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
Thursday, 30 September 2010
Wednesday, 18 August 2010
Sex and Sensibility
By Monday afternoon, I’d spent a fair bit of time thinking over the events of the previous night of Grime and Punishment. Aside from the somewhat disappointing discovery that I was not, as it turned out, the reformer of young men, there was also the entire Rob debacle. I hadn’t taken any of it very seriously at the time (bit busy), but the more I thought about it afterwards, the more I felt... annoyed.
What it boils down to is that Rob and I have been in a constant power struggle ever since we started sleeping together two years ago. In the beginning I had to play my best game to keep up with him. And then... I just stopped caring. Ladies, just so you know, this is undoubtedly the key to “the game”, the holy grail of dating in this day and age... If you want to behave like you don’t give a fuck, try not giving a fuck. It’s been a revelation! Honestly, I can’t recommend it enough. Unfortunately, in keeping with effective gameplay, the more successful I’ve got at ignoring Rob’s calls, never being available when he wants, and having sex only on my terms, the more keen Rob has become. I believe it’s called Wanting What You Can’t Have.
(Except of course, he could have me, and did. I just made life more difficult for him. And there’s definitely an undeniable sadistic satisfaction in that...)
Anyway, my recent aloofness probably explains his charming declarations on Sunday. To recap: He “adores me”. For someone capable of such complex thought, his behaviour is so wonderfully transparent... I just know exactly the way Rob’s mind works. Me – not interested; Rob – interested. It is genuinely as simple as that! The crying shame of the whole thing is that despite being in possession of all this intelligent insight, I was so worn down by the end of our conversation on Sunday night that I just gave in and agreed to see him the following evening. Hardly the cast iron resolve of an emancipated woman.
When he arrived at the pub the next night I had just had quite a long moan about him to my friends, and was in a vaguely unpleasant mood. I was making a little mental checklist of sexual privileges I would withhold in order to... I dunno, what? Punish him. That’s what.
Here’s a sexual privilege I should think more seriously about withholding – the sex! That has actually occurred to me, I can just hardly ever be bothered to shoo him away more than 2 or 3 times in a row. Persistence works, as it turns out. At least I wasn’t going to try and teach him a lesson, I suppose that’s something.
Upon arrival, Rob announced he wanted to go for sushi (“or dim sum, at a push.”)... Brilliant. I was starving, and kept hovering plaintively at the thresholds of different eateries that we passed. Why not Mexican? Why not Italian? French? Thai?! No, he’d got it into his head; he wanted what he wanted... Only sushi (yes, alright, or dim sum) would do for the Little Prince...
We ended up eating cheap supermarket sushi on a low wall surrounding the Russian Embassy. In the dark. (Seriously, the street lights are not that great round there. Although to be fair, there was the occasional light from the security guard’s torch that swept across the tray of raw salmon in my lap... So, you know, it wasn’t that bad. *mirthless laugh*).
In a romcom, this would be painted as romantic. The hero and heroine would laugh for years to come at their fun jaunt around Kensington Palace Gardens. In actual fact, I had a cold bum from the concrete wall and bits of wasabi all over my tights. I was continually adding more things to my mental checklist... “No blow job for you, mister!”, “There goes the tit wank...” etc. It was shaping up to be a bit of a disastrous night.
I can’t deny that I enjoy having sex with Rob. It’s just everything else I can’t be bothered with. A little voice in my head (knickers) is saying: ‘Maybe I could just put all that out of my mind and carry on as before...?!’ But I must be realistic; I must start being sensible about the sex. Since when have I resented someone for wanting to sleep with me? Something’s not right.
So how do I broach this subject with Rob? It’s hard when a relationship is so... nothingmuchinparticular, to actually put a stop to it. It feels like you’re making it more significant than it is just by acknowledging you want it finished. Maybe I’ll just demand to see him a lot – If he’s so keen on getting what he can’t have, that could have the perfect reverse effect! Or, you know, my tin-pot psychology could be waaayyy off (not unheard of *cough*), and the whole plan could backfire horribly. I think I’ll have to actually talk to him like an adult. Damn. I’ll keep you posted.
BeDJ
What it boils down to is that Rob and I have been in a constant power struggle ever since we started sleeping together two years ago. In the beginning I had to play my best game to keep up with him. And then... I just stopped caring. Ladies, just so you know, this is undoubtedly the key to “the game”, the holy grail of dating in this day and age... If you want to behave like you don’t give a fuck, try not giving a fuck. It’s been a revelation! Honestly, I can’t recommend it enough. Unfortunately, in keeping with effective gameplay, the more successful I’ve got at ignoring Rob’s calls, never being available when he wants, and having sex only on my terms, the more keen Rob has become. I believe it’s called Wanting What You Can’t Have.
(Except of course, he could have me, and did. I just made life more difficult for him. And there’s definitely an undeniable sadistic satisfaction in that...)
Anyway, my recent aloofness probably explains his charming declarations on Sunday. To recap: He “adores me”. For someone capable of such complex thought, his behaviour is so wonderfully transparent... I just know exactly the way Rob’s mind works. Me – not interested; Rob – interested. It is genuinely as simple as that! The crying shame of the whole thing is that despite being in possession of all this intelligent insight, I was so worn down by the end of our conversation on Sunday night that I just gave in and agreed to see him the following evening. Hardly the cast iron resolve of an emancipated woman.
When he arrived at the pub the next night I had just had quite a long moan about him to my friends, and was in a vaguely unpleasant mood. I was making a little mental checklist of sexual privileges I would withhold in order to... I dunno, what? Punish him. That’s what.
Here’s a sexual privilege I should think more seriously about withholding – the sex! That has actually occurred to me, I can just hardly ever be bothered to shoo him away more than 2 or 3 times in a row. Persistence works, as it turns out. At least I wasn’t going to try and teach him a lesson, I suppose that’s something.
