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
Showing posts with label ejaculation. Show all posts
Showing posts with label ejaculation. Show all posts
Thursday, 30 September 2010
Friday, 4 June 2010
One Hundred Hours of Servitude.
Be very careful what you wish for.
Following Rusty Brand’s failure to launch last week, on Tuesday I was confronted with a somewhat different problem. Failure to finish.
That night I went to a gig with a friend of mine, let’s call him Sam. We met up in the afternoon and began a slow descent into drunkenness. There was some flirting... Sam and I have been friends for a while, but he’s recently split up with his girlfriend and is therefore suddenly, and rather uncomfortably, available. The how/where/why isn’t that interesting, but the point is one thing lead to another and then we were in bed.
The thing about Sam that he’s mastered is talking to you like he’s thinking about fucking your brains out. All the time. And no matter what the topic. You could be discussing taking out the rubbish and he would still conduct the entire conversation with the air of a man who would like nothing more than to throw you down amongst the wheelie bins and give you a bloody good seeing to. Mostly it’s quite fun, but faced with it in the bedroom, it was... exhausting. Sam is one of those rare men who actually worship women. I’ve slept with a couple of them in my life and such is their unadulterated praise of everything from my hair to my toes and everything in between, I’m always slightly taken aback to look down during sex and see my own body attached to my neck. “Hang on! This isn’t right! I’ve got the wrong body on! You were describing the body of an angel – this one’s a bit soft round the edges, and the skin colour is dangerously close to Magnolia.”
So he was taking his worshipful time and undressing me very, very slowly. He smelled the back of my knees, kissed the insides of my elbows, bit my neck and traced concentric circles around my belly button with his tongue. He was moaning with pleasure just touching me. Now don’t get me wrong – this is all incredibly hot. I’m all for extended foreplay. But. After last week’s penetrative let-down with Jim, what I really wanted Sam to do was get on with it. Especially as... hangonaminute... I’ve just noticed that he’s got an amazing cock...
Now, on what may appear to be a topical detour, I should inform you that for some time now Sam’s been on medication which – amongst other side effects – delays ejaculation. Brilliant, you’re thinking. (Well, that’s what I was thinking, when he oh so subtly dropped it into conversation at the pub. I’m a sucker for this kind of suggestive comment; I’ve got a very male brain.).
8 hours after falling into bed and the delayed ejaculation is no longer my friend. All I want in the whole wide world is for Sam to come, and I want him to do it now. He looks like he might actually drop dead if he doesn’t orgasm soon, and I am experiencing genuine guilt for having done so already myself. In penance I have been a slave to Sam’s erection for what feels like days. I’m surprised to find it’s only Wednesday morning. I feel like I’ve lost a week. I’ve got lockjaw and cramp in both my wrists, and frankly I just want to go to sleep.
Finally the hard work pays off in the form of (by the looks of it) a pretty life-altering orgasm – but by that point we’ve both basically lost interest. I could have slept for a week.
My mobile phone has just gone off (not a word of a lie, I deplore narrative devices), with the seventh message of the day from Sam asking me to hang out with him in the next 24 hours. Oh. Good. God. This is the more pressing problem. Forget delayed ejaculation. Wrist-strain and a clicking jaw are really no longer the issue – mostly because despite my love of Sam as a friend, I viewed my epic battle with his limbic system as very much a one-off. The issue now is that Sam got needy. And I don’t mean to be unfair... Yes, the messages are very light-hearted and casual. No-one’s saying Sam has turned into a gas mark 6 bunny boiler after one night of incredibly drawn-out passion. But now it’s out there – he’s demanding my company.
(This last text in particular is noteworthy. It begins: “I’m going to kidnap you and force you to eat lunch with me tomorrow”... I am honestly not joking. Does he think this is cute? Does he?! *Sigh* When will they learn? Less is more when it comes to forcing people into your company. Remember, people: Less. Is. More.)
It’s not his fault. It’s because I broke two of the Golden Rules. 1) Never sleep with your friends and 2) Never get them on the rebound. Sam is both a friend and recently unattached, making him high on the list of don’t-go-theres. But I went there, and now all I’m left with is a slightly shaky approximation of our friendship pre-Tuesday night, and an overwhelming feeling that hindsight is a bitch.
Must find more appropriate sexual partners.
