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

Breakfast Epiphanies

*HA-LLELUJAH HALLELUJAH HALLELUJAH HA-LLELUJAH HA-LLE-LU-JAH!*

I feel like I am in a movie montage. I’m pretty sure Katrina and The Waves was playing in the background as I walked down the street just now, and there may or may not have been troupes of dancers breaking into a GAP-advert-style routine all around me as I went...

FINALLY, after almost TWO AND A HALF MONTHS, I have had some sex. GREAT sex. I’m sorry, I can’t unjam my finger from the Caps Lock... It’s just that everything is right with the world again. Life is wonderful! It is literally amazing what a good bit of sex does for morale.

Just when it got to the stage where I was so frustrated I felt like I might go into a primary school with a machine gun, along comes the man of my dreams (please excuse the very heavily rose-tinted spectacles, I am still in that post-coital phase where I am in love with the world) and sweeps me onto my back. Joy!

Adam and I have recently been reunited after several years out of contact... We met at High School, and between the ages of 11 and 16 he was the bane of my life. I loved and hated him in equal measure, and all with the passion that only a teenage girl can muster. And then I moved away to college and we just lost contact. But now, seven years later, he’s moved down to London and I’ve been showing him around the town. And by showing him around the town, I mean getting him blind drunk on black sambuca and inviting him to stay in my bed.

My housemate was awake when we got in, and I actually did a little excited jig in the kitchen with him whilst Adam went to the loo. I like to think that aforementioned housemate was incredibly impressed by the calibre of man I had bought back. Adam is devastatingly gorgeous. If I am being perfectly honest, I was incredibly impressed with myself. I was reaching breaking point, after the longest period of celibacy in... Well, years. I’d have had sex with a ginger dwarf if he’d offered. But no – here was Adam. All cheek bones and feline eyes and 6’3” of lovely broadness. There are those rose tinted specs again. But really, he is spectacular.

That of course carries its own problems... What’s the protocol when the man in your bed is so attractive you feel like you want to book out every doctor on Harley Street from now until 2012 in a futile attempt to be worthy of their attention?! Buggerbuggerbugger! Is it too much to ask that I look just a little bit more like Angelina Jolie please?! I mean, she and I share the essential genetics, but past the cellular level the similarities sadly end. Of course it doesn’t really matter... Not really really. Once you’ve got your clothes off, most men don’t care what you look like. And if you’ve mastered the blow job, well. You could be a ginger dwarf, they really wouldn’t give a flying fuck.

Having said that, so long has it been since I had sex, I had almost forgotten how it was done. “Right, so just remind me... Where does this go?” (probably best you don’t answer that). Luckily I think I managed to get back into the swing of things without too much trouble...

And wow. Wow. All I was thinking was – “Let’s never stop doing this”. I could imagine a point in the distant future where the force of my addiction to having sex with Adam meant that I wasn’t eating or sleeping, and eventually the Police would knock down the door when the smell started seeping out, and our emaciated little bodies would be found atop an enormous pile of Durex. I don’t know if this is an image I will ever share with Adam. I think perhaps not.

Sex again this morning was lovely, and a bit calmer than last night’s whirlwind. When Adam suggested we go out and get breakfast I was a) A bit panicked at the thought of letting him leave my bed, b) Thrilled at the idea of being seen having breakfast with a demigod (I know, I know. I’m being over the top), and c) Impressed. Men are so often a bit weird the morning after sex – and I know I’m not alone in having experienced this. They dart off making weird excuses, like they can hear us humming the wedding march under our breath. I realise that I have just painted a scenario where I trapped Adam into sexual assisted suicide. BUT THAT’S DIFFERENT, YEAH? That’s purely a sex thing. Surely most men would like to be shagged to death?

Although... You know... It was really great at breakfast. Maybe it’s not purely a sex thing? Crikey, that’s quite the epiphany to have over a sausage sandwich (no euphemism intended). As I sat there and thought about it, I could sort of see Adam and I, a few years down the line; taking long walks along the beach with our dogs, me crying with happiness as he slips the enormous diamond engagement ring onto my finger... WhatamIsaying?!?!?! I’ve become completely irrational. I think I might be high on sex. I need to go and have a lie down and regain my senses.

And then, once I’m feeling completely back to normal, I’ll ask Adam to be my boyfriend. No! No! *deep breaths deep breaths* Be. Sensible.

I will ask him round to dinner.

Yeah... That’s what I’ll do. That seems reasonable. Right?!

I mean, we’re very old friends... There’s nothing wrong with asking a very old friend round to dinner is there? He couldn’t possibly construe anything from that. Could he?! 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

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