Upon arrival, Rob announced he wanted to go for sushi (“or dim sum, at a push.”)... Brilliant. I was starving, and kept hovering plaintively at the thresholds of different eateries that we passed. Why not Mexican? Why not Italian? French? Thai?! No, he’d got it into his head; he wanted what he wanted... Only sushi (yes, alright, or dim sum) would do for the Little Prince...
We ended up eating cheap supermarket sushi on a low wall surrounding the Russian Embassy. In the dark. (Seriously, the street lights are not that great round there. Although to be fair, there was the occasional light from the security guard’s torch that swept across the tray of raw salmon in my lap... So, you know, it wasn’t that bad. *mirthless laugh*).
In a romcom, this would be painted as romantic. The hero and heroine would laugh for years to come at their fun jaunt around Kensington Palace Gardens. In actual fact, I had a cold bum from the concrete wall and bits of wasabi all over my tights. I was continually adding more things to my mental checklist... “No blow job for you, mister!”, “There goes the tit wank...” etc. It was shaping up to be a bit of a disastrous night.
I can’t deny that I enjoy having sex with Rob. It’s just everything else I can’t be bothered with. A little voice in my head (knickers) is saying: ‘Maybe I could just put all that out of my mind and carry on as before...?!’ But I must be realistic; I must start being sensible about the sex. Since when have I resented someone for wanting to sleep with me? Something’s not right.
So how do I broach this subject with Rob? It’s hard when a relationship is so... nothingmuchinparticular, to actually put a stop to it. It feels like you’re making it more significant than it is just by acknowledging you want it finished. Maybe I’ll just demand to see him a lot – If he’s so keen on getting what he can’t have, that could have the perfect reverse effect! Or, you know, my tin-pot psychology could be waaayyy off (not unheard of *cough*), and the whole plan could backfire horribly. I think I’ll have to actually talk to him like an adult. Damn. I’ll keep you posted.
BeDJ
Monday, 16 August 2010
Grime and Punishment
Last night I went to a friend’s birthday party in some hideous club in West London. Also in attendance were Rob (you will no doubt remember him from such blogs as Mothering Fights), and the best friend of the birthday boy, who after this exact event last year asked me out on a date and then never called me back.
Contrary to popular belief, I am a proud creature. Askingmeoutonadateandthennevercallingmeback wounds my sense of self *sob*... So when I realised that Ed (for this is how he shall be known) was going to be out last night, I determined to do everything in my power to teach him a lesson. “Ha! Take that you blithering idiot. That’ll teach you never call me back!” I was going to punish him by making him realise exactly what he was missing.
Several hours of careful make-up application and a new outfit later, and I was ready to roll.
I arrived at the party and carefully circulated the room, all the while trying to be gregarious and coquettish simultaneously. If it sounds contrived; it was. It was awful. Eventually I got round to Ed... I was just in the middle of being perfectly friendly andyetstillvaguelysuperior, when Rob walked in. Rob and Ed don’t know each other, but here’s the thing – Rob and I have been sleeping together on and off for the best part of 2 years. What’s the etiquette when it comes to this kind of social situation? Must I consider his feelings whilst I go about teaching Ed a valuable lesson about respect? I’m not sure, but it made life just that little bit harder... and I was already quite stressed.
Fast forward several hours and two important things had taken place. 1) Rob had taken me aside and declared that despite being “emotionally stunted”, in his “own way” he “adored me”. Never have three pairs of words done so little to attract or enthuse me. 2) Ed and I had begun flirting. A lot.
I was so excited about teaching him a lesson. Yes! I was so glad he was witnessing how witty and clever and fun I am. Not to mention devastatingly sexy. The conversation went as follows:
Ed: (dead pan) I can’t give you what you want, you know...
Me: (dead pan, yet also devastatingly sexy - obviously) What do I want? I was just hoping for a bit of casual sex to be honest, Ed.
Ed: Oh right... Out in the alleyway then is it?
Me: I was thinking the toilets, actually. See you there in five?
Now, at this point we were both still joking... I think. We continued the countdown (*checks watch* “Four minutes to go” etc). Then, after the given 5 minutes had elapsed, Ed leant over (I was dancing to Raspberry Beret) and said: “Well, that’s time up. Come on then.” He clearly didn’t think I was going to go. I gave him a withering look... “Ed. Sweetheart. This is Prince. We can go after Prince, but not a moment before.”
The final chords of Raspberry Beret saw me leading Ed off the dance floor and towards the loos. This was one hell of a lesson I was about to impart! We walked the length of the god-awful club and reached the Ladies. This was turning into the greatest game of chicken anyone has ever played. I escorted him to the last cubicle and pushed him inside it. Take that, you non-caller-backer, you! You... You silly idiot!
The next few seconds were a bit of a blur, but next thing I know my shoes were skittering out under the door, my tights were on the floor, and I was sitting on top of a semi-naked Ed. We were having sex.
Haha! HaHA! I win, I win! Boy was he learning a valuable lesson about... HANG ON A MINUTE! What the f---?! This was the worst fucking lesson ever! The lesson was basically: Never call me back and I will still sleep with you! Ignore me and I will still sleep with you, in even more compromising circumstances than I would have before! I mean... A loo cubicle in West London’s least appealing nightclub? This was certainly compromising. This was downright grimy.
Would you believe me if I told you that just as I had my epiphany about what a big idiot I am, MC Hammer starts playing? “Can’t touch this... Duh duh duh duh, du duh du duh...”. Life’s a bit surreal at times.
