I should confess. Bohemians turn me on. That unconventional creative energy coupled with often a rampant sex drive. Personally, I couldn’t imagine anything better. So you’ll understand what led me to pursue a ‘professional artist’ whom I sourced through the shallow pool that is Gaydar.
Having exchanged a few emails and debated the pros (my view) and cons (his view) of the Damien Hirst (yes, we’re still with old Mr Hirst), I felt that, if all else failed, I’d still have a conversation worth having.
That said the conversation was really quite enjoyable. We discussed art for the good part of an hour: themes including his own career, my most admired artists and a brief continuation on the Hirst debate. The Hirst was, in my eyes, a mostly successful show (which is no longer being shown as I found out when I went for a viewing earlier today with Ms Unravel). I did have my problems with it and it felt good to get a little brain fuck as we sipped on drinks.
Now, the problem wasn’t so much that he was bad looking. He was fine, if a little old looking at 31 years of age. Hi body was slender, his flesh seemed tender. But there, as he sat opposite me in The Village, I could not feel that pang of lust (such as that felt with Gael Garcia Bernal and Katie from the Apprentice), and I know then, that sex wasn’t really going to be an option. Perhaps if I was drunk, perhaps if he shaved off that beard and began to ooze that rough and ready sex appeal. The world, it seems to me, is full of these would be could bes.
And now for the interesting stuff…
He was, he confessed, ‘already in a relationship’. A long distance affair with a n Eastern European artist. Fine I thought, this ahs never gotten in the way before.
That his lover had a wife who was his professional art companion was something much more interesting to me. An open relationship and really no prospect of a threesome.
‘Whenever they come over and visit me, she sleeps on the coach and he sleeps in my bed’. Crickey.
I guess monogamy just isn’t for some people. There is something I admire about that woman you see. That she can embrace her husband for who he is. That she can support him, lose him and love him, all in one breath. I suppose, deep inside, it’s something I’d quite like to do myself. Share myself. Have two Me’s in the world. The thoughtful monogamist, the bohemian fuck puppet.
Monday, July 23, 2007
Thursday, July 19, 2007
The Dame's Birthday
For those of you who know me, the thought of owning a pet is forever overruled by the idea of white sofas and glossy lamented flooring. This and a minute fear of beasts.
For this reason, The Dame’s dogs, as docile and friendly as they are, are always in the corner of my eyes.
Last Saturday The Dame held a BBQ to which I was invited, together with Common Julie, The Art Teacher, Brownie and Mystic Meg. A fantastic day all in all. Of course, I had no idea that I’d end up sleeping (literally) with The Dame, Common Julie, who snores the way an Alsatian on heat might, and one of The Dame’s dogs. And then, let’s not forget waking up to two other dogs sniffing me the way they might a piece of meat/apple strudel.
I’ve always been aware that dog’s can smell fear and I spent much of that morning telling myself that I was going to be ok. Why can’t people just stick to the Andrex puppy I wonder?
‘Ooh, look, you’re mummy’s little precious aren’t you?’ crooned The Dame more than once. And that’s when I gave her that look that says ‘What a strange thing you are’. I suppose one must learn to understand that to certain people, dogs mean more than humans.
Rewind…
The Dame hired out a couple of Sumo suits which, let it be said, I was quick to don. If you’ve ever seen me, you might be forgiven for thinking the idea of wearing a sumo suit wouldn’t cross my mind. Or at least, that pouncing on a Dame would be a far dream. But, I’ll say, once I’m heated up, the welly I’m able to give would put those who appear ‘fitter’ to shame. I may be slender, but that internal resource is always there.
After we pounded on each other with these on and took an awful lot of photos, which, as expected, are now firmly on Facebook, Common Julie and I enacted a scene which allowed The Dame to show us precisely what her occupation requires of her. Whether she’s crap at her job, or whether her ability to follow instructions is limited I am as yet unaware, but it took her an awfully long time to grasp the idea of our drug smuggle. Of course, once she had, she had me on the floor, the way she’d wanted to for years.
I have a personal lust for the place where The Dame lives. It’s a breath of fresh air and manure from the old city. And the music we could have as loud as we wanted.
A special thanks to The Dame’s grandmother for undertaking a commission for a lemon meringue pie. Utterly delicious.
