I have a work crush: a tall, rangy, floppy-haired designer who wears skinny jeans and a pretty smile. He’s male model hot, sure, but more than that, I’m drawn in by what he’s good at – the fact that in an hour long meeting he can cover an A4 page with beautiful, intricate doodles a million miles away from my wonky hearts and stars. Every so often he pauses in his scribbles to pick up his mug, which, appropriately, is emblazoned with the slogan Hot Tot Tea. He catches my eye and I look down at my notepad and blush. I haven’t mastered the art of checking him out subtly yet.
It’s not my intention to give you blue balls
Last night, Laurie over at My Potential One True Love wrote this, about dating and being single. I liked it and it resonated, so I shared it on Twitter. Since setting this blog up, I don’t think anything I’ve tweeted has been retweeted so quickly and so widely. Clearly it’s not just me for whom it rings true.
If you read this blog regularly, you’ll know I don’t really date. I say I’m going to date, but in reality my patience levels with OKCupid are similar to those of an eleven-year-old boy with ADHD.
And here’s why.
Nice dress
Changing rooms in high street stores are shit.
They fall, broadly, into two categories: the Topshop type, boiling hot, with those little size cubes all over the dusty floor and a sales assistant who insists that anyone who accompanies you must themselves be carrying a Size 6 peplum skirt and a Size 18 poncho and the more upmarket type, à la Jigsaw, where sure, your boyfriend can sit on a comfortable chaise longue right outside, but the sales assistant is constantly flitting back and forth and no sooner would you have invited him in for a quick blow job in front of the mirror than she’d stick her head round the curtain to ask: ‘Did you see we have it in pink, too?’
It’s a shame, because boys give the best compliments on new clothes.
Diehard Sentimentalist
I’ve written before about why I write, in the sense of what motivates me to hit the keys, and why I chose erotica over, say, horror.
I haven’t written about why I write about the boy.
I’m not sure what he thinks my motivation is. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t think I’m driven by fairly honourable intentions, because more than once he’s asked ‘Why can’t you just keep a diary?’
What am I worth?
We don’t make a habit of money changing hands in the bedroom. But since he’s been abroad, it has been known to happen. Just a couple of times.
We’re standing by the bed, and he’s got that look in his eyes: the one that says he’s just about to pounce.
I glance up, catch his eye, and say ‘I need to get some cash for a cab to the airport.’
His smile turns wicked. He digs in the back pocket of his jeans for his wallet, flips it open and drops a couple of notes on the bedside table.
I watch, mock aghast.
Red or white?
There are two questions the boy knows there’s little point in asking me. The first is ‘Do you want to suck my cock?’ and the second is ‘What are you drinking?’
Red, white, sparkling or Rescue Remedy, if it’s grape-alcohol based, I’ll drink it. I have my preferences, obviously, but, I’m not, y’know, what you’d call fussy.
While thinking about this post, I did a bit of research into how often I mention wine. It gets some kind of reference in just under a quarter of my posts. So, yeah, it features heavily in my life, both as a single girl, and within my relationship with the boy.
Boy overseas
There’s a scribbled reminder to myself on my notepad at work. It says ‘Print boarding pass.’
In my 4pm meeting I draw a border round it, then another, then another. I’m running rings around it the way the boy runs rings around me.
In twelve hours time, there’ll be no more sleeps. Already, I’m no longer thinking about deadlines. I’m thinking about sucking his cock.
Wrong name
Every so often things get incorrectly labelled. ‘Basic sex,’ for instance, which is only basic in the way M&S three-for-a-tenner knickers are basic but also fan-fucking-tastic. Waitrose ‘Essential’ vanilla scented tealights. Michael’s penis in Judy Blume’s Forever, which affectionately goes by the name Ralph…
And the boy. Who is anything but.
We were sat outside a bar the other day, making good progress on our second carafe of wine, when the subject of his nickname came up.
Not a morning person
I want to like morning sex. Really, I do. I just *don’t*.
I’m an evening girl. I do my best work after work, my energy levels peak around 9pm and I prefer a nice glass of wine to a hot cup of coffee. I’m late *all the time,* but latest of all in the morning.
It’s not about Dave Benson Phillips …
I don’t do kinky blog posts, on the whole. Every so often, someone asks ‘Why ‘of sorts?’ Because you write about other stuff as well as sex?’
Partly. But also partly because I never thought I’d be able to pass this off as a real sex blog when it’s so vanilla compared to a lot of the blogs I read.
Sometimes I think Fifty Shades of Grey has a lot to answer for. Would I have described myself as submissive before I read it? Probably not. Looking back, I can see now that the majority of the erotica I returned to time and again featured submissive women, but it had honestly never occurred to me that I would define myself that way in real life – that was just what I happened to wank to.
Sex blog (of sorts) 