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 impotence. Show all posts
Showing posts with label impotence. Show all posts
Thursday, 30 September 2010
Friday, 9 July 2010
A Tale of Two Fitties
This time last week (I can only apologise for my lateness in blogging) I was just returning from Hyde Park, having watched the utterly wonderful Kings of Leon play two hours of allmyfavouritesongs. When I say returning, I do not mean to my home (how silly of you to assume), but in fact to a pre-booked hotel – a Premier Inn to be precise; an unnaturally hot, cupboard-y sort of establishment which was to play host to my first ever threesome.
This threesome was a New Year’s resolution of mine, and it has taken 6 sorry months to come into fruition. To be fair, I’m never that good at keeping resolutions... 5pm on January 2nd usually sees me sitting guiltily atop a mountain of forbidden fruits, falling-down-drunk on whatever it was I eschewed forever just 41 hours earlier. But I thought the threesome would be a little easier to come by than it has been. Initially I was only interested in a me-and-two-men scenario (selfish, greedy, jealous; check, check, check), but when I found myself at the gig last week with a very sexy female friend and the keys to a hotel room with a double bed I thought – “Why not?!”
So it came about that Sarah – a friend from Uni – and I spent some rather valuable KOL time scouting the crowd for a leading man for our Premier Inncest. None were forthcoming. The situation was beginning to look a little desperate (as, I suspect, were we)... ‘How could there not be even one eligible shagger in the whole of Hyde Park?!’ ‘Why can’t we just take one of the Followills?!’ ‘Why is life conspiring against my lovely New Year’s resolution?!?!’ In the end I decided we couldn’t just leave things to chance *humourless laugh* (you’ll see why)... And so I called none other than Jim, of anorexia-riddled-Russell-Brand fame, and explained the situation. He arrived 20 minutes later.
[I still hadn’t seen Jim since that rather disastrous first date by the way – our every attempt to meet up had been thwarted. Which means that our second date was a booty call threesome. The man should be worshipping the ground I walk upon.]
We met Jim at the station and I sized the pair of them up. Not bad, not bad at all. I’d basically bagged myself a pair of fitties. *Smug smile*. I wonder if people in the street know we're going back for an elicit sexual encounter... "Look at you all with your boring lives! I'm off for a flipping threesome over here!" When we got to the hotel, I went for a shower... I was hot and dusty from the park, and I wanted to give Sarah and Jim a chance to get to know each other a bit. When I emerged from the shower I was cool and clean, and Sarah and Jim were making out on the bed. Mission accomplished. I wondered if it might be awkward to get the thing started. I straddled Jim and kissed him, then I kissed Sarah. And then – suddenly - it's begun.
There is something extremely exhilarating about going down on a girl. It’s unfamiliar and yet totally familiar. I had never been with a girl before, but my point is this – you already know what you're doing. That in itself is a huge turn on. Plus knowing someone else is there watching everything you’re doing – even more of a turn on. And I can honestly say there are few things as sexy as hearing another woman moaning your name...
So I think it's fair to say that Sarah and I were both pretty into it. And as for Jim... Oh, Jim. Jim Jim Jim. It's a blessed relief Sarah was there to be honest, because once again Jim failed to rise to the occasion. I’m thinking: ‘There is actually something wrong with this man’. It's impossible to be annoyed, the poor thing was distraught. We tried everything... "Would you like to just watch us make out for a while?" I could virtually sense erections springing up all over London in subconscious response to the speaking-out-loud of that magical sentence. But not Jim's... I think we picked the wrong provider of penis. I’m thinking: ‘No, really. There is actually something wrong with this man’... If the feeble stirrings of his cock weren’t enough of an indicator, he was POURING with sweat (I am not exaggerating when I describe his torso as a deluge... I suspected that at any minute I would slip off him to the floor). AND he’s emaciated. Christ, perhaps he’s a heroin addict.
It may be that following previous disappointing displays by Jim, I was just resigned to the no-cock situation. Or maybe I was just tired, drunk and lazy (not unheard of). Either way, I gave up on the hope of an erection joining the Premier party sometime around 2am. As soon as I had reconciled myself with this thought, I was promptly hit by a wave of exhaustion, rolled over and fell asleep on the far side of the bed... Not the height of seduction, sure, but I had orchestrated the entire evening, as I saw it. I deserved a rest.