The day was incredibly successful, and we were even introduced to the spiritual world by Mystic Meg. This is something that requires a full entry once I have a conclusion drawn. Let’s just say, Mystic Meg seems to have rattled The Dame into action with her clairvoyant/weird capacity.
Another year older, another inch lost on the tit, another wrinkle making its humble way up the fanny, The Dame need action before the clitoris comes off in the shower. With this in mind, it’s now my aim to get her an orgasm.
Happy Birthday.
For this reason, The Dame’s dogs, as docile and friendly as they are, are always in the corner of my eyes.
Last Saturday The Dame held a BBQ to which I was invited, together with Common Julie, The Art Teacher, Brownie and Mystic Meg. A fantastic day all in all. Of course, I had no idea that I’d end up sleeping (literally) with The Dame, Common Julie, who snores the way an Alsatian on heat might, and one of The Dame’s dogs. And then, let’s not forget waking up to two other dogs sniffing me the way they might a piece of meat/apple strudel.
I’ve always been aware that dog’s can smell fear and I spent much of that morning telling myself that I was going to be ok. Why can’t people just stick to the Andrex puppy I wonder?
‘Ooh, look, you’re mummy’s little precious aren’t you?’ crooned The Dame more than once. And that’s when I gave her that look that says ‘What a strange thing you are’. I suppose one must learn to understand that to certain people, dogs mean more than humans.
Rewind…
The Dame hired out a couple of Sumo suits which, let it be said, I was quick to don. If you’ve ever seen me, you might be forgiven for thinking the idea of wearing a sumo suit wouldn’t cross my mind. Or at least, that pouncing on a Dame would be a far dream. But, I’ll say, once I’m heated up, the welly I’m able to give would put those who appear ‘fitter’ to shame. I may be slender, but that internal resource is always there.
After we pounded on each other with these on and took an awful lot of photos, which, as expected, are now firmly on Facebook, Common Julie and I enacted a scene which allowed The Dame to show us precisely what her occupation requires of her. Whether she’s crap at her job, or whether her ability to follow instructions is limited I am as yet unaware, but it took her an awfully long time to grasp the idea of our drug smuggle. Of course, once she had, she had me on the floor, the way she’d wanted to for years.
I have a personal lust for the place where The Dame lives. It’s a breath of fresh air and manure from the old city. And the music we could have as loud as we wanted.
A special thanks to The Dame’s grandmother for undertaking a commission for a lemon meringue pie. Utterly delicious.
The day was incredibly successful, and we were even introduced to the spiritual world by Mystic Meg. This is something that requires a full entry once I have a conclusion drawn. Let’s just say, Mystic Meg seems to have rattled The Dame into action with her clairvoyant/weird capacity.
Another year older, another inch lost on the tit, another wrinkle making its humble way up the fanny, The Dame need action before the clitoris comes off in the shower. With this in mind, it’s now my aim to get her an orgasm.
Happy Birthday.
A New Start
The truth is this. Stupidly, the other day I had a weak moment and typed The Doctor's name into the search facility on Facebook. Why? I don't know. I guess I just wanted to see her face again. A photo appeared of her looking so happy. The photo symbolised everything I fell in love with her for in the first place. I felt an overwhelming wave of sickness and love all at the same time and then after sitting for a while I felt completely empty all over again. I suppose I'm always going to be wishing she will come back to me one day but there appeared to be no recognition in her face whatsoever for the pain she has caused and that made me feel determined. Determined to do what I don't know, but determined that I will not be defeated by this.
Her name will not be mentioned on here anymore, neither will it be mentioned in conversation to anyone who will listen. Never have I felt so low after a break up and by talking about her to anyone who would listen somehow kept her with me. Thank you all for being so patient but there will be no more.
On that note, after receiving a nasty punch in the face at work a short time ago things do appear to be on the up. You see, there is a girl. I would not normally be so frivolous in giving people names on the blog but I suspect she will be mentioned anew so I shall refer to her as Beatrice. I'm always told I would end up with someone I worked with, due to the nature of my work and judging by the way things are heading I suspect this may be accurate.
