Another Day, Another Resolution

Well, like he said, what does it matter if we've both got it?

A Time For Quiet Reflection

First, some reassuring news from the Scientific Community: it has been proven that while Chlamydia can be transferred by most sexual practices, this does not include reading someone's blog. In fact, blogs remain one of the safest ways of having sex, both for the writer (the active partner) and the reader (the writer's bitch).

Second, let's not run away with the idea that I am suffering from the modern scourge, the evidence is very flimsy, and I will get back to you when I have seen the doc.

Third, being a responsible member of society (sometimes) I have resolved to refrain from anything sexy till all shred of doubt is removed. This allows me some quiet time, which I intend to put to good use by apportioning blame.

Let's assume for a moment that I am poxy: who is the immoral indiscriminate unclean bastard that gave me this thing? If you actually read my blog carefully, you'll know that my big talk is mostly just that, big talk, and I hardly ever sleep with anyone. Apart from the spree of Oct 2004 - Jan 2005, its just D D D as far back as you can see. Ever more extreme sexual episodes, but same blokey.

Let me just get my tweeds out, and make like Miss Marple.

Was it D? Nope he hasn't slept with anyone but me for at least 2 years. And even then she wouldn't put out because she didn't like his dog.

Was it Ade? Though he affects a rock'n'roll lifestyle, he doesn't get much action he reckons. I kinda remember him saying he didn't know how to act with a woman its been so long.

(Note: there's me thinking I'm a sex goddess and all these guys were desperate!)

Was it G? Ha ha ha ha ha ha don't think so

Was it R-Next-Door? As far as my drink-clouded memory goes that was a mainly oral experience. Can you get it that way? Anyone know?

Was it MD? Not unless you can get it by handing an old Penguin paperback to someone.

Was it Ian? Of course it fecking was. The dirty bastard.

I'm only joking. Though if I had to point my gnarled trembling pox-laden finger at someone, it would be him.

We'll see how it goes.

I am perversely thrilled (cheaply) by the idea of having to abstain from sex till I am given the all-clear. Perhaps I will suddenly become very gifted creatively or something. Nine tenths of my sex life is fantasy anyway, it kind of simplifies my life if the other tenth joins it.

Oooh one day, I must tell you in detail about my fantasy sex life. Next time, my darlings, as D is coming over to watch "The Truth about Female Desire" with me. Credit where its due, D has devoted his whole life to trying to determine what women really want in bed. As a youngun he took riding lessons after discovering that women became horny after sitting on a horse for half an hour.

Anyway - I digress as usual. He might storm off before it starts once he realises I'm not going to put out.

Speak to you soon
The Possibly Poxy But Still Promising
Dolores
XX

Oh, now I see....

After a lot of texting and talking last night and today I see what rattled D's cage. I am being forced to explore the shadowy hinterland to Sexual Ecstasy, a land filled with itchy bollocks, misery, fear and suspicion. In particular, I am face to face with the swampy regions of Chlamydia. Sounds pretty doesn't it?

D has been fretting over his itchy bollocks for 3 weeks and being a "Classic" style guy preferred not to mention this to anyone, including me. Instead he brooded on it and managed to generate the sort of high internal drama that always accompanies a worry that you will not share. His explanation went that the fact that I couldn't go out with him last night proved that I was sleeping with a series of horrible men which had caused me to contract syphilis which I then deliberately passed on to him in an attempt to kill him.

I looked up his symptoms on the Internet and became quite fascinated by what it could be. I was supposed to be furious with him and I was asking him "Wow! Got any discharge? Any internal willy pain? No? Changed your soap powder? "(as a matter of fact he had changed it ....about three weeks ago). The thrill of scientific enquiry took away the horror of what had happened. How cool is that? Cut me in slices, it says teacher all the way through.

After quite a lot of that, I did start to think it might be Chlamydia, for me, symptomless (as it is in over half of women) and in him, symptomatic (as in 70 - 90% of men). I resolved to go the doctor next week and get a test for this extremely fashionable STD. Of course, D needs to go even more than I do, but sometimes he is almost medieval and fears and mistrusts doctors.

