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

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