Lip service
Friday, 23 December 2011
GQ - THE GIFT THAT KEEPS GIVING
Get a great blow job every time. Tips, techniques and advice on how to encourage a healthy sexual attitude in your woman. Click the picture to read my latest GQ Sex Column -
Monday, 19 December 2011
WHEN LOVE ISN'T ENOUGH
A wise man (and amazing photographer) once said to me: "I wonder sometimes just how happy artists, whether writers or photographers, are meant to be. Poets need their pain to write their hearts on paper. Why should you or I be any different? Pain of others or ourselves, is the fodder for what we do. An artist's life is full of tragedy with brief periods of happiness. You want to be a writer? Well, prepare yourself."
It seems I've been preparing myself a little too long for what's about to come out. Until a few months ago, writing used to be a cathartic habit where thoughts would flow from my mixed-up head, arrange themselves inexplicably into something surprisingly coherent and end up on the screen of my laptop, where they'd be lovingly titivated and finally posted for all to see. But then I allowed myself to do something so terrible, that I could barely even live with myself for doing it, let alone writing about it. I left the man I married, the man I promised to spend the rest of my life with; who has supported me through thick and thin, who has without complaint, suffered every one of my emotional crises and who despite everything - loved me for who I am and never tried to change me.
Before you think I was married to some kind of celestial being whose name might have been Gabriel, he had his flaws. And if I sit and think carefully enough without being distracted by self torment, I can list them all and remember how much they pissed me off and ultimately, contributed to our eventual ruin. But when I'm in destruction mode and everything is my fault, nothing else is apparent but his sparkling halo and sweet nature. I break down often. I haven't yet come to terms with my decision to leave him and in between periods of blissful happiness and contentment in my new relationship, these dark spells of regret and anxiety that constantly loom over us, swoop in and cloak everything in negativity. My new man was patient to begin with, but it's wearing thin and my non-acceptance of a situation that I've created, threatens to ruin yet another relationship.
I try so hard and week by week it gets easier, but in true female style it takes just one, potent, pre-menstrual crisis to wipe out three weeks of plain sailing; and my new man has yet to learn what to do with me when this happens. And then there are the memories - not just the half fabricated ones that live in my head, where fairies danced down the garden path and then I (evil monster) came and took a big, metaphorical shit on a lovely pink rose that was opening up to the sunshine. Not those ones, but the real memories that come with hard evidence. Cards with sweet and silly poems that were written just for me; notes he left me when I was feeling low, because he always knew just what to say; photographs - reminding me of times that regardless of how things came to be, we were happy. What am I meant to do with those? Every time I find one in a boxed up pile of my former life, I go to pieces. I want to stop torturing myself with these things, so do I throw them away? Somehow that seems wrong - like I'm trying to pretend the happiness with him never existed. But as long as they exist and I can look at them, I can't move on.
It seems I've been preparing myself a little too long for what's about to come out. Until a few months ago, writing used to be a cathartic habit where thoughts would flow from my mixed-up head, arrange themselves inexplicably into something surprisingly coherent and end up on the screen of my laptop, where they'd be lovingly titivated and finally posted for all to see. But then I allowed myself to do something so terrible, that I could barely even live with myself for doing it, let alone writing about it. I left the man I married, the man I promised to spend the rest of my life with; who has supported me through thick and thin, who has without complaint, suffered every one of my emotional crises and who despite everything - loved me for who I am and never tried to change me.
I, on the other hand, tried to change him. With him I had love, security, companionship, everything in common, a place I knew I could always call home - no matter what I did wrong. And perhaps that was the problem. When someone is so passive, you end up trying, in vain, to provoke a reaction that shows passion and fire - because somehow (and this I still don't understand), unconditional love is simply not enough. There's something unsatisfying about being shrouded in complete and forgiving acceptance, that doesn't allow for unpredictability or excitement and makes for an uninspiring relationship, no matter how happy and content you ought to be on paper. After a while, you chip away relentlessly; trying to cajole them in any way possible into becoming the person you want them to be. But as any married person will tell you - people don't change.
