A brief but still pretty long story of my sex addiction, and hopefully not temporary breakthrough.

Since I was a young teenager, I have been obsessed with sex. OBSESSED. I was always thinking about it and always talking about it. When I wasn’t talking about it, I was consciously holding myself back from talking about it because I didn’t want to bore people. Everywhere I went, I scanned the faces and bodies around me. Wondered who I’d like to fuck. What they’d be like in bed. I fantasized constantly. I masturbated constantly. I wasn’t attractive, so I didn’t have very much opportunity to live out my fantasies.

When I was 18 or 19, I started to come into my own. My confidence came from sex, from the brief high I got from a man’s desire to sleep with me, and from his approval of how passionate I was in bed, how willing to try things I might not really want to do.
I grew more confident. Flimsy confidence that plummeted every time a guy stopped calling, every time a careless remark reminded me I wasn’t really good looking. Sex was on my mind all the time. I slept with everyone who had a glint in their eye. I wasn’t good looking but I wasn’t ugly, and as I grew into a young adult I learnt how to make the most of my looks, and with sex constantly on my mind I exuded sex, and attracted more and more people. I wasn’t good looking but I was sexy.
It felt good, to have found my strength. It felt good, to be sexy, and although I couldn’t compete with the really pretty girls, when it came to sex I was in my element, and I got a certain satisfaction from the pretty girls’ boyfriends hitting on me.

But no one wanted to go out with me. Well, some did. Some fell for me, but they were the quiet, shy types. I had no interest in them. I was loud and bubbly, and I wanted the alpha males, not the “nice guys”. I didn’t really meet nice guys anyway. The ones who called themselves nice guys were usually shy, underconfident, geeky, and unattractive. They got drunk sometimes and the bitterness came out about all the assholes getting the girls. And then I’d think, it’s not because they’re assholes. You’re only as nice as you have to be, you’re only as much of an asshole as you can get away with. Woman aren’t prizes to be awarded to the most deserving. They are people who are just as shallow as you. While you’re complaining about the pretty girl going for the asshole, there’s a not so pretty girl like me bemoaning the fact that some other guy prefers a hotter, less nice girl, and when you set your sights on me, it’s as a plan b.
I chased men. I chased sexy, confident men. Fucked up men. Interesting men, I called them, until they tossed me aside or hurt me and then I called them losers and assholes.

I got a nice boyfriend. He loved me and for the first time I was treated well by a man. But he was quieter than me, and I was immature, and I needed someone to call me out on things, to calm me down, and he let me walk all over him. I did the walking, but I think I was far too young and selfish to respect someone who let me. I don’t regret the loss of the nice guy, because we weren’t right for each other, but I do regret being mean to him and not learning from him. We broke up, and I missed him terribly then, because he was for a while my best friend and my biggest supporter. But the sex was never right. He was less experienced than I was. Of course he was. But I didn’t know how to teach. I wasn’t entirely confident in bed, I just followed a male lead well. Because I was used to it. I was afraid to get on top, because I didn’t know what to do, how to move, what would feel good for him. It took me years to figure out just to do what felt good for me, and the rest would follow. I was embarrassed on top, I felt exposed. I didn’t know how to teach him, because all I had was muscle memory and he didn’t move me around the way I was used to. I thought I was great in bed, but I didn’t know how to be great in bed with him. We had sex drunk a lot at the start of our relationship and then less and less and less until we mostly just cuddled. I was sexually frustrated and masturbated whenever he got up earlier than me, whenever he slept earlier. 

I met an alpha male. He was unavailable. He didn’t want me, he just wanted to fuck me. He picked me up and flung me around with little regard for what I might want. And I played a game, for the first time, finally I had learnt to play the game. He fell in love with me, we fell in love, I was wonderfully happy, I had made him love me, a man who didn’t want a girlfriend tying him down. But it was under false pretenses. I showed him only my good sides, my agreeable, malleable sides. I didn’t show him anything I showed my previous boyfriend. I didn’t let him see the crazy, the weak, the emotional, the slob, the unhygienic, the bitchy, the lazy, the ugly, the fucked up, the sad, the jealous, the insecure.

When we married and settled down together, I relaxed. We both did. Slowly we got to know each other, too late. 

When we first met, the sex thrilled me. But it didn’t do it for me, really. I didn’t have orgasms. I wanted sex, constantly, and he obliged, and then some. But he didn’t try to make me cum, he just expected me to, from the pounding. I didn’t have many friends around me then, and those I did, weren’t very open about sex. So I didn’t know this was normal, that women don’t orgasm from being pounded. I thought it was my fault, and so did he. No other women had this problem with him, he said. 

It was a long time before I realised how many women women fake orgasms. I learnt I could orgasm if I masturbated while we had sex. But then he’d flip me over and I couldn’t do it from that position, so I faked orgasms. I faked orgasms while fake masturbating while he had sex with me. It was ridiculous. I started to resent him. He never went down on me. Once, on my birthday, extremely drunk, he tried to go down on me but it was so obviously a chore to him, I stopped him. He never tried again.

We gradually stopped having sex. I remembered my last relationship and it started to nag at me, that something was wrong with me, that I faked a sex drive for some reason, because I was starved of love, and when I got affection I didn’t want sex any more. It was me, it wasn’t my uninspired sexual partners. When we stopped having sex we put on weight. The fatter I got the less sexy I felt. The less sexy I felt the less I felt at all like having sex. I couldn’t fantasize about sex because it made me too unhappy to picture myself fat, being fucked, and it made me too unhappy to picture myself skinny, being fucked, because I wasn’t skinny. I masturbated when my husband slept beside me, and whenever he was out of the house. But I didn’t think of myself being fucked. I thought of him cheating on me with someone better looking and skinnier. It made me feel hurt but excited. And the fact that it was weird, and kind of fucked up to think about the man I loved fucking someone else, made it kinky and sexy.

