The Friend and the Affair

Guess what? I’ve gone and done something completely ridiculous.

If you read this blog with any regularity (I don’t write with regularity, but maybe you like to remind yourselves about my sporadic sex life) you will no doubt remember Luke. In case you don’t remember Luke, we went on a few dates back at the end of last year and then he told me he didn’t fancy me. Fine. Fine.

Since I last wrote, the unbelievable has happened – Luke and I have become friends. And not just fair-weather facebook friends; I’m talking Sunday-lunch-and-Scrabble-in-the-pub friends. That mutual local which looked like it was going to be so uncomfortable? Yeah! We hang out there all the time.

So now to the ridiculousness.

I’ve started having sex with Luke’s housemate. ThereI’vesaidit. Life is NEVER boring. “What’s that? You don’t fancy me? Oh, well, if you don’t mind, I’ll just fuck your best friend who you live with. Loudly.” Except, obviously it’s not like that…

It actually all began on New Year’s Eve when he (the housemate), Luke and I ended up at a bar, post-midnight and very pissed. Luke eventually got too tired and grumpy to deal with the crowds of wasted Hoxtonistas, and left me and James (that’s him) together. One bit of outrageous flirting led to another and we ended up back at mine. For the record we didn’t sleep together… Not that it makes a huge difference; I’ve already given the game away about how this tale ends.

In the couple of weeks immediately after NYE, I think I did go a little bit mad. I decided to give up drinking as my resolution for 2011. That lasted all of 6 days – I always ignore myself anyway, I have noresolvewhatsoever. But it seems that, encouraged only partly by James himself, I decided that the way to combat alcohol-free boredom was to bombard the boy with texts. He seemed to enjoy it, but it did prompt a slight morality meltdown over Luke, who he seemed to think would be bothered by his housemate shagging a girl that he didn’t fancy. Sounds sort of ideal if you ask me. I mean - this was hardly some kind of sordid affair. So whilst James was torn between enjoying it and being wracked with guilt, I was torn between the attention and the drama; I just don’t know which bit I loved more.

After a while, and several failed attempts on my behalf to persuade James to come and have sex with me, I reached a fork in the metaphorical road of my behaviour. Should I give up the chase for lack of any actual resulting thrill? Or should I up the ante?

Here’s what I did: I sent him a series of pictures of myself in my underwear.

So… Not giving up the chase then. That’s OK, right? That’s… Normal? There’s NO WAY that would make him view me as some kind of mentally-unhinged-morally-reprehensible-slut-who-fires-off-semi-naked-photos-without-so-much-as-a-thought-for-the-consequences, right? *Phew* That’s a relief.

All the while this was going on, Luke, James and I were still hanging out together, like the fucking Three Musketeers. In fact, since James was in my bed on New Years Eve, I’d not actually seen him on his own. So one minute I’m texting grainy pictures of myself taken on my shitty mobile, the next I’m popping round to their flat for dinner à trois and trying to maintain a veneer of normality whilst we sit around the Scrabble board. I’m thinking: “Can I get away with putting down the word ‘throb’ without blushing?” I warned you that this tale was ridiculous.

[By the way, to make things TOTALLY ridiculous - It might be worth mentioning that both Luke and James know about the blog. In the spirit of being friendly and clearing the air with Luke, I confided that I’d written a blog about him and he pestered me to read it. So. Um… Hey guys. Awkward.]

Anyway. Fast-forward through a bit more of this bizarre courtship, and the inevitable happened. The famous BeDJ charm-by-bombardment technique worked its magic and James and I FINALLY had sex. Good job too, because I was just plain tired of playing hard to get. *AHEM*

The first night we slept together, James had been at the football all day and drinking Guinness since about 9am, as far as I could work out. He drank about another 5 pints after he met me at 9pm, and by the time the evening was drawing to a close, he was well and truly shit-faced. I started to walk him home. The only trouble was that my house was virtually en route… It would have taken a stronger woman than me to resist a soberer man than James, and he ended up back in my bed. Although not in quite the triumphant circumstances I’d hoped for. I was thinking: “Does Guinness count as a date rape drug?” I hope not. Just to be on the safe side, I let him go to sleep. *yawn*. I know that’s the safer route in terms of possibly perpetrating sexual assault, but I mean seriously. I was pretty frustrated.

But fear not! Next the bit you’ve all been waiting for (I know I had): The next morning James and I woke up early and spent the whole day having quite a lot of excellent sex. At bloody last! I knew the sexting had been a good idea. The grainy picture of my tits in a corset had done its job - who needs 5 megapixels?

