Obligatory new year post, featuring resolution: Give BDSM a chance and my top five men of the past month, And other stories.

I’ve been quiet here, sorry. I’ve been very very out there in my life, however.

Christmas was an endurance test of the most ridiculous and hedonistic proportions. It started some time in November, maybe, when I moved into Dublin city, it started at a rate of three big nights out a week and steadily upped the tempo til mid December was just a barrage of inseparable nights and days drinking and sleeping with people and laughing and making new friends and drinking and waddling home with smelly armpits and heating up frozen meals and maybe washing and definitely changing clothes and RIGHT BACK OUT THERE INTO THE CARNAGE

All came to a head New Years eve where I uncharacteristically took a mystery drug offered me which turned out to be 2ci, and I went a bit weird and groped a guy’s thigh and he said (maybe influenced by the same drug)

“Sorry, I just find all of your friends more attractive than you”

despite the fact that I was wearing the shit out of a velvet skin tight  long sleeved and legged catsuit and my face was barely registering signs of liver abuse.

I went and sat in a room on my own for a while trying to send dirty messages to someone I met online (see point 5) but found my condition didn’t work with predictive text, I kept writing messages and ending them with “so he can” completely nonsensically. “I’m alone so he can.” “I wish you were here so he can”. etc.

I was later found by friends sitting alone in the room kneading my own arms and muttering “their bodies are so warm” and was put to bed where I slept through most of the party.

New year, new you, no more mystery drugs.

Not the first time I said that?

Well. But that’s not the thing.

The thing is… I’ve been enjoying the single life. I get too bogged down in individual menfolk, to the point that I get obsessive. So I’ve been casually seeing a few, and boy does that suit me. No obsession, I don’t even feel compelled to write back to them several times before getting an answer. Progress, progress!

I have a few men I like on the go.

One I fucked wonderfully a few months ago, he’s been away but has kept in touch intermittently and is keen to meet when he’s back soon. BUT he seems like the sort of guy who’s decent, and serious, and you don’t just mess around with. A total boyfriend type, and I’m not sure he’d be able to fit in with my friends, he’s not a drinker at all and that’s an awful criterion for a match but it’s true, I would hate to have to see friends and family all separate from whoever I was with. Actually no, that would be IDEAL. But he’d judge my drinking even if I cut it down to like 20%. Also, he’s a medical student and I DO NOT NEED THAT in my life. I’d be waking him up at 4am being like “honey, please, I know you said it’s not cancer but seriously is it cancer?”

Two, I’m actually sick of him now. Just use him like a short metal implement good for scratching an itch, that doesn’t quite get there. Phasing him out, although there was a relapse new year’s day when he gave me a lift home from the party I woke up in and I had the low self esteem of the weirdly rejected for a thigh grope, and I was wearing a velvet catsuit and I required some kind of validation of my rockin bod. (He gave me the validation but the sex was beyond awful and then he fell asleep which I didn’t like, in my bed! I had to get up and turn the lights on and  pretend to be looking for something noisily so he’d finally leave…)

Three, a guy I meant to tell you about ages ago because it was quite a good story. But now I have too many fresher good stories. Suffice it to say, met online, we had great sex and good conversation but it’s a feelings-free zone for both of us. But I’ll keep in touch with him, he’s a good guy. And the sex. But mostly just, he’s not the sort of person I’d usually ever meet, businessman and obsessed with getting rich, unfortunately not rich yet, but just… an easy going and different perspective.

Four…. Not from the internet, for a fucking change! Met at a party, took a little bit of a pill, got all loved up and gazed into each others’ eyes for hours talking about everything. Found we got along very well, plenty of similar interests. Unfortunately the pills made us more forthcoming and taboo-less than usual and we found ourselves discussing how we are both chronic cheaters and would be interested in open relationships. Which I didn’t really mean, because I only ever cheat from boredom or out of spite. And I’m WAY too jealous to do an open relationship, really. I think. Yes. But we had a great night, eventually great sex, and when he tried to make a second sex date I took a great leap from my usual silly position and said, BRING ME FOR A STEAK. Actually I said lobster dinner but we made a compromise. He took me for a lovely, lovely meal where we didn’t have any pills but still grinned at each other like teenagers for hours. Great easy conversation, smiling, smiling, lovely food, lovely sex… and he’s a fairly successful writer and other things. Damn. Intimidating. So I’m totally intimidated and totally into seeing him again, but there’s that silly prelude of us talking about cheating, and although yes I’ve done it and know I wouldn’t ALWAYS cheat, he said he does, always, absolutely. So that’s a bit of a red flag. But you know I’ll probably ignore it completely. Also he does seem quite keen, but he recently broke up with a woman who he says was great but he just couldn’t keep hurting her. Urgh… Yeah. Bode well, it does not. But he’s hot, and he got me steak, and he talks about books and he fucking writes. I’ll risk it probably.

FIVE… another internet one. this time, we haven’t met. It’s odd. He wrote to me a few months ago saying he’d be over in Ireland for a few days, did I want to meet. I said probably not, I’m busy. At the time I was seeing two men and felt that was enough. I’ve since stretched my….stomach? to the point that I would quite gladly add another to the mix, just to up my chances of winning. He wrote me a few times over the weeks, months, and every time I wasn’t too keen, I said maybe, maybe, he looked quite gentlemanly but dirty, tall and cocky, like the sort of person who’d fuck you proper but not get attached. But then I’d get attached. My kryptonite. But I was so damn busy, the party season kicked into full gear, I was so drunk all the time and so hung over in between, and then I didn’t have the money (read: it was being spent on alcohol) to pay for a professional wax, so I didn’t want to show up for a sex date with a guy who clearly knows how to dress and likes the finer things sporting DIY wax job and three day session face.

So I replied to him a bit but I was obviously giving him a good interesting challenge. Not a solid no, but not interested.

Eventually one night there was some sexting. I was drunk, I wrote back to a filthy message, and we got into a full on night of sexting. And surprisingly for me, the next day I didn’t recoil or lose interest. He actually spoke to my fantasies. He was filthy in a way I am, but never really let to the surface for anyone. He tried to coax me out to meet him. I was busy! I just met guy number four, I was going to a good party, I didn’t want to bring a guy over to my single bed and cold apartment. Then we had another night of intense sexy texting and I thought, fuck, I DO want to meet him. Desperately! We must meet. And then I got my poxy period. And no way was I going to meet him with that, because I was really keen on him going down on me as he promised, for ages.

So he came and went, and as he left we got into a very intense and constant discussion of fantasies and fetishes and fuck, it was like the floodgates opened. Normally I have a high sex drive. Since talking to him in the last… five days? Maybe? I’ve been constantly humming with the need to fornicate. I’m light headed with it. Giddy, distracted. We’ve stayed up chatting for hours. We’ve had phone sex, cum incredibly hard, discussed really out there things and somehow landed in this weird we’ve never met, sort of…. dominant and submissive relationship.

I’m kind of reeling from it. I’ve never considered myself in any way submissive, except for one time years ago when a friend and I got into some jokey game where I had to call him master and he called me his pet, and I sat at his feet and obeyed him, but it was silly, a game, and the only reason I remember it is because I remember being really excited by it and thinking if only I could let him know I wanted to do that for real, without having to ASK.

But with this guy… he’s confident. Authoritative. His voice enthralls me. It’s so steady, it commands respect. I’m weak with him… But I’m not a submissive person. I’m not! I’m an outgoing, loud, vulgar woman! I’m dominant, obviously.

And then I found this blog post that described Alpha female submissives…. and it was all about me.


I’m not saying I AM a submissive, fuck I haven’t tried any of this stuff for real and I have always tended to cringe when it comes to templates for relationships… why the whips and chains? Why not a bit of fucking subtlety? Why pvc? WHY PVC?

BUT.. in the article which I can’t find now, it’s bookmarked on my phone, I’ll add it later..

I read about myself, my past relationships, why a strong supposedly great woman can’t find a fucking man who suits her.

Because I’m a strong woman, men think I’ll be a dominant one in the bedroom. When really I just want a really strong man to hold me down, be rough with me, and maybe not exactly punish me or do any cliché stuff like in that recent book I won’t dignify by naming, but definitely make me feel smaller, weaker, less in control.

I’m in control of my own life. Hence why it’s in such disarray… but yes, I make every decision. No one influences me really. I have to make every bloody decision about everything. I don’t want that, but I’m not just about to give up my power for anyone.

It would, I believe, take a very special man to make me cede the remote. But if I meet that man, then cede it I will. Because I don’t want the control. I never did. I’ve been independent in some ways since I was a child, headstrong and unwilling to accept authority…. unless I respected the person. I never had a problem with authority, just with the wrong people having it.

Now, I don’t know where I’m going with this.

I haven’t met this guy, we’ve just talked. And there’s a lot going on. The sexual thing is clearly very strong. But there’s something else here, something that excites me far more. The idea of exploring this, well, we’ve already started exploring some parts. And it wasn’t like he said “I want you to submit to me”. Fuck, most of it was my idea.

He lives in England, but said he’ll come back soon. We’ll meet. We’ll see what it’s actually like. I kind of hope nothing happens because I have college to go to next year and I NEED to make something of my life, and the last thing I need is to fall madly in love with someone in another country. Again. I can clearly not be trusted to make the right choices.

And yes, it’s premature saying that, but you don’t know… it’s been so intense lately. Just talking to someone. I’ve never felt this excited about a stranger, I’ve never felt so keen to please someone while so free from the pathos that has always come with my being overly nice and eager with regular vanilla type boyfriends.

So I’m finally getting to the point….

New years resolution

Give BDSM a chance.

if this is the right thing for me…. well, it wouldn’t surprise me. At all. The submissive alpha thing I read makes a shit ton of sense to me. I felt like smacking myself in the forehead and not just because I’m also slightly masochistic. It was like DUH!

Of course your relationships with “nice guys” don’t work, because they don’t treat you roughly in private.

Of course the dominant guys don’t go for you, because you seem like you’d dominate them in private.

And it made all my relationships look like jigsaw puzzles for toddlers. Four corner pieces. How could I not see this before?

Even if my new internet dominant ends up being an evolutionary dead end in my sex life, he will at least have flung up all these things that must be some use to me in my quest to find a good man who doesn’t bore me to tears. Like maybe I could just stop being so damn overbearing all the time and maybe let men I meet realise I’m not actually an ogre in the sack or kitchen. Just the bathroom.

Anyway. I haven’t written anything in ages… I’m tired (drunk also)

I have another NY resolution, it’s to write a motherfucking book.

I have decided to take the pressure off so I am not planning on writing a good book just A BOOk. I think that’s a good plan. Anyway it’s going to be an erotic novel, because that’s a pretty shitty medium, so again no pressure.

But I’m into the first chapter (sorta) and I’m finding it very hard because I keep having to masturbate because it’s really turning me on. I take that to mean I’m writing a very good erotic novel. I’ll keep you posted.

On both the novel and the masturbation, probably.



last night, weird footnote with my supposed new dominant. He was being pushy, asking for a video, saying he’d send one in return. I wasn’t comfortable so I said look, I just don’t think it’s right you remaining a complete stranger while I totally submit to you. I think it’s more important to establish trust first, than keep mystery. What do you think?

No reply. He’s been online all night and all day and no answer.

At first I felt crushed, like I’ve pissed him off with my disobedience. Why did I have to do that?

and then I realised I’m being pathetic, not submissive, and he’s being pushy, not dominant. I may not be cut out for the world of BDSM but maybe I am, maybe to some extent. And from my little bits of research on the subject, I think this guy is a bit too domineering and not quite enough into making me feel comfortble.

So. Don’t feel shit about letting him down any more, think he might be a bit of a dick really, just like all the men I go crazy over.

But now I’m in this position where I desperately want to push my limits, try something new that scares me a little, be dominated… and I’ve no one to do it with. I have zero intention of showing up to some latex and dyed black hair meeting and finding some new guy purely to be dominated by. I liked how this kind of happened organically, although he was pushy from the start, which I liked. Now I have my other guys left, well, realistically I have guy 1 and 4, but guy 1 is too romantic and guy 4 doesn’t have as high a sex drive as I’d like and is a self proclaimed incorrigible cheater.

If my sexuality is a scab, I shouldn’t have started picking it. But then who can resist picking at something?

Or maybe it’s a door that I should have left closed. But you can reclose doors, can’t you?

Yeah, it’s probably a scab.

Or floodgates! I’m not sure what they are but I’d say they are harder to close than doors.

Stupid metaphors.


I said, that’ll fucking do, pig

I clicked publish and my phone rang. My friendly neighbourhood fuck. He was around the corner in his car, on his way back from doing some dodgy dealings or other… I won’t elaborate because when we’re talking dodgy it’s not really cool to be sharing other people’s information, whether or not my blog is anonymous.

I lashed on a quick extra layer of makeup and trotted down to him. He was sitting there listening to dance music and I got in and he said we were going for a spin.I guess his parents spotted me sneaking out the last time. They lecture him on bringing girls back, probably because he brings back a lot of girls.

He drove to an industrial estate nearby and parked in between warehouses in a secluded spot. On the way I felt him through his tracksuit pants and he said I could go down on him but only once we were inside the industrial estate. I did it for a while as he drove slowly around, my head down low, because I find men who can drive very attractive, and situations that are slightly unusual or dity extremely so. Then he parked and I gave him some of that top shelf head I reserve for those times you know are going to stick in the memory. I normally don’t make such an effort but lately I’ve been really going for it, taking advantage of what I see as a chance to hone my skill and get fit. I told him about my foray into gambling and he said just hearing about it made him feel like hitting the casino.

My imagination immediately ran amok throwing me images of myself in my new furry jacket over my shoulders wearing red lipstick and my hair up smoking cigarettes out of long holders while men in suits growl “what’s your favorite number?” and then give me a 1000 chip as a thank you for making them lucky. I said I’d go with him for the laugh and determined not to spend any money…. I toned down my expectations a little. I arrived in the casino and his fingerprint was read. I showed my id and filled out a form and gave my fingerprint too, and then we went downstairs to a very modest and smelly room full of tables of middle aged asians and eastern europeans with big bellies.

The bar gave us free drinks and Tony and I made for the roulette table. It looked just like the one that tormented me online and I was dying to throw down a twenty and put some foolish bets on the table. But I didn’t. I drank my free wine and watched Tony place 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10 euro down at a time and triple his stake. I was seething, I wanted money. Money was all around me. People were earning money by guessing numbers and I wanted it too. But I wasn’t prepared to put down the 20. And I knew I’d lose it. I knew what would happen was I’d get 20 euro and feel like I had loads of money to bet and then 5 euro on black would lose, then another five would lose, then I’d be down to 10 and I’d throw that on black and I’d lose and I wouldn’t even get to make more bets because that’s all my money.

So I stood and watched the guy whose dick I’d just sucked triple his money and I wondered whether he’d give me a few chips or not, and if I could somehow obtain something for nothing, by giving him my money to bet? I decided the thing to do would be to go there on a weekend night INSTEAD of going out to a club. Sure, the atmosphere is lousy and it smells like body but if I could get free drinks and just bet the sort of amount I’d normally spend on a night out anyway, it wouldn’t be a loss if I lost, it would be a reasonable use of an evening. And I might win something.

To be continued, probably. The table was quieter than in the movies. A few words in Romanian or Polish, a scramble from everyone to place and move their personal coloured chips around the table, covering what looks like way too many numbers to actually win, ever, a few lame efforts at quips from the stout Englishmen and my partner at the table muttering what’s your birthday, throw me some numbers, but refusing to put any money on 9. I kept saying 9. He said you have to change number or the odds are against you. I don’t get how that makes sense but then he was betting all over the table and winning every couple of spins.

The bets down, the dealer waves his hand over and says no more bets and then the number is up on the sign and the dealer’s arms are all over the table sweeping the losing chips across the table down a hole where they clack clack clack and quickly appear back in neatly ordered coloured stacks. And Englishman throws down 50 euro and wants it in two 25 euro chips, not 1s or 5s like everyone else at the table. He shrugs and throws a chip on black, wins, doubles his investment and then leaves the table saying “I facking hate this game anyway.”

My partner mutters after him “then don’t fucking play, you sap.”