I tried to initiate sex sometimes but my confidence was so low, because I was fat, because he didn’t want to fuck me, because his porn history was always right there when I checked my emails, and it was all big tit latinas, and not fat pasty women with small tits.

I left him. I had an empty apartment and no one to cuddle. I bought diet pills that gave me oily diarrhea. I ate big salads for dinner and bananas for lunch. I lost a stone in two or three months. I looked great. I fit into jeans I bought on sale, stubbornly, years ago, that I’d never managed to sit in. I took photos of myself in underwear, because I couldn’t believe I was slim, and I looked good, and I was happy, and my sex drive came back in force. 

Sex drive, or the desire to be witnessed, to be seen and approved of. And this is around the point where my blog started. If you go back to the very start, there’s a lot of bitching about people who annoy me, and I feel so young, reading it back, like shit, I can’t believe that’s just four years ago, or so. But that’s the point I was at. I had lost weight and I wanted to fuck, and it was all I thought about.

And then I went through a year of loneliness and sexual frustration in Italy, and then I came back to Ireland, and then I went to France, and then I went to Ireland again. And I decided to go back to university. 

And I spent a year partying and not writing, and making more friends than I’ve ever had, more close, real friends. And I’ve looked forward to college, more than I ever imagined I would. And I went through a stream… a torrent… a waterfall of men. 

I dipped my toe into the fetish community, because I was bored. I found the fetish community boring and cliquey. I had some fun, though. Learnt a few things about myself. I tried some interesting things. I met some people who, while annoyingly square about their kinkiness, at least put a lot of time and energy into both sides of the experience. People tried to make me cum. I gave them a few courtesy fake orgasms, because they made a good effort, and of course I can’t really orgasm without some intervention of my own. But then I let go, sometimes, and I found I could have orgasms, after all. I had the best sex of my life, by far. But it didn’t satisfy me. I still wanted sex, constantly, abundantly, until I was exhausted, and then I’d want more when I woke up, and more and more the more I had. 

I had an insane high from sex, even when I didn’t orgasm. And then I crashed, when it was gone. I was tired of fucking just anyone… my standard had been raised. Not for men, but for sex. I wanted the lickouts, the kink, the imagination, the spontaneity, the uninhibited quality of the fetish but without the crappy clichéd aesthetic, and the weirdly prevalent dominance and submission. Why so much bloody power exchange? Why did everyone expect that? I just wanted good, wild, interesting sex. I didn’t want to push my boundaries, I just wanted to keep things interesting. To treat bodies like climbing frames, to treat sex like a smorgasbord. I was too much of an anarchist to delve into anything properly, like bondage, power exchange, fetish, because the people who got there first had made up rules and etiquette and vocabulary that made me cringe, and lose respect for its blind followers. 

But I did have some great sex. But I didn’t WANT to just have sex. It was naturally unavoidable, that I would have lots of sex, all the time, because I had a drive, I needed it, I wanted it all the time. I wanted to meet someone lovely, caring, who would make me laugh and who would appreciate me, who I could have fun with, and cook for, and care about, and support, and then I wanted them to fuck me all night too. But where to meet this guy. I hadn’t met anyone in ages, I had never met anyone who really ticked all the boxes. There was no “one that got away.” All my boyfriends had in retrospect been awful. And all the men I’d overlooked… well, I probably didn’t remember them. But I wanted someone really special, for me. I had so many friends, and so much going on, and so much to look forward to, an actual life goal, too, that my confidence was growing, and not just from sex. But my foray into the kinky world had given me more sexual power, and now I knew I wasn’t sexually defunct, and I wanted more, and no longer could I kid myself that a quick casual fuck would satisfy my craving.

A couple of months ago I got fantastically drunk with a few friends and one of their acquaintances who turned out to be a kinky guy, and when he pulled out a bag of coke, and everyone else went home, we talked more and more about sex, and kink, and we trailed off back to my house, and I dressed up and let him tell me what to do, and I felt like a goddess, because he was so impressed by me, because I was such a strong woman, so clear about what I wanted, and so sure of myself, and yet I’d still go either way in the bedroom. And the next day I woke up and felt fine about it, he spent so much time going down on me, I couldn’t even count the orgasms or where one ended and the next began. I felt fine about it, not regretting drunk sex, as I have occasionally done. But I felt not just fine, I felt like I was too good, for this. Yes, I am a strong woman. Yes I do know what I want. I am sure of myself. Finally. I really am, I know my needs, my wants, I know my worth. Not that sex is a gift to hand to the worthy, but damn, why am I bending over backwards making it easy for people who have done nothing for me? I mean, yes, some of these people put a lot of work in with the orgasms. But mostly, they don’t. And I’m worth more than this. I want more, I don’t want to be this supposedly great woman and then just fucking any man who wants to and has a bit of confidence to ask. What a pity, what a millstone around my neck, this damn sex drive.