So that was nearly 2 months ago now (yikes) and I’m pleased to say the sex has continued. And after deliberating about it for the entirety of those two months, I’ve finally plucked up the courage to write something that – for the first time ever – is definitely going to be read by the person it’s about. Is there any actual way that can not backfire massively?

James, if you’re reading this… More sex, please. And you know all that stuff we discussed…? Yeah, I’m totally up for it. I’ll keep you posted.

BeDJ

The Divine Chemistry

I know what you're thinking: It must be fun being a sex blogger... Right? I mean, sure, I don’t tell anyone that I sleep with that I do it, but there’s a certain shallwesay confidence that comes with knowing I’m going to write about their penises and dissect their performance. With that confidence, or “arrogance” as some would call it, I know that I can turn on the charm (in some way/shape/form/level of inebriation) and at least claim a moderate level of success.

But that illusion has now been smashed, cruelly, by the events of last night. Even a journalistically hard-nosed professional blogger such as myself would have to admit that events did not go as planned. I’m getting ahead of myself; let me set the scene...

Luke and I have been dating for a couple of weeks now. I would like to stress that we were kicking it old school on this front; in fact we were being positively Austenian in terms of self-restraint. Which is why, on date number four, we hadn’t so much as put hands up thick-knit jumpers. I think I was approaching a new record.

We met up for drinks as our (mutual) local – take note of that for later as you picture future awkward encounters – and were having a lovely time. He is funny and intelligent and interested in the world, and at least for the time being I was managing to persuade him that I was too. Despite being the preamble to the most awkward/embarrassing events of my life, it was extremely good fun.

After the pub we went back to his, on his suggestion I hasten to add; I was still being chaste and trying to pretend I didn’t mind either way. It’s still well below freezing in London, and his flat was like the arctic tundra. So we got under a blanket on the sofa and snuggled up. It was actually kind of romantic...

We started kissing, and I twisted myself round to face him. He put his arms around me and... Stopped. I was confused. But not to worry, I was confident that there was more kissing to come.

I will now quote word for word the most mortifying sentence I have ever heard.

Luke: “Is it just me or is there no chemistry between you and me?”

Me: “!?!”

Ohmotherfuckingholygod. Did that just happen? Did that actually just happen?! But I’m a sex blogger! It’s, like, my god-given ability to make people think they have chemistry with me. That’s how I manage to write this bloody blog in the first place! I cannot physically believe that he said that. Especially when he could have just shagged me and THEN told me! Not fair. Not fair at all.

[Also, it renders this entire post completely pointless. Apart from for the sake of allowing you all to share in my cringing embarrassment, which I suppose has some value. *Sigh*]

So there we were. I hadn’t really registered it until then, but I think I’d been mentally putting rather a lot of eggs into the Luke basket. And now they lay smashed underfoot like so many little Humpty Dumptys under the hooves of all the King’s horses. And amongst those shattered eggs were the fragments of my pride and self-confidence. How had I misread this so badly?! No chemistry? No fucking chemistry?!

I realised that in the 17 silent seconds since Luke asked that fateful rhetorical question, I had shifted all the way to the far end of the sofa, and crossed my arms. I didn’t even notice I was doing it, but I’m pretty sure there’s got to be something to that whole “defensive body language” thing. I may have been – for the first time ever – rendered utterly speechless, but my angry little arms were speaking volumes.

Eventually he said “Does it make it worse if I say I’d really like us to be friends?”

Yes. Yes it fucking does.

I should actually say at this point that despite my furious tone, and despite the wonderful mileage anecdotally, I didn’t actually feel that pissed off. For someone with such a propensity for blind rage and high drama, I just felt... Disappointed.

... A revelation which leads me to believe that Luke was right all along. Maybe we didn’t have the necessary spark after all? I mean, he didn’t rip my clothes off, but I wasn’t ripping his off either. I know I was attempting to be chaste, but I’ve never managed it before so what was it about Luke that meant I could?! Yes, I’d apparently hoped for quite a lot after our first few dates, but was I just making do because on paper we’re so well suited?

Luke walked me home and gave me a kiss on the cheek (ouch). I got into my bed and screwed my face up to see if I could have a little cry. But there was nothing. I think, in all honesty, despite this being the most humiliating moment of my life to date, I’m actually not heartbroken over the loss of Luke. And lest we forget, he and I are going to be friends after all...

I wonder how that one will pan out? I’ll keep you posted.