Beatrice and I work together but from afar if that makes sense. I really like her and I think the feeling is mutual. We have spent a lot of time socially together over the last 2 weeks with friends and the general impression that I get from other people is 'you are made for each other, when are you both going to see that'. A lot of flirtatious texting has occured and continues to occur. The only downside to such events is my job means the world to me and I always said I would not date anyone that close to home, it would not be pleasant if it went wrong. On the flip side of that, should I really not pursue someone I really like on the basis that it just 'might' go wrong? Views on this would be greatly appreciated?
Soiree to celebrate my coming of age went extremely well, but I wont steal Tainted's thunder as I'm sure he will write about this in due course.
Farewell for now.
-The Dame-
Her name will not be mentioned on here anymore, neither will it be mentioned in conversation to anyone who will listen. Never have I felt so low after a break up and by talking about her to anyone who would listen somehow kept her with me. Thank you all for being so patient but there will be no more.
On that note, after receiving a nasty punch in the face at work a short time ago things do appear to be on the up. You see, there is a girl. I would not normally be so frivolous in giving people names on the blog but I suspect she will be mentioned anew so I shall refer to her as Beatrice. I'm always told I would end up with someone I worked with, due to the nature of my work and judging by the way things are heading I suspect this may be accurate.
Beatrice and I work together but from afar if that makes sense. I really like her and I think the feeling is mutual. We have spent a lot of time socially together over the last 2 weeks with friends and the general impression that I get from other people is 'you are made for each other, when are you both going to see that'. A lot of flirtatious texting has occured and continues to occur. The only downside to such events is my job means the world to me and I always said I would not date anyone that close to home, it would not be pleasant if it went wrong. On the flip side of that, should I really not pursue someone I really like on the basis that it just 'might' go wrong? Views on this would be greatly appreciated?
Soiree to celebrate my coming of age went extremely well, but I wont steal Tainted's thunder as I'm sure he will write about this in due course.
Farewell for now.
-The Dame-
Thursday, July 12, 2007
Paid for it
Getting paid for sex is always something I’ve considered. For those of you who follow me, you’ll know just how true this is.
Prostitution money is the equivalent to a modelling contract. Both are forms of validation of ability.
If I’m paid for sex it must mean that I’m good enough to be paid for it.
So, two days ago I spoke with a man whom I met on Gaydar. His profile clearly stated that he’d pay for sex as this would ‘cut the crap’.
His lack of photo wasn’t the best reassurance to me that Brad Pitt sat behind the keyboard. And when I saw him, there was very little I felt in terms of desire. He was very different to the sorts of men I’d normally find attractive. And this had me thinking.
Would sleeping with somebody who you didn’t desire in the least be worth enough if you were paid money for your services. Could you pretend to desire somebody for three hours of your life? Women fake their orgasm hundreds of times during their lifetime. Is this really so different?
If anything, the experimental, innovative and financial nature of this preposition had me turned on. And the control. I’d be able to do whatever I wanted, bar poking this ‘Top’.
He seems ‘intrigued’ by me. And would like to meet tomorrow for a drink/prelude to eventual intercourse.
The hardest part of this deal is pricing myself. What might hours of earnest licking and pumping warrant in terms of costs I wonder?
Prostitution money is the equivalent to a modelling contract. Both are forms of validation of ability.
If I’m paid for sex it must mean that I’m good enough to be paid for it.
So, two days ago I spoke with a man whom I met on Gaydar. His profile clearly stated that he’d pay for sex as this would ‘cut the crap’.
His lack of photo wasn’t the best reassurance to me that Brad Pitt sat behind the keyboard. And when I saw him, there was very little I felt in terms of desire. He was very different to the sorts of men I’d normally find attractive. And this had me thinking.
Would sleeping with somebody who you didn’t desire in the least be worth enough if you were paid money for your services. Could you pretend to desire somebody for three hours of your life? Women fake their orgasm hundreds of times during their lifetime. Is this really so different?
If anything, the experimental, innovative and financial nature of this preposition had me turned on. And the control. I’d be able to do whatever I wanted, bar poking this ‘Top’.
He seems ‘intrigued’ by me. And would like to meet tomorrow for a drink/prelude to eventual intercourse.
The hardest part of this deal is pricing myself. What might hours of earnest licking and pumping warrant in terms of costs I wonder?
Lady Macbeth and the ShoeBoy
Lady Macbeth visited me last Monday.