I imagined all I might achieve, if I freed up my mind, my energy, my drive, for other things. To work on myself, on my life, on getting me the real lasting things I wanted, not the instant gratification. The instant gratification that left me desolate, lonely, hollow, half the time. And the other half, left me attached to the object of my lust, falling in obsessive love for short bursts, thinking of nothing and no one but them until it burst and I went back to rudderless horniness. I wanted out, but I assumed I’d never be out, because I’d been like this since I was a teenager. It was how my brain had grown. Sex was the fulcrum. Sex was the monastery around which my brain had grown, sex was the old roads that couldn’t be widened any more, because the buildings were built there, sex was the reason everything was laid out as it was. Sex ran through my reasons for everything. I imagined ripping out the thing that had defined me for so long, and what would be left? Sex is who I am. By saying I was tired of meaningless sex… was I forgetting all the beautiful, meaningful sex and moments of passion I’d shared with men who, no, had not loved me, but they had, maybe, for a moment. I resided, just a piece of me, in the memories of so many men. All so different. I didn’t have a type. I had shared intimate, very intimate moments with men of all walks of life, of… well, not all ages, but a wide range anyway. I treasured the experiences. I had taken chances and opened up, and taken things, tiny things, from every man I’d given something to. Was that wrong, or harmful, or the very best part of me? Would I just be dulling myself, skimming the cream off the top because I couldn’t handle the ill effects? Was I just afraid I wouldn’t meet someone perfect, because I was slumming it? Wouldn’t the right person for me be slumming it too, waiting for the real thing? 

Ah. But there was a problem, I was forgetting it, the problem was I spent most of my time depressed from lack of sex, the rest of the time either high on sex or anticipating being high on sex. It was exhausting, draining, and it wasn’t making me happy. 

I googled sex addiction. I found a group in Dublin, Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous. I contacted them. Asked to attend a meeting. A man phoned me the next day, and gave me details of how to meet, because there was a pre-meeting first, to avoid revealing the location of the group to just anyone. I was going to attend. He sent me some pdf documents about the group.

I read a little and realised it was based on the 12 steps of Alcoholics Anonymous. The 12 steps, with the higher power step, where you have to admit there’s a higher power, or a god, and you can call it whatever you like but I’m not just an atheist, I’m totally anti-spiritual. I’m not going to sniff at what works for others, but in my personal opinion there’s not a whole lot of point in calling a psychological issue or condition or habit or addiction a “disease” and admitting you have no control over it. Maybe the point is to go to AA, or SLAA when you’ve tried everything alone, and come to the conclusion you have no control over it. But if you hope to get any help from a support group, which can’t give something up for you, what the hell use is admitting you have no control over it? I bristled at everything I read. I was still planning on going, because as righteous as I considered my opinions, I obviously wasn’t right at all, because I couldn’t stop myself from doing something what was frying me mentally, year after year, man after man.

But then the next day, typically, was a gorgeous day, and my friends were going to the river with a canoe, to drink gin and row and be reckless. So I called the sex addict man and wondered if he was attractive, and wondered if anyone at the meeting would be sexy, and I told him I wouldn’t make it today, and I would reschedule some time.

I never did.

Soon after I was horny and I thought who can I call, and I flicked through my phone book and saw name after name of people I’d slept with, people I could sleep with again, but nobody inspired any excitement, I just thought, yeah, I could… but why bother. Why slum it. Why give someone my time, my body, I felt like fucking, but I couldn’t bear to kiss anyone. I wanted to meet someone lovely, and sweet, and funny, and sexy. I didn’t want to suck a dick, much as I loved doing that, I just wanted someone to look at me and see everything, and I thought for the first time, really for the first time, something I’ve only ever heard or read with a patronising tone. 

I thought maybe I’m not letting anyone see the whole picture, because I keep shoving sex in their faces. I didn’t think “no one will respect me if I have sex with them straight away” or “maybe if I really like someone I should wait so I can see if he’s worthy of me” or “I should give it more value by withholding it”

I didn’t think women are different from men, and I should hide my sexuality. I just thought… I’m just LEAPING down their throats with sex. I’m expecting people to see I’m much more than that, but it’s all I’m really putting out there. I’m chasing men down and making the first move before I’ve given anyone a chance to see what they think. My friends don’t think I’m all about sex. I’m not all about sex. 

And I said, that’s it, I’m going to not have sex for a while. I’m going to take a break. I’m going to just… not give it up, exactly, because there’s nothing good on the horizon anyway, manwise. Just… I’m not going to go out looking for it. I’m not going to scan the party for a suitable penis carrier. I’m not going to fuck someone I don’t really feel like fucking just for the sake of it. I’m bored. I’m out.

That night, typically, I had sex. Very good sex, with a very nice, fun, attentive man, who made the first move because I didn’t give him any come on, and I left the next day thinking, that was great, that was better, and all because I didn’t try, and look how much better it felt. But how lousy I was at being celibate.

But THEN, I felt like everything I thought the day before, started to swirl around my head again. And settle into place. And I meant it, I felt like I wanted… to be free from sex for a while. And even though I had a dick in me a few hours earlier, I felt like I had snapped out of it. Like something clicked, I’d been going around on the same track for years, so long, all the time too bloody stubborn to accept that my own way of doing things that wasn’t making me happy, could possibly be the reason that I was unhappy in love and life and sex. I couldn’t, well, of course I couldn’t listen to anyone else. Their voices made the words sound accusatory. Their reasons for not fucking everything that moved, were kind of anti-feminist, anti-having any faith in men. Whenever I was told to hold off on sex, it was because men couldn’t respect a woman who was easy to bed, and because men wanted a nice girl, and because men had sex drives and women didn’t, and it made me angry, because that was all wrong. I’m not going to pretend I’ve had an epiphany, that I’ve changed my life forever, that I’ve got it all figured out.

The last time I had sex was nearly a month ago. Not that long a stretch, I’ve gone longer before, I swear. 

But the difference is… for the first time since I can remember, I haven’t been obsessing, I haven’t been scanning the people on the bus for faces I’d kiss, and I haven’t been flicking through my phonebook for names I’d revisit. 