It was all over relatively quickly (Oh, Ed... Shame), and I dismounted and put my tights back on. I fished for my shoes under the cubicle door as gracefully as I could. I was still reeling from my internal revelation that I am not some kind of disciplinarian for serial neglecters of women... But I managed to keep my cool. “Well, it’s been nice seeing you, Ed.”... and then I sauntered out.
Back on the dance floor I ran straight into Rob. I didn’t really want to see him, let alone be pressed against a wall and kissed. My first thought was: ‘Shit! Can he taste Ed?’ (Sorry, but it’s true!). I wriggled free and gave him what I hoped was a sort of sympathetic/friendly/back-off sort of smile - These are not easy to master. There then followed what felt like half an hour of me firmly telling Rob that I didn’t want to stay at his house... Because I couldn’t be entirely frank about why I might not want to sleep with him on this particular night, not now, I just spent the whole duration of the conversation saying ‘no’. Rob does not like the word no (not in a rapist sort of way, he just likes getting what he wants), and it took quite a long time to explain to him that it was not going to happen.
By the end of it all, I was feeling fairly worn down. So when Rob suggested I sleep over tomorrow night (tonight, dammit!), I buckled under the pressure. I am so weak of willpower. Tonight it is. Hooray for seeing Rob.
Will I be teaching him any of the important life lessons I imparted to Ed?! I’ll keep you posted.
BeDJ
Contrary to popular belief, I am a proud creature. Askingmeoutonadateandthennevercallingmeback wounds my sense of self *sob*... So when I realised that Ed (for this is how he shall be known) was going to be out last night, I determined to do everything in my power to teach him a lesson. “Ha! Take that you blithering idiot. That’ll teach you never call me back!” I was going to punish him by making him realise exactly what he was missing.
Several hours of careful make-up application and a new outfit later, and I was ready to roll.
I arrived at the party and carefully circulated the room, all the while trying to be gregarious and coquettish simultaneously. If it sounds contrived; it was. It was awful. Eventually I got round to Ed... I was just in the middle of being perfectly friendly andyetstillvaguelysuperior, when Rob walked in. Rob and Ed don’t know each other, but here’s the thing – Rob and I have been sleeping together on and off for the best part of 2 years. What’s the etiquette when it comes to this kind of social situation? Must I consider his feelings whilst I go about teaching Ed a valuable lesson about respect? I’m not sure, but it made life just that little bit harder... and I was already quite stressed.
Fast forward several hours and two important things had taken place. 1) Rob had taken me aside and declared that despite being “emotionally stunted”, in his “own way” he “adored me”. Never have three pairs of words done so little to attract or enthuse me. 2) Ed and I had begun flirting. A lot.
I was so excited about teaching him a lesson. Yes! I was so glad he was witnessing how witty and clever and fun I am. Not to mention devastatingly sexy. The conversation went as follows:
Ed: (dead pan) I can’t give you what you want, you know...
Me: (dead pan, yet also devastatingly sexy - obviously) What do I want? I was just hoping for a bit of casual sex to be honest, Ed.
Ed: Oh right... Out in the alleyway then is it?
Me: I was thinking the toilets, actually. See you there in five?
Now, at this point we were both still joking... I think. We continued the countdown (*checks watch* “Four minutes to go” etc). Then, after the given 5 minutes had elapsed, Ed leant over (I was dancing to Raspberry Beret) and said: “Well, that’s time up. Come on then.” He clearly didn’t think I was going to go. I gave him a withering look... “Ed. Sweetheart. This is Prince. We can go after Prince, but not a moment before.”
The final chords of Raspberry Beret saw me leading Ed off the dance floor and towards the loos. This was one hell of a lesson I was about to impart! We walked the length of the god-awful club and reached the Ladies. This was turning into the greatest game of chicken anyone has ever played. I escorted him to the last cubicle and pushed him inside it. Take that, you non-caller-backer, you! You... You silly idiot!
The next few seconds were a bit of a blur, but next thing I know my shoes were skittering out under the door, my tights were on the floor, and I was sitting on top of a semi-naked Ed. We were having sex.
Haha! HaHA! I win, I win! Boy was he learning a valuable lesson about... HANG ON A MINUTE! What the f---?! This was the worst fucking lesson ever! The lesson was basically: Never call me back and I will still sleep with you! Ignore me and I will still sleep with you, in even more compromising circumstances than I would have before! I mean... A loo cubicle in West London’s least appealing nightclub? This was certainly compromising. This was downright grimy.
Would you believe me if I told you that just as I had my epiphany about what a big idiot I am, MC Hammer starts playing? “Can’t touch this... Duh duh duh duh, du duh du duh...”. Life’s a bit surreal at times.
It was all over relatively quickly (Oh, Ed... Shame), and I dismounted and put my tights back on. I fished for my shoes under the cubicle door as gracefully as I could. I was still reeling from my internal revelation that I am not some kind of disciplinarian for serial neglecters of women... But I managed to keep my cool. “Well, it’s been nice seeing you, Ed.”... and then I sauntered out.
Back on the dance floor I ran straight into Rob. I didn’t really want to see him, let alone be pressed against a wall and kissed. My first thought was: ‘Shit! Can he taste Ed?’ (Sorry, but it’s true!). I wriggled free and gave him what I hoped was a sort of sympathetic/friendly/back-off sort of smile - These are not easy to master. There then followed what felt like half an hour of me firmly telling Rob that I didn’t want to stay at his house... Because I couldn’t be entirely frank about why I might not want to sleep with him on this particular night, not now, I just spent the whole duration of the conversation saying ‘no’. Rob does not like the word no (not in a rapist sort of way, he just likes getting what he wants), and it took quite a long time to explain to him that it was not going to happen.
By the end of it all, I was feeling fairly worn down. So when Rob suggested I sleep over tomorrow night (tonight, dammit!), I buckled under the pressure. I am so weak of willpower. Tonight it is. Hooray for seeing Rob.