As a point of fact, he fears and mistrusts everyone. We have talked a load about this in the last 24 hours. I won't go into details here, but I don't think it is his fault. When I first started texting him, I sent him a text with an 'x' on it, as in "See you later x". Later on, he asked me in a voice full of suspicion
"What was that 'x' for?"
"Its a kiss!"
"How is an x a kiss?"
"That's how you write a kiss. You never seen that?"
"Nope, never seen it"

What set of shitty circumstances would lead to a 39-year old never having seen an 'x' before in their lives? That tugged at my soft heart then, and it still does. Awww. For D, to make up for it

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Huh?

Check out this text I just got from D (spelling corrected)

"Well, its one excuse after another, week after week and I am fucked off with it. You're so cold towards me because you're seeing someone else I know. Also you have given me something and its itching and hurts when I piss so you've completely fucked it this time with me. Don't bother trying to talk to me, you're full of bullshit."

Here's what I did to provoke this outburst. I went for a long walk in a big wood with him and our dogs this afternoon. We sat at the bottom of a big beech tree and talked about stuff that had happened to us. He said he felt really relaxed and happy and he looked it too. I drove him home and he kissed me and we noticed that we had had a great time. And THAT WAS IT.

Apart from, he thought we should take my eldest boy out to hang round the Reading Festival this evening. I said that sounded cool but would need to check he was up to it, because boy all grumpy and knackered. When I got home, boy was indeed too grumpy and knackered so I texted to say that taking him out wasn't going to happen. And that's what I got in return.

Can't think of anything funny to say about this, off to stare moodily into the middle distance.

I Don't Just Shag Anything, You Know

Maybe I have given the impression that I will sleep with anything. That is SO not the case. For example, yesterday I met up with a man in a park and we played football with the children and we had a good laugh. He is heterosexual, friendly, funny, relaxed, good-looking, of shaggable age and full of beans. I swear I did not want to fuck him, and - he seemed not to want to fuck me!

To avoid any future confusion, I have written a screening questionnaire. The idea is that any potential shag bunnies can use it to rate their chances and perhaps work on areas in which they are not so hot.

The way it works is simple: for each question award 0 points for No, 1 for Not Sure and 2 for Hell, Yes!

The Questions

1. Are you a heterosexual male?
2. Are you 6 foot or more?
3. Do you smoke fags? (that's cigarettes, for our US pals!)
4. Is your hair a bit mad?
5. Do you tend to fall stupidly in love with inappropriate people?
6. Do you understand this way of thinking: That's disgusting, let's do it at once!
7. Could you physically lift me up? (I'm 10st 12, that's...errr...152 pounds)
8. Can you withstand fun being violently poked at you? Bonus point if you can give as good as you get.
9. Have you a dark side? (Not TOO dark, a faint suggestion of a troubled undercurrent will do)
10. Is your main goal in bed to get a woman begging for more?

Anything over 14 will get you a second interview, where you will be asked to dance to some club anthems, do an impression of Robert Plant and send dirty text messages against the clock.

Anyone scoring 17 or more may wish to contact me personally for a **FREE** more detailed analysis of their shaggability.

Bet you're wondering, who the hell does she think she is? Ha ha, I'll let you know when I figure it out.

XX

In Which I Hire A Ghost Writer

Imagine my amazement at discovering that normal people have been reading my blog. People I don't know, not just my besotted friends.

I mentioned this to Mystery Dude on MSN, and said how I felt pressure to write something good now that my readership has reached a new high. Now, as luck would have it, Mystery Dude is a talented writer, as well as being extrordinarily sexy. Though he has so far managed to resist my gorgeous self in real life, he cannot resist my blog and so is well familiar with the house style. I asked if he could dash me off a couple of blog entries, forgetting to mention that these blog entries should show me in a good light.

He's writing it now and it should appear any moment. Wow that man is fast.

Please note that noone has ever asked me to make my blog more explicit, I think that tells us more about MD's state of mind than yours, my sweet accepting other readers.