And I haven’t felt empty of like I’ve lost my centre. Sex isn’t gone from me, but it’s not fast food, and I’m not looking for it. I got a message from the guy… oh, I don’t know if I ever wrote about him here. But I met a guy nearly a year ago online, and eight months ago we met and had amazing sex, and did some kinky stuff, and he lives in the UK so kept up a long distance thing, that sort of trailed off, but he was going to come back and we were going to meet, and man, that was great sex. And I liked his company, too. He was funny, and interesting. So of all the people to tempt me, someone I could definitely justify sleeping with as he’s not fast food sex and he’s not something bad for me, he’s pretty much as good as it gets. 

And he wrote to me and said he’s coming over this weekend, and I happen to be house sitting for a week and have a house to myself, and he could come over tomorrow and see me and we’d have all the privacy we could want. But I don’t want to. I have no interest. And this is pretty fucking big, for me.

So… I think I’ve made some serious headway towards something. I can’t do anything to hurry up my meeting someone great, but I think if I can fill up my life, with other things, with things that don’t just explode and fade to nothing, and be happy with myself like this, then I won’t need that person to show up so soon. And when I do meet someone wonderful and worthwhile, then I’ll be so much better placed to act and to let them see the things I want them to see. And maybe I’ll fuck them right away. And if they’re the right kind of person, that shouldn’t make any difference. But perhaps I’ll settle down by myself for a while, and see what happens. It’s not like I’m making some huge effort- perhaps I’m just going through a phase- but I really hope I’ve grown out of something that is rarely great for me. Being rampantly sexually active hasn’t all been bad. I’ve had LOTS OF FUN and fallen in love more times than I can count, and had great experiences and met great people in weird and wonderful ways. But the mental thing, more often than not, fucks with me, because I’m not unromantic, and I’m not able to separate sex from emotions. 

I feel pretty good, right now. Really good. So that’s probably more navel gazing than anyone wants to read, but I feel so hugely different lately, I just wanted to record it. Maybe if I go back to my old ways, it’ll serve to remind me how I felt, and put me back in this frame of mine. So for that alone, I’m hitting publish.

I just really hope this no sex thing doesn’t make me fat.

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.

http://dominantsoul.wordpress.com/self-understanding/alpha-submissives/

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.

G’night

NEXT DAY UPDATE:

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.

 

My first real date and my foray into online whatever it is-ery

I went on my first online date the other day.

I’m not really looking for anything right now- my head’s full of problems and resolutions, life changing decisions and life avoiding hangovers. The last thing I need is a boyfriend, and for the first time in my life I really mean it. 

I’ve sworn off men countless times, like the halfhearted alcoholics swear off the booze every morning they wake up with a sense of having gone a little two far the night before.

I’ve never sworn off drink because I won’t even insult my own intelligence with that kind of clearly bullshit declaration.

But men… probably bolstered by a long talk with a girlfriend where we expand upon the myriad reasons men are shit and we are strong independent women they could only possibly reject because we are TOO intelligent and TOO interesting for them to handle. They’re intimidated, we say. They want a dumb bimbo to make them feel like men. You deserve someone special, we both deserve someone special. If only vaginas weren’t so gross and complicated…

And I say I’m sick of them, I’m done with men… wait until someone special comes along.

And two weeks later I’m in the arms of someone making excuses for him while our skin cools. 

Putting him high up on a pedestal where my standards can’t reach and examine his dandruff of a personality.

 

But this time I felt all the cynicism of my past few years condense into a pure solid truth.

I’m sick of men. 

Yes, some day, meet someone great, yes, sure, whatever.

Some day.

But for now? No thank you. I don’t need the headfuck.

But I have this profile on a dating site, I made it when I was in France. I used it as my own personal ego booster.

Every day I’d wake up sick of men, and every day I’d check my fan mail.

Sure, it’s mostly “hey sexy what u at baby xxx lol ;)”

And some of it is “Id fuck de arse off u”

And some of it is less appealing all together..

But I have one nice photo up there and I get a constant stream of impersonal compliments that tide me over while I’m at home in the middle of nowhere, without even a couple of builders to walk past and make me feel like an attractive woman. 

Sad, yes, I know. But effective! 

I just check my mails… I reply to some of the nicer ones. Not nicer looking… they’re all pretty low rent. But some are sweet. I reply graciously, get into the odd conversation, and then make excuses when they offer to meet for coffee.

Some get angry. No reply for a day? “WHAT A SHAME I THOUGHT WE HAD SOMETHING YOU’RE JUST LIKE THE REST OF THOSE GIRLS I MEET I THOUGHT YOU WERE SPECIAL YOU’RE OBVIOUSLY NOT.”

Some I consider meeting, and pore over their photos. You just can’t tell, though. Photos are weird.

One day I clicked like on someone because he had a nice smile and a casual, friendly profile. He liked me first, I just felt like returning the compliment. No interest in a date, not really feeling that way right now as I said.

I’m off men.

Except for this guy I’ve been fucking, but that’s just… excercise.

 

Anyway, this guy writes to me, friendly, nice, interesting. Like me, a kind of multicultural mix and non-standard background. He asks me for a coffee… I say, sure why not.

Because I’m bored and why not? Anyway I’ve never been on a date.

So we fix a time, I make it in way too early. Walk past Topshop and see a sign for sales… I shouldn’t, because I’m broke, but I’m way too early and shopping feels right. Imagine going shopping for underwear and having this stranger on my date ask to see what I bought and me say just underwear, and then he might think I’ve bought special underwear for the date, like a freak… I wonder if he’s weird? Mightn’t he be really weird? We did meet online….