When he’d tripled his money we left and drove to meet someone, again to make infuriatingly quick money, and I pretended to be happy for him while I chewed on the bitterness of someone else having something I wanted. On the drive he wanted another blow job and I said excuse me but this isn’t some selfless act, I want sex now not to be giving back to back blow jobs. We parked in a fairly hidden spot and he sat on the passenger seat and I sat on top of him and gripped the dashboard with my hands to help my embarassingly weak legs. Afterwards, and I guess during, I thought maybe this isn’t an equal opportunities arrangement any more. I can feel my grip on power getting feeble very quick and the self deprecating dirty talk I spewed out indiscrimately two nights ago becoming reality. I’m not getting attached… he’s not my type. But I am getting attached nonetheless. Less attached to him as a person as I am attached to the initial position I held a few days ago. When we first slept together I was calling him at 4am drunk and using him as a place to stay, and I was finding some of what he said very annoying. He was always there and I never felt used, I felt like I was using him. I called him at the end of a night when things didn’t work out with whoever I had my eye on…

Now I’m hoping he’ll call and I’m always available. I find myself leaving nights early because I’d rather go fuck this guy than hang around another hour spending money and listening to drunk people. I don’t want this to get serious and I’m sure he wouldn’t be interested in something more serious anyway, and I really… the thought of wanting something else from this guy… no. Absolutely not.

But I’m impressed by him nonetheless. He knows things, he knows secrets, he knows his way around. He knows things that I don’t know, and that’s a huge attraction for me, always has been. I want to soak up the knowledge like a sponge, through my softest tissue.

I find  myself giving him crazy good head because he told me I’m amazing at it and kisses the back of my head when I do it and feels my ass and tells me that’s perfect, that’s great, oh fuck yeah baby…

I get to feel superior to women who are shit at that, and I get to feel confident that I have great skills. I like that.

But I’m being too nice to him, he’s getting too much out of me for too little return. I need to start using him back a little. I can feel myself slipping back into my old man pleasing ways and I am not happy about it. What next, bake him a cake?

Oh god, today in the car I mentioned something about making pies. I was trying to impress him with talk of my pie making. I need to put a stop to this madness before it’s too late. He dropped me home after the brief fuck and I found myself hoping he’d bring me back to his and we could fuck again and maybe I could get something out of it, clamp him between my thighs and then roll over to sleep like I did at the beginning when I had all the power…

But I went home. And I saw my student neighbours’ light on, so I knocked and they were up and I sat in their apartment for a while chatting and listening to their studenty talk. One of them is very sweet but says “like” every second word. It made me extremely conscious of how I use “like” for every fifth word. They had all these plans for painting the walls and putting in shelves and I just sat there thinking aww it must be their first place away from home or dorms. We smoked a joint and I wasn’t sure when was the time to leave so I left when I started wondering that. Friendly guys, probably around 20, but I’ll be glad to have them to knock into sometimes when it gets boring. Also, it’s a lot warmer in their place. I can’t tell if I was maybe a bit drunk to make a good first impression… I was a bit drunk. I told them about the casino but not about the rest of the night.

And I went upstairs to my own place, my nice pretty apartment which is colder than the guys I meet online, and I remembered I’m lonely and I’m only not lonely at weekends and I’m so lonely I’ve grown somewhat attached to this guy who I recently in the throes of passion told he could use me for whatever he wanted etc. I was just saying that for penis enhancement reasons, now I’ve wound up making good on my offer and falling from independent sexually liberated woman to somebody’s sex slave. No no no, this will not do.

Somewhere I was feeling really good about myself and having a mini sexual awakening, exploring the rougher, dirtier hemisphere of me and totally marmalading it. I roleplayed handing over the reins and with that seem to have actually given them over. I’m not sure if the correct course of action here is to cease all shenanigans with this guy (but I wanted to get in shape and also, he’s so HANDY to have around and I do enjoy the activities…) or can I find my way back to that sweet spot I started from, where I was just getting mine and if he happened to get a fuckload of pleasure too then great, but inconsequential. I felt respected and I felt equal, regardless of the demeaning positions I might have found myself in.

Maybe it’s still exactly the same and respectful and equal and but I’ve just discovered that I’m not comfortable roleplaying this close to the bone.

We shall see. But I really wish I knew how to do this stuff better. The only two profiles I seem to adopt with men are clingy and sweet and loving and accomodating OR disparaging and making it very clear I’m not interested in him and pretending to forget their names or something.


Walk of shame: French First Edition

The walkof shame.

Jut got in the door. Metro home…urgh urgh urgh. Auto pilot.

Wat the fuck? Woke up all lazy and sensual stretching out against the warm body.

Mmmmm… My ass against his erection. Feeling myself round and curved and ohhh his warm hard dick…. His hands all over me

Mmmm ….

Wait, what the fuck?

Mmmm… his hands all over me.

Mmmm…. feeling utter laziness, waves of hangover and arousal and nothing to do wth who is in the bed beside me.

Wait, it’s not a bed. It’s a fold out sofa.

He’s….he’s this guy I met on a flatshare website and I met him for drinks last night wth a friend and I was sooooo not into him but still.

Mmm his fingers inside me, and I forgot thst the sex I love is with a guy who I kind of love and with a guy whose body I know and whose tastes I know.

Why am I in this sofa bed with this guy?

I ask him,how did I get here? He mumbles somthing.

I stretch out away from him but that feels less good than being against his body and it’s cold so I return to his warmth and we kiss but it’s a bad kiss, morning-y and bad breath (mine) and he smells so strongly of other man. He doesn’t smell bad just… like another man. Clean, but someone else.

I think about Antoine but it’s no use, Antoine isn’t here, Antoine doesn’t really give a crap about me.

Maybe this guy cares about me. Maybe he’s a cool guy, the best guy. I look at him but I’m not attracted to him.He evidently is attracted to me. That knowledge gives me a little kick of horniness and I’m all lazy-sexy against his body and oh what I wouldn’t do to have Antoine here beside me….

I murmer…. I have a boyfriend.

He kisses my neck.

I know.

You told me last night…

Oh really? I feel a little proud of my at least attempting to have a moral compass.

Yeah, he said, AFTER…


OH! Did we… did we have sex?

Yeah, you don’t remember?

No I’m so sorry, I was really drunk.

You didn’t seem so drunk last night…

Again, slightly proud of myself for at least seeming to hold my shit together while blacking out. But maybe thts just because my personality is so fucked up you can’t tell when I’m drunk or sober. maybe…..

I let him feel me up some more and ask him was it any good? He doesn’t answer which isn’t great but he contnues to touch me and it feels good and after a while and me touching him too, out of politeness more than anything, he slips two fingers inside and then his mouth is on my nipple and I’m not faking anything or being polite, it’s good, it’s good, I want him to make lo…. I want him to fuck me. I want Antoine to fuck me but he isn’t there, this guy is there. I’ll call him Lucas. He’s there, he’s all over me and his dick is hard and solid and there and I think how there’s no way I’m putting that in my mouth and I ask him did we use a condom last night? And he says wow you really don’t remember? And he says it’s ok, yeah of course we did and then I relax again and touch him and it surges, I want to show him how good I am at sex, I’m too lazy to do anything good with my hands and Idon’t know him anyway, I want to show him where I’m great… I feel a little sadness about Antoine bt fuck Antoine he isn’t…givingme everything I want. I know this guy isn’t either….

We have morning sex and he does all the right things, all the things Antoine does with me but it’s not the same, it’s nothing compared to that.

He fucks me and I make the sort of noises I make with Antoine but they echo out of me like polite sounds in conversation to show you’re listening. I’m not listening, I’m not there, I’m looking through the mirror. It looks like what I do with Antoine, it looks the same, I look the same but it’s cold and I don’t care and I guess it feels good but just physically.

Get dressed, find my clothes strewn all over and far apart.

Some girls might wake up in this situation and think, was I spiked?

But not me.

I know I’m verrry capable of getting myself into this position sheerly by refusing to accept that I am not a good drinker.

Last night the bar had a minimum of 8 euro to use a credit card, so I bought myself double whiskeys and knocked them back to impress everyone. I don’t think I impressed anyone.

Walk of shame in the snow… I guess it snowed last night… just a light powdering but enough to make the walk slow, with him, on his way to work and showing me to the metro. It’s 9am, I have pure hangover face and sex hair and I feel like a giant piece of shit walking down the street and talking English, I gave up on French at some point in the night. Maybe he was sexy in French, but not now in bad English.

I remember getting ready to go out, I had his facebook but there were no good pictures, his profile was kind of unclear whether he was hot or not. I got dressed up nice but fairly casual, and I thought maybe this guy is cool and hot and maybe I’ll flirt with him or just make a new friend. I wanted to lash back at Antoine for making me feel so intensely again and then dropping off the map. He hasn’t disappeared- he just doesn’t do love like I do.

We spent a few glorious days together recently, made love all day and all night and it all grew stronger and stronger and when he was in me and his face kissing my neck hungrily and my arms pulling him in, in, in, the closest we could be, it welled up inside me like the tears you want to cry, but can’t, when you finally get home after holding them in all day.

It hurt and it felt like the best thing in the world.

It hurts when I don’t hear from him. He doesn’t write frequently.

It hurts when I hear from him because I want to see him.

It hurts when I see him because I want to touch him.

When I touch him it hurts because I want to be with him together making love and coming together, but I don’t want it to end.

And it hurts when he is inside me because there’s nowhere else to go, that’s the peak… I want him closer, further, rougher, gentler, faster, slower, I want him kissing my mouth and I want his mouth on my breast. I want to eat his cock but I want to kiss him tenderly at the same time and have him make love to me at the same time. I want more, always more. And then it’s over and I’m at peace for like 10 minutes and then the pain starts again.

Maybe this is my body telling me I should be having group sex.

I don’t know.

Anyway we lay together and stroked each others necks, faces, bodies and kissed gently and murmured things and he said I think I love you, and I said I think I love you too… and I didn’t mean it when I said it because I know neither of us loves the other. We’re selfish, we just love the feeling and don’t want it to stop. We don’t give a shit about each other really. He doesn’t care, he doesn’t NEED to speak to me. When we’re apart I miss him and he misses me but he’s defeatist about it. We can’t be together all the time, so let’s just be together when we are and the rest of the time what’s the point in saying I miss you etc… I’m not like that. I want… I need constant reasurance. I want to know that he’s thinking of me too. And he doesn’t tell me.

When we’re together I can’t doubt for a second that it’s amazing and great but every time he leaves I don’t fucking hear a word from him unless it’s practical information about when we will see each other again. It drives me crazy. I want the notebook, I want the vow, I want a Nicholas Sparks movie guy who writes to me even if I don’t write back, who builds me a motherfucking house even when I clearly expressed my disinterest. I want someone putting themselves out there for me again and again and not fucking stopping just because they feel sure of me.


I’m very angry with him for being like this. That’s why I slept with that other guy, it was my typical secret revenge fuck. I always try to put myself out of my current love’s reach when they pull away or betray me or just disillusion me somehow. Like I want to say a silent fuck you, if you don’t treat me really really well then I won’t be loyal, but maybe I could just be a bit harder to get instead of having sex with gross strangers.

Ah he wasn’t really gross, I’m just feeling icky because I don’t want to sleep with anyone else and it was a shit revenge anyway because Antoine doesn’t know and if he did know it wouldn’t do me any favours.


I’m so bad at this.

I’m so fucking hopeless, I’m too passionate and intense to be with someone who is so fucking clueless and selfish with himself. He doesn’t know what love is and I sit here waiting for it like a dog waiting for the mother of the house to come home.

I was coming here for adventure and hope and new things and I’m stuck in some shit that I know is bad for me and I just don’t want to pull myself out of it, because it feels good and I’m afraid if I go out into the world alone and demand to be treated wonderfully, I’ll just be alone all the time.

And my French has kind of hit a plateau, too.

I need to get a job.

And stop drinking so much.

And get over the hangover guilt (This happened on Thursday night, I just wrote the beginning before the self loathing became too great so I finished it today)

I am the queen of jobs. Blow, and the other kind…

For once I actually have good, proud-making, achievement news to impart!

I found a job. Pretty quickly, if I do say so myself. I’d pat myself on the back but really, it’s easy to go out and achieve things when you don’t have very many friends or a tv. And it’s not a very good job. It’s a call centre job. But it’s a job, it will allow me to live here in my hotel room-esque skank pad and buy brand-name chickpeas.

I was really desperate for a job, Ireland is not a good place right now for finding employment. It’s not the sandbox yuppie paradise of my youth. That’s all over… this time I had to pull out all the stops and dust off my lady suit. Unfortunately, when I bought my lady pants suit 6 years ago, I spent a lot of weekends shaking my money maker in dark rooms, quaffing substances whose side effects included a loss of appetite. The lady suit no longer hangs off my body like men on my every word, and it has a bit of a problem in the camel toe department. A frantic rummage through my wardrobe revealed just how lucky I was in my last job- I have NO skirts of an appropriate length for dropping a pencil on the ground. And the interview lady seemed to place quite a high value on dressing professionally… maybe she just meant “neat dress essential” but I wasn’t taking any chances. Also, have I mentioned how great my legs are? I need to cover those puppies if I want to avoid initial she-hatred from my woman superiors.

So, though I was already broke as a back mountain, and had no guarantees I’d even get the job- I hit the shops and blew my last monetary load all over Zara and New Look and all the purveyors of pencil skirts and little jackets. My first outfit was a black skirt whose hem was so barely above the knee, I could have bent down in front of that interviewer and touched my toes without exposing anything more than my chronic unfittness.

I nailed that interview like it was a man who complimented my appearance.

I laid it on so thick with the bullshit, it started to bother my gag reflex.

I got the job, baby! And I was told again, make sure you keep attire professional. Nothing too formal but… keep it classy.

I emptied my bank accounts and made a small dent in my mother’s.

I tried on skirts and jackets and felt like the world’s most professional legitimate businesswoman. I forced myself to NOT buy a white suit with massive gold buttons. I looked fantastic in it, but really… it’s too much. I need a slightly better job first…

Now it’s the weekend, and it’s Jesus week so I have a long four days to recoup and refresh and iron my skirts before work recomences.

Or just to bang a whole load of dudes…

Last weekend one of my greatest friends came to visit. We had a wonderful meal in her family’s house, with 27 bottles of wine between I think 9 people… The craic was, I believe, mighty, and towards the end of the night I found myself wearing a piece of coloured foil wrapping paper on my head and singing spongebob squarepants songs with a lungfull of helium balloon. What I mean to say is, it was quite literally OFF THE HOOK.

The next night I had pre-drinks drinks in my apartment with my friend and her cousin. We hit the mean streets of Dublin town pretty late, like midnight, and met up with an old chumaroo from school. Actually the same one I was out with recently, when I met Ross… The girls wanted to smoke a fat one around the corner so we tottered down a side street and sat on some steps. I’m surprised this has never happened to me before, but as soon as my bum hit the step, I realised what else people use side street doorways for other than smoking joints.

My bottom was marinating in a drunk man’s piss.

I stood up quickly and tried to make it not have happened with my mind. I pretended I had not sat in pee. Eventually, as I failed repeatedly to understand the watery conversation occuring around me… my hand found its way to my ass and touched and I brought it up to my face for a sniff. Hoping for a whiff of beer or vodka, but no… it was as I knew, it was pee. It was stinky, stinky pee. The kind of pee some charlatan like Gillian McKeith would probably tell you implied a very sick and dehydrated individual.

I stood for a few moments trying to force it to not be the reality, that I had sat in my nice navy coat in my nice gold dress with my nice black spandex bridget jones pants (for modesty, that’s a short dress..) in a puddle of piss.

I couldn’t make myself ignore it. I had pee on my bum. I was soaked. Around me my friends laughed and smoked… they were totally irrelevant to my situation. All I knew was the pee, the pee, the junkie pee on my bum. I told them about the pee and when they failed to provide any miraculous solutions or tell me that it didn’t matter, I gave up and went inside to the bathroom. The bathroom was full of cackling knackers with caked on makeup and shiny legs. I took off my coat and washed its lower half with copious hand soap. I smelled it- ok. Pee smell gone. But what about the spandex shorts and my gold dress? There was nothing for it but to hoist myself up onto the counter and SIT my whole bum in the sink. I took the shorts off and washed my ass while girls emerging from toilets stared at me in fear and shock. I mumbled at each emerging lassie, “I’m not… I sat in pee.. it’s not my pee, I sat on a step..” but I don’t think anyone believed me. I wouldn’t have believed me.