I'm not entirely sure what I was expecting... That perhaps as I drifted off to sleep, Jim and Sarah would get into some flannel pyjamas and it'd be lights out... Like, *yawn* ‘OK guys, I'm ready for sleep - You too right?! Cool, night you two. See you in the morning’.
So I was sliiiiiiightly, if unreasonably, surprised to wake up several times over the next couple of hours to the sound of Jim and Sarah having sex. ‘What the -?!’... I mean, fair play to Sarah – she had carried on where I had given up, and as such she should reap the not inconsiderable rewards of grinding Jim to faltering orgasm at least once or twice. Good for her! Good for him! But... but...
I haven’t had sex with him at all yet! *stamping feet, childish pout, clenched fists*. It’snotfair! These are the thoughts that raced through my mind nanoseconds before I fell straight back to sleep.
Unfortunately my looming hangover woke me up fairly early the following morning. In a hotel room the size of a cupboard there aren’t many places to go when you wake up before your bedfellows (utterly exhausted from their continued night of passion no doubt), so I curled up on the other side of the bed, clutching a tooth glass of water and thinking over the previous night. I spotted a Bible on the bedside table... Well that's a relief.
It is actually close to impossible to feel left out when there are three of you in a bed about 2 ½ feet wide, and yet somehow I managed it with aplomb. Sarah and Jim had fallen asleep where they fell and were draped across each other. They looked a bit like a sexy tableaux. I clutched my tooth glass closer and pondered on whether I needed to be sick (hangover, not consuming jealousy). Just you and me, tooth glass, just you and me.
This has to be the threesome’s downfall. Well, the GGB threesome at any rate... Even when everything is biologically functional there’s never going to be enough to go around.
Maybe a foursome’s the way to go? I’ll keep you posted.
BeDJ
This threesome was a New Year’s resolution of mine, and it has taken 6 sorry months to come into fruition. To be fair, I’m never that good at keeping resolutions... 5pm on January 2nd usually sees me sitting guiltily atop a mountain of forbidden fruits, falling-down-drunk on whatever it was I eschewed forever just 41 hours earlier. But I thought the threesome would be a little easier to come by than it has been. Initially I was only interested in a me-and-two-men scenario (selfish, greedy, jealous; check, check, check), but when I found myself at the gig last week with a very sexy female friend and the keys to a hotel room with a double bed I thought – “Why not?!”
So it came about that Sarah – a friend from Uni – and I spent some rather valuable KOL time scouting the crowd for a leading man for our Premier Inncest. None were forthcoming. The situation was beginning to look a little desperate (as, I suspect, were we)... ‘How could there not be even one eligible shagger in the whole of Hyde Park?!’ ‘Why can’t we just take one of the Followills?!’ ‘Why is life conspiring against my lovely New Year’s resolution?!?!’ In the end I decided we couldn’t just leave things to chance *humourless laugh* (you’ll see why)... And so I called none other than Jim, of anorexia-riddled-Russell-Brand fame, and explained the situation. He arrived 20 minutes later.
[I still hadn’t seen Jim since that rather disastrous first date by the way – our every attempt to meet up had been thwarted. Which means that our second date was a booty call threesome. The man should be worshipping the ground I walk upon.]
We met Jim at the station and I sized the pair of them up. Not bad, not bad at all. I’d basically bagged myself a pair of fitties. *Smug smile*. I wonder if people in the street know we're going back for an elicit sexual encounter... "Look at you all with your boring lives! I'm off for a flipping threesome over here!" When we got to the hotel, I went for a shower... I was hot and dusty from the park, and I wanted to give Sarah and Jim a chance to get to know each other a bit. When I emerged from the shower I was cool and clean, and Sarah and Jim were making out on the bed. Mission accomplished. I wondered if it might be awkward to get the thing started. I straddled Jim and kissed him, then I kissed Sarah. And then – suddenly - it's begun.
There is something extremely exhilarating about going down on a girl. It’s unfamiliar and yet totally familiar. I had never been with a girl before, but my point is this – you already know what you're doing. That in itself is a huge turn on. Plus knowing someone else is there watching everything you’re doing – even more of a turn on. And I can honestly say there are few things as sexy as hearing another woman moaning your name...