I’m sidetracked by the dresses on the sale rail. Pick up a handfull of things that are too big or small and still too expensive anyway. As I make it to the dressing room I find out they’re closing and I can’t try anything on. Good. That was close…  

I’m at the bar first, and I’m suddenly hyper aware of my posture, my arms, what I’m doing with my coat and my handbag. What if he’s weird. What if he’s ugly. What if he poached those photos from someone’s facebook page and now I’m about to be accosted by some middle aged ugmo… What if he thinks I look nothing like my photo. Am I underdressed? Is my coat too serious? Am I flashing too much leg?

I’m jerking my limbs around trying to get into a casual pose for when this guy appears. I’m doing a crossword at the table outside. He’s not a smoker, but I make the decision to smoke anyway because come on, I don’t even WANT a man, it’s just a casual meeting. No need to change things about myself for someone I haven’t even met and don’t really even want to meet any more. I’m feeling so uncomfortable and considering getting up and running away.

He arrives suddenly. “ABBY? Abay?” 

“Abby.”

“Is it you?”

“Yes… it’s me.”

Suddenly the whole thing is weird. It’s like a job interview but we’re in public and it’s a job interview not for an unemployed person and a company needing assistance, but for two people who can’t get dates on their own.

Not that I am one. But this is my first real date. So yeah, count me in that category.

He doesn’t look… his photo had this big warm boyish smile. He looks more tired, more… maybe it’s an older photo. 

His accent is kind of strange. He seems like someone I would maybe be friends with but not… 

I’m afraid by smiling at him and being warm and friendly I’m going to give him an impression I’m interested. 

Then I remember I’m not required by law to sleep with anyone I smile at, and decide to be nice and friendly and let HIM deal with the rejection he’ll get if he tries anything, instead of my preventing it with a condom made of bitchiness.

I’ll just be nice. Maybe we can be friends?

He sits down and starts talking. “Were you waiting long? Do you want a coffee? Oh, you have one… I want a coffee. Do you want a beer? I’ll get us two beers.”

I sit there while he gets us two beers. I’m embarassed. What am I doing here meeting a stranger, I’m attractive enough to meet someone in real life without putting all my hopes and dreams and sexual preferences into a questionaire first. 

We drink our beers, he’s very chatty. As chatty as me, even. We talk about ourselves, our hopes, our dreams. He’s cold… we go inside. 

I want to stay outside and smoke but like most smokers in the presence of a non smoker, I’m keen to pretend I don’t actually need or want to smoke, I can take it or leave it, it’s just this thing I do sometimes and nowhere near as often as I really do.

We go inside but every table is angled towards a massive flatscreen tv showing sports.

Do we want to go somewhere else? Yeah, actually… I have a bar in mind. But it’s a bit far…

I tell him I have two places in mind, one is close and nice, but the further one has this drink I love. 

We’re going there, he says.

We walk to this bar I really like. It’s not very well known, and as he’s foreign (but of an English speaking nation) I feel sort of like I’m fulfilling my role as a local by taking him some place a little less obvious.

The bar is cosy and there’s a smoking area that’s just as warm and pretty to sit in.

We sit outside and he sits on the bench beside me. He has one of my rollies. I feel bad for corrupting him, I say, but really I’m delighted to not have to feel so shit while I smoke and he doesn’t. 

I introduce him to my favorite drink. He’s not a big drinker, but he loves my drink. 

We talk about science. Physics… we each have some little physics fact to teach. He’s an educated person, and I’m not. It feels good to have some bits of interesting knowledge to share with someone clever. It’s intimidating being around a clever man, I’m not often in this position and I don’t often feel humbled by someone’s intelligence. But it feels good. I have just as much to talk about as he does, and I loosen up. As we talk we find we have a lot in common. I’m really enjoying talking to him and I’m studying his face, thinking, yes… he is attractive. He’s attractive when he laughs and smiles. 

He starts to get tipsy from the two beers, and it’s a turn off. I can handle my drink, and a man who can’t… it feels a bit embarassing. Especially in Ireland, it’s stupid but it starts to make me tense up again.

He leans in to kiss me and I stop him. 

Sorry, I’m just… I don’t like pdas. It’s nothing personal, I just don’t like to kiss people in public.

Ok, I just don’t care what people think…

It’s not that. I just feel weird… I come to this bar quite a lot. I’m sure no one is even looking but it makes me feel awkward.

Ok, I understand… I don’t want to make you feel awkward.

He tries again later but I’m just really enjoying talking to him. I don’t want to ruin it with sloppy half drunk kissing in my bar.

I say no. I start to check my phone. The last train home is in an hour and a half. And then I have a long walk…

I mention the last train. 

No reaction. He says he’s feeling pretty drunk, he hasn’t drank anything in ages. 

He wouldn’t let me pay for any drinks so far, and we’ve had three or four pints each maybe.

I’m a tiny bit tipsy. Tiny bit. I’m kind of embarassed that he’s drunk after this little. I drink a lot faster too…

He asks if I’m feeling at all drunk. I tell him I probably am drunk, and that I get to this point where I’m convinced I’m sober but really I’m not.

I go to the toilet and trip over the bin in the ladies. Ah, I guess I am a bit drunk. This makes me feel better about him.

Back at the table I tell him I must be more drunk than I thought. But still I am sober enough to know I have to get the last train.

He offers me to come back with him. He only lives a little bit away, and we could watch a movie.

He’s such a generous, sweet, non threatening guy (seemingly anyway) that I think, fuck it…

I don’t care. I can always not sleep with him if I’m not into it.