Will I be teaching him any of the important life lessons I imparted to Ed?! I’ll keep you posted.
BeDJ
Thursday, 29 July 2010
Tequila Mocking Bird
As the week has worn on, a series of bruises have developed on my body that serve as a rather embarrassing reminder of Monday night... Or, as I will from now on refer to it: The Night I Had Sex Much Too Drunk.
Far be it from the truth to suggest that I have never had drunken sex before (Hello, University... *cough* and beyond... *cough*), this little episode was spectacular for several reasons. 1) Not only had I had a lot of wine, followed by a lot of tequila, followed by a lot of spiced rum, I had also had next to no sleep for nearly 5 days. 2) In a wholly unwise move, a group of us had just been to see a late-night showing of a film in 3D, which had done nothing to aid my sense of sobriety. 3) The guy in question, Henry (more on him later), was as drunk as I was, meaning the entire event closely resembled two people playing Twister in a tumble dryer.
This is presumably why at some point that night I emerged from a tequila haze to find I had fallen naked off the edge of my friends’ spare bed and under a table, leaving an equally-naked Henry swaying uncertainly on the duvet precipice and asking in a stage whisper if I was alright. This is one of a very select number of snapshot images I have from the evening.
In settling myself down to document this sorry tale, I realised I couldn’t remember getting back to my friend’s flat... I’m fairly sure that Henry and I were informed that we had to share a room quite early on in the evening and we both drank heavily from that point onwards. I’ve had sex with Henry before and so I suppose the whole thing had a certain inevitability about it; it’s just we just decided to cement that inevitability by adding extra alcohol.
So. We started with dinner and wine before moving on to a few bars. It was in the first bar where Henry the booze hound insisted we drink a tequila with every round that night. We had eaten dinner reasonably early and ended up beginning our mini bar crawl at about 8 o’clock. I usually only drink tequila after about 2am, but despite that (and the fact no-one else was up for it) I gamely took Henry on drink for drink. 2 hours later and I was beginning to feel a little hazy. It was suggested by some genius that the group go to the cinema... Hooray for cinema! Of course everyone loves the idea of late-night cinema! We were disproportionately thrilled at the idea of going to the cinema so very late – what a bunch of rebels we were. But wait! We became more rebellious still... How about sneaking a little wine into the film with us?! *snigger* We are, like, sooooo cool.
Only Henry the booze hound was not interested in wine. Ohnonono... Henry emerged triumphant from the supermarket brandishing spiced rum. He was pleased with himself. He had a hunter-gatherer air. I was waiting for the point at which he would begin beating his chest with his fists.
We smuggled the rum in to the screening and began dishing it out as inconspicuously as possible into a series of medium-sized cokes. I realise in retrospect that anyone with half a brain would have known instantly what we were doing. We must have looked tragic... Who do I think I am – a college freshman?! I certainly can’t have looked like one. The combination of unfocussed drunken eyes and the 3D glasses can only have made me look like someone wearing a joke shop disguise. Or possibly Jarvis Cocker on smack.
I didn’t follow the film very well... The 3D specs spent a lot of time travelling down my nose towards the floor, and the (I imagine) stunning visual effects were somewhat marred by my already-double vision. Henry was sitting next to me with his hand between my legs... He was fast asleep.
Somehow the film ended – I think happily. Somehow we returned to my friends’ flat. Somehow I brushed my teeth and put on something to sleep in. Somehow I ended up having sex with Henry.
I am genuinely unsure as to how it happened. Henry has an unbelievably loud voice, and an absolute inability to whisper. I remember repeatedly telling him to be quiet for fear that we would wake up everyone else in the flat. However, apart from my role as the sex librarian (“Shhhhhhhhh Henry! Will you be. Quiet!”), I don’t actually remember much about the sex itself.
I realise for a blog about sex, that doesn’t really cut the mustard. I am annoyed with myself. AND – as if this wasn’t irritating enough – Tuesday night ended with us both getting so drunk again that despite sharing the same spare bed for the second night running, we both actually passed out before we could even begin taking each other’s clothes off... The most frustrating thing about the whole tragic episode is that it feels like such a waste of good sex.
I let the drink get in the way of the fun! We had tequila on Tuesday night as well, this time in an actual tequila bar. I suspect that there is a lesson in all of this... Perhaps tequila is my sexual kryptonite? It certainly made a mockery of two potentially excellent nights of sex. How do Mexicans do it?!
I think from now on I will give it up entirely. The tequila I mean, not the sex. Obviously. Maybe in a new era of zero tequila I can ensure a thoroughly satisfying and easily-documentable sex life. I’ll keep you posted.
BeDJ
Far be it from the truth to suggest that I have never had drunken sex before (Hello, University... *cough* and beyond... *cough*), this little episode was spectacular for several reasons. 1) Not only had I had a lot of wine, followed by a lot of tequila, followed by a lot of spiced rum, I had also had next to no sleep for nearly 5 days. 2) In a wholly unwise move, a group of us had just been to see a late-night showing of a film in 3D, which had done nothing to aid my sense of sobriety. 3) The guy in question, Henry (more on him later), was as drunk as I was, meaning the entire event closely resembled two people playing Twister in a tumble dryer.
This is presumably why at some point that night I emerged from a tequila haze to find I had fallen naked off the edge of my friends’ spare bed and under a table, leaving an equally-naked Henry swaying uncertainly on the duvet precipice and asking in a stage whisper if I was alright. This is one of a very select number of snapshot images I have from the evening.
In settling myself down to document this sorry tale, I realised I couldn’t remember getting back to my friend’s flat... I’m fairly sure that Henry and I were informed that we had to share a room quite early on in the evening and we both drank heavily from that point onwards. I’ve had sex with Henry before and so I suppose the whole thing had a certain inevitability about it; it’s just we just decided to cement that inevitability by adding extra alcohol.