I washed my ass until you could have eaten off it if you so wished.

I washed the shorts but they were too wet to put back on.

The dress was made of a metallic fabric that dried instantly under the hand driers. I wringed out my coat as much as possible, and rejoined my friends, feeling like I had a dirty little secret and anyone who came too near would either smell pee on me or feel my wet coat and think I was a filthy bitch.

My friend whose fake-blog name I can’t remember, I’ll call her Georgia… maybe she had another name two weeks ago… whatevs. Anyway Georgia has recently discovered ecstasy. She is in the honeymoon period of pill abuse where the whole city feels like a massive playground populated entirely with people who are cool enough to know about the secret drug culture and must know how amazing it is, and people who just don’t get it.

I know it’s a lot of fun but really I draw the line…. she brought me down to the toilets again where I took advantage of the hand dryers and she ground up a pill and snorted it. I   refused the proferred nose candy because eww, no thanks.. My pill snorting days are over * *well, actually…

We rejoined the others, I with a sinking feeling that most of the people I know in Dublin are serious party creatures. My other friend and her cousin and I decided to ditch this scene anyway,  because it had a sickly feel to it, full of eternal teenagers…. people who haven’t changed physically in 6 years… people who look exactly the same as they did when we were in school… Weird.

Then we hit some very exclusive bar where I couldn’t get the barman’s attention over the middle aged men’s orders of champagne cocktails. Money trumped my soggy ass that night. I was invisible to the bar staff with my wrinkled 20 euro note whimpering for a neat whiskey…. We met up with some guys the girls knew, one of them having been at the meal the night before. He was sat beside me presumably because we were the single ones, and we had some banter and I for some reason fell into my old habit of acting all bitchy and aggressive in a flirtatious manner. I didn’t mean it really, I guess I just had my period so I was being a bit aggro.

He drove me home the next morning, actually.. I mean, the morning that later turned into the night we were out on… I mean, I had gone home before my friends joined me in my apartment. Wanted to tidy up a bit and shower before they came over… so he drove me in and we had a slightly sexual conversation because OH MY GAWD I am incapable of talking about anything else. He called me a nymphomaniac and I said hey, everyone’s got their hobbies…

His eyes flicked over to my knees in the passenger seat. He mentioned jokingly that I should give him a blow job, as the lift wasn’t free… I didn’t have anything witty to say back to that so I just laughed. I wasn’t attracted to him.

But we were out in this bar later that night, and soon the bar was closing and we hit a chipper and he bought me garlic chips and we all piled into a taxi back to my friend’s cousin’s house. I wanted to go back to mine but I just don’t have the bed space for everyone… we stayed up all night drinking…

The girls hit the hay some time in the morning. Myself and this guy drank until daylight and kept going. Around 9am I gave up and lay on the couch and grabbed the duvet that had been supplied for me. There was a bed upstairs for him, apparently, but he chose that moment to make his move. Admittedly he had taken advantage of my drunken condition to ask me lots of questions about my sexual self. I obliged with the number of people I have slept with, the story about my lesbian antics at the festival, my threesome… there was no stopping me. I babbled incessantly. I lay down on the couch probably fully intending to get some sleep, but he leapt on top and we writhed around for a bit, kissing…

I grew bored and got up after a while. I lay in the garden under the midday sun… it was beautiful. The girls got up and laughed at me because it was obvious he hadn’t gone to his own bed. But I was a bit indignant and embarassed… I had my period, I had no plans for sex. It felt stupid to have been “caught” for something so lame as a bit of kissin’.

He found me alone in the garden and lay down beside me but I got up like a shot…

He asked me if he could park his car at my house, he didn’t want to drive home yet… And was that ok? I didn’t say anything because I couldn’t decide if I should or not. As usual I let “going with the flow” decide for me. The path of least resistance, that’s how I roll.

We were picked up soon and dropped to my house. My friend had to fly home later so she left and I was there in my apartment with this guy. By this stage my full blown horniness had kicked in. It’s really irrelevant who the guy is, I just get horny and that’s the end of it.

He pounced again, full of ridiculous energy… I realised I must have been teasing him inadvertently for hours. Look, stop ,I have my period, fuck that… it’s like, really heavy too… I’m sorry if I led you on….

He didn’t care about my period. We had ferocious, filthy sex for 5 hours. It was great. I had a terrible heavy period… I’m really not the kind of girl to have period sex normally but like… I Was so hung over, and I had a horny man in my bed…

He actually went to the effort of making me orgasm, too. That is pretty fucking unusual for me. You see I don’t just have orgasms from sex. I’m not one of those people who can’t… I CAN. I have orgasms all the time. By myself.

I have had them with other people too, but only when I have a sexual partner who is willing to fuck me while I kind of just lie there and pleasure myself. It’s difficul to cum with someone else… for me.

But this is a guy who has probably, albeit surprisingly, had more action than me. You have no idea.. or maybe you have a lot of idea… how rare that is…

I NEVER come across men who have more experience than I do. I rarely come across women who have. I’m not saying I’m like the world’s greatest slut or anything but I do have a lot of sex and I just don’t encounter many of my own kind in the real world.

When I was almost pass-out drunk, he told me he had fucked over 60 women. Now whether or not I believe that.. and I know men are supposed to lie about that shit… but if I have had sex with the amount of people I have… ok I’ll tell you because I don’t know why I’m withholding that information, you know everything else anyway… it’s around 40.

So if I have fucked 40 people (give or take) and I spent 3 years in a mostly monogamous relationship, and another previous year in another, again mostly being faithful… then someone who is ridiculously capable in the sack could easily have fucked 20 more than me. Easily. I have had huge dry spells too. I mean if I have sex now with a different person or people, ha ha, every two weeks… then in 4 more years (the age difference) I will have hit that magic number. A century of cock.

The number thing actually doesn’t bother me at all.

I realised lately, that the only thing making me feel slutty or dirty about sex is when I have bad sex. There are many things in life to regret, and a jolly good rogering is not one of them. I feel bad about myself when I have bad sex or when I show someone a wonderful time with my mouth and they don’t even have the decency to leave a tip or call  me two days later.

I had a great time, last weekend. I may have been no-inhibitions fucked by some guy who I will definitely see again in awkward family friend type environments, and yeah we even talked dirty and yeah it was fun, and yeah it’s kind of a case of shitting where you eat because my friend’s family meals are wonderful and he’s gonna be there at a lot of them…

But fuck it, I had a good time and it worked wonders on those period pains.

So that was last weekend.

One night last weekend, Ross actually drunk dialed me at 3.30 am and when I drunkenly accused him of calling on my booty, he said ” I respect you too much to do that, I just want to talk!” I acted all indignant because I was actually not in Dublin so I couldn’t go meet him anyway… but I told him, look if you really like me, call me when you’re sober. That would show you have respect for me.

But I got tired waiting..

So on Wednesday I texted him hi how are ya what’s up…

and he asked me to meet him for a coffee yesterday.

I met him in a pub after work, and admittedly it was a bit awkward.

We kissed on the cheek but it sort of paused mid kiss and became a weird little face hug.

We had beers. I was fresh from a day of work, wearing a lady suit, and the pub was full of alternative, young types.

I felt old and businesspersonlike…

We had some beers and the conversation was good.

I know it was supposed to be coffee but I don’t think either of us really had that intention.

We wound up walking around town, entering pubs at random, having a couple of drinks and then moving on. We had whiskeys, he drank his with coke and I felt like a badass, Don Draper type, in my suit, drinking mine neat.

The conversation flowed wonderfully. I dropped the n-bomb. I mean, nerd. I dropped the nerd bomb. And we had that in common. We talked about Skyrim and Fallout and science fiction and porn and the internet. We pretended to be nazis, we pretended to be jesus freaks and had these bizzare and inappropriate conversations.

It was nice. Then we left and went back to mine, at last orders… a good 6 hours after we started our pub crawl.

In my apartment he noticed my black satin slut sheets. I pretended like I had just accidentally put them on the bed and they just happened to be the only clean sheets.

He looked through my music folder and I was embarassed and he teased me about my Bryan Ferry. Hey, Bryan Ferry is the bawm. But yeah I really don’t have a great collection of music.

We had sex a number of times. It was pretty fucking good… he has a massive penis. Like, too big for my mouth massive. I know because I tried to fit it in there and started to feel like I was going to get lockjaw. I gave him as good head as I could manage considering, and I got the job done, and he seemed pretty impressed. I do take pride in a blow job well done…

The sex was great. Invigorating… he saw my condom collection and asked about it. Why do you have so many? I didn’t know what to say so I told him “I collect condoms”.

He’s like, no, really, how come you have so many?

I’m like… “uhhh I talk about sex a lot, so people… give me condoms?”

Yeah you’re not fooling anyone. He had a packet with him. He tore off the plastic and I didn’t think about it, that he had clearly invited me for coffee and bought condoms for the occassion. Fuck it, I’m happy… but yeah, it probably means he’s a little bit full of shit about having sooo much respect for me. It was a booty call after all, but at least he bought me a lot of drinks before getting me into bed.

The only complaint I have… and I don’t really care about it too much..

is that he didn’t really pay much attention to ME.

Now, he didn’t do much vaginal research the last time, either… but maybe I didn’t notice that time because I’m kind of used to these great lummoxes who fuck with their dicks and don’t do a whole lot else.

And then last weekend, the guy actually MADE ME ORGASM WITH HIS HAND. That might not seem like a big deal but like… it takes a long time. I can do it myself in less than a minute but I get all nervous with a guy and it’s harder. It took ages, and at one point I was like, look if your hand is cramping up don’t worry about it, and he was like, no it’s fine… and continued… and it was excellent, I’ve so rarely come across a man who is good to go, no need for guidance…

So I did like that… and there was a lot more “ME worship” last weekend, just in general… like he was all not caring about my period, in fact he tried to go down on me and I was like, dude, I’m not saying it isn’t massively arousing that you are willing to do that, but I am not… entirely comfortable… so he just kissed around my thighs and stuff. He told me I had a crackin’ body… Even though I had eaten more than a month’s calories in one sitting the night before and was a tad on the bloated side. He also said I was a fantastic kisser… that’s really nice to hear because I zone out when I’m having a nice kiss, there’s no effort or technique it’s just… kissing… It’s a nice thing to hear…

We talked dirty. I never do that.. I’ve always just cringed and thought ahhh how awful, I hope he doesn’t remember what I said…  but it was actually sexy and I didn’t feel like I was bullshitting… I was just talking about what would turn me on. It felt like it added something to the experience….

Then I compare that day of lusty goings on, with Ross, the dude I briefly was very obsessed with… and it’s like, yes he has a big dick but there’s very little… excitement…

At one point I can’t remember what we were talking about but I merely MENTIONED periods in passing and his reaction was something like “EWW”. Then I talked about my not being able to cum easily. And he was like, so what do you do? And I’m like, well I have a vibrator. He was like what? So I showed him my little gold bullet. He wrinkled up his face. “That’s really small!”

I was like, “man, it doesn’t go INSIDE. It’s for the outside…”  and again he was like “ewww” and so with a sigh I put it away in my bedside toiletries bag with my lube and my condoms and thought, oh well, I’ll just have a really good wank once he leaves.

So there’s that…

But I shouldn’t compare men. This one just has a massive cock, maybe that’s made him lazy. I’m sure I could train him… but then I’m not too keen to go around educating men in how to please me, because it’s a total turn off, giving instruction. For me it is, anyway.

But sure… the sex was fun. It was passionate and it was also quite gentle and close… we have a lot in common, but I guess I’m just more of a wild creature in bed. It’s kinda funny and annoying how hard it is to tick ALL the boxes with another person.

Attractive: check.

Likes geeky stuff: check

Taller than me: check.

Has a job, can buy me drinks sometimes: check.

Is nice: check

Has a good sense of humour: check.

Fantastic penis: check.

Is adventurous in bed: hmm not really, no.

So that’s my two latest conquests. I am pretty satisfied with both as I feel like I got some excercise, taped some new footage for my internal big screen…

Heard some compliments and got to feel sexy.

But like.. I would like to tick all those boxes. Also, I need to like… start working out. I have shit stamina. I really… really have shit stamina. Although I do think if I was a little bit more fit I would be pretty fucking awesome in bed. I really have done a 180 here… It was only some months ago that I was whining about how bad I was in the sack. I guess something like 10 more guys passing through my revolving doors (nicee…) must have had some effect on my mad sexy skillz.. I just need some fucking stamina, because it’s embarassing, I get up on some man and there’s a tightening of the balls and I know this is a GOOD position and I am doing excellent things and also, my kegels are paying off.. but then I only last a few minutes and I have to clamber down and assume the lazy person’s role before my thighs snap off.

So that’s pretty much it for me. This weekend ( I started writing this on Friday day I think…) actually took a turn for the messy as I went to a party on Friday night that was quite literally OFF THE HOOK. I had a lot of fun and as the sun rose on my drunkeness, I gave into temptation and hoovered a load of crystals up my right nostril. I know, I know… but I was finding it difficult to dance with everyone else and the booze was nearly finished. I had a huge amount of fun that night. Or morning. Or whatever…

As I grew more and more demented, I began to unleash my deeepest darkest secrets on everyone. I hope nobody remembers. I had a long and deep conversation about Age of Empires with a muscular dude wearing a giant hoop earring. He told me his name so we could become friends and play a game of AOE, but when I woke up and looked in my phone where I apparently made a note of it, it  just said Valhllalla R6ising so I think maybe that’s a book or film or game someone recommended, and not his name at all…

Fun though.

Big fun…

Went home at 6pm in a condition of ultimate destroyedness, having napped for about an hour on the couch and then rejoined the party and had a can of Guinness. My friend proceeded to tell me I look exactly like a puppet which he thought was really funny but it started to plunge me into a spiral of insecurity. A puppet? Is it my fleshy white nose? Oh no… everyone thinks I am a hideous puppet woman. Everyone HATES me.

Went home in a taxi.

Hit my bed like a sack of potatoes and slept in utter despair for hours… Woke up at 7am and realised I need to pee and drink water so I threw myself towards the bathroom but nearly collapsed on the way. Not surprising as I had eaten nothing but a can of guinness in 36 hours. Started googling “how long go without food before dying”.

Forced some water and an oat cake and two mandarins down my gullet, hugged my laptop to my chest and slept some more.

And then I had to go out and get the sunday paper to do the crossword, that was pretty rough… I MAY be going to have some pints tonight. I’m not saying I want to, but I might… I’m just lonely. It is lonely being alone at home… I don’t know why but I didn’t really feel is so much in Italy.

Probably because I had a decent internet conection. Definitely.

A new low: Leaving Italy with a bang, not a whimper.

At the weekend I did a very uncharacteristic, go getter, short hop over to Italy to pack my stuff. Four years in 10 boxes. And a lot of rubbish and poor decisions being left behind… It’s being shipped over now, at a very competitive rate thank fuck. So with the smallest of investments here, just plates and pots and clothes hangers, I am up and running and settled and back in a motherfucking DOUBLE BED, like the pimp ass mac daddy you know me to be. My new place is sweeter than the Candyman’s jizz, it’s the cat’s pyjamas, the snail’s lingerie. It gives the impression of a hotel room, except it has a pretty decent kitchen for making banana bread and impressing male visitors.

Now I don’t know if I ever mentioned this to you before, but living in a hotel room is one of my life’s ambitions. Not, as one might suppose, because of the maid service, I don’t like people rooting around in my stuff and judging the odor I leave hanging in the room after spending 10+ hours ruminating in my bed. No, it’s just the air of hotelishness I like. The tasteful but impersonal decor. The lack of clutter….

Maybe this is a side effect of growing up in a house of hippie style hoarders, full of dust and corners and little things collected and never thrown away and ornaments and drawers full of dead batteries and used sellotape rolls… and the spiders, oh god the spiders, the spiders that are taken to the garden by my mother and tipped out of a pint glass, presumably as a lesson to them, and don’t come back now you hear? Outside the door. Fucks sake if I was a spider I would be coming right back inside to the warmth and the web I had built, and the knowledge nobody would ever kill me no matter how many times I came back.