Leaving her job behind and traipsing half way across the world to Costa Rica for Spanish Lessons. I knew there was a reason I liked her.
We met whilst I was travelling and she lives in Sydney. That said, she and I are good friends. It isn’t often you feel completely at ease around people. With her, this is the case. And this is why she is able to tell me that one of her Ex BoyF’s has a shoe fetish.
Pointy red shoes with killer heels, or so she said.
‘He makes me try them on when we’re out shopping and gets very excited as I put them on.’
Shoe fetishes/foot fetishes are no knew thing, granted, but it was the part of our conversation (that took place as we were both attempting to fall asleep) where she suggested that he wanted to fuck the shoe, that rendered me completely awake.
Where precisely would his cock fit into the shoe?
Wouldn’t a hearty fucking be incredibly painful?
And there was I, thinking he might simply enjoy looking at the shoes, looking at her in the shoes, maybe only the shoes. Perhaps, I thought, he might lick them, as I’ve seen done a number of times before.
That the ShoeBoy may have connections with the Turkish Mafia seems an ancillary point alongside this shoe fetish.
Lady Macbeth also suffers from anything but English/Australian man syndrome. This condition manifests itself exactly the way one might expect. She only seems to find attractive and date men who live miles away, but who have fit bodies. That men are drawn to her like flies to a candle remains an undisputed fact. It’s just the distance can and always will create barriers both to love and sex.
Leading on from this, it is positive news that she seems to have found a great Costa Rican for whom she has feelings. And, as far as we are aware, there is none of this shoe frolicking business. That said, we all have our fetishes. Some people take longer to embrace theirs than others.
For now, Lady Macbeth is refreshed, filled with life and possibilities. And this is no bad place to be.
Leaving her job behind and traipsing half way across the world to Costa Rica for Spanish Lessons. I knew there was a reason I liked her.
We met whilst I was travelling and she lives in Sydney. That said, she and I are good friends. It isn’t often you feel completely at ease around people. With her, this is the case. And this is why she is able to tell me that one of her Ex BoyF’s has a shoe fetish.
Pointy red shoes with killer heels, or so she said.
‘He makes me try them on when we’re out shopping and gets very excited as I put them on.’
Shoe fetishes/foot fetishes are no knew thing, granted, but it was the part of our conversation (that took place as we were both attempting to fall asleep) where she suggested that he wanted to fuck the shoe, that rendered me completely awake.
Where precisely would his cock fit into the shoe?
Wouldn’t a hearty fucking be incredibly painful?
And there was I, thinking he might simply enjoy looking at the shoes, looking at her in the shoes, maybe only the shoes. Perhaps, I thought, he might lick them, as I’ve seen done a number of times before.
That the ShoeBoy may have connections with the Turkish Mafia seems an ancillary point alongside this shoe fetish.
Lady Macbeth also suffers from anything but English/Australian man syndrome. This condition manifests itself exactly the way one might expect. She only seems to find attractive and date men who live miles away, but who have fit bodies. That men are drawn to her like flies to a candle remains an undisputed fact. It’s just the distance can and always will create barriers both to love and sex.
Leading on from this, it is positive news that she seems to have found a great Costa Rican for whom she has feelings. And, as far as we are aware, there is none of this shoe frolicking business. That said, we all have our fetishes. Some people take longer to embrace theirs than others.
For now, Lady Macbeth is refreshed, filled with life and possibilities. And this is no bad place to be.
Hens
My current annoyance is aimed at those women who come down to London for a hen party and insist on dressing up like drag queens. Yes, we’re talking pink glittery cowboy hats, silly T shirts and belts the size of Waterloo Bridge.
Don’t think of me as a miserable prude now will you? It’s just that this leary sort of woman, London could do without. I’m all for a spot of fun and games. A drink, or even twenty, but when they cackle that awful cackle, I can only think of getting a hammer and doing my worst.
So, it’ll come as no surprise that just the other night, on the Piccadilly Line (which isn’t so surprising to be frank), I came across a harem of women dressed like the campest of gay men who, whilst slurping cans of Guinness, sang French songs (song is perhaps a strong word for that frothing at the mouth).
And then it happened. We were all joined by a bunch of amateur drunken letch footballers. You’ll forgive me for thinking I was in a set of Eastenders with all that rough and tumble.