So. We started with dinner and wine before moving on to a few bars. It was in the first bar where Henry the booze hound insisted we drink a tequila with every round that night. We had eaten dinner reasonably early and ended up beginning our mini bar crawl at about 8 o’clock. I usually only drink tequila after about 2am, but despite that (and the fact no-one else was up for it) I gamely took Henry on drink for drink. 2 hours later and I was beginning to feel a little hazy. It was suggested by some genius that the group go to the cinema... Hooray for cinema! Of course everyone loves the idea of late-night cinema! We were disproportionately thrilled at the idea of going to the cinema so very late – what a bunch of rebels we were. But wait! We became more rebellious still... How about sneaking a little wine into the film with us?! *snigger* We are, like, sooooo cool.
Only Henry the booze hound was not interested in wine. Ohnonono... Henry emerged triumphant from the supermarket brandishing spiced rum. He was pleased with himself. He had a hunter-gatherer air. I was waiting for the point at which he would begin beating his chest with his fists.
We smuggled the rum in to the screening and began dishing it out as inconspicuously as possible into a series of medium-sized cokes. I realise in retrospect that anyone with half a brain would have known instantly what we were doing. We must have looked tragic... Who do I think I am – a college freshman?! I certainly can’t have looked like one. The combination of unfocussed drunken eyes and the 3D glasses can only have made me look like someone wearing a joke shop disguise. Or possibly Jarvis Cocker on smack.
I didn’t follow the film very well... The 3D specs spent a lot of time travelling down my nose towards the floor, and the (I imagine) stunning visual effects were somewhat marred by my already-double vision. Henry was sitting next to me with his hand between my legs... He was fast asleep.
Somehow the film ended – I think happily. Somehow we returned to my friends’ flat. Somehow I brushed my teeth and put on something to sleep in. Somehow I ended up having sex with Henry.
I am genuinely unsure as to how it happened. Henry has an unbelievably loud voice, and an absolute inability to whisper. I remember repeatedly telling him to be quiet for fear that we would wake up everyone else in the flat. However, apart from my role as the sex librarian (“Shhhhhhhhh Henry! Will you be. Quiet!”), I don’t actually remember much about the sex itself.
I realise for a blog about sex, that doesn’t really cut the mustard. I am annoyed with myself. AND – as if this wasn’t irritating enough – Tuesday night ended with us both getting so drunk again that despite sharing the same spare bed for the second night running, we both actually passed out before we could even begin taking each other’s clothes off... The most frustrating thing about the whole tragic episode is that it feels like such a waste of good sex.
I let the drink get in the way of the fun! We had tequila on Tuesday night as well, this time in an actual tequila bar. I suspect that there is a lesson in all of this... Perhaps tequila is my sexual kryptonite? It certainly made a mockery of two potentially excellent nights of sex. How do Mexicans do it?!
I think from now on I will give it up entirely. The tequila I mean, not the sex. Obviously. Maybe in a new era of zero tequila I can ensure a thoroughly satisfying and easily-documentable sex life. I’ll keep you posted.
BeDJ
Tuesday, 20 July 2010
Mothering Fights
Last night I went to the races with an old flame of mine, Rob. I say flame – the image I am conjuring up is that of a cheap lighter... Not so much a constant warming presence as an intermittent provider of a spark. Rob and I are fuck buddies, to coin a phrase.
So yesterday, in a rather unusual way for Rob and I, we actually went to an event. Usually it’s a slightly tipsy phone call at ten to midnight and youknowtherest. But not this time! This time there was an actual event, an event that we both attended... Together. And this wasn’t just any event. This was the World famous Windsor Races. What do you mean you didn’t know Windsor had...? Never mind. We got there just in time for the race for horses which “will have been too weak and backward to run as juveniles”. So. Not exactly Ascot, but it was fun.
I lost 25 quid almost instantaneously betting on The Cute Horses With The Funny Names, or the Ones Ridden By The Most Irish-Sounding Jockey... The Ones With The Longest Odds were also high on my list (“Imagine if I won £255 just from one bet...”). I am not a natural gambler. Rob, on the other hand, is a natural gambler. His horse won every race. It was infuriating... He tried not to be smug about it, but when I suggested I could wallpaper a room with my now useless betting slips, he actually gave me a pitying smile. The bastard.
Another unusual element of the night - alongside the retarded horses, and Rob and I both starting and finishing the evening in each other’s company – was the presence of Rob’s mother. I had not been expecting it, and wasn’t really in mother-meeting mode when I arrived in Windsor wearing a virtually see-through dress, with enormous sunglasses on and no knickers. I imagine she didn’t take too kindly to me... Only made worse by the fact that she is a psychoanalyst – she must have been having a field day.
As the evening wore on, I managed some semi-normal chatting (all the while hoping it wasn’t too obvious that I had no pants on) and it became apparent that Rob is the apple of his mother’s eye. At one point she referred to him as her Prince. I assume not the artist formerly known as... It was all a little bit... well, gross, to be perfectly honest. I was looking forward to going home and getting into bed (with Rob, of course), and putting my gambling debts and all mothers on Earth out of my mind. But no such luck. Rob unveiled his plans for us to stay at his mum’s in Windsor (“Oh, that’ll be lovely” *fume*) and off we all went.
Back at the house, and Rob’s mum disappeared upstairs only to reappear and announce that my room was ready. My room? Ahhh... My room. I had been placed in the spare room, a safe distance down the hall from Rob. Would I be needing a towel? Anything to clean my face (/presumably, soul)? Well then, Goodnight.