Anyway, hotel rooms… my dream. It’s a fairly humble dream, it’s not “own your own island” or “live on a beach with a giant tortoise butler” or anything. Aim low to avoid disappointment. Not that that’s my motto. I don’t even tend to aim… I add goals in retrospect, whenver I happen to land somewhere good.

So in my room right now… my apartment… it is quite hotel-like. I have a big bed again to spread out in and hopefully soon… lure some lucky bastard back here with solid, fleshy promises. (cringe… in retrospect… I think I may have been aiming TOO low…)

It’s comfy but a bit creaky, but I have a couch too so if the bed isn’t much good for sexing I think the couch looks pretty good and solid. It’ll be GREAT. I’m sure of it…

But before we got to this almost-sorted state… where all I await is my internet to be hooked up tomorrow and a job to maintain “the dream”… I’m workin’ on it, I swear…

There’s the small matter of last weekend to impart.


Last weekend. Wednesday…..

In the style of a busy and important person who laughs in the face of flight-a-phobia, I boarded a plane bound for Italy via turbulence and terrified introspection, and alighted amid the chatter of a hundred spikey haired, eyebrow-perfect teenagers.

“Che figata!” is their “cool!” and it means something like “what vagina!”

Hearing them predictably ooh and ahh and make fun of each other, I begin to bristle with anti-Italianism.

I survey my ex-patria aloof. The next five days yawn before me, wide, barren, like my vagina in 10 years if I keep going at this rate. WHY didn’t I just get a two day round trip? Five whole days…. I don’t want to be here. Fucking Italians…

Picturing Fabio’s eager face like an NPC in some badly written game. Realise that’s how I see ALL of the Italians. Like NPCs with limited dialogue. Oh my… I think that’s a pretty sure sign of racism. Maybe that’s how Hitler saw Jews… except, he woudln’t have known what an npc was and I’m not the murdering type, if Hitler had been like me he would have just moved to a country where there were less Jews to bother him, and there would have been no nazi party at all, he would have just lived out his years moaning about the Jews and how much they annoyed him.

Anyway…. getting sidetracked. If I’m racist against Italians at least I’m not a dick about it.

To their faces.


I shudder at the thought of a pit stop with Fabio. Remember: no more of that unsexy sex. Only passionate flings where sheets become entangled around sweaty ankles and there is audible panting and gasping afterwards. His face floats before me locked in an eternal grin of non understanding. Like a dog you are not going to take for a walk today, who sees you putting on your coat.

Sorry, boy… It’s not gonna happen.

Bus and train and bus, and am fined on the train because despite trying to buy a ticket on the platform, the machine wouldn’t work, and I was going to miss my train so I boarded anyway and imediately found the ticket guy and informed him what happened, and of course am fined anyway. Only five euros on top of the ticket but still, it grinds my gears and cements Italy in the shrill and cold perspective I already favoured.

Ticket guy won’t let me sit in first class either. Not sure why I decided to take a stand and select first class. I was grouchy and tired, I guess… I know how things work in Italy, you get fined if you don’t have a ticket, that’s how it always works, I was just feeling belligerent and rebellious.

“IT DOESNT WORK THAT WAY!” He repeats to me, incredulous at my audacity as I wave flimsy excuses and appeals to his humanity… Bear in mind, first class is just a slightly less worn fake leather seat than second class, but second class is pretty full and the inhabitants, my fellow plebs, are cackling and roaring and I don’t want to be there with them. Not with my suitcase and Ireland-weather-layers of coat and hat and scarf, all bundled up in my arms… I would just have to sit with everything on top of me for the whole journey.

“You can’t just do whatever you want!” he says, as I try the blase approach, just act as if OBVIOUSLY I have the right to be in first class… It fails, of course.

“WANT? WANT!?” I tell him.

“I didn’t WANT to not be able to use the ticket machine! I didn’t WANT to get up at 5am to catch a flight that would take me an hour in the wrong direction before I had to get three hours of extra buses and trains because no one flies to the local fucking airport! WANT! WANT! Don’t talk to me about WANT!”

He just looks at me in confusion, and slight disgust at my making a spectacle of myself.

“I’m not drinking free champagne here, or listening to classical music! I just want a SEAT. I paid for one! This class business is ridiculous anyway…. ”

He shakes his head and offers to help me find a seat in second class.

NO! THERES NO NEED! I furiously bustle away with my suitcase and winter layers and sit in the bit between carriages opposite the stinky toilet, for two hours, fuming and wishing the ticket man wasn’t still wandering around, so I could go sit down in one of the many available second class seats like a good girl but keep hold of this scrap of something I think resembled my dignity.

I hadn’t slept much, is my defence. There wasn’t a whole lot of sense to my insisting on sitting in first class, but I seized it and ran with the stupid argument as a kind of final nail in the coffin of my Italian existence.

I didn’t want to be in Italy. I imagined Irish bus and train people would have smilingly helped me on my way and there would never even BE a first class because hello? What the fuck is this, the Titanic? Can I get a seat in steerage?

I picture Dublin, a team of kindly green-clad rail employees carrying my cases for me and waving me on and making me glow with the inner light of an appreciated and non flustered woman.

In my fantasy I am wearing tan coloured world war two style dress and neat gloves and a “slick” of lipstick and carrying a hat box. In reality I am layered in jumpers, I didn’t wear makeup because airport… and getting up at 5am… and my hair is unbrushed… and I’m wearing ugly worn out boots because I am going to throw them away before I leave to save suitcase space.

But just… fuck Italy. There’s no humanity. I don’t even know if Ireland is more human but I suspect it is. Italy’s just so damned burocratic. I don’t know… with my perspective, it’s hard to have a good experience in Italy. I just make it too hard for myself…

I realise I have to see Andrea and go out with her… and I cringe and think of how awful it will be to revisit the scene of so many non events and waste money on drinks here. Fuck it, I have to see Andrea.

Anyway. The train journey does not actually, as I begin to fear it will, last forever. I eventually land back with my family. My apartment is already occupied with a friend of my dad’s who needed a place to stay short term. So the good thing is I already have someone paying most of the mortgage, but the bad news is I don’t have a place to stay! I’m on a tiny mattress in my dad’s house. In the room with my little sisters. They are hugely excited. Bouncing up and down on the beds showing me new books and toys and look how far i can jump and see this new dress? And my oldest little sister whispers about a boy who likes her and makes all kinds of secretive eyebrow movements indicating we will talk properly later… And all I think in the midst of their happiness is, this is great but now how am I going to masturbate?

Five days… It aint gonna be pretty.

I spend two days in my old apartment, the new tenant’s stuff in an annoying heap in the bedroom, and I immerse myself in four years of accumulated crud. Sorting things to keep, things to toss…. Ugh.

Clothes I never wore, clothes I love but had forgotten due to the sheer amount of clothes I own… shoes that need repair, boxes and boxes and boxes…

All the old papers I would throw in folders without any thought of organisation.

Photos of my wedding day. Husband looking like Latino Elvis in a hawaiian shirt. Me grinning stupidly at his side, socially awkward on my wedding day, my hair a disaster, my face pink and my legs pasty. I grit my teeth looking at those pictures but can’t throw them away. I had to look shitty on my wedding day…

Those photos are doomed to float forever in the “misc” files, occasionally dredged up and cast back again with ugly memories and lurking pain.

Receipts for electronics long broken and discarded… Oh, you were still in warranty…. Shame.

Drawings my husband drew. Mostly shit, just sketches or cartoons, but all run through with his style… reminding me of the cuter drawings he gave me, of friendly dolphins or monkeys or a little baby deer with my name and an arrow pointing to it. It had long eyelashes.

I had the baby deer in my wallet but then my wallet was stolen.

I threw the drawings out but it tore at me in the chestal region.

I felt husband’s eyes on me, his eyes when he signed the initial separation request… full of tears and a tiny flickering hope that I strangled with an outward display of unfeeling.

He probably thinks I’m a heartless bitch. You’re fucking welcome husband. I only did that so you wouldn’t have false hope and so you would be able to move on quicker and hate me. YOUR FUCKNG WELCOME.

I come across a note I left for husband one day. I drew a little pig with a curly tail, probably to soften the nagging that was to come in the note. I mean that’s what I would have thought it was, nagging, because I was so wrapped up in feeling like I was in the wrong all the time.

The note, however, was as follows:

“Good morning my love! Please please please if you get a chance please fill up that hole in the bathroom where the bidet used to be… this morning I was having a shower and a cockroach came into the shower and was looking at me. It was only a little one but still you know I can’t stand bugs and especially cockroaches so please if you get a chance fill that hole in because I think that’s where it came from. Lots of love and call me later at work… I miss youuuuu… xxxxxxx”

Ok so aside from that I am a ridiculously pathetic sap when I am in love… grrr no more of that now… not for a while… pleeeeaaase brain don’t do it to me again I can’t stand myself all feeble and needy…

ASIDE from that…

I went into the bathroom and guess what? A fucking hole. He never fixed the hole. I drew him a pig and asked really nicely and I just remembered his casual reply a few days later, “the cockroach didn’t come from the hole. It came in because you didn’t clean the kitchen”.


I root through the bin where I had gingerly placed his old drawings, and I rip them up with religious zeal. MFO ANGRY! MFO SMASH!!!! MWAAHHAHAHAHA I NEVER LOVED YOU, BASTARD!!!!

And then I get pangs again, of those big eyes all sad because I hurt him and cast him out..

Oh well.

I briefly consider keeping the note as evidence of my righteousness for future hate sessions but decide to let go and file it in “rubbish”

Almost done sorting through four years of shared memories when I come across the wedding cards.

Congrats on your wedding day! I shouldn’t read inside but I have a fixation with cards, I ALWAYS open old cards and check for money. Of course there isn’t money inside but what if there is? So I wind up reading a cornucopia of sweet but lately fermented and cloying wedding wishes. Long life and happiness! To many years together! On this wonderful journey in life!… Puhlease.

Fuck off.

A fleeting feeling of accusation to my family. No one thought to risk pissing me off, no one bothered telling it to me straight. My aunt was married and divorced young… she must have known…

Then I remember I am the most headstrong and stubborn person I know and there is NOTHING anyone could have said to talk me out of it. But the cards piss me off anyway…. It’s TOO much sincerity and hope, it’s ugly now….

My mother is the worst culprit. She’s lovely in that she makes cards and collages and writes very sweet things but now, in retrospect, coming across a birthday card with a photo of me and husband where i don’t even look pretty and all sorts of red cut out hearts on it is just sticking in my craw. I don’t want to throw it out because my mother made it for me with love but I don’t want to keep it either because as I said, I don’t even look pretty in the pictures.

I lay them in the misc folder and renew the vow to myself, to stay fucking single and please next time I fall in love let it be with a rational skeptical person who can’t abide sentimentality either and therefore doesn’t tug it out of me….

And I’m done. Two days later, lots of crying and anger and folding clothes and making tough decisions. “BELT, I NEVER WORE YOU BEFORE WHY WOULD I WEAR YOU NOW?”

I finally lay to rest the hideous boxy houndstooth jacket I have been keeping because it is so totally brilliant for an 80s fancy dress party but seriously… I have to stop hoarding things just because they would be good for future theoretical fancy dress parties I will never go to.

And six bin liners later, and many promises to be good with my money, and I’m done.

And, just because the days are still stretching ahead, far too empty… what else will I do? I text Fabio and see if he’s free this afternoon some time.. or later… before i go out with Andrea…

He’s free ANY time I could possibly want. Of course he is.

I hit the city centre… my old commute… buy a quick uneccessary top in H&M, visit a colleague in another shop… my heart begins to race with the impending visit to hot barman’s bar. I wonder will he be there? I wonder will he ask me something…

I pass some time chatting with an old colleague who is my dad’s friend, she’s partly moved into my new apartment so I explain the various quirks of my house. “Don’t use the washing machine and the kettle at once. The key to the post box feels like it’s going to break but it’s just like that, keep pushing harder. If you need anything, the old man upstairs is a cunt but pretty obliging if there’s a problem with the plumbing or whatever…”

Badum badum badum… hot barman.

I saunter down the road, smoothing my hair over… wishing I looked better, always gotta look better… I am pretty well rested and put on careful and low-key makeup so I look ok actually. I realise pathetically that I chose this outfit this morning based solely on the fact that I would be having a quick coffee in hot barman’s bar.

I visit the bar. He’s not there..

Ohhhh… the disappointment. I start to shake myself out of it, tell myself, look, this is stupid, it’s a fucking barman who is nice to you, just chill out, be cool, have a coffee and snap out of this weird little obsession…. But then I realise that if I bring my other colleague, Gabrielle, a coffee too, then I can drop the cups back after, and have a whole other chance to see his hotness. This plan is far superior to actually facing reality and getting over my fixation so I seize it with gusto. Hooray!

I order the coffees, bring them past sexy homeless guy whose eyes I avoid as always, blushing furiously, staring straight at my two very stable coffees like I am afraid they will spill… Into my shop…

Gabrielle delighted to see me. We shoot the shit for a while, I accidentally say something like “I absolutely don’t want to work in a shop again and I reckon I can get better money than just shop work in a call centre anyway… uhh I mean, eh… in Ireland that is… it’s different in Ireland…” But it seems ok, or whatever… Gabrielle doesn’t look offended by my put down of her lifelong profession.. outwardly anyway.

I begin to wander mentally back to the bar… mmm…. hope he’s there now… ok Gabrielle, lovely to see you… must dash.

“I’ll leave those back..That was so sweet of you bringing the coffee… thanks…”

Yes… sweeetttt of me…


I carry the cups back and there he is, there he is in his place of work… the epitome of all the men I have ever been attracted to… My ultimate eye candy. Mmmm….

He’s wearing glasses, he looks hotter than ever… Oh my fuck… hot barman… you beautiful creature. He’s so perfectly gorgeous. His hair is fluffy and soft looking. It’s like a child’s hair, he probably doesn’t brush it or put anything in it. I wonder what it smells like. His face… he looks like he’s never woken up with a hangover in his life. I bet if he woke with a hangover he would go for a hike anyway, or eat a sandwich and drink some orange juice. Inside I’m drooling….

He’s so hot..

He sees me coming in all smiles and awkwardness, and leaps forward to take my tray with the cups.

He corners me… in a hazy moment I never want to end, except perhaps for it to escalate.. which it doesn’t… he talks to me about Ireland, how am I doing? Am I back? Sorry to hear that… we miss you here! Your dad told us you moved away… We were sad… Are you around tomorrow? Are you coming back in to the centre before you leave?

I hadn’t planned to but I grin and say maybe, I might… I mentally shift everything around, all my plans are now hot barman-centric. I WILL BE HERE TOMORROW FOR WHATEVER YOU WANT OF ME. I wonder if I come a few minutes before closing time will he ask me out for drinks?

Of course not. But still…. I wish I was staying longer… I wish I had come in sooner, fuck packing my boxes, I should have come here first…

He tells me “if you are around tomorrow we can say goodbye…”


There’s nothing else to say really so I smile and smile and nod and back out of the shop clumsily and smiling and smiling and as I leave and hit the street again, the street I walked down every day… the sadness hits me, wallop, full in the face.

I haven’t been sad about leaving, not until this point. That’s awful.

I’m leaving my sisters, my dad, my stepmom… my home… a pretty cushy job with like no accountability….

I guess I just ignore those bigger emotions because they make me TOO sad to face.

But the first real pang of awfulness, what I’m leaving behind… it hits me now. Hot barman. I will not be seeing hot barman.

A year… a year of obsessing over his lovely face. Every. Fucking. Day…

A year of getting up in the morning and making an effort, solely based on the possibility that I might see him, and he might see me, and the desire for him to not realise what I really look like, without makeup, in normal clothes….

I mope along… filled with regret and sorrow. Imagining if only I had threatened to leave long ago, hot barman would have implored me don’t leave! Stay with me and make beautiful consensual babies, and if anyone says you aren’t pretty enough to be with me and my gorgeous face… well fuck them. I don’t care! I won’t pull an Ashton Kutcher on you in twenty years when I realise how much better I can do…

Oh and I just realised, hot barman wears glasses. SO maybe he either A) doesn’t know how hot he is or B) can’t see how awful my nose looks?