We get a taxi back to his place and he apologises profusely for his house. It’s just temporary, he says. 

I don’t care. 

He has nothing to drink except some tequila. I drink most of the tequila and feel myself catching up a little in drunkeness.

Outside we share a cigarette and he grabs my face and kisses me. He’s a great kisser. I’m really enjoying myself and enjoying his company. He’s a great, great kisser. We pull apart and grin at each other through the haze of drink.

I didn’t think of him as someone who might be up to my standards sexually, but that’s a great kiss.

 

We go up to his room and he apologises for his room and I wave it all away, I don’t care. It’s sparse enough, not many personal effects. All his stuff is in his friends’ houses. He points to clothes in his wardrobe and says he didn’t want to wear anything too fancy on a first day. Didn’t want to give too eager an impression.

I look down. I’m wearing a skater skirt and t shirt tucked in. I look pretty nice but it’s casual for a night out.

Me either. I didn’t want to dress up too much. We giggle at the fact that we met online. I finish my tequila sitting on the edge of his bed. He puts on music and asks if it’s ok he takes off his jeans. I shrug, I don’t care.

He takes off his jeans and jumper and gets on the bed beside me. We sit cross legged facing each other and talking, and then we kiss and it’s passionate as fuck and he crushes his body against mine and pulls off my clothes and his hands are all over me and it’s all totally unexpected from this mild mannered guy who I spent all night talking to about science and growing up in the countryside. 

We fuck.. and it’s intense. He’s rough but respectful, he fucks the shit out of me but it’s not the woman-hating kind of fucking. He knows exactly what he’s doing and again I’m surprised by him, he seemed so romantic and not the kind of guy to press his hand on a woman’s throat while fucking her relentlessly. 

But he does it all very well. Just the right side of scary rough. He slaps me hard on my ass and squeezes me everywhere tightly and it’s absolutely exactly the righ amount of everything. 

We do it again and again that night. Falling apart drenched in sweat. Snuggling up together, his hands tracing gentle patterns across my body, whispering secrets and memories. I’m so happy and comfortable there with him.

He’s good to talk to. He likes my stories. We’ve done totally opposite things in our lives- he’s doing his second degree, and it’s in a very difficult subject. I’ve been married, I’ve been here and there and living life like a computer game character with endless save points. But we have a lot to talk about.

We fuck again, again, and again. At some points he can’t stay hard with a condom on and I protest but the let him inside naked just for a second even though I know it’s not just a second, it’s so good without a condom, oh fuck it’s so good, that’s amazing… but no, oh, no, stop, you can’t, seriously, stop. 

I stop him and make him put on a condom. And then sometimes it’s amazing and sometimes he can’t stay hard. I don’t care because I know that night is an all you can eat buffet of sex and the only thing that matters is we don’t run out of condoms.

And speaking of all you can eat, he really did treat me to some excellent times. I could tell I wasn’t going to cum, skilled as he was, because I just wasn’t able to, sometimes I can, sometimes I can’t. But I thought I’d fake him a nice courtesy orgasm because that’s what I do, otherwise they’ll just keep at it until they get sick of it and I’d rather never have a man get bored down there. So I did one of my finer, more elaborate productions for him and he just ignored it. Huh.

Eventually I told him to stop, put on a condom and fuck me, and so he did. After he came, and wow, he came noisily and with gusto, he flung me back on the bed and went down again. Because he wanted to taste me again, he said.

We did this all night. At 7am his alarm went off and we decided to go to sleep for a while. He was supposed to get a flight at 10 but he said, (I suspect he’s rich) that he hadn’t booked it yet and could always get another flight.

I tossed and turned for hours and woke him several times. At 12 we woke up properly and lay with our limbs entwined. I played with his hair far too affectionately for someone I’d only met. He stroked my body and told me I had a perfect body. I said oh, I feel like I’ve got a bit flabby since I’ve been unemployed. He said, “what are you talking about, you’re perfect. This is what women’s bodies are supposed to be like.”  We talked about everything and nothing.

We had sex again. Then we found ourselves playing with each other, and playing with ourselves at the same time. We both came although a little out of sync. He marvelled at the fact that he was able to do that with a stranger.

“We just met last night… isn’t that crazy?” he said.

“On the internet” I replied.

“No, don’t say that…”

“Ok, in real life. If anyone aks, you’re my friend from real life.”

“Right. That’s what we’ll say.”

We finally got up because we were so thirsy despite cup after cup of water. Every time I said I was thirsty he got up and went downstairs and brought me back a cup. This, alone, is the most gentlemanly  behaviour I have ever encountered. Sad, huh…

We got dressed. Downstairs he stood in the kitchen making coffee. As I entered the kitchen via three little steps in the doorway, I sat down. 

“I like that there are steps here.”

“I like you in my kitchen… So I can look at you. You’re beautiful”

We grinned at each other like two kids about to get dessert.

He had to go into town to get his bike and eat something… Did I wanna come? I said sure. I had to get a train home anyway.

I worried… this is some guy I’ve just met, and I’m weird about things in public. How is it going to be in my home city, walking around in daylight with this guy…. I hope he doesn’t hold my hand.

There in his kitchen I could kiss him passionately and hold his body against mine and think of how lovely his dick was, the first time in ages I’ve come across one with a proper natural bush… nothing excessive, but definitely not trimmed. Just soft and springy and not intrusive like I would have expected. The last guy I was with had shaved his and it wasn’t pleasant…

But I didn’t want to go outside with him and have our intimacy on display. I guess my line about being weird in public wasn’t an excuse not to kiss him, but a legitimate issue for me.