I wasn’t really sure what to do... I sort of lingered around the landing. Was this a test? I didn’t know whether to just go to Rob’s room and risk a row, or go to the spare room and risk having no sex. Luckily Rob came out of the bathroom as I was dithering at the top of the stairs and herded me firmly towards his bed.
As we started having (very quiet) sex, I could hear his mother going up and down the landing... I wondered how much longer she would be awake for? And then... “Rob?!”
I adopted a sort of rabbit-in-the-headlights frozen stance on the bed. Wassheabouttocomeintotheroom?! Oh God, please don’t let her be about to come into the room...
Rob shouted “What, mum?!”, after which point a rather frantic conversation passed between the two of them in their mother tongue (Rob’s from Iran). I didn’t know the exact translation about what was being said, but suffice it to say I think I can now guess the Iranian for spare room. Or maybe that word was ‘harlot’. Anyway, it got said a lot.
The conversation (fight) finished when Rob (rather petulantly, I thought) shouted “It’s FINE, go to BED!”... This was followed by the sound of mummy's tiny feet shuffling off up the landing. We lay in silence. “Was that about me and the spare room”... “What? ... No... No, of course not.” The liar.
I contemplated getting up and moving beds after Rob fell asleep, so nervous was I about seeing his mum in the morning at breakfast. Perhaps I could slip out of the house altogether and just run away into the dark Windsor night?! Needless to say seconds after the sex was over, I fell asleep. In Rob’s bed. *dun dun duuuuuun*... I am the worst, least subtle son-shagger in all of the history of the Earth. The final nail in the coffin of the burgeoning friendship between Rob’s mother and I came this morning when she came in to wake him up for work. Yes, that’s right. So over-mothered is Rob, aged 25, that she bought him breakfast in bed at 7am.
Imagine her suprise...
Needless to say I did not get a cup of tea. Awkward! I’ve never really had the separate room issue before (mind you, I rarely stay at people’s parent’s houses...) - I thought it was a sort of Hollywood device to pad out the scripts of films like Meet The Parents. Apparently in this case life immitates art.
I imagine Rob’s had a phone call today from his mother, with a fairly succinct psychoanalysis of myself thrown in for good measure. I am intrigued. I want to know what she made of the harlot debasing her little Prince... I intend to find out. I’ll keep you posted.
BeDJ
So yesterday, in a rather unusual way for Rob and I, we actually went to an event. Usually it’s a slightly tipsy phone call at ten to midnight and youknowtherest. But not this time! This time there was an actual event, an event that we both attended... Together. And this wasn’t just any event. This was the World famous Windsor Races. What do you mean you didn’t know Windsor had...? Never mind. We got there just in time for the race for horses which “will have been too weak and backward to run as juveniles”. So. Not exactly Ascot, but it was fun.
I lost 25 quid almost instantaneously betting on The Cute Horses With The Funny Names, or the Ones Ridden By The Most Irish-Sounding Jockey... The Ones With The Longest Odds were also high on my list (“Imagine if I won £255 just from one bet...”). I am not a natural gambler. Rob, on the other hand, is a natural gambler. His horse won every race. It was infuriating... He tried not to be smug about it, but when I suggested I could wallpaper a room with my now useless betting slips, he actually gave me a pitying smile. The bastard.
Another unusual element of the night - alongside the retarded horses, and Rob and I both starting and finishing the evening in each other’s company – was the presence of Rob’s mother. I had not been expecting it, and wasn’t really in mother-meeting mode when I arrived in Windsor wearing a virtually see-through dress, with enormous sunglasses on and no knickers. I imagine she didn’t take too kindly to me... Only made worse by the fact that she is a psychoanalyst – she must have been having a field day.
As the evening wore on, I managed some semi-normal chatting (all the while hoping it wasn’t too obvious that I had no pants on) and it became apparent that Rob is the apple of his mother’s eye. At one point she referred to him as her Prince. I assume not the artist formerly known as... It was all a little bit... well, gross, to be perfectly honest. I was looking forward to going home and getting into bed (with Rob, of course), and putting my gambling debts and all mothers on Earth out of my mind. But no such luck. Rob unveiled his plans for us to stay at his mum’s in Windsor (“Oh, that’ll be lovely” *fume*) and off we all went.
Back at the house, and Rob’s mum disappeared upstairs only to reappear and announce that my room was ready. My room? Ahhh... My room. I had been placed in the spare room, a safe distance down the hall from Rob. Would I be needing a towel? Anything to clean my face (/presumably, soul)? Well then, Goodnight.
I wasn’t really sure what to do... I sort of lingered around the landing. Was this a test? I didn’t know whether to just go to Rob’s room and risk a row, or go to the spare room and risk having no sex. Luckily Rob came out of the bathroom as I was dithering at the top of the stairs and herded me firmly towards his bed.
As we started having (very quiet) sex, I could hear his mother going up and down the landing... I wondered how much longer she would be awake for? And then... “Rob?!”
I adopted a sort of rabbit-in-the-headlights frozen stance on the bed. Wassheabouttocomeintotheroom?! Oh God, please don’t let her be about to come into the room...
Rob shouted “What, mum?!”, after which point a rather frantic conversation passed between the two of them in their mother tongue (Rob’s from Iran). I didn’t know the exact translation about what was being said, but suffice it to say I think I can now guess the Iranian for spare room. Or maybe that word was ‘harlot’. Anyway, it got said a lot.
The conversation (fight) finished when Rob (rather petulantly, I thought) shouted “It’s FINE, go to BED!”... This was followed by the sound of mummy's tiny feet shuffling off up the landing. We lay in silence. “Was that about me and the spare room”... “What? ... No... No, of course not.” The liar.