As I approached blobularity, I was given to muse upon my timidity. Why was I afraid to give earnest and much sought after information on my sexual performances, including, but not limited to, positions, parts and practices? And even were I able to discuss the aforementioned, would I then be able to use a graphic kind of language, the kind of language that my imagination gives vent to, but appears, for at least some of my correspondents, to be sadly lacking on this page? It's hurdle I must cross. Or is it? Why must I cross that hurdle? Why do I feel I must cross hurdles, except, perhaps, in that special way I have of crossing hurdles that enables me a certain frisson? Perhaps I should continue to let you fill in the blanks. And there is the mortality rate to consider should the male subjects of these monologues ever happen, simultaneously, to discover this page. Imagine the carnage! The streets flowing with blood (not mine) and tears! Alpha male after alpha male bludgeoning each other with whatever tools they could filch from Mystery Dude's tool box (who is standing by, shaking his head and drinking a cuppa he had to make himself and smoking a fag).

Of course, D has been completely obsessed with the size of MD's toolbox for some time, wondering what mysteries lie within. I'd call it jealousy, which is kind of sweet, except he goes on about hammers, screwdrivers and drills ad nauseaum, and forgets that the toolbox also contains other items without any sexual overtones - such as spirit levels, line levels, scrapers, tile nibblers, and so on.

Never once has MD said to me "Ello darlin', do you want to feel my circuit testers". Although... hmmm. Nibblers. And... actually - circuit testing. Would you like to test my circuits, big boy?

Anyway, J phoned last night to ensure that MD had gone - that he had finished his erecting, so to speak - as J too was becoming worried about the toolbox. Not that I'd mentioned the toolbox, but J had rightly inferred that there was a toolbox involved. Luckily, J seems less worried about the contents of the toolbox - but then perhaps his imagination isn't as fertile as D's.

Luckily, Ade was polishing his motorbike, and so never even knew about MD. Or the toolbox. I suspect, however, that Ade has his own toolbox full of shiny implements for performing the most delicate of manipulations.

So, imagine a triangle, ABC. Replace that with JDA. Now, where does G fit? Despite my attempts to make a triangle out of a square, G keeps popping out of the ether and, despite my desperate attempts to triangularise my life, insists on rhombozoiding it. What's a sex addict to do?

On The Blob

Women are all special and mysterious and in tune with the moon, you know. There are primeval rhythms pulsating within them. Their luscious bodies carry the ancient promise of fertility and the miracle of new life. In other words, for about 5 days out of every 28, they are on the blob.

At least, it used to be 5 days in every 28 but here's something the younguns won't know: when you pass 40 and start the harum-scarum slide towards the menopause, your periods often get closer and closer together(as your body attempts to shift the old stock of eggs reaching their sell-by date) , and more extreme (why more extreme? I don't know. Someone tell me) till it seems that all you are doing these days is menstruate gorily.

If I was a bit more sorted I could celebrate this affirmation of my feminity by lighting some scented candles and singing I am woman, I am strong. But I don't. Much more likely to sing Godammit, Not again.

I read that over a woman's lifetime, she spends approx 7 years attempting not to get blood on clothes and furnishings. Now, obviously, at 42 I don't have 7 years left, probably a few months. Nevertheless, with my current levels of burning need, I am forced to consider whether I can afford to throw away a few months of shagging opportunity.

I'll tell you what made me think about this. Yesterday morning my period started. Yesterday evening D came over so I could do his invoices and he could do me. But I didn't want to face the grossness of period sex. Men are generally handy to blame for an unhealthy attitude to something that is, after all, natural, beautiful, blah blah blah. I can't blame D though, as you can tell from this menstrual conversation that we have had several times:

D: Ah come on, take your clothes off
Me: I won't (sigh) I've got my period
D: So what?
Me: I am bleeding like a stuck pig
D: So what? Put a towel down
Me: No
D: Anyway, women are really horny when they've got their period

(This last line illustrates D's penchant for completely unfounded yet deeply held views. But that's not the point)

So in order to avoid the menstrual conversation, I didn't even tell D I had my period, choosing instead the much more childish option of being a complete bitch so he would go away and leave me alone. I have to say, he withstood this really well until I played the rather desperate card of insisting that I would never match up to his previous major girlfriend who he obviously loved a thousand times more than me because she was blonde. (Apologies to MD for using this crap technique)

After I rammed this point home with a sledgehammer for about half an hour, he gave up. D is a sweet fella and would beat me in an arm-wrestle, but I can whip his arse in an argument. After a few joints and 4 cans of Heineken, his only defence against my brilliantly constructed jibes is to sit with his mouth open, a giant question mark hovering above his head. There is a nasty dark part of me that gets a thrill out of doing this. A Cheap Thrill of course.

