) for the duration. When we train our bottoms to hold things inside from a very early age, the skin, unsurprisingly, doesn’t like to yield to our desires. In fact, it’ll scream, and you’ll know it.
Now, more men than not (and I’m positive of this) have had something up their bottoms, and most of them have quite enjoyed it. Once bendy boys get over the notion that having something inside you is fun as opposed to queer, it can actually be one of the best things in the world. Right up there with a tub of Haagen Daaz Raspberry sorbet. A lady I met some time ago described it as finding yourself. You only know yourself once somebody has taken you from behind and you’ve controlled your urge to piss as they hump you like a rabbit. And as for men who are too scared to ask. Ugh. When it comes to fucking, nothing ventured nothing gained. Tit for tat. I come, you come, we all come.
M informed me once of how best to prepare your bottom for that initiation ceremony. A good cleaning, a thorough prodding and, perhaps most importantly, a deep relaxation of the muscles is all that’s required. How else could I put it? If Henry wants to come inside, but Dorothy keeps pushing the door, Henry might just push harder and unhinge the blasted thing. Now, who’ll pay for damage?
See, it’s not all shit (Ha). Honestly.
Talking about sex, the way wise people do (The wise virgin. Chuckle.), is such an exhilarating experience. It’s better to discuss rampant sexual awakening with a group of people as opposed to one horny beggar. The ideas seem to bounce in the air and not once do they hit the floor, deflated. After all, this is what fucking boils down to. Trying to lose touch with reality. Grappling the airs of lust so that you can stay there for as long as possible. Or until the last tube train leaves the station.
Bets will now be placed in docu-lady’s office. Will I lose the v-badge to a woman, or to a man. Although I can’t help but wonder that docu-lady has already made up her mind. I asked her If I could place a bet too. She said that would be insider dealing. Who exactly would I be ‘dealing’ with?
One of the highlights of the evening had to be our conclusion that every human being has inside their little being a homosexual tendency or five. That, for men, every hole, even their own, needs a good filling. And that women sometimes just want to unplug their sockets and nurture the fleshy nerve endings that stick out at the opening of their crater. That some people, in moments of utter freedom, see somebody of their same sex as potential as opposed to repulsion. The open mind is perhaps the most important thing in this world.
Docu-lady and her male assistant - I hope to see you soon, and if you’d like to come to Erotica 2006 (which I have no doubts you’ll enjoy), don’t hesitate to get in touch. And yes, docu-lady, the show itself is not erotic. What It aims to do is facilitate eroticism. You but a pvc cat suit and pink revolving dildo. And you go home and use it. Only then does it become erotic. I suppose they could have called it ‘become a fully equipped slag 2006’ but then they wouldn’t have as many advertisement boards on the underground and not so many people would attend, apart from us of course.
Moving on…
How long must one wait before one inserts a finger up his girlfriends bottom? If you ask me, the first sexual encounter is your best opportunity. She may decide that she’s washing her hair for all of eternity, or she may just clamp her muscles and take you in that little bit further.
And now to the A-hole.
‘I’d love to fuck a girl up the arse’ came a friend’s (past, though not for this reason) comment, one summer evening.
‘Well, why don’t you?’ came my response.
‘Well it’s taboo isn’t it?’
‘Is it? We’re talking about it aren’t we? Surely it’s just another hole.’
Now, I’ve never thought of anal sex as taboo. Simply another hole to fill. Of course, it’s only common courtesy to ask the prodee whether you as the prodder can have a go. Of course, you know it’ll hurt. And you know that if you were taken from behind, you’d be feeling torn (and we’re not talking emotionally) for the duration. When we train our bottoms to hold things inside from a very early age, the skin, unsurprisingly, doesn’t like to yield to our desires. In fact, it’ll scream, and you’ll know it.
Now, more men than not (and I’m positive of this) have had something up their bottoms, and most of them have quite enjoyed it. Once bendy boys get over the notion that having something inside you is fun as opposed to queer, it can actually be one of the best things in the world. Right up there with a tub of Haagen Daaz Raspberry sorbet. A lady I met some time ago described it as finding yourself. You only know yourself once somebody has taken you from behind and you’ve controlled your urge to piss as they hump you like a rabbit. And as for men who are too scared to ask. Ugh. When it comes to fucking, nothing ventured nothing gained. Tit for tat. I come, you come, we all come.
M informed me once of how best to prepare your bottom for that initiation ceremony. A good cleaning, a thorough prodding and, perhaps most importantly, a deep relaxation of the muscles is all that’s required. How else could I put it? If Henry wants to come inside, but Dorothy keeps pushing the door, Henry might just push harder and unhinge the blasted thing. Now, who’ll pay for damage?