So I think it's fair to say that Sarah and I were both pretty into it. And as for Jim... Oh, Jim. Jim Jim Jim. It's a blessed relief Sarah was there to be honest, because once again Jim failed to rise to the occasion. I’m thinking: ‘There is actually something wrong with this man’. It's impossible to be annoyed, the poor thing was distraught. We tried everything... "Would you like to just watch us make out for a while?" I could virtually sense erections springing up all over London in subconscious response to the speaking-out-loud of that magical sentence. But not Jim's... I think we picked the wrong provider of penis. I’m thinking: ‘No, really. There is actually something wrong with this man’... If the feeble stirrings of his cock weren’t enough of an indicator, he was POURING with sweat (I am not exaggerating when I describe his torso as a deluge... I suspected that at any minute I would slip off him to the floor). AND he’s emaciated. Christ, perhaps he’s a heroin addict.
It may be that following previous disappointing displays by Jim, I was just resigned to the no-cock situation. Or maybe I was just tired, drunk and lazy (not unheard of). Either way, I gave up on the hope of an erection joining the Premier party sometime around 2am. As soon as I had reconciled myself with this thought, I was promptly hit by a wave of exhaustion, rolled over and fell asleep on the far side of the bed... Not the height of seduction, sure, but I had orchestrated the entire evening, as I saw it. I deserved a rest.
I'm not entirely sure what I was expecting... That perhaps as I drifted off to sleep, Jim and Sarah would get into some flannel pyjamas and it'd be lights out... Like, *yawn* ‘OK guys, I'm ready for sleep - You too right?! Cool, night you two. See you in the morning’.
So I was sliiiiiiightly, if unreasonably, surprised to wake up several times over the next couple of hours to the sound of Jim and Sarah having sex. ‘What the -?!’... I mean, fair play to Sarah – she had carried on where I had given up, and as such she should reap the not inconsiderable rewards of grinding Jim to faltering orgasm at least once or twice. Good for her! Good for him! But... but...
I haven’t had sex with him at all yet! *stamping feet, childish pout, clenched fists*. It’snotfair! These are the thoughts that raced through my mind nanoseconds before I fell straight back to sleep.
Unfortunately my looming hangover woke me up fairly early the following morning. In a hotel room the size of a cupboard there aren’t many places to go when you wake up before your bedfellows (utterly exhausted from their continued night of passion no doubt), so I curled up on the other side of the bed, clutching a tooth glass of water and thinking over the previous night. I spotted a Bible on the bedside table... Well that's a relief.
It is actually close to impossible to feel left out when there are three of you in a bed about 2 ½ feet wide, and yet somehow I managed it with aplomb. Sarah and Jim had fallen asleep where they fell and were draped across each other. They looked a bit like a sexy tableaux. I clutched my tooth glass closer and pondered on whether I needed to be sick (hangover, not consuming jealousy). Just you and me, tooth glass, just you and me.
This has to be the threesome’s downfall. Well, the GGB threesome at any rate... Even when everything is biologically functional there’s never going to be enough to go around.
Maybe a foursome’s the way to go? I’ll keep you posted.
BeDJ
Sunday, 30 May 2010
On Impotence and being Earnest.
On Friday I spent two of the sunniest hours of the day cooped up inside the dank, syphilitic dungeon that is Camberwell GUM Clinic awaiting a check-up. And in case you’re wondering... I am a-symptomatic. You may be wondering why I spent such a very large part of a warm day getting my non-existent symptoms for non-existent STIs checked out. Why, when there is so much pear cider to be drunk?
Well, amongst other things, this week has seen me almost have sex with a boy wearing nothing but a smile and a beard. And I mean nothing – not even a nod to prophylaxis. So. Best to get it all checked out. And as a reward for sitting in there for two – I hope – totally pointless hours, I decided to start a blog about my sex life. Because sometimes it’s nice to get it off (your chest).
The week’s leading man had been Jim (no, obviously I’m not going to use real names), an absurdly thin Russell-Brand-alike that I met a month or so ago at a friend’s leaving drinks. We went on a day-date on Wednesday... I was a bit nervous to be honest – mostly because young Jim could actually be the poster boy for anorexia, striding around in women’s skinny jeans, whilst I on the other hand am looking more and more like the human haggis. It’s lucky he’s quite tall; otherwise he’d look like my bearded child. That’s a lot of pressure to heap on a gal, especially when putting together the dreaded date outfit (Before you ask: Aerosmith wife-beater and denim jacket, tights, plimsolls. Big hair. Sunglasses. Yeah – pretty 80s.)