He left, muttering "It must be your time of the month or something"

This morning I woke up and thought about what I had done. Hopefully you start to forgive me here, because I was sorry and I phoned him to say I was sorry. Good thing for me that I did, as he had "the right hump" with me. A "right hump" is pretty severe on D's scale, ranking far above being pissed off. Sweet words were exchanged. It was nice.

So I am working on my bad attitude towards period sex, which stems, I suppose, from me failing to believe that any guy could find me attractive when oozing. There are also some side issues here about staining furniture.

I thought a good first step towards rehabiliation would be to bring up the topic in polite society. Which is what I have just done, polite readers. It wasn't so bad as all that, thank you for being there with me as I take my first faltering steps towards adult womanhood.

Love,
Dolores
xx

I'm So Tame!

I crave notoriety, though this could be tricky as I have to also remain completely anonymous, so that various men don't haul off and kill each other. So I joined a webring. There should be a link at the bottom of this page but it wasn't quite doing the right thing the last time I looked, its at http://h.webring.com/hub?ring=sexblogs

Last night, I put D off coming round so I could be over-excited about my new webring and read the works of my fellow bloggers. Well. There was me thinking I was raunchy. Raunchy like Mary Poppins! I couldn't raunch my way out of a paper bag!

I felt like it was my first day at big school, don't know where anything is and too shy to ask. I read lots of Debbie's Dirty Little Diary which was frank and unashamed and sort of beautiful. And then Lisa's Sex Diary which was hot. What is it with these American women? How come they can say pussy and cock and clit without batting an eyelash? I also have to point out, in a teachery way, that their spelling, grammar and turn of phrase are impeccable.

I spent ages wondering whether I need to raunch up my own blog or whether I should maintain my uptight English integrity and skirt round the mechanics of the outrageous filth I engage in when noone is looking. I think it would be liberating to write about sex in a graphic detailed way and would definitely be more commercial than the stuff I write now. On the other hand, you can only really talk in your own voice, and if your own voice can't get its tongue around pussies and clits and cocks, then that's how it is. Maybe I should build up to it by just saying one little rude thing in every entry. Cunt.

As I was pondering this question, I read some more sex blogs to help clear my mind. Before long, I didn't want to write about sex any more anyway. I wanted to do it.

D picked this moment to demonstrate his recent strangely obsessive behaviour by sending me a text saying "I hope he is worth it". (Sent, he claimed later, to provoke a response)

I responded right away with "Don't be a dick. If you think I have done you wrong, come round and spank me". Remember that I was cross-eyed with lust by now, and not in charge of my naughty texting fingers.

So he did. And when he arrived, what happened was this.......... (cut to shot of waves crashing on beach)

Impending Doom

Oh dear. The whole system is going to blow. Cracks are appearing, I'm trying to paper over them, but these suckers are not superficial. They are caused by extreme pressure on the serious faults in the massive bedrock of my utter twatty foolishness. No, I don't think that's over-stating it.

First, I am scared. J is here for the weekend and there is evidence of D all over the house. A 32-inch telly for starters, which he gave me. Can't say I got it off a skip. A giant expensive bunch of flowers delivered by Interflora. Would Jax really give me that for feeding the cat for a week? An Airfix model he put together. Yeah, like I did it. Most chillingly, in the week he turned up really drunk and upset, dumped me, left, came back and said he loved me more than life itself and I let him crash in my bed I couldn't wake him up in time in the morning and 2 of the kids saw him there. I'm not asking them to cover for me so I live in fear that they will say. I got in such a state about how to answer the question "So what's going on?" that I had a micro panic attack on the way to Tiny Tescos to buy some milk. Of course the question never came, J is even more frightened of it than I am. In theory, it would all be so much better out in the open but I'm too cowardly to face the actual quake.