See, it’s not all shit (Ha). Honestly.
Sunday, November 05, 2006
Heck
My friend (the dark weasel described in an earlier entry who I get along with quite well now. Spoke too soon), introduced me to what he has described as the 'heck theory' of romantic development.
'When you lose your virginity, make sure it goes to somebody you won't regret giving it to, the moment you've ejaculated.' This was put rather well I mused. This guy studies psychology and his thoughts, I've come to realise, are always well thought out. So when he further tried to explain the heck principle to me, I was intrigued. The Pudh Thai began to taste all the more delicious (Tuk Tuk is rather a nice place to eat in Soho, in case you wondered).
Sometimes when you're looking for that person with whom you want to have sex for the first time, or indeed later on during your sexual career, you might say to yourself, after having come across some fuckable potential 'Oh what the HECK?, why not?'. And once you've come, you often find yourself thinking 'What the HECK did I do?'
The rule then becomes this: Upon seeing fuckable potential, ask yourself three times, 'What the HECK am I doing? and if each time the answer comes back positive, go ahead and fill the void.
Not sure what I think of this theory. I think each sexual experience has its inherent danger. And sometimes, the risk you're taking, the spontaneity of your actions, the sheer passion can all become rather overwhelming. Take things in your stride. When things are within your control, tighten the leash. As soon as they're outside, free the beast.
That reminds me: docu-lady wants to take me out for a drink tomorrow evening.
Ciao for now
'When you lose your virginity, make sure it goes to somebody you won't regret giving it to, the moment you've ejaculated.' This was put rather well I mused. This guy studies psychology and his thoughts, I've come to realise, are always well thought out. So when he further tried to explain the heck principle to me, I was intrigued. The Pudh Thai began to taste all the more delicious (Tuk Tuk is rather a nice place to eat in Soho, in case you wondered).
Sometimes when you're looking for that person with whom you want to have sex for the first time, or indeed later on during your sexual career, you might say to yourself, after having come across some fuckable potential 'Oh what the HECK?, why not?'. And once you've come, you often find yourself thinking 'What the HECK did I do?'
The rule then becomes this: Upon seeing fuckable potential, ask yourself three times, 'What the HECK am I doing? and if each time the answer comes back positive, go ahead and fill the void.
Not sure what I think of this theory. I think each sexual experience has its inherent danger. And sometimes, the risk you're taking, the spontaneity of your actions, the sheer passion can all become rather overwhelming. Take things in your stride. When things are within your control, tighten the leash. As soon as they're outside, free the beast.
That reminds me: docu-lady wants to take me out for a drink tomorrow evening.
Ciao for now
Thursday, November 02, 2006
How to be a merry virgin Part 3
Don't go on holidays with couples. Don't do it to yourself. Don't do it to your virginity.
The moment you step on that plane (or cruise ship), you can bid farewell to the strong fierce hungry virgin and say hello to the weak fragile victim of fate that everybody had you down for all along.
The thing about being a gooseberry is that you never quite lose that sour taste. And also, friends who'll invite you on their holiday for two (plus one), will expect you to be the 'negotiator' when things go horribly wrong and they piss each other off. Virgins shouldn't have to put themselves in the cross fire of love. In a battlefield, it's always the bit in the middle that has to bare the grunt of fury. Any virgin who does this willingly deserves to be burnt.
And let's say you do. You go on holiday. Don't follow them. Make sure you have a clear idea of the things you'd like to do on your own. Make sure you insist on doing something that neither partner will have an interest in. The best thing about being a virginity is the level of self appreciation you can treat yourself with. It's nice to linger, the way virgins do, in the midnight air where nobody can see them.
If ever the opportunity arises to lose your virginity on the holiday, ask yourself whether you are doing it for purposes of conformity, to fit in. If so, slap yourself hard and ban yourself from looking at porn for an entire week. Or you could simply go with the flow and lose it in a place where nobody even knows your name. Doing it in style, with class and sheen, is the biggest loophole to the virginity-burden model of development. Losing your virginity and having an exotic story to tell afterwards is perfect.
Of course, the worst thing about being a gooseberry on holiday is that people always expect souvenirs from a virgin. And yes those keyrings with ' I love Madrid' on them really are horrid. Though, if you buy them something awful, they'll never ask again. And all that money can be spent on a glossy purple dildo with inbuilt spunking device. After all, the virgin will always have time to buy souvenirs for the world and his wife. And the couple never will. Sigh.
The moment you step on that plane (or cruise ship), you can bid farewell to the strong fierce hungry virgin and say hello to the weak fragile victim of fate that everybody had you down for all along.
