<< Nov 2009 Dropping A Line Sunday, July 26th, 2009 - 1:50 pm
Am back from the hideous land of no internet and have buckets to catch up on, including, weirdly (considering it's a Sunday) an interview for a new job. Just wanted to say - NOT DEAD YET and let you all know that I have some majorly juicy gossip... hurrah.
In the meantime - back to 'real' work
x
E
Heaven and Hell on Earth Wednesday, July 15th, 2009 - 2:18 pm
Spent the last few days boxing and packing my belongings so they could be moved for the decoration process. Seriously -- if you've ever had to do this you'll know how hellish it is. The kitchen was the worst bit. With both Jp and Lottie away it was left entirely to me and oh. my. god. -- the endless piles of stuff! Four jars of ground cumin, three bottles of ketchup, all of them about two-thirds used, heaps and heaps of dead sweetcorn kernels hiding under the 'fridge and enough dust-bunnies to start a dust petting zoo. Horrors.
I think I wrote in my last blog that I was feeling perkier about this decorating malarkey? I take it back. All of it. It's Godawful. I ache all over and I can't find most of my stuff and my bed is out in the middle of the floor, like a fucking island -- i like to sleep hunched up against the wall. I kept waking up last night thinking I was about to fall off the edge!
One bright spot in all this torment -- the eye candy. Every time I looked up from my work I had an excellent view of some tanned hunk (hah - I used the word 'hunk' semi-seriously!) painting the window frames on the block at right-angles to mine and, even more inetrestingly, when I stepped outside to get some milk earlier, there was Liam painting the skirting boards in the hallway outside our flat. Topless. Thank you God. I *so* needed that.
I watched him for a good three or four minutes before he knew I was there. I watched the muscles of his back moving under the skin and a bead of sweat fall from his hair and trickle slowly down his neck and along his spine. I swear to God I'm turning into some kind of sex-starved pervert, because I was about a millimetre of lacking-in-self-control from bending down and licking it off him, following its glistening trail up to his neck where his hair twisted into damp curls.
He turned the corner and I had just a brief moment of watching his face creased in concentration as he focused on the brush he wielded before he looked up and saw me standing there.
"Just getting some milk from the corner shop. Want anything?"
He looked at me warily for a minute, weighing something up. The cliche in me wants to say something like 'our eyes locked', because that's what it felt like as he brushed the sweat drops off his face. His eyes flickered as they ran over my body, dressed for the heat, then said something which I am still pondering.
"Something sweet. I'd like something sweet, to eat."
He left a pause in it, just like I indicated with the comma. I'm almost certain it was a come on, but when I got back, clutching a bag of Skittles, just to prolong the innuendo, and a lollipop for me (to hurry things along. Have you ever eaten a lollipop in front of a man who you're flirting with? It's practically obscene.) he wasn't there. The skirting was finished and there was no-one in sight. To say I was disappointed is something of an understatement. All the way to the shop and back my thoughts had been fixed on one thing and one thing only, in the almost-certainty of receiving it when I got home.
I feel... twitchy: hyper-sensitised. Goddammit. I need a fuck. You can't lead a girl on like that, with the sweat and the nakedness of your back, then tell her you want to eat something sweet -- eat *her*, essentially, then just fuck off. I don't know whether I'm more cross or frustrated. I know there are five reasons why masturbation is better than sex, but right now they all seem a bit redundant in the face of a brutal, aching need for a fuck. I want a sweaty body pressed against me, hot lips sucking and biting at my flesh, desire for me written strong on someone else's face. I want to be desired and taken and these paint fumes are making it worse, because I'm light-headed and dizzy with it all. Dizzy with lust. And writing about it doesn't make it any better, in fact it's made it worse, because vocalising the desire, putting it into words, has sharpened the edges and made it more real. I'm actually shaking with want. Fuck.
x
E
Five Reasons Sex is Better than Masturbation Sunday, July 12th, 2009 - 2:44 pm
Well, I'm nothing if not balanced, so I couldn't let my previous blog post stand without posting the balancing arguments... here goes!
1 - Nothing beats the smell and feel of someone else's body pressed against yours
2 - It's far more exciting to have someone else's hands touching you than your own
3 - You can't underestimate the excitement of the unknown -- where are they going to touch you next? What are they going to do?
4 - Twice as nice -- so thrilling to see that you are turning them on, making them come -- it amplifies your own pleasure.
5 - Unless you're double-jointed there is no way you can do some of those things to yourself!