Second, I am scared. D is scaring me. He is getting jealous & paranoid & clingy and going a bit mad and I dread what he might do. Every 24 hours I have to support him through a journey that starts with him light-heartedly suggesting we get together, sulking if I can't, nastiness "I can't be fucked with you any more, there is 2 much fun to had elsewhere", remorse, undying love, you name an emotion, its there. Last night ended with a 3 text whammy:
"Do you want me. Do you love me"
"Do you really love me, 4 me"
"Because if you did you wouldn't leave me alone like this"
I read those this morning and felt sad and rotten. He is suspicious, and you might think: smart fella to be suspicious. But he treated me so cruelly for such a long time, and only started this love thing because I left him to run round town being dysfunctional with Ian. This morning, though, any last urge to make him pay for the way he treated me trickled away. He's paid, in spades. I am way fond of him, but its getting to be a fecking nightmare and I know, I know, I know its all my fault for trying to be a sex siren. I don't know what to do, but whatever it is I should do, I definitely don't like it.

Third, I am trapped, in a great big sticky web of my own weaving. Ade came back from his travels with the chirpy news "I'm home!". Dear Reader, you will be astounded to hear that I have not responded to this text. When it came I screamed "NO! ADE, NOT NOW! YOU'RE LOVELY BUT FUCK OFF!". Silent internal scream, obviously. But so deep is the sickness within me that I was soon very tempted to reply. Sitting in my garden under the stars, laughing obsequiously at travel anecdotes, what a brilliant way to forget the very serious issues that blight my idiotic life. Also I have developed a slight fixation on the one time I did have sex with Ade. I really liked it. Well, it was possibly the second time, I can't recall what happened the night before, though our clothes were found strewn in improbable locations throughout his house. But, fantastic body, great big tool and cool wit notwithstanding, going to have to put Ade on hold for a bit.

So... what have I learned from this? I seem hell-bent on not learning anything. Look! There I am! Fingers in ears going la-la-la really loud. Oh what's she doing now? Look, she's plunging her head into a bucket of sand!

Need proof? Ages ago, G persuaded me to join this thing: http://sms.ac.uk . And then a few nights later I was bored and filled in my profile, playfully choosing every personality attribute available. So that I am:

• Adventurous
• Artistic
• Attractive
• Confident
• Cuddly
• Easy-going
• Funny
• Gentle
• Independent
• Intelligent
• Outgoing
• Patient
• Romantic
• Shy
• Spontaneous
• Supportive
• Wild
• Witty

I also said I enjoyed every activity known to humanity.

Since then I have been bombarded by requests from men in their late forties who want to be my friend. "Don't think so, loser!" I crow as I delete their messages. But guess what, this really cute guy from Ireland wants to be my friend. Before I can gather the strength to knock him into touch, I am chatting to him on msn and making flirty jokes and all that same old shit. Yeah, but he's funny and he's cute.

Once again, an off-puttingly long blog entry. Will try and do some short ones next time to attract the punters.

Night, select readership
XX

I Come At A Price

I am paying dear for my lifestyle choices today. I was having sex with D till 3:30 this morning, then I had to get up at 8 to take the dog to the vet. Last night I was funky and vibrant and who cared what time it was, but look at me now! My back is aching, I need a Zimmer frame to walk, I've gone all slack-jawed and can only answer "Huh" to the simplest question. All I want to do is have a warm bath and have someone read me some nice poetry. But no, instead I must go and scrape some layers of filth off the house.

And hark! My children are having a fight!

Laterz
XX

Domestic-Erotic

That was kind of a great day and the icing on the cake: I think I've discovered a whole new fetish.

The weather was beautiful today and D was hanging around my garden for ages drinking tea. In a fit of pseudo-Catholic guilt I was trying to complete an overly demanding list of chores. But being a Visionary rather than a Completer-Finisher, I can never be arsed to do anything properly. So its like, go North 10 paces, sweep 1 square metre of patio, take 3 steps east and pull a bit of bindweed off a rosebush, slide to left, tug ineffectually at a dandelion, suddenly veer west and pick up a crisp wrapper, stand still and complain about price of food in Waitrose. You get the picture. Pottering.

When I started this parody of gardening, D was trying to get the wings of my son's Airfix model Spitfire to set at the right angle. But before long, D is sitting alone at the table, smoking a roll-up, and looking at me with that admiring half-smile I know so well.