But there’s no hope now.


Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.

It’s gone now, It’s just… old habits baby.

Then I remember, I arranged to meet Fabio later at some time that suits ME.

Really don’t want to see him any more. Decide I will probably make an excuse, fuck it.

I don’t want to straddle his eager, horny body, held in Italian place by a purple sweatervest… and make mechanical motions that feel just… nice… No… I want to run my fingers along skin that excites me, I want to be unsure of how far I can go… I want the tickling fear that maybe I’m misreading… I want hot barman’s eyes to widen as he guesses where I’m going next… I want to excite someone new… I want to taste hot barman’s mouth… all soft and warm and sweet…

But stop, because I really, in truth, don’t want to teach. I want to absorb… I wanna be the sexual padwan… Not bloody likely, but I imagine someone with a French-style arrogance and tremendous comfort in his naked body. Striding around like he owns the place… showing me his trophies… for bowling? No, for lovemaking… Oooh!

Sorry, the Simpsons has poisoned the groundwater… Apparently that guy Marge nearly has an affair with, is my posterboy for “more experienced man”.

Hmph. Well, anyway…

Hot barman is an anomaly. It would be exciting to feel the soft, unworn, the smooth face… the hands that juggle cups and I asked him one time, I plucked up courage and said “don’t you ever break them?” and he melted me with that smile and said “yeah, all the time…” and I thought OH FUCKKKK hot barman you are TOO GOOD LOOKING IT ISN’T FAIR. I will never be looked at by anyone remotely attractive, in the way that I look at hot barman. Anyone who will ever feel that way about me, I probably wouldn’t like. Such is life.


Still… hopeless case or no,

I don’t want Fabio and his easy agreeability.

Hot barman has ruined other men for me…. at least for tonight.

I go home with a heavy heart, have a lovely dinner with my family..

and then pile on the makeup. My littlest sister watches me in awe and approval. She loves makeup and is still young enough that no one disapproves of her smearing glittery purple around her eye area. I feel under scrutiny so I don’t go too crazy with the dark eyes or anything but I think I look pretty fucking good.

On a whim… because I look sexy and hot barman is out of sight and I want,nay, need someone to approve of me…. I text Fabio. Be there in twenty.

Along the way I yo-yo from certainty that I do and certainty that I don’t want to fuck Fabio.

I’m 50-50. I put on red lipstick, Chanel, and feel a little nudge in Fabio’s favour. I MUST seduce somebody now that I’ve bothered doing red lips. It’s tricky to get right….

Then I find myself at Fabio’s door and I’m climbing those bastard five flights of stairs and there he is at the door to the apartment, peering down as I climb undignified and breathless, my makeup resisting poorly to the physical exertion…

I find I’m happy to see him. He hugs me and kisses me vaguely on the side of the mouth. He’s warm and familiar and his presence is soothing. He smells good. It’s not making the sadness worse, it’s a comfort actually. I’m glad I came. He’s a nice guy…

I sit down and he offers me wine, beer, water, coffee…

I take some water. I don’t want to drink too much this evening, I’m just going to see Andrea.. tomorrow I want to be in good condition to play with my sisters and be a decent person around them before disappearing off again.

We talk..I find my tone veering towards lamentations, and sadness.

He’s comforting me.

“No! I’m not explaining myself properly.. I’m HAPPY. I can’t WAIT to move to Ireland… I’m just… you know, I didn’t think how sad I’d be to leave….. eh,my family…”

He reassures me I’ll see them soon again..

I become so bored of this conversation because obviously I’m not thinking of family right now but hot barman and his fluffy head of hair and 3 or 4 years younger than me, innocent looks. And those glasses and how they suited him…. and his smile…

So I begin to stroke Fabio’s leg because I’m bored of my own whining, and I feel in the vicinity, and he’s rock hard, and that endears him to me. Ah Fabio… you know, he’s actually a very good looking guy. I was whining about him and my friend asked to see a photo, so I showed her his facebook. “Abby, he’s HOT!” she said. I pooh-poohed it. No, that’s just a flattering picture. Look at this one…

“He’s hot! You’re being ridiculous! He sounds nice.. I don’t know why you’re so hard on him..”

Mmmh… whatever. He’s just annoying.

It’s only beecause he’s nice to me, probably. I’m a sucker for feeling insecure and unwanted. Rejection baby! I’m all about the rejection…

But I like that he’s so hard now. It’s like.. he’s sitting here with a massive erection and yet he’s got an arm around me and he’s trying to be nice and listen and he hasn’t made a single move… he’s being respectful… he’s a nice guy, and I’m feeling a bit low… so it works for me. It’s not like I’m not horny… I’m ALWAYS ready to go…

I pounce.

It’s surprisingly enjoyable. He’s a good fuck, really. It doesn’t last very long, but I don’t have very long before I have to meet Andrea. He murmers in my ear “did you miss this?”

And I don’t know does he mean his dick, or sex, or what, I say yeah of course but inside I giggle, and think…

Oh FABIO, we haven’t had sex in 2 months… I’ve fucked like 3 other guys in that time.

And that’s a sobering thought. At this rate, I will… no it doesn’t bear thinking about.

I get dressed and we hug and kiss goodbye. See you next time…

Well, that’s a nice arrangement to have. A man in every port…

I meet Andrea and I’m all beaming with after-sex and slutty pride. She’s with a friend I don’t know, and we hit a nice bar and have some beers. I repeat, it’s an early night for me, got to be bright eyed and bushy tailed tomorrow. Plus I’ve already got laid, no motivation for me to stay out and get wasted…

But two beers later and I accept a jagerbomb. And another. Then Andrea is tired and wants to call it a night. We say our goodbyes. I would have liked to stay a little longer but I’m glad, I’ll be in bed tucked up by 3am… tomorrow is another day, and one I will be able to use and take advantage of and… carpe fucking diem!

Goodbye! Andrea has moved house so we are no longer on a taxi route together. Her friend lives in a third, other direction. We hug. Goodbye! Goodbye! Come visit me in Ireland! BOTH OF YOU! YAAAYYY!

I’m a little drunk, but not too much. I’m walking up to the taxi rank. I’m about two blocks away when I hear my name. ABBY! ABBY!

Odd. I turn to find Bumchum and a friend of his I know vaguely.

Shit. I never told him I was leaving the country. What a jerk… I’ve actually been avoiding him online, I have him blocked on facebook so he can’t see if I’m online to chat to me. Otherwise he would always chat and invite me out. I realise it looks bad, I left the country without telling anyone….

He invites me for a beer..

I feel like if I say no, it’s just admitting I don’t like him because I have made excuses every time he asked me to come out for the past four months…. And if we are no longer friends, what’s to stop him from telling everyone about the night he gave me a drunken prostate exam?

I agree to ONE BEER!

One fucking beer…

We hit some underground bar I’ve never seen before with loud music and dancing.

While his friend is talking to someone else, he tells me, “look, I know I haven’t see you much since that other night… all I wanted to say is it’s no big deal, don’t be weirded out by it, I don’t think it was a big deal, obviously for me it was great because you’re really hot, but I’m not going to try anything else…”

I blush and thank him for calling me hot.

“NO it’s not a compliment, you just are. You’re very sexy. I’m not coming onto you, I’m not trying… you know? Just wanted to say that because it’s a pity, I would have liked you to come out more, you’re good fun, like…”

I tell him, to be perfectly honest (I always say this when I am about to lie particularly emphatically) the only reason I didn’t hang out with him after that was that I was trying to avoid husband and I was afraid of bumping into him as we have a lot of friends in common and being with the same friends just reminded me of that part of my life…

Makes sense, makes sense… I understand. Ok great…

Fun party party!

I forget all about my vow to go home early. I hit the bar and decide the barman here is insanely hot. I begin swaying at him, fixing him with my drunken gaze, convinced of my atractivity because of bumchum’s compliments. Grrrrr barman… I must have a hot barman tonight! I am staring at barman, smiling. I catch his eye a few times and he smiles back warmly.

But then I think I overdo it.

I think I may just be STARING at him with an insane leering grin. He stops smiling back and moves to a different part of the bar. A female bartender moves into place in front of me. Oh. Oh well. Shit.

Well fuck it.

I am in prowl mode. I have some more jagerbombs.

I am dancing now.

I am having a great time.

I rock this party.


It’s daylight. I’m in a car, in the backseat with a guy. There is a guy in front driving. They are telling me they are dropping me at the bus stop. What? There are no busses. Taxi. Needs a taxi me.

No, it’s daytime. It’s 7.30am.

No it can’t be, it’s NIGHT TIME.

The car stops. Why aren’t you bringing me home? Where are we?

The guy in the back shakes his head. I’m not getting out, he says.

The driver gets out and helps me lurch out of the car.

He tells me what bus to get, and waits with me in an awkward silence while I try to figure out, was I kissing one of these guys? Was it not the guy in the backseat? I think I kissed him… oh wow I must have been drunk, I can’t remember which guy I kissed. I wonder.. it’s odd I can’t tell from the smell. I mean, I smell like another person, but I can’t tell which person it is.

I have foreign saliva mixing with my morning breath, but whose saliva? I wonder have I misjudged and is it the driver I was kissing, maybe I made a big faus pas here… they seem to look really alike but then I’m awfully drunk still.

I am too hung over to think about it now, I have to get a bus…. I’m sure I’ll remember later.

He explains about the bus and I KNOW of course I know how to get the bus. He offers bus fare. Ugh no, I have a ticket. It feels incredibly patronising, being offered bus fare… I’m not sure why… there’s a hint of the sordid but I can’t put my finger on it…

Bye now…

But he waits til the bus comes, pretty much imediately. I board the bus full of morning daytime people and feel pasty and drawn and ashamed and smelly.

I make it in the door of my dad’s house with a good deal of key fumbling.

I lie down on the mattress which thankfully has been moved to the downstairs study for the occasion of my going out at the weekend, so I don’t have to wake anyone up.

I sleep.

And wake at midday. Hung.. over… to… shit.

I feel so bad and worse because it’s my last day and I need to be nice and hang out with my neglected sisters. I’m sorry… I have coffee. My sisters make me coffee and bring me fizzy water and biscuits and I croak out my thanks and apologies. I smell awful.

I am hung over for hours…

Eventually I muster the mental fortitude to have a shower, which helps considerably.

I spend some time forcing every malignant fibre of my being to be a good sister, I play cards while my brain screams NOOOOOO STOP THIS INSANITY MUST BE ALONE IN A DARK ROOM. I plough through the day pretending to be ok, but doing a terrible job of it.

And I draw pictures with my sister and listen to her little gurgling voice grate in my head and nod and say silly things and all the while there is a battle raging, a rebellion doomed to die… a fight for last night’s memories.

My sisters are finally leaving, going to a birthday party and a friend’s house.

I am alone in the house. I hit the internet and facebook while the silence wails at me like tinitis for beginners

I can’t go to say goodbye to hot barman. I’m feeling too rough to leave the house today, also I look like a hobo’s arsehole.

Bumchum is online. I wonder… I wonder if I just ASK bumchum, he’ll tell me what happened. I wonder did I kiss bumchum? Is that why I smell different?

Maybe he knows those guys.. Maybe he’ll say, “oh you went off with the taller one of the guys” or “oh you went back to a party with my friends and you kissed the slightly shorter one”

I am sure he will just tell me I was good and nothing bad happened, and I am just being drunk and hungover and maybe I was a bit pissed but it’s all ok. This is what happens normally, I work it up to a big deal when really I was just a bit drunk and lairy. I remember staring at the barman… that’s pretty embarassing.

So I ask bumchum.

Hey, what happened last night, did we go back to a party or something?

And he tells me two of his friends were bringing me back to my place, I got a lift.

Yeah but what did we do before that?

He says we were at a club, don’t you remember?

Yeah but that ended at 4 or 5… what happened next?

You got a lift home…

YEAH at 7.30 am…

I’m confused. I think I remember being at a party or soemthig. I don’t remember who was there, but I think those guys were, yeah.

He offers to ask them.

No… too embarassing! My friend wants to know… argh no don’t ask that!

But actually… could you maybe just ask, “what happened last night with my friend” or something. So they don’t know it’s me asking, like.

Sure, he says. One of them is online now…

And I wait.

I wait patiently, a little nervous, for the reassurance that everything was ok and nothing was as bad as it seemed and it was just a hangover making me paranoid.

But the reply was not reassuring.

The reply was not going to make it better.

The reply said that I didn’t know which guy I had kissed because I had kissed both of them, and that I hadn’t just kissed both of them but I had slept with both of them… together… that’s right, I had a freaking threesome and I have no idea whose idea it was but as I read the paragraph over and over on facebook, little flashes of confirmation appeared in my memory. Pictures, images, proof… nothing concrete, but memories… the memories of a very drunk person. Me naked, me saying “sure why not? I’m up for anything…”

Sitting in the back of the car, with the two guys up front and feeling the backs of both of their necks… maybe I started it. Maybe it was all my idea, and I started it…

But I had a threesome.

I had a threesome with two guys, and I can’t remember it properly, and I can’t tell if I liked it, and I can’t even FEEL it because I had already had quite a fierce fuck with Fabio so I was bound to be a bit tender, and as to.. other aspects of a threesome… well, I can neither confirm nor deny that something… happened there. I don’t fucking KNOW.

And I had that knowledge to contend with, me, hung over, red eyed, swollen faced, and I sat with a brain like a rotten sponge, wishing for sleep but too traumatised to even lie down.

And I typed one reply to bumchum, one… one last gamble, one last attempt to make things ok, as my mind raced to try to come to terms with something I could barely comprehend… that I had sex and don’t remember it. That is, seriously, a low I have never hit before…….

So I ask, and I don’t really want to know…

Was I at least… any good? Did they say?

Bumchum didn’t judge me. Bumchum has been friend-zoned and bumchum seems ok with it. Anyway, he got a blow job from a chick on the bus home while her friend kissed his neck. It puts us on a par, except I’m a girl… and I can do better…

But Ahhh, the night bus.

Funny how Italy just got crazy and gang-bang-happy as I’m leaving.

But he said, yes, I was good… They said I gave quite a performance… I was a star…

And the sad thing is, after all that…

The pride in a job well done, almost entirely eclipses the shame of a job I have no recollection of doing..

But… I AM ashamed. I am ashamed not because I had a threesome, but because I had one without remembering it. I can’t TELL if I was the instigator. If I was… then fair enough. I could laugh and think, well, there you go, I’m a sex-crazed son of a gun, it was bound to happen sooner or later. In fairness I am obsessed with sex and have never come across a man who could keep up with me. Briefly, husband gave me a run for my money… but it was of course short-term.

Two guys is not a bad idea, in that sense…

But I don’t know if that was my idea. I don’t know if I was so drunk I didn’t even know what was going on, I don’t know if, say, I only thought I had been with one but was so pissed I couldn’t tell the next one was a different dude.

THAT is what bothers me, That is what scares me.

I could have been raped, and I have no idea… Well, I mean… I remember lying on a bed and being quite into it, whatever was going on, but still… I was too drunk. I shouldn’t have been that drunk. I might even have been spiked, but that seems like an excuse… I could easily have been that drunk…

But it’s dangerous and it’s bad. Obviously no harm done, because I don’t have any horrendous memories and I am missing two condoms from my handbag selection so I guess it’s ok…

But I really, honestly, don’t want to get like that again.

I’m a little bit stunned after that night…

In a sense, I feel like I’ve hit rock bottom. With my drinking. Not exactly with my sex… behaviour… because I will always be doing more slutty things than is generally accepted, because I’m always fucking horny. I spend so much time thinking about sex, watching men and thinking about fucking them.