We went for drinks in the afternoon, and then suddenly without me noticing it’s 7pm and I’m drunk. And then I behaved – well, quite badly really, all in all. I abandoned him to go to a gig I’d just been invited to, left the gig early, called and texted him several times, demanded he leave the party he was at to come and meet me, and then got into his bed with all my clothes on. No, I wasn’t feeling that amorous after 8 pints (I know, hideous), and just quite wanted to go to sleep thankyouverymuch. So why did I commute all the way to the other end of the Victoria line to go to his instead of mine?! I always think I’m quite normal and level. But I’m not. I’m bonkers. I am a bonkers woman - and I mean that in the pre-Dizzee sense.
He eventually got most of my clothes off, and then removed his at lightning speed. As he got on top of me (I’m thinking: ‘he’s as light as a feather’) and looked set to go for it sans condom, I said – a bit dramatically - “This is wildly irresponsible”. To which he replied “My cock’s wildly irresponsible”... *Suppressed laughter* (‘He didn’t just say that did he? He must, must, must have been joking. Shit, I don’t think he was joking’).
I love being a blogger. I’m having a fag and typing the word ‘cock’. If only the other attendees at the clinic had known... “I’m not rife with gonorrhoea! I’m going to be blogging about it! It’s for my blog!”. In the waiting room I am constantly scanning the other people there hoping that someone is showing signs of something horrific, whilst all the while making sure to Never. Make. Eye. Contact. On this visit I had a great nurse or healthcare assistant or something called Sofia. At the end of the appointment she offered me a “news leaflet”... I had to ask her what she meant 3 times before I realised she was saying “lubricant”. Oh, how we laughed.
(ALSO – Why am I being offered lube?! What’s lube got to do with sexual health? Oh God - Does she think I’m being bummed?!! She thinks I’m being bummed. She’s saving me from my own lifestyle by protecting my bum with tiny sachets of lube. How reassuring.)
Anyway. Back to Jim. Where were we? Ah yes – Mycock’swildlyirresponsible, suppressedlaughter... And then... Nothing. No wildly irresponsible cock in sight. His cock wasn’t wildly irresponsible; it was the Chairman of the Neighbourhood Watch. And so it remained, despite some quite earnest attempts by both of us over the next howeverlong. This isn’t the first time I’ve been in bed with Jim (night we met, missed last train etc etc) and this isn’t the first time this has happened...*Alarm bells alarm bells*... Am I wrong to be worrying at this stage? Should I be worried - if he does ever agree to see me again after my somewhat high-maintenance and selfish behaviour on Wednesday – that this might be some sort of (whisper it) problem? Because I’ve done dating (again, whisper it) boys who couldn’t get it up before, and frankly it’s a ball ache. For all concerned. But that’s a story for another day.
So. Do I bring it up, this not having sex that we’re doing? Or am I over-reacting to what is possibly just him being a bit pissed on two occasions? I enjoy his company a lot, but what are we doing here apart from just enjoying each other’s company in between jumping in to bed? I don’t want a boyfriend out of this situation, certainly not one who’s not having sex with me.
This is all, of course, assuming that he’s not currently holed-up somewhere up there in North London writing an anonymous blog about the insanely demanding girl in the Aerosmith t-shirt who is bloody hard work and better not want to be his girlfriend, or even ever see him again for that matter... But assuming all of that...
So there I was, in the GUM clinic, being responsible and pro-active and all those things you’re supposed to be where your genitalia are concerned. I thought about Jim, grinding his ineffectual penis against the inside of my thigh, and hoped he didn’t have the clap. Whilst I was waiting, two of the staff attempted to re-programme one of the vending machines - A seemingly endless process involving said vending machine emitting a high-pitched computer game style *BEEP BEEP* on and off for an hour... I wanted to beat a Chlamydia-ridden teen to death with a can of Vimto.
What to do about the impotent Mr Ripley? I’ll keep you posted.
BeDJ
Well, amongst other things, this week has seen me almost have sex with a boy wearing nothing but a smile and a beard. And I mean nothing – not even a nod to prophylaxis. So. Best to get it all checked out. And as a reward for sitting in there for two – I hope – totally pointless hours, I decided to start a blog about my sex life. Because sometimes it’s nice to get it off (your chest).