BeDJ

All Quiet on the Eastern Front

Oh, hello! Remember me? I’m the one in London having all the sex... Except – oh no! Wait. I’ve not been having any sex at all of late, therefore rendering this whole blog an absolute farce.

I can only apologise for my lacklustre performance over the past few weeks. I can’t really account for it. Although there is one thing... I’ve moved to Shoreditch. Could this possibly have anything to do with it?! Can my utter failure to have sex really boil down to the fact that I refuse to wear brogues (they make my ankles look fat) or have an undercut (what happens when you want to grow it out?!). If I were a little more fancy-free with my footwear and/or hairstyling, perhaps I wouldn’t be experiencing such a dearth of sexual activity. Perhaps.

Maybe men in East London are just looking for something different in a sexual partner (aside from gender inappropriate shoes and androgynous haircuts). Armed with this revelation I am going to get my hands on a fixed-gear bicycle, a Barbour jacket and some wayfarers... Then I will start a band and watch a lot of art house cinema. That should do the trick, right? Right?! Note to self: don’tforgetthevintagecarpetbag.

In the meantime, I could always revisit some of the previous blog entries. Not in a sexual sense (necessarily)... But I realise that many a story remains as an incomplete narrative. And that’s just bad reportage.

For example – Today I saw Sam. Now there’s a name you haven’t heard in a while! Sam, you will recall, played the *fanfare* starring role in the two-person marathon that was One Hundred Hours of Servitude. His medication-induced inability to ejaculate resulted in an exhausting battle with his limbic system that nearly killed me. This was followed by a period of intense textual assault - a terrifying level of demand for my company - which resulted in us not seeing each other at all for a good couple of months. His keenness was nothing if not off-putting. We’re back on much better terms again now though. In fact today we went for lunch. When I say lunch, I mean that I sat in silence and ploughed through a gourmet burger, whilst Sam listed every female conquest, compliment and comment of recent weeks... Not that I mind really. He does it in a rather sweet way that’s so totally transparent it’s hard to be offended. He’s just keeping me informed. He’s desirable, don’t cha know.

Much like last time I wrote about Sam, I have just received a text from him, as I type. “By the way, you look stunning”. Greeeeeaaaat.

Then there’s Rob. Good old Rob. Twoyearsdowntheline, supermarketsushiinthedark Rob. Rob of the Mothering Fights. Rob of the wanting what he can’t have. Where Sam and I have kissed and made up (figuratively speaking), Rob and I have fucked and fallen out. We’ve been sleeping together on and off for two years, and of late I’ve been wanting out. But I haven’t told him – Oh no! That would be far too simple. Basically I’ve been hoping to communicate my lack of interest via telepathy. Is it really too much to ask that he get the hint and let the whole sorry affair die a quiet death? “Do Not Resuscitate this relationship!” In fact, more than that. Send this sad little old relationship to a clinic in Switzerland and let it have the dignified death it deserves.

The entire situation has become even more irritating recently, if possible; the worst thing being that even he’s irritated now. His requests to meet up are becoming nothing short of abusive. I think he’s trying to bully me into sex via the medium of text. It’s not working.

Jokes about Swiss clinics aside, turns out a little trip abroad is exactly the solution that was needed... Great news has arrived this week, which has solved a world of problems. Rob has been offered a job in Manilla... He’s moving to the Phillipines! Indefinitely! Now I never have to talk to him like a grown-up, never again must I face the wrath of his mother (like a child) and the whole thing is, frankly, a weight off my mind.

Who else, of the recurring cast of MENTALS, should I mention? There’s always Jim I suppose. Dear Jim, with his performance anxiety and crippling (for me) inability to get an erection. On Impotence and Being Earnest and A Tale of Two Fitties certainly didn’t paint him in a particularly favourable light. In fact there was a point when I genuinely feared he was a heroin addict... But you know how it is when you have a few drinks and forget about a man’s impotence just for a second, and text them to see how they are and end up agreeing to see them for a drink, even though you strongly suspect the whole episode will be as entirely fruitless as every other failed attempt to get it on with the closest incarnation of Russell Brand you will ever meet in your life? No? Well I do. And I’ve done it now, so we’ll just have to wait and see.

I hope Jim will not be the only boat on the horizon (there’s a joke here about being at half mast which I can’t quite muster the energy to compose) in the near future. That would be a limp basket to place all of my eggs into. I’m hoping that my domination of Shoreditch will take on new life now that I hold the key to seducing the men of East London...

Maybe I should have faith in my ankles and buy those brogues after all...? I’ll keep you posted.

BeDJ