The thing about being a gooseberry is that you never quite lose that sour taste. And also, friends who'll invite you on their holiday for two (plus one), will expect you to be the 'negotiator' when things go horribly wrong and they piss each other off. Virgins shouldn't have to put themselves in the cross fire of love. In a battlefield, it's always the bit in the middle that has to bare the grunt of fury. Any virgin who does this willingly deserves to be burnt.
And let's say you do. You go on holiday. Don't follow them. Make sure you have a clear idea of the things you'd like to do on your own. Make sure you insist on doing something that neither partner will have an interest in. The best thing about being a virginity is the level of self appreciation you can treat yourself with. It's nice to linger, the way virgins do, in the midnight air where nobody can see them.
If ever the opportunity arises to lose your virginity on the holiday, ask yourself whether you are doing it for purposes of conformity, to fit in. If so, slap yourself hard and ban yourself from looking at porn for an entire week. Or you could simply go with the flow and lose it in a place where nobody even knows your name. Doing it in style, with class and sheen, is the biggest loophole to the virginity-burden model of development. Losing your virginity and having an exotic story to tell afterwards is perfect.
Of course, the worst thing about being a gooseberry on holiday is that people always expect souvenirs from a virgin. And yes those keyrings with ' I love Madrid' on them really are horrid. Though, if you buy them something awful, they'll never ask again. And all that money can be spent on a glossy purple dildo with inbuilt spunking device. After all, the virgin will always have time to buy souvenirs for the world and his wife. And the couple never will. Sigh.
Perv
'Being able to perv makes life worth living' exclaimed a fellow student to me earlier today after I asked her why she did it so unashamedly.
Apparently, life is boring and tiresome if you haven't got your eyes on somebody's bulge or tits. I partly agree with this statement. But there are always other things you could do to relieve yourself of boredom. You could learn how to swim, or write a blog...
Another friend commented that perving on men was a part of her emancipation. And then she continued to spew forth some feminist drivel about objectifying men the way they had done for years and years. Yawn.
A group of my classmates have formed a perv gang; they position themselves at computers directly behind the object of their lust, they sit around cafe tables and have a perving discussion, you know the sort of stuff; 'Hot stuff over there, he's really fit. Who's that girl, she's mighty fine. I'd do anything for him, he's just got the best face I've ever seen, he's beautiful'. Yawn.
What's the point of it all? Perving is so aimless. I suppose all pervs probably secretly hope that the object of their lustful gaze might just overhear them, or see them looking at their bulge, and come over and confess 'I really like you, I've always been shy, you should have come to me earlier, I think you're really hot, let's go out and have a life of rampant sex and maybe even a wonderful relationship.'
Of Course (s)he never will, for (s)he hasn't yet developed the power of listening to conversations which take place a hundred feet away, or conversations which take place when (s)he isn't around. And what a shame that is.
Perv too long and it'll be gone. And imagination was never meant to stretch for an entire lifetime. What could have been will never be. The bulge you saw was probably the biggest cock you'd ever have had. And now, because you're a looker and not a doer, you're buggered, (though you wish you had been).
Perving is to sex the way looks and a smile are to love. On the first rung of the ladder to success. But still, there are 7 rungs on which to tread. And then you can say you've been emancipated. Only then.
Apparently, life is boring and tiresome if you haven't got your eyes on somebody's bulge or tits. I partly agree with this statement. But there are always other things you could do to relieve yourself of boredom. You could learn how to swim, or write a blog...
Another friend commented that perving on men was a part of her emancipation. And then she continued to spew forth some feminist drivel about objectifying men the way they had done for years and years. Yawn.
A group of my classmates have formed a perv gang; they position themselves at computers directly behind the object of their lust, they sit around cafe tables and have a perving discussion, you know the sort of stuff; 'Hot stuff over there, he's really fit. Who's that girl, she's mighty fine. I'd do anything for him, he's just got the best face I've ever seen, he's beautiful'. Yawn.
What's the point of it all? Perving is so aimless. I suppose all pervs probably secretly hope that the object of their lustful gaze might just overhear them, or see them looking at their bulge, and come over and confess 'I really like you, I've always been shy, you should have come to me earlier, I think you're really hot, let's go out and have a life of rampant sex and maybe even a wonderful relationship.'
Of Course (s)he never will, for (s)he hasn't yet developed the power of listening to conversations which take place a hundred feet away, or conversations which take place when (s)he isn't around. And what a shame that is.
Perv too long and it'll be gone. And imagination was never meant to stretch for an entire lifetime. What could have been will never be. The bulge you saw was probably the biggest cock you'd ever have had. And now, because you're a looker and not a doer, you're buggered, (though you wish you had been).
Perving is to sex the way looks and a smile are to love. On the first rung of the ladder to success. But still, there are 7 rungs on which to tread. And then you can say you've been emancipated. Only then.