The week’s leading man had been Jim (no, obviously I’m not going to use real names), an absurdly thin Russell-Brand-alike that I met a month or so ago at a friend’s leaving drinks. We went on a day-date on Wednesday... I was a bit nervous to be honest – mostly because young Jim could actually be the poster boy for anorexia, striding around in women’s skinny jeans, whilst I on the other hand am looking more and more like the human haggis. It’s lucky he’s quite tall; otherwise he’d look like my bearded child. That’s a lot of pressure to heap on a gal, especially when putting together the dreaded date outfit (Before you ask: Aerosmith wife-beater and denim jacket, tights, plimsolls. Big hair. Sunglasses. Yeah – pretty 80s.)
We went for drinks in the afternoon, and then suddenly without me noticing it’s 7pm and I’m drunk. And then I behaved – well, quite badly really, all in all. I abandoned him to go to a gig I’d just been invited to, left the gig early, called and texted him several times, demanded he leave the party he was at to come and meet me, and then got into his bed with all my clothes on. No, I wasn’t feeling that amorous after 8 pints (I know, hideous), and just quite wanted to go to sleep thankyouverymuch. So why did I commute all the way to the other end of the Victoria line to go to his instead of mine?! I always think I’m quite normal and level. But I’m not. I’m bonkers. I am a bonkers woman - and I mean that in the pre-Dizzee sense.
He eventually got most of my clothes off, and then removed his at lightning speed. As he got on top of me (I’m thinking: ‘he’s as light as a feather’) and looked set to go for it sans condom, I said – a bit dramatically - “This is wildly irresponsible”. To which he replied “My cock’s wildly irresponsible”... *Suppressed laughter* (‘He didn’t just say that did he? He must, must, must have been joking. Shit, I don’t think he was joking’).
I love being a blogger. I’m having a fag and typing the word ‘cock’. If only the other attendees at the clinic had known... “I’m not rife with gonorrhoea! I’m going to be blogging about it! It’s for my blog!”. In the waiting room I am constantly scanning the other people there hoping that someone is showing signs of something horrific, whilst all the while making sure to Never. Make. Eye. Contact. On this visit I had a great nurse or healthcare assistant or something called Sofia. At the end of the appointment she offered me a “news leaflet”... I had to ask her what she meant 3 times before I realised she was saying “lubricant”. Oh, how we laughed.
(ALSO – Why am I being offered lube?! What’s lube got to do with sexual health? Oh God - Does she think I’m being bummed?!! She thinks I’m being bummed. She’s saving me from my own lifestyle by protecting my bum with tiny sachets of lube. How reassuring.)
Anyway. Back to Jim. Where were we? Ah yes – Mycock’swildlyirresponsible, suppressedlaughter... And then... Nothing. No wildly irresponsible cock in sight. His cock wasn’t wildly irresponsible; it was the Chairman of the Neighbourhood Watch. And so it remained, despite some quite earnest attempts by both of us over the next howeverlong. This isn’t the first time I’ve been in bed with Jim (night we met, missed last train etc etc) and this isn’t the first time this has happened...*Alarm bells alarm bells*... Am I wrong to be worrying at this stage? Should I be worried - if he does ever agree to see me again after my somewhat high-maintenance and selfish behaviour on Wednesday – that this might be some sort of (whisper it) problem? Because I’ve done dating (again, whisper it) boys who couldn’t get it up before, and frankly it’s a ball ache. For all concerned. But that’s a story for another day.
So. Do I bring it up, this not having sex that we’re doing? Or am I over-reacting to what is possibly just him being a bit pissed on two occasions? I enjoy his company a lot, but what are we doing here apart from just enjoying each other’s company in between jumping in to bed? I don’t want a boyfriend out of this situation, certainly not one who’s not having sex with me.
This is all, of course, assuming that he’s not currently holed-up somewhere up there in North London writing an anonymous blog about the insanely demanding girl in the Aerosmith t-shirt who is bloody hard work and better not want to be his girlfriend, or even ever see him again for that matter... But assuming all of that...
So there I was, in the GUM clinic, being responsible and pro-active and all those things you’re supposed to be where your genitalia are concerned. I thought about Jim, grinding his ineffectual penis against the inside of my thigh, and hoped he didn’t have the clap. Whilst I was waiting, two of the staff attempted to re-programme one of the vending machines - A seemingly endless process involving said vending machine emitting a high-pitched computer game style *BEEP BEEP* on and off for an hour... I wanted to beat a Chlamydia-ridden teen to death with a can of Vimto.
What to do about the impotent Mr Ripley? I’ll keep you posted.
BeDJ
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