I contemplated getting up and moving beds after Rob fell asleep, so nervous was I about seeing his mum in the morning at breakfast. Perhaps I could slip out of the house altogether and just run away into the dark Windsor night?! Needless to say seconds after the sex was over, I fell asleep. In Rob’s bed. *dun dun duuuuuun*... I am the worst, least subtle son-shagger in all of the history of the Earth. The final nail in the coffin of the burgeoning friendship between Rob’s mother and I came this morning when she came in to wake him up for work. Yes, that’s right. So over-mothered is Rob, aged 25, that she bought him breakfast in bed at 7am.
Imagine her suprise...
Needless to say I did not get a cup of tea. Awkward! I’ve never really had the separate room issue before (mind you, I rarely stay at people’s parent’s houses...) - I thought it was a sort of Hollywood device to pad out the scripts of films like Meet The Parents. Apparently in this case life immitates art.
I imagine Rob’s had a phone call today from his mother, with a fairly succinct psychoanalysis of myself thrown in for good measure. I am intrigued. I want to know what she made of the harlot debasing her little Prince... I intend to find out. I’ll keep you posted.
BeDJ
Sunday, 18 July 2010
Far from the Wedding Crowd
Pop quiz: What is the one failsafe way to send your newlywed friends off on honeymoon in style?
Answer: Any way on Earth apart from being silhouetted in an upstairs window of the hotel having acrobatic sex whilst the happy couple are being waved off down the driveway.
Two friends had their very lovely wedding yesterday in the onlyatinybitinconsiderate location of the Scottish highlands. It took longer to travel there and back than we were there for (by a long way), it was absolutely freezing, you couldn’t see the scenery for fog, and my hat continually threatened to act as an aileron, with it catching a gust of wind and lifting me up into the air above the assembled congregation. But despite all that it really was lovely. A dashing groom, a beautiful bride... But most importantly of all: a wealth of attractive ushers and groomsmen in kilts. And everybody knows kilts are never better than on a slightly windy day.
[The rest of the outfit is a bit hit and miss... The white hockey socks set-up shouldn’t be sexy but sort of is, the knife tucked into the sock is fairly standard in South London and therefore no longer excites me, and the weird gladiator sandals brogues are a bit... well, gay. But say what you will about the knife wielding and the morris dancer-y sock shoe combo, they all looked great. Men in formal wear are just... fit. Posh peacocking, I suppose, why wouldn’t it work?]
So anyway, I was having an altogether very fun day drinking pink champagne and ogling Scotsmen. The reception began with a ceilidh – my worst nightmare. I hate organised fun, especially if it involves line dancing. So instead I drank a lot more pink champagne and talked to the waiter. He sounded exactly like the Scottish hobbit, and I spent a lot of time trying not to develop ‘sympathetic accent’, a mortifying condition where I unwittingly imitate the regional/national dialect of anyone I’m speaking to, often (always) with disastrous results.
I eventually dragged myself away from Alasdair the beautiful champagne topper-upper, and rejoined the wedding party proper. By this point most of the ceilidhing was over and we all seemed to be allowed to actually chat to each other. I was sitting near a very handsome guy called Alec, who works for General Motors. I bemoaned my Nissan Micra; he seemed impressed with how easily I bandied about the terms “high clutch” and “rubbish steering wheel”. We were getting on well. I changed gear (see, I’m Clarkson) into serious flirting mode...
It wasn’t until some time later during a particularly energetic bout of hand jiving - no euphemism... I may hate the line dance, but I love a good hand jive - that Alec leaned over and said (please picture sexy highland purr) “You look like Rizzo from Grease in that dress.” I asked if that was a good thing (of course it’s a good thing, that woman is sexy as. The dress is incredible – 50s, red with black polka dots, halter neck, corseted, lots of cleavage. I knew it was a good thing, I was being coy. You can’t go wrong.) Anyway, youlooklikeRizzofromGreaseinthatdress, isthatagoodthing... Next thing I know, before you could say “Is that a sporrin in your pocket?”, Alec was frog-marching me from the room and towards the stairs. *purr purr* “Get upstairs your filthy bitch”.
And yes – I hadn’t thought it possible, but it turns out you can purr the word bitch.
Now, as a brief sidetrack, I should probably explain how I feel about being sworn at. Normally – notsogood. In a sexual, getupstairsyoufilthybitch context, it never fails. I don’t know what it is. I think it probably has something to do with making you feel naughtier; it’s like “fuck”. If someone says they want to fuck you, it’s unlikely they’re going to gently lay you down amongst the rose petals.
Alec and I found a room in the lodge above the reception and got down to it. It must be all that striding up and down mountains that they do in the highlands (I must continually remind myself that Alec works in the motor industry, and does not, in fact, live like the Monarch of the Glen), but the sex was certainly fast-paced. As I alluded to earlier, it was pretty athletic... There were points when I thought Alec might have a checklist of positions to get through before the night was out. But the sex was good, he repeatedly swore at me, and I was having fun.
After a particularly loud outburst from myself, I realised the music from downstairs that I had been relying on to mask our noisemaking had stopped. How odd... It was still relatively early, I thought, surely they wouldn’t have finished the party already...? Half an hour or so later and Alec and I re-emerged downstairs. I had managed to make myself look more or less respectable, as had he, and we snuck stealthily into the room where the music was now playing again.
I was immediately dragged to one side by a friend... “You missed the bride and groom leaving”. “Did I? I was upstairs...” and then the spine-chilling retort: “We know, we saw you having sex through the window.” The dirty little voyeurs! Oh. Dear. Apparently I had been unmistakeable thanks to the fact that I had kept the dress on. That bloody dress! Cheers, Rizzo. You’ve really done me this time!
Without drawing the conversation out for too much longer *blush blush blush* I managed to ascertain that – thankfully – not everyone had seen the rather too public display we had been putting on upstairs. The bride and groom remained blissfully unaware, as did remaining elderly relatives. Alec was completely unfazed by the entire event. Maybe he knew all along that as Mr and Mrs pulled out of the drive, he was coming into... No, that sentence doesn’t even bear thinking about, let alone finishing. Shame on me.