But as any doctor will tell you -- a balanced diet is key to a healthy lifestyle!
x
E
Five Reasons Masturbating is Better than Sex Thursday, July 9th, 2009 - 9:53 am
1 - Any time, any where -- almost. You're not reliant upon having someone else to do it with, or them to be in the mood!
2 - No muss, no fuss. Just put your knickers back on and your done -- that's if you ever took them off!
3 - Utterly selfish -- you can go at the pace that suits you and not have to worry about anyone's feelings getting hurt if you want to speed things up/slow things down/have a shower afterwards/ get straight back to work etc...
4 - No misunderstandings. No chance of someone getting more attached than they should, no-one is gonna get hurt, except possibly your wrist...
5 - Safe! No kiddies, no clap. Let's face it, a condom isn't 100% reliable, is it now? Therefore the only really safe route, apart from abstinence, is self-love.
I'm sure there are more reasons, but these are the top five. Let me know if you think of any more that really have to be included and I'll even update the title to include it!
x
E
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COMMENTS
----------------------- Sorry - I couldn't come (if you'll pardon the expression) up with more to support your thesis, but...
The big thing about sex - when it's good - is that someone else, even if only that day/afternoon/night, actually wants you. If you're lucky, they want to give you a good time, not just get a good time for themselves.
Masturbation can get you off (with minimum disturbance and mess, both physical and emotional), but it doesn't give you that feeling of being valued (on any level) by another human being.
Orgasm (single or even better multiple) is great.
Being wanted is even greater!
A Regular Reader.
A Day of Blushes Wednesday, July 8th, 2009 - 9:20 pm
OK, you know those nights when it seems like a really good idea to stay up late reading a crappy novel, knowing that you won't have to get up early the next day? Right, so, I had one of those last night, knowing that I didn't have any work today, just some research from home which I could do at any time and in my pajamas if necessary.
Anyway, having passed out due to exhaustion -- despite the best efforts of Penny Vincenzi and her gripping family saga, at about 2am -- I was still blissfully fast asleep at just after 11 this morning when the doorbell started going, loudly and determinedly. Martin had long since pootled off to work, a la Milton, so it was left to me to answer the door.
Only some gruesome Jehovah's Witness type, or possible a 'yoof' flogging flimsy tea-towels could possibly be ringing on my doorbell at that time of day, or so ran my logic. It was too late for the milkman or the postman and too early for political canvassers. Of the people it could possibly be, chances are I'd never see them again, so it didn't matter if I answered in my pajamas, even if they were silky, extremely lightweight and prone to a sort of transparency when hit by strong light.
This seemed like undeniable logic until, pushing my hair out of my eyes and hoping I didn't have too much makeup smeared under them, I came face to face with my stepladder friend from yesterday.
He was saying something hugely unexciting about having to take inventory of the work needing to be done in our flat, but I was so busy trying to hide my breasts with my arms that I couldn't give him my full attention. I let him in so he could look through the place, his body smelling mostly of paint and wet plaster as he brushed past me.
Scribbling notes as he went through the hallway and living room I stopped in the kitchen to make myself a cup of tea, hoping to disguise the early-morning breath I undoubtedly had. Politeness dictated that I offer him a cup, too, and of course he wanted sugar, kept on a shelf over the sink. It was no good trying to hide anything as I reached up, the top pulling over my boobs, the bottoms slipping down slightly. Looking up I saw him watching and suddenly the embarrassment left me. This had gone from unexpected humiliation to exhibitionist floor-show and I felt rather more comfortable and in control. This was my turf and he was the one on the back foot.
Sipping my tea carefully, I led him through the other rooms, rattling pointlessly on Martin's, as he had locked it before leaving, as usual. My room was at the end of the hall and I led him to it last, cradling my mug as I leant against the doorframe, forcing him to brush close by me to enter the room. The duvet and sheets were still rumpled from my sudden launch out of bed and the room smelt of sleep and my perfume -- always strange to see and smell your room as a stranger would, isn't it?
I spotted my discarded clothes and underwear flung over the back of my desk chair and thanked God that it was my new, rather pretty bra that was exposing itself so shamelessly, and not one of the older, more gruesome specimens I own. Liam's eyes (I'd managed to find out his name while I made him his tea) also lingered on the bra and, for a few moments, on the rumpled bedsheets before starting to make notes on the paintwork again.
"Sorry about the state of the room, but, well, you got me out of bed..."
"Um, yeah. Sorry."
OK. So his conversation isn't up to much, I admit that, but he's pretty: tanned, fit, big smile, muscled. After some of my godawful exes I'm taking a break from picking men for their sparkling wit. I want a bit of fun and I want it with someone who looks nice and feels nice. I don't plan on talking much... At the very least I can have a little flirtation. I could use the confidence boost.