‘Ello Ladies’ said the leader of the pack
Silence
‘Oooh, they’re a miserable lot these ones are.’
‘We’re not miserable’
And then they started talking, singing and flirting, voices louder than you’ll ever imagine. All good until the men decided to put on a striptease. We’re not talking elegant Demi Style stripping, it was more a frantic pulling down of jeans from Primark revealing dark pubic hairs.
I told myself time and again that they were having fun, that I should rejoice with them. But there was something about his podgy belly and that field of pubic hair that made me want to be that ‘person under the train’ casing delays.
And then, for the icing on the cake, the leader proceeded to walk up to each hen in turn and attempt to get her head inside his trousers so that she could no doubt see his smell old willy.
Londoners are varied, classy, determined, clever, arty,
rude, filthy, inappropriate.
At one moment during this episode, as a woman tried to fight off the willy flasher, I wondered whether this might fit the definition of torture under the Geneva Convention.
Don’t think of me as a miserable prude now will you? It’s just that this leary sort of woman, London could do without. I’m all for a spot of fun and games. A drink, or even twenty, but when they cackle that awful cackle, I can only think of getting a hammer and doing my worst.
So, it’ll come as no surprise that just the other night, on the Piccadilly Line (which isn’t so surprising to be frank), I came across a harem of women dressed like the campest of gay men who, whilst slurping cans of Guinness, sang French songs (song is perhaps a strong word for that frothing at the mouth).
And then it happened. We were all joined by a bunch of amateur drunken letch footballers. You’ll forgive me for thinking I was in a set of Eastenders with all that rough and tumble.
‘Ello Ladies’ said the leader of the pack
Silence
‘Oooh, they’re a miserable lot these ones are.’
‘We’re not miserable’
And then they started talking, singing and flirting, voices louder than you’ll ever imagine. All good until the men decided to put on a striptease. We’re not talking elegant Demi Style stripping, it was more a frantic pulling down of jeans from Primark revealing dark pubic hairs.
I told myself time and again that they were having fun, that I should rejoice with them. But there was something about his podgy belly and that field of pubic hair that made me want to be that ‘person under the train’ casing delays.
And then, for the icing on the cake, the leader proceeded to walk up to each hen in turn and attempt to get her head inside his trousers so that she could no doubt see his smell old willy.
Londoners are varied, classy, determined, clever, arty,
rude, filthy, inappropriate.
At one moment during this episode, as a woman tried to fight off the willy flasher, I wondered whether this might fit the definition of torture under the Geneva Convention.
Thursday, July 05, 2007
New Beginnings
If I were ever to start this blog again, this would be the time.
The last two weeks have suddenly seen my life fall into place. The job I wanted I now have. The creative ambitions I wanted to explore are now also firmly within my reach. Objectively speaking, my life couldn't be any better.
Even my dismal sex life isn't enough to wipe the smile off my face.
Lessons I have learnt in the last week
Persistence always pays off
Success is better than orgasm
If you want something badly enough, it'll take a great force to deter you from achieving it
Let's rewind...
The Dame came over for a night of platonic loving. As usual, we did things arty and she was able to meet Lady Montague, J, Titania and S together with some of my other friends. Subsequently it appeared to me, from the feedback I received, that she was one lesbian that was much adored. I say this because many of my friends have a lesbian hatred. And The Dame was described as 'nice' and 'lovely'. Whatever next, i thought. An 'awesome' lesbian remains controversial.
We went for our customary Japanese meal and, on this occasion, saw the fantastic Damien Hirst 'Beyond Belief' exhibition. Sharks sawn in half, and cows for that matter, preserved in formaldehyde....incredible. And the diamond encrusted skull, a must see for any artiste.
The last two weeks have suddenly seen my life fall into place. The job I wanted I now have. The creative ambitions I wanted to explore are now also firmly within my reach. Objectively speaking, my life couldn't be any better.
Even my dismal sex life isn't enough to wipe the smile off my face.
Lessons I have learnt in the last week
Persistence always pays off
Success is better than orgasm
If you want something badly enough, it'll take a great force to deter you from achieving it
Let's rewind...