On which note (perhaps), and in case you were wondering about Jim... It took the skinny-jeaned-one a week to text me after our first date fiasco. Date two, coming right up. I’ll keep you posted.
BeDJ
Following Rusty Brand’s failure to launch last week, on Tuesday I was confronted with a somewhat different problem. Failure to finish.
That night I went to a gig with a friend of mine, let’s call him Sam. We met up in the afternoon and began a slow descent into drunkenness. There was some flirting... Sam and I have been friends for a while, but he’s recently split up with his girlfriend and is therefore suddenly, and rather uncomfortably, available. The how/where/why isn’t that interesting, but the point is one thing lead to another and then we were in bed.
The thing about Sam that he’s mastered is talking to you like he’s thinking about fucking your brains out. All the time. And no matter what the topic. You could be discussing taking out the rubbish and he would still conduct the entire conversation with the air of a man who would like nothing more than to throw you down amongst the wheelie bins and give you a bloody good seeing to. Mostly it’s quite fun, but faced with it in the bedroom, it was... exhausting. Sam is one of those rare men who actually worship women. I’ve slept with a couple of them in my life and such is their unadulterated praise of everything from my hair to my toes and everything in between, I’m always slightly taken aback to look down during sex and see my own body attached to my neck. “Hang on! This isn’t right! I’ve got the wrong body on! You were describing the body of an angel – this one’s a bit soft round the edges, and the skin colour is dangerously close to Magnolia.”
So he was taking his worshipful time and undressing me very, very slowly. He smelled the back of my knees, kissed the insides of my elbows, bit my neck and traced concentric circles around my belly button with his tongue. He was moaning with pleasure just touching me. Now don’t get me wrong – this is all incredibly hot. I’m all for extended foreplay. But. After last week’s penetrative let-down with Jim, what I really wanted Sam to do was get on with it. Especially as... hangonaminute... I’ve just noticed that he’s got an amazing cock...
Now, on what may appear to be a topical detour, I should inform you that for some time now Sam’s been on medication which – amongst other side effects – delays ejaculation. Brilliant, you’re thinking. (Well, that’s what I was thinking, when he oh so subtly dropped it into conversation at the pub. I’m a sucker for this kind of suggestive comment; I’ve got a very male brain.).
8 hours after falling into bed and the delayed ejaculation is no longer my friend. All I want in the whole wide world is for Sam to come, and I want him to do it now. He looks like he might actually drop dead if he doesn’t orgasm soon, and I am experiencing genuine guilt for having done so already myself. In penance I have been a slave to Sam’s erection for what feels like days. I’m surprised to find it’s only Wednesday morning. I feel like I’ve lost a week. I’ve got lockjaw and cramp in both my wrists, and frankly I just want to go to sleep.
Finally the hard work pays off in the form of (by the looks of it) a pretty life-altering orgasm – but by that point we’ve both basically lost interest. I could have slept for a week.
My mobile phone has just gone off (not a word of a lie, I deplore narrative devices), with the seventh message of the day from Sam asking me to hang out with him in the next 24 hours. Oh. Good. God. This is the more pressing problem. Forget delayed ejaculation. Wrist-strain and a clicking jaw are really no longer the issue – mostly because despite my love of Sam as a friend, I viewed my epic battle with his limbic system as very much a one-off. The issue now is that Sam got needy. And I don’t mean to be unfair... Yes, the messages are very light-hearted and casual. No-one’s saying Sam has turned into a gas mark 6 bunny boiler after one night of incredibly drawn-out passion. But now it’s out there – he’s demanding my company.
(This last text in particular is noteworthy. It begins: “I’m going to kidnap you and force you to eat lunch with me tomorrow”... I am honestly not joking. Does he think this is cute? Does he?! *Sigh* When will they learn? Less is more when it comes to forcing people into your company. Remember, people: Less. Is. More.)
It’s not his fault. It’s because I broke two of the Golden Rules. 1) Never sleep with your friends and 2) Never get them on the rebound. Sam is both a friend and recently unattached, making him high on the list of don’t-go-theres. But I went there, and now all I’m left with is a slightly shaky approximation of our friendship pre-Tuesday night, and an overwhelming feeling that hindsight is a bitch.
Must find more appropriate sexual partners.
On which note (perhaps), and in case you were wondering about Jim... It took the skinny-jeaned-one a week to text me after our first date fiasco. Date two, coming right up. I’ll keep you posted.
BeDJ
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