I’ve always had it really, but then I usually don’t walk around with guys in daylight anyway. I usually just bring them home and kick them out.

And they very rarely ask me to go for lunch or anything, they would probably bring me home and kick me out too.

We got the bus into town together and he insisted on paying for the bus for me too.

We walked around, he chose a fairly pricey place and we sat down and ordered.

We had been talking about steak on the bus and so I had a steak sandwich, it wasn’t one of the most expensive things on the menu though, I wasn’t being as my mother would say “cheeky.” I watched him and thought about the things he said last night, and thought he doesn’t dress expensively, he doesn’t seem interested in money, but he clearly does come from money and he certainly has enough of it not to have to worry. He bought me lunch, we talked easily and lightly, and then he walked me to the train station where I finally got to treat him, because we went for a coffee and there was a minimum charge to use a card.

He said he wouldn’t make me awkward by kissing me goodbye but he’d be back in December to continue his studies (he’s doing a final year) and he’d love to see me again. “Don’t forget about me while I’m away…”

He said we could kiss like the french, one on each cheek, and he’d write to me sometimes.

At this point, I was a little bit smitten.

The sex was unreal, to start with, and the conversation was stimulating and positive and interesting. He gave me compliments, good ones. And he was generous and thoughtful… 

So there. He’s gone for nearly two months, but he’ll be back. 

I have no idea how much of my interest is because of the sex and… the possibility that he’s rich….

But it was a great night, a great afternoon, and I feel very unsure of myself now.

Also I have this strong suspicion that he’s completely lying to me about everything and it’s all a big massive play of some sort. Or that I’m just so damn bored right now and so unused to an intelligent, generous man, that I just totally got overeager.  

But that could be entirely because of the last guy I got all smitten with who was totally playing me. I’ll tell you about that guy soon. It’s a good story. I’m just too tired of typing now. 

But anyway. Whatever happens, or does not, guess what happened?

My dream came true. I got a man to buy me steak, and he didn’t even get in my pants because of it. He had already got in my pants then so the steak was not necessary. Result! 

And I’ve faced my fear of dating.

Consider the new year christened

Christmas wasn’t the best.

But there was new year.

Antoine invited me to spend it with his friends in his small hometown about 2 hours away. I wasn’t sure about it.. I wanted to see him, fuck I wanted to feel him, but I didn’t want to get a train to hang on his arm, to meet a bunch of younger people who wouldn’t believe I just came here on my own and by coincidence found myself right next to him. But my friends had mostly gone home or gone away for the holidays and of course I wanted to see him.

I knew as soon as he invited me, that I’d be there with him at midnight feeling weak and conflicted but that I’d be there.

I made myself consider it, consider my options, mull it over, although the decision was made as soon as he asked.

I took the train on the 31st and a bus after that. I snuck a peek of my face in my hand mirror, embarassed to be checking myself out in public. Because I felt insecure and inadequate, and the other passengers would surely know. I looked tired from all the Christmas drinking, bloated from all the eating, and I had a couple of little spots on my chin because I would be getting my period (hopefully not tooo soon)

I felt pathetic, 25 years old, a marriage behind me, travels and jobs and parties and wilderness and so much trial and error, all leading to this, following a younger guy back to his parents’ town, to spend the new year of my new life in someone else’s world with someone else’s friends.

I got off the bus and my skirt was short for a small town (short for France, even) and a young, attractive black guy at the bus stop looked me over and drew in a whistling breath through his teeth and said Ooh, la la… and something like mon dieu. I looked away embarassed about my skirt but grateful for any kind of boost…

And I saw Antoine in the distance, walking towards me all lazy confidence, limping a bit because he twisted his ankle recently. He kissed me and said I’m so happy you came. I missed you.

He showed me around his town, immune to the clusters of drunk creeps, because he grew up a tall man, so he doesn’t feel the same sense of danger or intimidation that I do. Walked right into a group of these guys to show me the view of the river and the town perched romantically on its banks. The guys started saying stuff to us, he answered, they were clearly very interested in me and if I had been with anyone less tall and French I would have been scared. He answered them and they asked me something and I didn’t really understand so I just said I don’t speak French. They threw a few more jocular comments his way, I think they were complimenting him on his slutty looking foreign acquisition, but maybe I’m just being paranoid-egotistical.

He has no idea of the danger-filter I see the world through.

We left and walked elsewhere, and then drove back to his place.

There was nobody there, the house was empty, everything was built big and tasteful. He showed me his childhood photos on the walls without embarassment. He showed me his brothers and sisters, he poured me a glass of cognac and told me we could drink it up in his bedroom “not to do anything… but because we can smoke there”

I thought the prefix “not to do anything” kind of idiotic, because we have made love so many times and of course we were going to do it again, and again, and again, so I was hardly going to accuse him of moving too fast. But that’s what he’s like. He hates the distasteful, the tacky, the vulgar. I love vulgarity, but I guess I do also appreciate the lack of it in a man.

We went upstairs and drank the cognac and put on some music and then we made love and I thought every time is different, every time it gets somehow better. What I love is that when he comes he doesn’t turn aggressive, not even for a second. He thrusts more violently, faster, harder, sure, but all the while he kisses my neck, my face, so gently and so tenderly. Even if I don’t come too…….. it feels perfect. Afterwards he kisses and kisses me, and I couldn’t imagine any words telling me more about love than those times together.