On the flight over, I mentally undressed and straddled the pilot, a male air steward, three passengers, a guy in a luminous jacket who waved the plane in (the plane we were going to board, before it had pulled into the terminal) and the guy who checked my passport and the barman selling expensive coffee in the duty free area. That’s not even mentioning the man who sat accross from me on the aircoach on the way to the airport… and then even the asshole ticket inspector on the train, I was wishing I had worn makeup and brushed my hair because he was kind of hot in an arrogant asshole kind of way. I imagined growling at him “are you sure I can’t change your mind about letting me sit in first class?” while prying my legs open a little…. and him pulling out his dick and saying “I’m going to have to write you out a fine… with my cock” or something…

Hmm… it’s a work in progress…. rage got in the way of a proper script… but this is  how my mind deals with all the men I come across in every day life. It’s constantly running 1970s porn dialogues while outwardly I smile as coyly as my slutty demeanour can manage.

I am always horny, I’m always watching men, they arouse me easily, with tiny non-erotic actions…

I watch them doing their jobs, menial or unchallenging they may be, but they suggest the tip of an iceberg of a world totally alien to me. Airline employees… with security clearance… able to open doors with a swipe card, doors I will never see behind. Secret codes and signals, unknown worlds on walkie talkies… engineers… oh my god engineers… reading data from the airplane…. anything… any thing a man does, his casual behaviour, when he doesn’t know he’s being watched… the stance, full of manly muscular power, a body capable of slamming me up against walls and pulling my head back just a little roughly… at ease while he works, but it’s all just under his clothes, his uniform, waiting to be called to action.

I fucking LOVE men.

I love them.

Mmmm men.

But the drinking… the drinking seems to be a problem.

I’m not so quick to say I’m an alcoholic as I have been to say I’m a sexaholic. I honestly don’t think about drink as much as sex, or with as much gusto… the thought of a drink right now, for instance, doesn’t excite me or interest me. It’s the fun of drinking with people. It’s the overcoming my terrible awkwardness… it’s finding a reason to get people to hang out together for extended periods, all dressed up…

I’d honestly be happy hanging out with people with no drink, so of course I’m not an “addict”.

But I definitely, certainly, have a drink problem. Be it addiction or just, I can’t handle my drink.

I have a problem.

And I want to deal with that.

And I’ve just… moved… back… to Ireland.


Good luck with that…

And Saturday is ST PATRICKS DAY.


Oh baby..

I’ll let you know how I get on.

(Of course this is about a week old now, but I will leave it a bit before thrusting my latest misadventure down your gullets… otherwise my whole “ahh never drink again so much shame” thing just seems melodramatic and like I never meant it at all… I did mean it, I’m just… a terrible, incorrigible woman.)

The lastest misadventures of your favorite international skank


Hangover day.


I have a sore bum, I fell on it last night after somehow overestimating the length of the bench I was sitting on. It was a full backwords fall, legs splayed in the air like a forgotten Barbie… probably highly embarassing but I was having a good time and laughed it off. Some Spanish dudes seemed to be talking about my fall in Spanish and I thought of interrupting them with AHA I KNOW WHAT YOU ARE SAYING SHUT THE FUCK UP ABOUT ME but a mysterious inner reserve of dignity pushed me back in to the dance floor with my friends where I (felt like I) danced the shame away. Thank fuck, that was not the sort of place to be confrontational…

Oh Jagerbombs… you silly foolish girl. Had most of a bottle of whiskey before leaving the house so I was already pretty fucking destroyed as we walked there… Long walk but not long enough to sober me up, oh no. We hit some grimy club, as we entered the bouncers were pouring bottled water on some guy’s head who had just been “glassed” which apparently is London terminology for what we Irish call “getting bottled”. Music was slow and drawn out… dubstep I was told. I am so ignorant of music, there’s not a lot I really don’t like. We danced, later my friend reported us having “danced ironically.” I didn’t know we were doing that, I thought we were just having a good old dance but I said “oh yeah, that was my ironic dancing”. I brought out my classic moves like the Matrix style bullet dodge, and the slow motion robot with one arm obscured by my bulky coat.

A guy with a big proper camera came up to me and took photos at one point. Probably because I looked fucking awesome or maybe just really, really pissed.  As always with a camera in my face, I fucked it up by being overcome with flusterment and awkwardness.

At the bar some dude with an eery big grin, asked me if my friend and I were sisters. I said no. He said, “because you both have the same mascara and same lipstick and same foundation” which I thought was a weird observation but I said “yeah well we put our makeup on together…” He leered at me and asked if we did each others makeup. No. No we didn’t. What? What a strange thing to say. I mean we have the same foundation because we are both a similar shade of pale. It’s not like we could wear different coloured foundations to each other. The red lipstick was maybe a bit in your face but then fuck that I saw Holly Willoughby and Ferne Cotton wearing red lipstick with their blonde hair and practically the same black dress on tv together the other day.

I moved along the bar. The barman charged me less and gave me more alcohol in my jagerbombs. The bartender woman charged me more and didn’t even fill the shot of jagermeister. I argued with her about the price. She told me that is the price. OH I said, I guess I was getting a discount earlier. She gave me the patronising smile of the sober to the drunk. Yeah. Oh well.

I danced in front of the dj for a while, totally convinced I was impressing everyone with my killer and sexy moves.

It was pretty fun.

We left and walked back to the main street. The menfolk wanted McDonalds. I kind of wanted McDonalds too but took a stand against its shitty food on principle. So I hit a newsagents instead and bought cheesy crisps and chocolate. In the shop I swayed and held up the queue and peered at my various denominations of coinage. One… wait no that’s a euro.

The Indian guy serving me grinned and told me “you are a little bit drunk, yes?”

I roared back “NO I AM NOT IT IS YOUR CRAZY MONEY COINS. What funny shapes… sorry here, here.. oh not that. Yeah there that’s it. Also, yes, yes I am drunk.”

I munched on crisps outside McDonalds with my friend. We smoked. Two guys were walking past… I don’t know exactly how it happened but maybe one of them said something about going home for a wank in a loud voice, and I interrupted with a “charming” or something and then backtracked with “actually I think wanking is awesome”.

Something like that.

They stopped, anyway, engaged us in shitty conversation. I shared my crisps. We lost a lot of crisps on the ground.

One of the guys told me I had a sexy accent… I had seriously, honestly no intention of hooking up with anyone. Really. I just wanted to go out and have a good time with my friends but I was so drunk at this point… he looked very English, he said I had a sexy accent… he told me mine was softer than my friend’s. I beamed but of course argued with him that my accent is not sexy and how do English people still like our accents when there are so many Irish women in London?

He told me, when I spoke to my friend, I talked a mile a minute and dropped into a much more Oirish accent. I began explaining some seat-of-my-pants theory on this possible fact, like how from being multilingual I am used to adjusting my accent to other people all the time… or something along those lines.

We invited them home with us. The other guy was interested in my friend but she has a boyfriend and anyway I presume he was ugly because I don’t remember his face. He was still keen to come back until he spotted her boyfriend emerge all big and laden with drunken McDonalds meals. The friend disappeared into a taxi. I was bringing my guy back with us. He kept trying to kiss me. I said no, I don’t like kissing in public.

We walked back to my friends house. Along the way I had pointless conversation with this guy who kept trying to lunge for a kiss. I was determined NO KISSING until we get to the house. I felt that was very important.

Somehow had the feeling that we were going back to a party, but of course when we arrived everyone was just going to bed and I was left alone with my English guy and a friend.

Soo… The kissing. Still no kissing?

I told him, have you ever seen people kissing in front of you and not found it gross?


Yeah exactly.


I expand on my little thought and claim “the only good kissing is the kissing you are doing right then and there.”

It felt like a very profound kind of aphorism.

My friend politely engaged him in conversation while I made some drinks…. he launched into a massive, complete history of his employment and his current job as some kind of manager and how amazing he is and how good a manager and all about the company.

It began to dawn on me as I sipped my whiskey and coke and he grimaced and rejected his….. this guy… is a fucking knob.

Most of my outside McDonalds end of the night attraction had drained away…

The original cocky cockney had morphed into the far less appealing boastful Brit. I was just sitting there with some guy who I basically had to sleep with. There was no real alternative, certainly nothing that could occur to my drunken self. I had ordered the sex, I couldn’t bail on it now. A lot of the bad sex I have could easily be avoided by heeding my own warning bells and coming up with an exit strategy. I once actually did back out of sex- once. I was seeing this guy as a kind of drinking buddy come comedy watching partner… and we would kiss and wind up in his bed and I would remember urgh I don’t like this guy he’s too short for me. Although pretty hot otherwise. And one time I was in his bed and we hadn’t ever had actual sex but I stopped him kissing me and said “I have to tell you… I have AIDS.” Let me tell you, he freaked the fuck out. WHAT? I imediately told him no, it was just some weird joke… sorry. I don’t have aids. But the mood was ruined. I left with my vagina undisturbed, and was fined for not having a ticket on the bus home. Should have stayed the night really. That’s what happens when you pretend to have AIDS, even if it’s only for like a minute. Don’t do it guys, there really probably are better ways of backing out of sex. I have never thought of another one though.

Don’t say “hey man I just don’t want to do this any more”. That’s impossible, far too confrontational and impolite.

I knew I was going along with it… but I saw the encounter in a different light. It started to seem seedier that I had picked him up outside McDonalds. I could see now, our exchange of boozy opinions had been less of a good laugh and more of me just ranting about hating Italy and him telling me all about some time in France he “prevented a bunch of girls from being raped.” I had already begun rebelling against his personality on the walk home when he came out with that story. Something about his friends and him standing up to some French dudes… and mysteriously adding the flourish about them being about to rape all the girls if it hadn’t been for his heroism. Urgh. I started picking holes in the story but he became defensive and I let it go because I was too drunk to carry an argument forward…

My friend gave me a sympathetic look and went to bed.

We were alone, me and this guy.

We began kissing. It was ok… He felt under my dress, searching for a way under my belt to get to my bra.

I told him I had a room… the spare room is mine while I’m here. The floor is just a tangled mess of my open suitcases and all my clothes. He went to the bathroom and I put my huge variety of condoms from the std screening clinic on the bedside table. I got tested for Chlamydia and ghonnorhea, I have to wait for the results now. But they gave me a shitload of free condoms. I got in to bed and took off the belt and thought, hey it’s not so bad, at least I’ll get some sex and I do like to sleep next to someone. I was still flattered that he liked my accent.

We got naked, fumbled with each other… my boobs looked shit. I remembered that although I got a pretty fantastic wax job before I left Italy, my armpits were damned hairy. I tried to keep my boobs covered by my hair (on my head) while keeping my arms clamped to my sides at the shoulder to hide the armpit hair. It was probably surprising, smooth legs and a little landing strip but hairy pits.

He started whining about condoms.

“I fucking hate condoms”

Yeah yeah.

“They are so shit. Fuck condoms.”

“Yeah you’re not the only one.”

“No, I REALLY hate them.”


Fucks sake man, like you invented not liking condoms. I had a sneaking suspicion he was sort of bragging about having had condom-free sex. It began to occur to me, as it always does TOO LATE TO BACK OUT, that I was dealing with someone less experienced or just generally less awesome than me. When I’m drunk I forget all about being superior to the vast majority of people and how rare it is to find someone great in bed or just interesting or funny, and drunken me just presumes everyone I meet is bound to be fantastic company and interested in the same things and as experienced as I am.

I am invariably disappointed.

“Ugh I hate condoms.”


“They are so shit.”

“Seriously man, everyone fucking hates condoms. They are shit but they are better than the alternative.”

“What, pregnancy?”

“No, I mean…not having sex at all. Those are your choices.”

“Well like, are you not on the pill?”

“What? No. And anyway I’m not having unprotected sex, that’s just retarded.”

“Well I got tested recently and I’m clean.”

“Yeah, me too and so am I* but that’s precisely why I’m not having unprotected sex”

*LIES, I’m waiting for the results

“Yeah but I don’t have anything”

“Yeah but how do I know that? Who the fuck are you? I met you outside mcdonalds, how do you even know I’m clean? I’d say anything to get laid*”

*As I just did, lying about having been tested for stds.

He grumpily admits I’m right and then pretends he was never going to have unprotected sex anyway he was just SAYING he didn’t like condoms. I roll away from him, grab a condom and tell him “Look, do you want to or what?”

He says yeah of course. But why so many condos? What were you just out hunting for guys? Were you planning on dragging some guy back here? Oh fuck off I just have loads of condoms ok. Safe sex, that’s how I roll. Ugh. I’m not telling him I got them in the STD clinic he probably won’t like that. Anyway he just waits for me to put it on. I never put condoms on, I always just wait while the man does it.

So this is probably one of the first times I’ve had to do it. I told him I always let the man do it. He says he never does it either.

I BET this guy is shagging girls with no condoms, the scumbag.

He has a nice thick dick. It’s not very big but it’s pretty thick and that’s what counts in my book.

We have sex… I think he didn’t come and we just fell asleep because there was no spunk in the condom in the morning. I woke up and regretted everything but still when he woke up too and began whining about having to get up and go to play golf or something, we got back to kissing and had some more sex. He was pretty good with his hands, but I was terrible… I never know what to do with a penis in my hands really. I think I’m pretty good at giving head but I am not doing that with some random dude (not any more if I can help it anyway) but I have a lot of confusion about how to handle the equipment with my hands. Am I too rough? Am I too gentle? Am I just crap? Probably. So I abandoned that attempt pretty quickly and took another condom. He wanted a blow job but I said no, again, I don’t know you… etc.

What? He didn’t seem to understand. You can’t even get anything from giving head. I told him he was a moron and yes you can, you can get stds and shit… he said no of course you can’t. Whatever, but I know I’m right.

I put this condom on him too, really resenting having to roll it down with absolutely no input from him…

It was pretty bad. I don’t think he was necessarily shit in bed, but we were hung over and I wasn’t hugely turned on. It was awkward, I was no good at all… I was very disappointed in myself. He came before it dragged on too long though so that was ok. He just handed me the condom, without even tying it up or anything. I thought fondly of Fabio and his paranoid stowing away of the used condoms to dispose of on his way home despite my insisting there was no problem putting it in the bin and I live alone. Maybe Fabio was afraid I would get the turkey baster and try make some little purple jumper babies from his man juices. I’d prefer he left the condom than put it in a tissue in his pocket, but to just hand me the condom… bit rude I think. Lately I am really scraping the barrel with these guys I’m hooking up with. Fabio is a total gent really.

I tied the condom up like I’ve seen so many men do before… too many men really. It’s such a male thing, the proprietary gentleness with the used and abused cock. Easing it off… wiping off the head, tying the knot…. holding it up for a second and inspecting the contents.

I fall in love with men a little bit when I see them handle their junk that way. It’s a brief, serious little moment between man and his penis, a bit of the private male world. I don’t know if it is rude to watch but I can’t ever look away.

Doing it myself… not the cleaning up obviously but just handling the condom, I felt a little swelling of rage and hatred for this stranger. I hoped he would leave before the awkwardness of the flatmates getting up and meeting him and before I saw a mirror and realised what I looked like hung over. I didn’t want to spend a second longer in his company. I wondered how to broach the subject or if there was some lie I could tell..

He got dressed quickly though.. Thank fuck.

Pulled on t shirts and talked angrily about his golf game. I have to get a FUCKING TAXI. Ugh this sucks, I have to be there in like an hour, which I don’t know how I’m going to do… I have to drive… It’s dangerous.. What a waste of money last night, a hundred quid on drinks…

I decided I hated him and his stupid ungrateful ranting attitude too much to even bother being polite. I pulled the covers over myself and shut my eyes.

He stomped around looking for his socks. WHERE ARE MY SOCKS?

I saw him picking stuff up off the ground and leapt to my feet.


I found his sock as he lifted a pair of my wooly over the knee socks and asked “WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?”


and I plonked myself back in bed. Try to sleep now, he can fuck off…

He left the room stomping aggressively and then returned “where are my fags,”

Ugh. He picked up the fags then said “yeah… uhh… you stay there (was that said with a sneer?) I’m leaving thanks… uh nice to meet you Abby. Thanks… Nice to meet you.”

I smiled at him from my cosy hung over bed, gloriously happy to be free of his energy.

“Yeah nice to meet you man, byeeee”

He left. I lay there for a while looking at the various condoms I must have been too drunk to figure out last night… and the one knotted, weighted one with that stranger’s milky gift.