Anyway. Went back to bed for some 'alone' time when he'd left, then spent the afternoon doing research and, occasionally, spending more time on myself, if you follow my drift... Am feeling much perkier about this decorating work now. Funny thing!
x
E
Yearnings Tuesday, July 7th, 2009 - 1:02 pm
The weather has finally broken, torrential rain all morning. I've been sitting here, watching it sheeting down the windows, the gentle noise of it drowning out the raucous shouts and singing of the godawful decorators. The paint smell is still going to my head, but it's softer, more bearable in the cool damp than it was in the heat and I've got something else to think about...
On the way up the stairs earlier I knocked against a ladder, making it wobble horribly. I started apologising immediately, any semblance of cool insouciance I may pretend to have always vanishing as soon as I feel I've inconvenienced someone. An amused face looked down at me,
"Don't worry love, my fault for blocking the hall. Need a hand with that?"
He nodded at my shopping bags, their weight dragging me lopsided as I heaved them up the stairs. Stupidly I felt myself blushing and said no thanks. I can't believe I was so gormless. For a second I had been sure he was gonna swear at me, tell me off for banging into him. It can't have been admiration for my pretty face, surely? All the way into the flat I was thinking about it, wondering if I had been chatted up, wondering why I'd been so silly about it.
It was only when I walked past the large mirror by the front door that I got really embarrassed, however, when I saw that the weight of the shopping bag on my shoulder had dragged my top down and was exposing a large amount of cleavage and lacy bra. That view could only have been enhanced by his height vantage. Maybe he was chatting me up, but that was hardly suprising when I was baring my breasts to him -- albeit unintentionally. I really hope he's not still there later, I won't be able to look him in the eye.
Funny, isn't it. If it had been a deliberate ploy on my part then I'd have been humiliated by its failure to attract his admiration and had no problems with baring any part of my body to him otherwise. Because it was unintentional it seems far more... exposing than if I had meant to do it. Thinking about it even now, a couple of hours on, makes me feel all hot and flustered. So silly. I mean, it was nice that he wanted to look, right? A compliment? Oh crap. I think I have a crush. How teenage of me.
x
E
Long, Hot Summer Monday, July 6th, 2009 - 12:15 pm
There's a song that keeps playing over and over in my head. The irritating part is that I can't remember the bloody lyrics. Something about 'hot, hot summer' or something. Whatever. It's getting on my tits. The weather is screeching hot and I'm boiling up here. Lottie and JP are both away on their holidays and Martin is rotten company at the best of times and someone who smells of cheese makes summer the *worst* of times to be around them!
I've only just got back from my holiday. Nothing exciting this year, not with finances as tight as they currently are, just a trip to the seaside with the old parental units and dogs. I could have done without the dogs, truth be told, but the rest was nice... mostly. Father threw an immense strop at one point, probably because he was hot and hungry, but he managed to drag it out into a sulk that lasted two days. Luckily this gave my mum and I a chance to do some female bonding in the form of rolled eyes and minuscule shrugs at his bad behaviour and meant I was absolutely guilt free at disappearing off to the beach with my book.
Bizarrely the weather was as scorching hot up there as it was down here, bizarre because the North coast of England is not exactly known for its warm weather and I found the majority of my holiday wardrobe somewhat redundant, but it was lovely by the sea and the part-shingle, part-sand beach was an interesting place to wander 'round when lying still got dull... more on that later ;-)
Anyway, so now I'm back, sans compatriots and, to all intents and purposes, on my own... albeit surrounded by a bunch of uncouth Brummies singing out of tune as they smear toxic-smelling paint everywhere. Yes, that's right. The landlord has decided that high summer is the best possible time to get the painter/decorators in so the whole place reeks of paint fumes, ciggie smoke and cheap aftershave. I haven't actually seen any of the buggers yet, but do I need to when I can smell and hear them no matter where I go?
Insult to injury -- apparently our flat and, therefore, my room is going to be decorated, too: the penalty for rented accommodation I suppose. Anyway. Now I have to find enough boxes, pack up all the stuff I own, shift it from room to room for a couple of weeks, then move it all back in again. I hope they keep it neutral. The Landlord has a disturbing propensity for vibrant shades of citrus...
Anyway, the downside of a holiday is that your workload doubles when you return -- fuckloads of laundry and food shopping. --insert sigh here--
Toodlepip for now all, I hope you'll forgive me for my extended absence
xxx
E
PS- must have had a mental blip. Just remembered a bit more of that song and realised the only word I'd remembered correctly was "summer". "Cruel Cruel Summer" by Bananarama. Doh.