There was one thing lacking when we were together in Ireland. He wasn’t really comfortable with oral. He tried a few times but I didn’t get a feeling of him actually wanting to do it, so I would pull him back up… I couldn’t relax if I didn’t think it was really an expression of passion or desire. But this time…. well, either he’s had some practice elsewhere (don’t really want to think about that) or else he’s made a conscious decision to do it… or maybe he’s just grown more comfortable with me.

Either way, it was perfect.

He asked me what I was going to wear, which was odd for me because men don’t usually seem to consider or take an interest in the process of getting dressed. They usually watch, bemused, as I fling outfits around scowling and cursing my lack of black high heels or how I just don’t have anything to wear. I showed him one dress, a short one with a sexy lace back. Maybe a bit too slutty for meeting his friends? He ran his hands over my body and kissed me and I sucked in my stomach because that dress is a bit unforgiving. Then I showed him another dress, a more grown up dress, classier. He told me he liked the first, hotter one better but it’s my choice. I wore the first dress.

He brought a big mirror into the room for me to use. His younger brother came home for a while and I was introduced to my first member of his family. Then he left and we made love again and took a shower together. He always wants to shower together, and he wanted to fuck me in the shower which I guess he’s never done so he doesn’t know how disappointing it is. He’s too tall, though, so we couldn’t. There was a plastic step in the bathroom that we considered using but I was afraid it would slip and he might not catch me with his bad ankle. I promised we’ll do it some time…

In the car he told me in his always carefuly chosen words, that he was proud to introduce me to his friends. Of course I couldn’t just take the sentiment, I had to say something stupid. So I said “oh, are they really cool friends?” and then I retracted it and said “sorry.. so you’re proud?” and he said yes, and I kissed his hand.

I felt sad because we both know it’s not going to last. Normally at this stage in a relationship, and actually I’ve never felt so passionately with anyone… not so consistently, anyway, but normally at the intense-passionate honeymoon part, you imagine it lasting forever or wanting it to anyway.

And fuck, I’m in love with his physical presence, with his body, with how he looks at me, with how he gets hard in a split second if I kiss him, how all he has to do is touch me and I want him, how we fit so well… I’m in love with waking up with him, with falling asleep touching as much of my body off as much of his. And then we both know it can’t last, it won’t last, and sooner or later there will be the pain again. If we take it day by day it’s beautiful, utter turmoil turned into complete peace. And then when I think of the day after and the week after and the month and year and where is it going, it hits me hard and I can’t bear it. Feeling like this should come with hope, enough hope to make it light and giddy. But it’s not light, it’s heavy around us. It’s not giddy, it’s serious, it’s finite. I lie on his chest afterwards and his heartbeat counts down to the last time I lie there.

And just when I wind the consequences, the strings of possibilities around in my mind trying to find an end to pull on…. his thumb is there tracing the line of my jaw and his eyes are soft and his lip between my teeth and all I can do is pull him to me, inside me, and there’s the peace again.

What do I do with that?

We spent new year together with his friends and I held my own, I was interesting and nice, I was funny and energetic, I drank champagne and was jealous when he spent so long talking to the girl with the massive cleavage but I held back and let him come to me, let him find me having a good time with other people, living up to his expectations, I hope.

At the end of the night he took my hand and we had our own room and the champagne and the desire from spending hours together but not alone, gave us a wild, brutal session. I woke up so sore and so much in love, and again and again and again. And back in his place we made love and showered and he packed a bag and we took the train together back to my place. My flatmate was gone as it turned out, for the next 3 days, but we didn’t know so we kept to my bedroom.

It was incredible. I had the best time of my life, in that bedroom. I didn’t imagine it could be stronger than before but fuck, I’m lost. He told me he didn’t know how long we would last, but it’s wonderful. I was sad but felt the same. The doom over it all and the openness we have about it, seems to have brought us closer. The sex is never the same, never dull, never boring. Even in my most passionate affairs before, there always came a time when I just wanted to guy to come already because I started to get bored or sore or feel disconnected from the rutting animal who took over from my lover. Or where he’d touch me and I’d feel nothing, and not be in the mood, or when I’d touch him and he’d say not now, we don’t have time before we go to the cinema/party… etc.

But not with Antoine. We spent 5 days together, condom wrappers like confetti in my bedroom. We went to the cinema and restaurant and I took him to my favorite wine bar and we wrote a nonsense story together on a scrap of paper in French and English, and he insisted on paying most of the time.

After 5 days I’m glad he’s gone to visit his friends now, and then back home, I need some time to myself but I wish he was here nonetheless. We didn’t get sick of each other, we didn’t wake up a single morning without being ready for more, we didn’t fall asleep a single night without it being a true collapse from exhaustion. In the 3 days we spent in my place, he lost 1.5 kilos and I lost 2 kilos.

If only he stayed 3 more days I would be back at my ideal weight.

And now I have to find a job, find an apartment… find one with a double bed.

And do something with all these fucking thoughts.

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.

Ahh.

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.

Anyway.

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”.

BASTARD!

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…

“NO! I WILL BRING THEM!”

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…”

WHAT DOES THAT MEAN?

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.

STOP fucking OBSESSING ABOUT HOT BARMAN!

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.

But.

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.

Right.

Good luck with that…

And Saturday is ST PATRICKS DAY.

Wonderful.

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

Ach.

Hangover day.

Urgggghhhh.

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?

No..

Yeah exactly.

Oh.

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.”

“YES. I KNOW. WE ALL HATE CONDOMS.”

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.”

SHUT UP DUDE.

“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.

“DONT GO THROUGH MY STUFF! I’LL FIND YOUR FUCKING SOCKS JUST STOP!”

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

I’m like “ITS A FUCKING PAIR OF SOCKS”

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.

SO FUCKING UNFAIR.

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.