I felt a little bit ugly about the whole thing. Like, as a bit of a bore and rude and unpleasant in manner, he should have been more appreciative of me. Like he should have been bowled over by my condescending to sex him… but then it’s never like that. Sex isn’t better because you do it with someone out of your league, it’s better because you’re both attracted to each other. And we just really didn’t have chemistry, so we were both pretty terrible. Although he was pretty good with his fingers. But he didn’t make me feel sexy or hot or good about myself, so what the fuck was the point? There was no point. I just get horny and drunk and I’m not very good at reminding myself that sex is only good if you like the person at least a bit… I feel kind of ashamed now.

Not that I’m a slut, but like… just ashamed of having let some guy see me naked and feel what it’s like inside me and sleep in my arms. Because he doesn’t deserve any of that, he did absolutely nothing to deserve to know that part of me. Stupid girl, must stop doing this shit that doesn’t make me feel good. But I am really hung over and hey, I was very drunk… it was bound to happen. At least I was very insistent on the safe sex and not giving head, so I can be a tiny bit proud of myself for that. It’s SOMETHING.

My friends have gone out for food now. I am very very hungry but I couldn’t bear the idea of leaving the house today and showing my face to the world. I look pretty nasty right now but also, I smell terrible and I just feel very fragile. I drank a lot last night. Like, almost at proper Irish levels of drinking. That really hurts on exit. Drinking too much is like taking a shit on your health and sanity. The next day you’re dragged back to reality and forced to stick your nose in the nasty mess you made. It hurts, but I’ve had oh so much worse hangovers in this house even…. Uggghhhh I should be glad it’s not worse. I’m just hungry though, hungry and alone in the house. And my head hurts and there’s nothing on tv.


Anyway, that’s where we are right now.

In London, having a goood time but still making stupid drunken decisions and fucking people I shouldn’t be fucking.

I have to stop sleeping with the locals.

Well, and hi to you too!

I haven’t written anything in a while- no, I have actually. I started writing things a great many times. Once I even wrote a 6000 word account of a night I went out with my friend and we got drunk and she puked and I didn’t. Pretty much nothing happened, I just described it in detail and before I hit publish I thought, wait, have I just resigned myself to literally posting every waking thought and detailing every step I take an move I make I’ll be missing you? Can’t youhoo see, you belong to me…. every sooooveayayayaaaa…


I just haven’t posted anything, because I keep arriving at some point and pausing to think WHY am I writing this, what is the fucking point, and how many times am I going to report back on the same fucking topics and the same paranoia and how many times will people actually find it interesting to read about me blushing in front of men I fantasize about and flogging myself for saying something weird?

So with that attitude it’s pretty much impossible for me to write my blog as usual. I am a little bit depressed really. But it’s ok I’m going to London in 3 weeks or so, a factfinding mission that might be permanent if I pull my shit together and find a job quickly. Until then, I’m being even more reclusive than usual, but when I do move you can expect to read more exciting things here,maybe. Unless I go too far the other side of uncool and actually get a life, and choose interacting with awesome people IRL over, you know… this. No offense, like. I like you guys plenty. But I can’t have sex with you. And I won’t either, so don’t go private messaging me any indecent proposals and shit. (Actually if it was a real indecent proposal, put your offer in the subject line of the email so I don’t accidentally reject a serious cashmaking opportunity. I will also, for money, write that you had a massive penis on here, even if you are a woman. And if it involves bum stuff or proximity to vagina(s), I will need that to be at least 5 figures. Anyway no one is offering me money for sexual favours, the most I ever got paid was 20 euros for a taxi but then I took the bus home so I consider that to have been a kind of income, and then when I lezzed out that time at the festival I got a really nice jumper out of it. Anyway. Moving on. Away from the prostitution talk. Sorry.)

So. I have not done a Captain Schettino on my blog or anything, (Could I be any more topical right now?) I am just going through a period of existential crisis and also largely, lazyness. Because it’s pretty easy to claim I want to protect my readership from the dullness of my everyday paranoia and then instead watch tv. Everyone wins.

Why write anything today then you might ask, if this was a conversation and not just me, me, me, hammering away at my sexy black keyboard with the white letters. This keyboard makes a beautiful sound. It’s the best keyboard I ever had on a laptop but it would be so much better if only the letters were illuminated by a customizable colour backlight. Just fucking saying, is all. Anyway the reason I am posting something today is that I am hideously hung over and the soft clicking of my keys and the warmth from my overheating laptop are soothing to my dehydrated and scrambled brain.

OH my beer-swollen gut,  I just remembered that for once, “Yesterday MFO” left me a good surprise to walk of shame home to. I made a quiche or pie type thing AND a fucking loaf of banana bread.

HELL to the yes. Of course I also left all the mess that goes with my cooking adventures, but it’s Sunday, if the lord had wanted me to load my dishwasher on a Sunday, he wouldn’t have made me an atheist. Ergo, today I feast and tomorrow I deal with the fact that I mashed banana directly on the kitchen counter to avoid getting a plate out of the far away cupboard.

Yummy yummy yummy. Sometimes yesterday MFO does nice things for me. Usually her gifts are things like, oh yeah, this fucking hangover and depression. But silver lining to the cloud of pain and regret and confusion…

It’s pastry time.

Anyway sorry sorry sorry getting sidetracked here.

I am going to proceed and in case you are the sort of person who doesn’t want to read about my disastrous sex life in too much detail, stop reading now and maybe this is not the place for you. The internet, I mean.

So. Last night, I put on a very very short dress, it is black and covered in black sequins of varying sizes. So it is sparkly and slutty but not too… Oh who am I kidding, if I raise my arms you can see my southern hemispheres.

I chose to wear heels too, despite Andrea saying she had sore feet and wouldn’t wear heels out and she is already considerably shorter than me. I didn’t care, I like being taller sometimes. It eliminates a lot of time wasters, it gives me an edge to go with my shyness and inability to make eye contact with any men in case I accidentally give them permission to sex me. I like tall men, and standing on my tippy toes makes it a lot easier to see who is tall enough for me to feel properly squished against a wall later, and for him to have any chance of being able to pick me up… otherwise I am relying on blurry drunken vision and my atrocious everyday spatial awareness. Excessive tallness is also a defense against the feelings of shittyness I encounter when Andrea gets hit on by ALL THE MEN.

Oh I am flattered if you think I am above memes and other internet tomfoolery but then you probably don’t think that, in which case you are right.

To quote-rape Oscar Wilde, “I am in the gutter, and I sure aint looking at no stars”

Apart from Alexander Skarsgard. YUM.

So, back to my riveting narrative-

When I am taller than people, I tell myself they are only not hitting on me because I intimidate them, like a straight Xena warrior princess… Their lack of interest is a sign that they know I am too far out of their league, there’s no point in even trying.

Simple delusion tactics but works pretty well on my ego, which will believe anything to make itself feel good. So last night I was tall, my skirt was short, I channeled non drug addict prostitute… and I went easy on the makeup. That was a good move and I plan on trying to remember to continue in that vein as I was delightfully fresh looking around 2am where usually the bathroom mirror throws back the hauntingly familiar harpy face, causing me to question the standards of any men who I do manage to lure back to my lair.

I looked pretty close to my best, last night. I even trimmed a good few centimetres of split ends from my hair which was getting a little too hippie for my liking. It is all shiny and nice now although it doesn’t give quite the same level of boob coverage as before, that extra bit was handy for obscuring  soft, floppy nip during my forays into woman on top-itude.

Woulda come in handy later. Yeah I got laid. Don’t cheer though, it was shit.

We danced. It was fun. We became drunk, drunk, laughing in each others faces and wondering, why don’t we have more friends? It is because we are too damn attractive that’s why, we are not horrible bitches it is other women who have some kind of problem. Cunts. Look at them, and their ugly clothes. Ha ha ha.

My dancing was based on looking good, sucking in my stomach and simulating something like normal human rhythm. Another couple of drinks down the gullet and it devolved, to just trying to disguise my stumbling and falling as dance steps. I staggered left right left ahhh and swooped back to my starting position, and repeated. I felt I was getting the hang of it as time wore on but probably I was just too hammered to know how bad it looked. Then I had a drunken epiphany that, hell I am leaving this place in like a month (woo!) and so why the FUCK would I care what anyone thinks about my dancing? Never mind, I will just dance like nobody who matters is watching, which is true because they are all just Italians.

Smoke machine obscured some of my stumbling. Nice. I began to let go of all the good and right things that keep me from making a tit of myself. Who the fuck cares? Italians, pfff. I leaned back and roared laughter. Free from the shackles of saving face… I was probably overall better at dancing after my epiphany, actually. Until I got a little too relaxed and began biting my lip and closing my eyes in hippie-junkie euphoria… Luckily something got a hold of me and said no, now, that’s enough, no one needs to see that shit.

And suddenly, from out of the smoke and my own slow motion carnival vision, so drunk all the people around me looked like when someone on tv remembers seeing a murderer at a fairground…

Suddenly there emerged a guy. Head and shoulders above the rest, except for those other two guys with the beekeeper beards who didn’t count.

Really hot. So hot… All tall, really tall and built, with a super hot face. He looked like an athlete of some sort, or Thor, or a Viking, or an asshole kind of jock. Mmmm my favorite. I want.

Tried to subtly dance closer, pushing people out of the way with my shoulders. Caught his eye and immediately when I saw his eyes see mine, was gripped by terror and looked away blushing furiously. Ahh shit. Can’t risk rejection. No no no no no.

Panic… what if he doesn’t come over to me? Should I go up to him, am I being too subtle?

I elbow some girls who are dancing between us. Subtly begin to stare at him grinning furiously, doing my drunken sleazy face with the half closing of one eye, and smirking on one side.

Rub my buttocks against some vague manly rugged part of him and swish my hair around hitting him with a sheet of shiny follicles. This is, sadly, the mating dance of the MFO. Slightly less unattractive than my actual dancing, but the fact of what it’s supposed to achieve makes it that bit creepier.

Andrea wants to go for a smoke. I am very angry at this interuption of my seduction process but I join her. Maybe this will count as playing it cool. I decide to confide in her… there’s a guy I kind of like on the dance floor.

Yeah the one in the grey.

Oh? You know?

Yeah it’s pretty obvious.

Oh, girl intuition. It’s cool she can pick up on that. Because she knows me so well I guess. We have spent a lot of time out together in the past year…

The guy you were rubbing up against like a hungry cat against a woman’s calves… He’s kind of nerdy looking.

What? No! He’s a hunk! He’s the image of Channing Tatum.. If Channing Tatum had a better looking son his own age, who looked more like a viking.

She raises her eyebrows.

I tell her I am glad we don’t have the same taste in men. She is currently crushing on some fucking llama of a man with dreadlocks and a hemp jacket. She’s like, huh, well your guy dances like a nerd.

I’m shocked she is so blind to his charms, but also glad because no competition! I’m like, woman, I don’t care HOW he fucking dances. All I’m here for is the horizontal tango. I begin making “ungh, ungh!” noises and thrusting motions with my arms. She says ok ok I guess he is a bit hot then yeah.. and changes the subject back to her own interests so I zone out and start thinking of a plan of courtship. I wonder should I pull up my skirt some. Or turn my dress around so I am exposing boob too, as it has a lower back than neckline.

We go back inside. I try to navigate through the crowd of dancers, my heels a major hindrance to casual snaking towards the front. He is not LOOKING AT ME! I dance as sexy as I possibly can without actually inserting a finger.

Suddenly he is behind me. I muster my courage and flash him my most dazzling but dimwitted smile.  Oh happy day! Can it be, I have pulled the hunkiest motherfucker in the club? I am the sexy master.

I am the conquistador of hotties.

He wraps an arm around my sequins and pulls me so close I can feel his… is that a hoodie knotted around his hips or is he extremely happy to see me, and well endowed? Oh fuck he is so sexy.

He blethers something about being unemployed in my ear. He studied philosophy. Ok. Ok. Can’t ruin it, you’re too pretty. I murmur agreement and let him have my standard introductory info, like my nationality, why I speak Italian, what I am doing in this cunting country, and so on.

He tries to add a kiss to the dry humping. I push his face away laughing. NO I don’t kiss people in public. Why? I just don’t. Ok…

(real reason: something I can’t remember clearly, to do with New Year’s eve and a pool table and a man whose name and face I couldn’t recall half an hour later.)

I tell him I will give him one later.

He’s like I don’t want to wait.

I’m all, yeah but later you’ll get more than a kiss. He kisses me on the cheeks and says do you know how we say hello in Italy? And I’m like yeah yeah kiss on the cheeks… and he’s like no… let me show you and starts licking his lips and I’m all, dude, I said no fucking kissing. I wonder if what is pushing into my crotch so delightfully is a hardon or the knot of a jumper tied around his hips. I am looking forward to this later thing too. I am pretty drunk, it’s handy he is here as he is supporting my endeavour to stay standing.

Andrea where is Andrea? Some hippie in a hat shaped like a tiger head is giving her a dance lesson. Ok. I’m good, haven’t ditched the bitch. Grind on Matteo some more. Oh yeah that’s his name, well not really, but it’s gonna be for this post. He won’t be a recurring character btw.

We talk for some reason about people who sexually assault girls on the tram. I use the opportunity (which I probably created anyway by bringing up this topic) to act all incredulous about why me, why me? He brandishes the usual compliments. SO BEAUTIFUL, so hot, so pretty, sexy girl… I pretend to brush the praise aside, no no no I don’t mean that, I wasn’t angling for a compliment!(lies, damned lies) He’s like, I know you weren’t but it’s true, you are incredible… so sexy… and tall.

I’m like no these are heels. Tee hee. (Love being tall, hot dang!) He’s all, yeah but you are still tall. We talk about weird things. He is so much better to talk to than Fabio. He doesn’t misunderstand all my jokes and stuff and he is liberal with the flattery. I like my hunk, he is so hot and sexy and he is talking in my ear about how he can’t wait to get me alone… Fabio needs so much more encouragement and he’s not as…HORNY about it. Fabio sucks. I’m like, what’s your story, do you live alone or near?

He tells me he lives alone and what’s more, we are getting a lift there with his friend. I push for Andrea to get a lift too. He tells me I am really thoughtful and a good friend. And pretty. And sexy. We get in the car. His friend is not pleased about having to drive Andrea home in the opposite direction. We drop her off and then he leaves us  at Matteo’s apartment. Thank you bye bye!

Inside the door… I pull him to me, pinning me to the wall. Oh he is so fucking hot and big and tall and he wants me so badly. We kiss for the first time, we’ve been waiting so long for this… he grabs my neck and lunges…

And he’s a terrible kisser. His tongue darting in and out of my mouth. It reminds me of an eel, or that time I ate tongue by accident. (cow tongue) It’s horrible. Urgh. Strike one… but it’s too late to back out now. I am here, I don’t even know where here is… but he said he’s give me a lift home tomorrow. I don’t want to pay for another taxi now, especially because to suddenly change my mind… too much hassle and awkwardness.

Oh well, I’ll just get on top and do my own thing, he can’t be THAT bad. A bad kisser can redeem himself elsewhere, can’t he?

Up to his apartment, inside, I fling my shoes across the room. You’re still tall, he says. Picks me up and plonks me on the bed. Oh YES. I like..

Takes off my dress, tights. I like your underwear… sexy. I argue with him that they are not sexy underwear they are just cotton knickers from H&M and I was meant to wear black with the dress which is short but I couldn’t find black ones… Shut up MFO. Shut up.  Takes off underwear. He looks at me, just how I like to be looked at. In admiration. Pauses.

“Sei stupenda”. Oh yes. I like the compliments, keep em coming. That one I particularly like, it’s like beautiful or fantastic or incredible or something. Yay! Naked admiration is the best admiration. I forgive the bad, inanimate kissing… I concentrate on kissing his neck and shoulder to avoid being stabbed in the face with that rigid, forceful tongue of his.

He’s on top… he’s naked too. We’re panting, gasping for each other, all the grinding on the dance floor….

He’s feeling all over my body. He’s got my nipple in his mouth, gently between his teeth.

I reach down.

He’s.. soft.

Why is he soft?

I have a little wrangle with the situation, but nothing is happening. Hm.

Then it’s semi hard. Ok I guess. Just need to get it inside and it will perk up I’m sure. Condom on. It’s pretty big actually but just… not very hard. I straddle him and try to… no. No it just falls back, invertebrate… what the fuck man? He begins making excuses like oh no I drank so much. Hmm.