The Dame came over for a night of platonic loving. As usual, we did things arty and she was able to meet Lady Montague, J, Titania and S together with some of my other friends. Subsequently it appeared to me, from the feedback I received, that she was one lesbian that was much adored. I say this because many of my friends have a lesbian hatred. And The Dame was described as 'nice' and 'lovely'. Whatever next, i thought. An 'awesome' lesbian remains controversial.
We went for our customary Japanese meal and, on this occasion, saw the fantastic Damien Hirst 'Beyond Belief' exhibition. Sharks sawn in half, and cows for that matter, preserved in formaldehyde....incredible. And the diamond encrusted skull, a must see for any artiste.
In Bed with the New Doctor
Written by my dear friend ‘The Dame’...
I write this feeling slightly fatigued after what has been a rather surreal night. I met The New Doctor last night for the first time since we met in one of my favourite haunts. We dined at a cafe and then went to see a concert together at a well known place in work town. The venue for this concert was perfect and almost magical.
After the concert she says "What do you want to do now, I have some good DVD's, we could go back to yours and watch them?". We headed back to my hovel and began to watch a DVD, with she lying on my bed and me in my favourite red chair. She got cold so I told her she could get in my bed if she wanted, which she did. The DVD became obselete as we began talking. And talking. And talking.
We discussed all manner of things during the course of the night, with her snuggled up in my bed and me in my chair. I felt completely at ease with her and we discussed some very personal things. She told me she is not staight but more bisexual/bicurious and that she would like to see what it is like to sleep with a woman but has not met one she would feel comfortable sleeping with. Should it happen, she said, she would like it to be a natural progression as opposed to a staged act. She told me her whole story.
I told her all about what happened with The Doctor, really opened up about how it has made me feel and how I miss her so much. She told me I didnt strike her as someone who fell for people easily and I told her she was right. Upon being asked if it was still raw for me and if I felt I was still in love I said yes. She then proceeded to tell me about her ex's.
The birds then started singing and it began to get light outside. We ended the evening at about 5am when we ventured out to do a bit of cow spotting (she disbelieved cows would be present mid city and to her disbelief there they were). I then took her home (a short drive) before we parted after a hug.
A really bizarre evening, like something out of a Murakami novel, girl meets girl, girls sit up all night talking completely at ease with each other and then part with the promise of seeing each other again. At this point in time though I believe I have made a good friend. The Dame remains single for now. At this present time, I now have a few women who seem quite happy to dine with me/partake in nice things with me and still I find myself thinking that I had the wrong Doctor in my bed last night.
Yours,
-The Dame-
I write this feeling slightly fatigued after what has been a rather surreal night. I met The New Doctor last night for the first time since we met in one of my favourite haunts. We dined at a cafe and then went to see a concert together at a well known place in work town. The venue for this concert was perfect and almost magical.
After the concert she says "What do you want to do now, I have some good DVD's, we could go back to yours and watch them?". We headed back to my hovel and began to watch a DVD, with she lying on my bed and me in my favourite red chair. She got cold so I told her she could get in my bed if she wanted, which she did. The DVD became obselete as we began talking. And talking. And talking.
We discussed all manner of things during the course of the night, with her snuggled up in my bed and me in my chair. I felt completely at ease with her and we discussed some very personal things. She told me she is not staight but more bisexual/bicurious and that she would like to see what it is like to sleep with a woman but has not met one she would feel comfortable sleeping with. Should it happen, she said, she would like it to be a natural progression as opposed to a staged act. She told me her whole story.
I told her all about what happened with The Doctor, really opened up about how it has made me feel and how I miss her so much. She told me I didnt strike her as someone who fell for people easily and I told her she was right. Upon being asked if it was still raw for me and if I felt I was still in love I said yes. She then proceeded to tell me about her ex's.
The birds then started singing and it began to get light outside. We ended the evening at about 5am when we ventured out to do a bit of cow spotting (she disbelieved cows would be present mid city and to her disbelief there they were). I then took her home (a short drive) before we parted after a hug.
A really bizarre evening, like something out of a Murakami novel, girl meets girl, girls sit up all night talking completely at ease with each other and then part with the promise of seeing each other again. At this point in time though I believe I have made a good friend. The Dame remains single for now. At this present time, I now have a few women who seem quite happy to dine with me/partake in nice things with me and still I find myself thinking that I had the wrong Doctor in my bed last night.
Yours,
-The Dame-
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