"This is turning you on, isn't it?" I asked, amazed. "Yeah", he says, "Come round and do my garden. Wearing a towel. And special gloves"

Now that's odd isn't it? But I think I can see where he's coming from. Because yesterday, he banged some nails into my shed in order to hold the ladder against the roof so I could fit in the chest of drawers I'd just made him go and swipe from a skip. I watched him and said "I love to see a guy with a hammer". He replied, completely serious, "The hammer is my favourite tool". Now that's cute.

So I wonder if there's lots of us, getting off on watching other people do the washing-up and other mundane tasks. I wonder if there's a word for it. Maybe there's forums and self-help groups. Will do some research.

So...when did this all start exactly?

I can't usually blog when I feel low like this, butI'm going to try and blog through the pain and come out the other side all clean and pure. Like those lucky Catholics get to do in confession. I always fancied Catholicism as a religion. Go tell someone you've done A, B and C, and they instruct you to say D, E and F and then you're back on track. (I expect there is more to it than that). The Catholics wouldn't have me though, as I would have great difficulty believing in God, not having been raised that way.

I've been taking a long hard look at myself today, and refusing to meet myself in the eye, and flushing red and rubbing the toe of my shoe into the ground and saying "Stop staring at me you arsehole".

I wondered how I turned out like this. I like to propagate the myth that I was just fine till I hit 40. Only then did I start trying to have a frisson with nearly every man I meet. The frisson ranges from a harmless bit of banter to a wrist-slashing orgy of passion and despair. But the desire to do this started a lot earlier than 40. I think I was more like 9. It was just that till I was about 40 my powers were weak and I didn't get the results so often. Though, theoretically, I had the charms of youth on my side before, early middle age brought with it an unexpected gift, a giant package of sheer bloody nerve. Backed up by all the hints and tips on how to charm I had gleaned from 31 years of unsuccesfully relating to men. With a little sting added by the accumulated anger of those 31 years. Underpinned by an odd but fierce desire to keep living and feeling and making mistakes and grabbing some joy even though my hair is going grey and the kids running me ragged.

In essence though, I haven't changed a bit. To prove that I have to go upstairs and rummage in what is literally my grandfather's chest.

One half-hour just passed as I went to find my diary from 1979, written when I was 16. I was looking for a description of a party at Laurence's house. (Laurence was my first really serious hopeless crush, my futile love starting in the rec during a cricket match c 1976 and ending at the same venue c 1981 after a rough and loveless roll on the ground in the middle of the night)

I found the description and was going to transcribe it here. I can't though, its 9 sides of closely hand-written A4, and the style of an over-excited 16 year old Grammar school girl is, gosh, you know, not Shakespeare exactly, bloody hell I should say not!!

But the point is, by a freak combo of Martini Rosso, clever choice of baseball boots and grandad shirt dyed lime green, and very boy-heavy gender ratio, I enjoyed an evening of unparalled success with a whole gaggle of grammar school boys. On and on it goes, about how I wowed this one and that one, what I said that won them over, which part of me they wanted to touch, how jealous all the other girls were but hee hee I didn't care a bit. Its me, but with more spots and fewer wrinkles.

This breathless prose also contains other seeds of my destruction: I fancy Peter even though he is a "childish git" because he is "built like a bulldozer". Though I attempt the disclaimer "Now I'm not the sort of girl to swoon at a boy's feet because he's got big muscles" it is pathetically obvious that I am. Still am.

Later on I try (but fail) to make myself reciprocate the advances of Graham H, on the grounds that he has 10 O Levels with 7 distinctions. In fact, I wander off halfway through a slow dance (presumably "I'm not in love" though the exact track is lost to history). Even then, choosing the feckless beefcake over the great conversationalist. No that's not fair. He was dull, and grew up to a very very rich auditor, whose wife supplied a rich variety of different butters at a grown-up party I went to take the piss out of many years later. I have always adored great conversationalists.

So there we are. Always wanted lots of fellas trotting behind me with their tongues hanging out. Whether this is a problem or not depends on the spin you put on it.

Power-hungry man-eating immoral desperate bitch? Or do I just love men in their rich variety and want a go on them all? I have really loved loads of them, and there's a few that I still do. I've hated loads as well. But the love lasts longer. So the net gain is love in the long run.

And I cheered myself up as well.

Holy Mary,Mother of God,pray for us sinners now,and at the hour of death. Amen.