The kiss
A kiss is something you cannot
give without taking and cannot
take without giving.
-Anonymous-
You may conquer with the sword,
but you are conquered by a kiss.
-Daniel Heinsius (1580-1655)-
The decision to kiss for the first time is the
most crucial in any love story. It changes the
relationship of two people much more strongly
than even the final surrender; because this kiss
already has within it that surrender.
-Emil Ludwig (1881-1948)-
There seems to be this obsession that gay men have with kissing their partner's neck over their mouth. I've noticed it myself. Back in the day of 'the rumble' I too kissed the boy's neck. For fear of what mouth to mouth resuscitation might bring to life.
I wonder whether if perhaps it's the same for heterosexual couples. Or indeed for lesbians? I wonder whether the neck is the closest we can go to the mouth without unraveling too much, without giving too much of ourselves away. When you kiss somebody you're totally connected. In that moment, you must be incredibly confident in the state of affairs, or sloshed. You have to be at ease in order to kiss somebody on the lips. A forced kiss isn't really a kiss, afterall. It's more a slurp.
So, why do people do it? Is kissing really that scary? Why do people always go for the neck. Licking and sucking it. It's probably just as erotic as kissing if not more, however with a much lower fear factor. Kissing somebody doesn't commit your soul to them. Perhaps we're still in the state of assuming that when two openings merge, something from one, namely our soul, will slip quite happily into the other. And how exactly do you get it back once it's gone?
Would I be correct in assuming that kissing on the lips is something requiring more guts than people give it credit for? I recall a conversation with Adrian not so long ago where she put her unhappiness with a current suitor (at the time), down to his inability to offer her a kiss after four dates. Maybe he was frightened. Maybe he was shy. Maybe he thought Adriana would judge his kiss. I wonder if Cher is right. Is it really all in his kiss?
On another note, went to watch 'The History Boys' tonight with a fellow cultural butterfly de Bengal. It was hilarious. Perfect. About of group of grammar school boys and their quest of securing a place at Oxbridge. And all with a huge homosexual undercurrent. I don't know about you dear readers, but films don't get much better than this. It made me laugh and think. For all the slack these Oxbridge types put up with, I sometimes wish I was nearly as rounded, as clever. What it means to understand where you came from, your history, and to mould this into your future. To understand the world, how it was, how it is, how is will be, and to really achieve something unique, that must be the way forward. Surely.
give without taking and cannot
take without giving.
-Anonymous-
You may conquer with the sword,
but you are conquered by a kiss.
-Daniel Heinsius (1580-1655)-
The decision to kiss for the first time is the
most crucial in any love story. It changes the
relationship of two people much more strongly
than even the final surrender; because this kiss
already has within it that surrender.
-Emil Ludwig (1881-1948)-
There seems to be this obsession that gay men have with kissing their partner's neck over their mouth. I've noticed it myself. Back in the day of 'the rumble' I too kissed the boy's neck. For fear of what mouth to mouth resuscitation might bring to life.
I wonder whether if perhaps it's the same for heterosexual couples. Or indeed for lesbians? I wonder whether the neck is the closest we can go to the mouth without unraveling too much, without giving too much of ourselves away. When you kiss somebody you're totally connected. In that moment, you must be incredibly confident in the state of affairs, or sloshed. You have to be at ease in order to kiss somebody on the lips. A forced kiss isn't really a kiss, afterall. It's more a slurp.
So, why do people do it? Is kissing really that scary? Why do people always go for the neck. Licking and sucking it. It's probably just as erotic as kissing if not more, however with a much lower fear factor. Kissing somebody doesn't commit your soul to them. Perhaps we're still in the state of assuming that when two openings merge, something from one, namely our soul, will slip quite happily into the other. And how exactly do you get it back once it's gone?
Would I be correct in assuming that kissing on the lips is something requiring more guts than people give it credit for? I recall a conversation with Adrian not so long ago where she put her unhappiness with a current suitor (at the time), down to his inability to offer her a kiss after four dates. Maybe he was frightened. Maybe he was shy. Maybe he thought Adriana would judge his kiss. I wonder if Cher is right. Is it really all in his kiss?
On another note, went to watch 'The History Boys' tonight with a fellow cultural butterfly de Bengal. It was hilarious. Perfect. About of group of grammar school boys and their quest of securing a place at Oxbridge. And all with a huge homosexual undercurrent. I don't know about you dear readers, but films don't get much better than this. It made me laugh and think. For all the slack these Oxbridge types put up with, I sometimes wish I was nearly as rounded, as clever. What it means to understand where you came from, your history, and to mould this into your future. To understand the world, how it was, how it is, how is will be, and to really achieve something unique, that must be the way forward. Surely.
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