Still. What better way to celebrate the union of two so thoroughly in love as my newly married friends than by furiously shagging a man due to move to America in a matter of weeks, who I will therefore almost certainly never see again?! I love weddings – so romantic.
In the last week I have received two more wedding invites for later on this year. I wonder if they’ll all end in such an exhibitionist manner. I’ll keep you posted.
BeDJ
Answer: Any way on Earth apart from being silhouetted in an upstairs window of the hotel having acrobatic sex whilst the happy couple are being waved off down the driveway.
Two friends had their very lovely wedding yesterday in the onlyatinybitinconsiderate location of the Scottish highlands. It took longer to travel there and back than we were there for (by a long way), it was absolutely freezing, you couldn’t see the scenery for fog, and my hat continually threatened to act as an aileron, with it catching a gust of wind and lifting me up into the air above the assembled congregation. But despite all that it really was lovely. A dashing groom, a beautiful bride... But most importantly of all: a wealth of attractive ushers and groomsmen in kilts. And everybody knows kilts are never better than on a slightly windy day.
[The rest of the outfit is a bit hit and miss... The white hockey socks set-up shouldn’t be sexy but sort of is, the knife tucked into the sock is fairly standard in South London and therefore no longer excites me, and the weird gladiator sandals brogues are a bit... well, gay. But say what you will about the knife wielding and the morris dancer-y sock shoe combo, they all looked great. Men in formal wear are just... fit. Posh peacocking, I suppose, why wouldn’t it work?]
So anyway, I was having an altogether very fun day drinking pink champagne and ogling Scotsmen. The reception began with a ceilidh – my worst nightmare. I hate organised fun, especially if it involves line dancing. So instead I drank a lot more pink champagne and talked to the waiter. He sounded exactly like the Scottish hobbit, and I spent a lot of time trying not to develop ‘sympathetic accent’, a mortifying condition where I unwittingly imitate the regional/national dialect of anyone I’m speaking to, often (always) with disastrous results.
I eventually dragged myself away from Alasdair the beautiful champagne topper-upper, and rejoined the wedding party proper. By this point most of the ceilidhing was over and we all seemed to be allowed to actually chat to each other. I was sitting near a very handsome guy called Alec, who works for General Motors. I bemoaned my Nissan Micra; he seemed impressed with how easily I bandied about the terms “high clutch” and “rubbish steering wheel”. We were getting on well. I changed gear (see, I’m Clarkson) into serious flirting mode...
It wasn’t until some time later during a particularly energetic bout of hand jiving - no euphemism... I may hate the line dance, but I love a good hand jive - that Alec leaned over and said (please picture sexy highland purr) “You look like Rizzo from Grease in that dress.” I asked if that was a good thing (of course it’s a good thing, that woman is sexy as. The dress is incredible – 50s, red with black polka dots, halter neck, corseted, lots of cleavage. I knew it was a good thing, I was being coy. You can’t go wrong.) Anyway, youlooklikeRizzofromGreaseinthatdress, isthatagoodthing... Next thing I know, before you could say “Is that a sporrin in your pocket?”, Alec was frog-marching me from the room and towards the stairs. *purr purr* “Get upstairs your filthy bitch”.
And yes – I hadn’t thought it possible, but it turns out you can purr the word bitch.
Now, as a brief sidetrack, I should probably explain how I feel about being sworn at. Normally – notsogood. In a sexual, getupstairsyoufilthybitch context, it never fails. I don’t know what it is. I think it probably has something to do with making you feel naughtier; it’s like “fuck”. If someone says they want to fuck you, it’s unlikely they’re going to gently lay you down amongst the rose petals.
Alec and I found a room in the lodge above the reception and got down to it. It must be all that striding up and down mountains that they do in the highlands (I must continually remind myself that Alec works in the motor industry, and does not, in fact, live like the Monarch of the Glen), but the sex was certainly fast-paced. As I alluded to earlier, it was pretty athletic... There were points when I thought Alec might have a checklist of positions to get through before the night was out. But the sex was good, he repeatedly swore at me, and I was having fun.
After a particularly loud outburst from myself, I realised the music from downstairs that I had been relying on to mask our noisemaking had stopped. How odd... It was still relatively early, I thought, surely they wouldn’t have finished the party already...? Half an hour or so later and Alec and I re-emerged downstairs. I had managed to make myself look more or less respectable, as had he, and we snuck stealthily into the room where the music was now playing again.
I was immediately dragged to one side by a friend... “You missed the bride and groom leaving”. “Did I? I was upstairs...” and then the spine-chilling retort: “We know, we saw you having sex through the window.” The dirty little voyeurs! Oh. Dear. Apparently I had been unmistakeable thanks to the fact that I had kept the dress on. That bloody dress! Cheers, Rizzo. You’ve really done me this time!
Without drawing the conversation out for too much longer *blush blush blush* I managed to ascertain that – thankfully – not everyone had seen the rather too public display we had been putting on upstairs. The bride and groom remained blissfully unaware, as did remaining elderly relatives. Alec was completely unfazed by the entire event. Maybe he knew all along that as Mr and Mrs pulled out of the drive, he was coming into... No, that sentence doesn’t even bear thinking about, let alone finishing. Shame on me.
Still. What better way to celebrate the union of two so thoroughly in love as my newly married friends than by furiously shagging a man due to move to America in a matter of weeks, who I will therefore almost certainly never see again?! I love weddings – so romantic.
In the last week I have received two more wedding invites for later on this year. I wonder if they’ll all end in such an exhibitionist manner. I’ll keep you posted.
BeDJ
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
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