When I was six or seven, I got a bike for Christmas. I don’t recall much about it, other than that it was almost certainly pink, that I spent a lot of time pimping it with plastic shit from packets of Frosties, and that by the end of the winter I was regularly in the habit of pedalling so fast that the stabilisers didn’t even touch the ground.
And then my dad took the stabilisers off.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
I had to canvas my uni friends today to establish what was in my Fresher’s pack. I can remember the good bits (two condoms: one ribbed, one extra strong, a sachet of lube, teabags) but the rest is hazy. Depending on who you ask, there may or may not also have been: a map, a packet of microwaveable pasta in Dolmio sauce, a pen, and a NatWest rubber in the shape of a pig.
I have no idea what happened to the contents of mine, but I do know what happened to Mark’s.
I snuck out of the office to fuck the boy on my lunch hour the other day, which, while I could write about it at length (there’s nothing quite like returning to your desk with a guilty secret and tits streaked with dried come), isn’t the main focus of this post. It is, however, related.
I once had an argument with my mum because I’m a massive defender of the need for chemistry in any relationship. She sees no reason why you wouldn’t ultimately settle down with your best friend if your best friend is romantically interested in you, you like them, and your life goals ultimately include things like a steady, monogamous relationship and children. I think there’s no way you should settle down with your best friend unless, in addition to all of the above, they also give you the horn.
So, there’s been a lot of talk about words and their ability to turn people on/off going around on Twitter the past couple of days, and (as ever) I have more I want to say on the topic, so this is the first of a couple of blog posts about sex and words.
Among the stranger conversations I’ve had in the past few days was one with my former boss, when I asked how things were going with her (relatively) new boyfriend.
‘Good, thanks’ she replied. ‘Except he’s a moody bugger and I can’t so much as do the washing up without getting smacked on the arse with a tea towel.’
I have *no* idea how we got there.
Sex blog (of sorts) 