Have another go… he’s on top. And it feels… kinda good I guess. For a second. And then it’s gone again. What is going on here? I know it’s not that he doesn’t find me attractive. It can’t be. He clearly likes me, he clearly likes my body…. what is this shit?

I didn’t want to give him head, I really didn’t, because I’m starting to think maybe I should stop doing that with people I don’t know, and maybe I will get an STD or something in fact maybe I already do, who the fuck knows? I always have protected sex but I don’t care what those leaflets they gave us in sex ed said, I am not gargling a rubber and I don’t really see the point in giving head if it isn’t wet and sensitive…

But I need to make this work, so fuck it. Down I go. Condom off, into the mouth with you, I don’t have much spit right now but you can have what I got. Instant results. Woah, that is a BIG BIG DICK.

I am impressed and feeling hopeful… We are going to have a good time after all. Another condom on. There we go… damn my breasts miss their protective shield of split ends. Now he can see my wobbly and underdeveloped chestal region. Ease you in now, nice and gently… feels mighty good. Lean a little into it.

There’s no use, it’s soft again. WHAT have I done to deserve this? Is it too much to ask? He tries to go for it… jackhammering away at my while I lie there thinking, urrr… 2004-me called, she wants her sex back? It’s pointless. Like picking a lock with a gummy worm. I try my lazy and unmotivated hands… Can I help at all? Have to mentally chant “be gentle with the balls” when I touch things because I have a natural desire to be very rough with them and I was told that was not an enjoyable experience. So I don’t really like doing things manual style. But he just grins at me and slurs, You know how you can help.

Fuck. Really horny or I would have given up long ago… I creep back down and slather on my remaining mouth juice. This better work. It’s surprisingly enjoyable, considering the size of the critter. It swells up to a fearsome beast, and he gasps and pushes my hair from my face. It’s the look on his face, it’s sickening really but I get insanely turned on by it. Absolute appreciation…. I can’t help myself, it spurs me on. I get so high on feeling attractive. I try a little deep throat. Oh fuuuuuckkk…

I like when they close their eyes and lie back but I also like when they stare at me while I do it. I don’t know which I prefer.

And again…

Go, me! I am so good at this. I forgot, now I remember… I am really good at this.

I pull back my head as I’m about to gag and suddenly I can taste it, eerily vibrant, silky stuff… it was past the taste buds but now they are picking it up… He’s cumming in my mouth. Ah for fucks sake. I whip it out and let the rest fall where it may.

What the fuck, I thought you were supposed to warn people?

I go to the bathroom, wash my hands, rinse my mouth.

That wasn’t my intention, a throat full of spunk. I was only getting you hard so we could have fun rough drunk people sex. Not pleasure you with my mouth. Grr. Fuck it. Back to bed. Sleep time. Tomorrow morning better be better.

He offers me pyjamas. Pyja… what? We’re… sleeping in the bed together. Like, one night stands… pyjamas? I laugh. He shrugs. Please don’t put on pyjamas. He doesn’t put on pyjamas.

We sleep.

Wake up… Smile to self, got laid, pulled the hottie… Details float in. Didn’t really get laid, did I? Sucked some dude’s dick. Look around… Nice place you got here. And good morn… ack!

Hottie? Is that you? I don’t wanna look, but there he lies… mouth slightly open… eyes shut…

Beside me lies the epitome of hot, the Viking slash jock slash Channing Tatum hybrid I chose to be my consort for his stunning looks.

And I’m not saying that, in the harsh light of day, he is ugly. No, he’s not UGLY. He’s just… not very attractive really. He’s ok I guess. Andrea’s words float before me “he looks like a nerd.” I remember his dancing now. Yes. Yes. She was right actually. Crap. Remember this feeling… Not really used to this any more. Where the fuck am I? Look around me. On the ground lie my clothes, grotty underwear and a ridiculously short sequinned dress plus crazy coloured 6 inch heels. Shit. It’s walk of shame time, and I don’t even know where I am or how to get out of this building even.

I consider molesting the guy in his sleep, looks or no looks, the room’s already paid for I may as well take the shower caps. He goes on my list of people I fucked, I should at least try wrangle a good one out of him.

What’s the etiquette here? Is it cool to wake someone for sex, or do we look to the standard law of “never wake a hung over person if they are managing to get some sleep”? The guy came in my mouth without warning me, does that mean I can try to stir him up in the pants department while he sleeps? Is that… rape?

I know it would be appreciated if I woke up a dude with mouth love, but I am not doing that again.

I try to wake him up for a bit by tossing and turning but he is totally comatose.

I begin to panic that maybe he is actually comatose or… maybe he is dead? I fantasize about the awful shame of a one night stand who isn’t even hot, dying in bed with me and having to explain the story to police and no one believing me and having to constantly be reminded of this not great looking nerd I tried to fuck who went floppy on me…


Check his pulse. We’re good, he’s alive. thank fuck.

I get up to pee and am terrified I will fart. This doesn’t happen as I am a LADY but my pee is deafening, I want to shhh it but don’t remember if I should lean back or forward to silence the stream of falling beer and long island iced teas that is escaping my half pickled carcass.

Why it is embarassing to pee loud, I do not know, but I am ashamed.

Back to bed. I am naked.

I slip into bed and think, I am not going to get to sleep in this man’s bed.

Fantasize about horrible things like him taking me home to kill me. Imagine walking around the apartment and coming across a room full of dead bodies and turning around and him standing there and being like, you shouldn’t have looked behind that door… ahh!

Stare at the sleeping nerd beside me in fear. Manage to sweep away this paranoia as he would have totally killed me the night before and not let himself fall asleep and leave me unguarded. Plus I really don’t want to get up yet, it is probably too early. Check a watch on the bedside table… 8am. Shit.

Try to sleep. Failing that, try to wake up sleeping notabeauty. Try to sneak my hand in around his crotchal region to see if I can get something going… He has the sheets tucked in forming a barrier between us. Oh.

I get up for water, conspicuously, naked, closing the door loudly when I return. He smiles and surveys me.

You fucking better find this attractive, floppycock.

Good morning.

Good afternoon.

What, isn’t it 8? The watch….

It’s not a watch, it’s an ornament. I look at it. So it is. It’s a tiny pretend alarm clock made of wood, with the time painted on. Oh.

It’s midday.

I drink some water. Hand him some. Get in bed… mmmm back to warm, back to touching… try some kissing without allowing our terrible mornning breath to escape. Mmm mmm mm. It’s not great as kissing goes, but it’s considerably better than the tongue rape my mouth endured last night. Touching and kissing, I’m glad again I didn’t wear too much slap last night as my morning face is pretty decent now.

Condom on… Rolls over onto me. Inside… oh hell yeah. I can FEEL that.

Feels good. I’m not exactly ready but I’ll take it. It’s not fully erect but it still feels pretty decent. He pounds me into the mattress furiously as the hardon kind of recedes, kissing my closed lips with a rhythmic smacking sound… mwah mwah mwah… I try to give encouragement in the form of giving as good as I take and pulling him to me, and we fuck like this, him at half mast, me totally underwhelmed but enjoying sweating and moving and it’s good for the hangover… After a while it’s like, this is getting sloppier. Try to change position… No dice. Like a wind sock on a summer’s day. That’s not going to work. I sink into misery. It’s my tits isn’t it, they looked bigger in my bra, even though it isn’t a padded bra, it just makes them look bigger. I feel shitty. He probably beer gogglesed me just like I did him.

All the compliments lose their lustre. I am not stupenda, we were just drunk. Oh the shame. If I can’t even get a guy hard who seems totally below my league, how will I ever wake up beside someone and think, hell yes, I would like to see that face for a prolonged period of time?

Do I just have insanely unrealistic tastes?

I’m not giving him head again that’s for sure.

Lie there for a while. Talk about a few things. The conversation is a million times better than with Fabio, who can in his defence totally get it up. I would like Fabio if I could talk to him like this dude, it’s just nice and natural and there’s laughing.

The last time Fabio came over was super awkward. We talked about ourselves. Not something i was keen to get into, but I thought I should at least let Fabio know about the whole I’m married thing. So I told him about that and then as he asked all sorts of questions about me and let’s face it, I am both way more interesting than most of the people I come across and can’t resist when someone wants to know about me, I told him a LOT of my baggage. Damn it. I felt all icky afterwards, like I let him take home a little piece of me that I don’t want to give to anyone. Not to him, anyway. I have no problem fucking a stranger and leaving unscathed with my identity intact, but sharing… talking… feels weird in my bones. Like I gave it away to someone undeserving. I guess this is the way most people would feel about sex, but then you know I’m totally special and unique and opposite to other people.

The other day I came across a thing about sex addiction and perked up thinking hey maybe I have that. I have always wanted to be diagnosed with something, maybe it could be kind of an excuse for my behaviour or get me some extra attention?  The only thing I have got a doctor to diagnose me with so far is OCD. YAY! But I never told anyone that because i don’t think it’s really that relevant, like what does it even mean anyway? I’m obsessive and compulsive, that’s just two fucking personality traits. Like you wouldn’t say someone had Relaxed Calm disorder, and that could just as easily be my personality. But it’s not. Which is why it’s a problem at all. Whatever. Anyway usually when I have my phases of self diagnoses, like when I decided I was just really highly functioning autistic, and that was why I always said the wrong thing to people and wanting to be lef thte fuck alone, well, my friends are always like, shut up MFO stop being a hypochondriac and a drama queen. And they are right of course. But this time my friend was like, actually I don’t think that’s ridiculous at all, I mean I have a high sex drive but you are flat out obsessed. So I am sort of “on this” at the moment. Expect more posts about my sexual addiction soon, probably. Or maybe it’s just a phase.

Anyway sorry, I was saying… Fabio, last time I reached new levels of cringe…. It’s the talking man, I shouldn’t be talking.

At one point he asked me, “have you ever had an STD?” And I just did a double take. What kind of question is that shit? Is that a normal question? I don’t know if it’s like, totally normal adult mature people question to ask, or if he’s just being a weirdo. I do know he should have asked that shit BEFORE all the sex. I have no idea, maybe I am riddled with disease. It’s possible. I haven’t been tested… but I always have protected sex, but then sometimes drunkeneness happens and I let penises explode in my mouth. Admittedly it’s rare for that  to happen and I am quite ignorant of sexually transmittables but I think most have symptoms and shit. I really had better get tested, it’s just… I’ll wait for London as I am too scared of Italians to do it here. They will only judge me and the number of people I have slept with.

Anyway when Fabio asked me that, those thoughts raced through my mind. Argh. I realised after a bit, I had a mad, scared grin on my face and was completely silent, rocking back and forth like I needed to pee or tell a secret.

I said NO. I wonder if that is unethical, half- lying like that. Because I probably don’t have anything… but then, my friend told me the other day, Chlamydia has no symptoms. So I could have it. But then we only ever have protected sex, so it’s not like he’s at risk or anything.

I wonder if I should pretend to have been tested but not recently so I am technically not lying about being 100% disease free, but don’t look like such an irresponsible skank?

I mutter “a few months ago I think” meaning to say I haven’t been tested since then… but then I back out. No. You can’t lie here, that’s just plain wrong. I trail off.

He’s like what? A few months ago what?

I blush. NOTHING. Nothing? What?

What did you mean, he asks.

No, I mean… What did YOU say?

Have you ever had an STD.

No, what? When? Sorry no I haven’t, never… At least.. I don’t think.

What? What were you saying then.

Nothing. You asked a question.

Okaaaay… Well are you sure you never had one? It’s ok you can tell me.

No, yes… I mean.. Sorry. I just get a bit weird when… when people… ask me questions.

Why? It’s just, we talked about pretty much everything, I just thought I’d ask, maybe…

I’m like, No not me, well, have you?


Ok then. I am sitting on my hands, rocking back and forward.I can’t stop grinning or blushing.

I wipe the smile away eventually and in as serious a tone as I can muster, I tell him, no it’s just when I am nervous or something, I get really weird. Sorry. No I havenn’t had a disease, it’s just I’m really immature about stuff that’s why I am acting like this.

Ok…. He shakes his head briefly.

We moved on from this… epic disaster of human interaction… and for some reason, he still had sex with me several times. It was good.

But I had put my vibrator and lube and condom collection in a tin to have it all handy by my bed, and I whipped out the condoms and began tittering uncntrollably and ranting about having a huge collection of condoms. I don’t know why I was being like this. It’s just… I am a big old freak. I don’t even have that many, there are just several different brands and types, not because I have so much sex or anything just because I accumulate them, I don’t know, I guess some are from way back in South America when husband and I were doing the safe sex thing. I really need to get tested…

He looked at me a little put out and was like, “do you have sex often?” and I whip back with, “not in Italy, no, I don’t know any… never mind. No. Not here. I never understood how to pull… nothing. Nothing.”

Urgh. I’m a liability. Stop talking now.

This ALWAYS happens with Fabio. The convo is so forced and stunted and awkward, I trip over my words and blush and he just sits there taking me seriously, with his big gentle eyes patiently waiting for me to untangle myself… He’s so… vanilla. But the sex is so good… technically. There’s no heart or soul in it. It’s like… I used to love the Red Hot Chili Peppers. I loved them because they were all raw and dirty and had all this energy and you could tell they had lots of sex and went to parties and were up to no good… they were my favorite band when I was around 15 I guess. But then they released a new album in 2000 and something, and I was so excited. My favorite band from when I was a bit younger, they were bound to come out with something brilliant. Oh my god it was going to be so good. and I bought that album, last music I ever paid for by the way, and the album was called By The Way.

And it was shit. I know, that’s just my opinion and all. Technically, I mean the sound was good. It was good. I just didn’t like it. It was like, polished and I didn’t feel anything from it. I listened to that album and there was no sex and drugs and rock and roll, there was just… leather furniture and wealthy middle aged stagnation. I’m not saying they sold out or lost their soul, but yeah however passionate they still were about their music, the music itself wasn’t coming across as passion. They are probably miles better as musicians now, with lots of life experience… but passion, man, passion isn’t about experience or knowledge or being accomplished…

That’s what sex is like with Fabio. He’s good at it. I feel like I’m good at it, with him, and it’s enjoyable… but it’s just soulless. It’s not urgent, I’m not really very attracted to him. I was more attracted to my nerd last night, if he had been able to keep it up I would have been thrilled. I would probably be moping about him not asking for my number or any way to contact me, after dropping me home… If he had been able to keep it up. Instead I don’t really give a shit. But the attraction was there, the conversation was lively and EASY. When we kissed, even though it was pretty lousy, and even the next day when I saw him clearly as NOT being insanely gorgeous any more, I still wanted to fuck him wildly. It didn’t matter how good or bad he was in bed, I would have had a wonderful sexy time. If he had been able to keep it up.

Fabio has a wonderful dick , a good body, he knows how to use both… but goddammit I see him and I don’t really care if he touches me or not, it doesn’t really excite me that much. And it doesn’t help that I have seen the man in three different purple jumpers. That is three purple jumpers he owns at least… They are definitely not the same jumper each time, I have noted differences in them.

And last time he came over he was wearing a different bubble jacket, a white one with another fake fur hood. Looks like a fucking duvet. And when I went over to his place for a quickie one time, he was wearing old man slippers. Actually Matteo had old man slippers by the bed too, I guess it’s an Italian thing. I can’t hold it against them.


Have to stop being so judgemental on Fabio, it’s a good thing I am not attached to anyone as it makes it possible for me to leave this hole.

I am so hung over still though, it all looks bleak. Which is ridiculous because I also know that I am so close to not being fucking miserable, ie, I am going to London very soon, so I dont’ have a whole lot to feel shit about. It’s just the hangover…

Anyway. I have loads of other uncomfortableness and stuff to write about but I have been typing this for like an hour now and I just want to get some more pain killers and banana bread into my belly.

I am sorry if this is just totally unnecessary details of my sex life that you didn’t want. I am probably only sorry because I am hungover and my ego is a little deflated after the great penis deflation debacle of last night and this morning. Try as I might, it’s just hard not to take that as a commentary on my horrible breasts.

Also I have wrinkles in my face, I think I am ageing prematurely. It may be the hangover speaking but… I’m not happy.

Anyway. good night I guess.