More Dance Lyrics That Mean More to me than Proper Poetry

Dreaming comes so easily
Cause it's all that I've known
True love is a fairy tale
I'm damaged
So how would i know
I'm scared
And I'm alone
I'm ashamed
And I need for you to know
I didn't say all the things I wanted to say
But you can't take back
What you keep taking away
Cause I feel youI feel you, near me(repeat)
The feeling comes so painfully
And it chills to the bone
many won't get close to me
I'm damaged
As I'm sure you know
I'm scared
And I'm alone
I'm ashamed
And I need for you to know
I didn't say all the things I wanted to say
But you cant take back
What you keep taking away
Cause I feel youI feel you, near me(repeat)

Can't go back (x million)
I must go on (x quite a lot)

Quick Quick Quick!

I must catch up with my blog, because I can't write my novel until I am up-to-date (Reasons Why I Haven't Started My Novel: No 546)

This seems like the first night in ages when I haven't been obliged to either Be A Good Mother or drink Stella and then perform a debauched sex act.

Must tell about the end of term party, though it was much less rude than either the Christmas One (the Great Ade Shag) or the Easter one (near Lesbian snog).

Oh hey, Ade came over with his lap-top when he was meant to, we talked and laughed and tried to make ourselves look cool and flirted and drank wine and the evening ended with a significant look and a kiss on the cheek. It was all text-book perfect. So I went to bed thinking "that was nice, maybe if we are sensible something good might happen", right? No of course I didn't. That would be too easy. I went to bed and wrung my hands and pulled a dissatisfied face and whinged to myself and the whinge went like this:

That was OK I suppose. But when Mystery Dude came over the stuff we said was funnier and the messing about more childish and the singing more wild and tuneless and the flirting more charged, plus I got more wine because MD isn't an old soak like Ade.

Because I was born to yearn.

******Deep Heartfelt Sigh********

Take that smug look off your face, Mystery Dude, because in the next paragraph I forget you.

The end of term party was great. A bit of frank appreciation goes a long way to take the sting out of a yearn. First we had a quiz, not an easy thing to win in a room full of teachers, and indeed the team containing me and Ade and four non-teaching staff didn't win, but Ade was on top form taking the mickey out of me and knowing an impressive array of obscure stuff. He also constantly received and answered text messages from unidentified persons, pushing up his market value a good few pesetas.

I'm being nice about Ade because I was so flattered by his attention that evening. His eyes followed me all night. He took every chance to throw me a compliment (eg refusing to believe that I couldn't do salsa as I had GRRREEEEAT rhythm and nice legs), he hung on my every word and teased me in a good way. It was, in fact, fecking lovely. I have to say it was one of those occasions on which a blokey is actually improved by a half bottle of gin. As the evening drew to a premature close and everyone else scuttled around tidying up, Ade and I sat on the balcony like a couple of wild ones, smoking fags and drinking up the left-overs from the BYOB bar. The moon shone on the silvery Thames etc etc. We must have been Too Cool, because before long other people arrived and inserted themselves into our private banter, and when Ade strode off for his final pee, I was kidnapped by The Silver Fox who insisted on driving me home safely, even at the cost of letting me smoke in his Lexus. When I got home, I sent a drunken text "Shit. I was hijacked. Wanted to snog u in the graveyard. Next Christmas?" All my female advisers gasp and say "You over-available fool!!" at this, but it was ok because he replied "I wondered where u went. We have a whole summer ahead of us. x"

Right now, he is driving across Europe on his big manly motorbike sending me travel bulletins as he goes. He's in the Algarve, and I told him to go to Salema and relive my youth for me. That's how things stand.

That was a lot of words about a man who actually doesn't feature in my real sex life at all. My actual sex life is filled with ever more intense passionate and depraved encounters with D. The stuff we did last night! Not to mention this afternoon in the basement. One of D's best features is that he wants sex with me ALL THE TIME! He is either begging for it, doing it, reminiscing about previous occasions or sulking because I have been cruelly distant for over 5 minutes. Its kind of exhausting but also kind of enchanting.

One thing is certain, I have had sex with D more often than any other fella, by a factor of quite a lot. So for that he deserves some serious recognition. I guess I must like him, been 10 years since I met him and he still rings my bell. Even though everything about him is just sooooo wrong.