Having just written all that, I now realise how ridiculous it sounds. Is the human condition so agonisingly ridiculous, that when we gain everything we aspire to have and find someone who loves us regardless of anything; who we love back, albeit a calm, peculiar kind of love that makes us feel comfortable and safe; we long to throw it away and opt for something risky and exciting with someone we hardly know?
In defence of what seems like my fickle and uncommitting nature, it took someone pretty incredible to prise me from this nine year relationship; despite the fact that it had reached the point of inevitable crumble, thanks to the detrimental and completely unforgivable things I was doing to my husband. Through no fault of his, I was searching for a way to inject the passion into my life that I so desperately needed, naively thinking this would sit comfortably alongside my marriage. When the cracks started to gape and even his accommodating nature started to falter, we were merely co-existing. Living miserably in the same house together, trying to force pleasantries and pretend it would at some point resolve itself, when all it did was get worse. His resentment for my double life, my guilt at the hurt I was causing him and my own resentment for the fact that I couldn't be completely free to do as I wanted without feeling responsible, was forcing us further and further apart - life together was becoming sad and draining and I couldn't see a way to mend what was essentially, never right in the first place. Every time I looked at him, my heart physically ached with sorrow and I was already loathing myself for what I knew I had to do when I met someone else who gave me the passion I needed.
What can you do to make it better?
Before you think I was married to some kind of celestial being whose name might have been Gabriel, he had his flaws. And if I sit and think carefully enough without being distracted by self torment, I can list them all and remember how much they pissed me off and ultimately, contributed to our eventual ruin. But when I'm in destruction mode and everything is my fault, nothing else is apparent but his sparkling halo and sweet nature. I break down often. I haven't yet come to terms with my decision to leave him and in between periods of blissful happiness and contentment in my new relationship, these dark spells of regret and anxiety that constantly loom over us, swoop in and cloak everything in negativity. My new man was patient to begin with, but it's wearing thin and my non-acceptance of a situation that I've created, threatens to ruin yet another relationship.
I try so hard and week by week it gets easier, but in true female style it takes just one, potent, pre-menstrual crisis to wipe out three weeks of plain sailing; and my new man has yet to learn what to do with me when this happens. And then there are the memories - not just the half fabricated ones that live in my head, where fairies danced down the garden path and then I (evil monster) came and took a big, metaphorical shit on a lovely pink rose that was opening up to the sunshine. Not those ones, but the real memories that come with hard evidence. Cards with sweet and silly poems that were written just for me; notes he left me when I was feeling low, because he always knew just what to say; photographs - reminding me of times that regardless of how things came to be, we were happy. What am I meant to do with those? Every time I find one in a boxed up pile of my former life, I go to pieces. I want to stop torturing myself with these things, so do I throw them away? Somehow that seems wrong - like I'm trying to pretend the happiness with him never existed. But as long as they exist and I can look at them, I can't move on.
Memories: here
There seems no other option for moving forward, than to cut myself off from everything that reminds me of my husband. But that in itself saddens me. A friend has told me to box everything up and hide it away in a dark cupboard somewhere, out of my sight and daily contact. Perhaps that's the answer - maybe I can accept and cherish those sentiments and memories once I am over the pain of this and we've both reached full acceptance of the situation.
But is it ever right to cherish a sentiment from another man, when you're meant to have moved on?
But is it ever right to cherish a sentiment from another man, when you're meant to have moved on?
GQ - UNWRAPPING AGENT PROVOCATEUR
Learn to harness the power of her underwear. Click the picture to read my latest GQ Sex Column -
Maximum frills; maximum thrills
Saturday, 24 September 2011
OVERLOOKED
It's easy to judge others for being shallow, for allowing aesthetics to take precidence over substance and things of true importance; like personality, intelligence, values and ultimately love. But when you're faced with the reality of a situation where your own reactions to imperfection are put to the test, you'll probably be ashamed.
I was at the supermarket today and there's always someone to fancy at the supermarket. Such a mixture of people of all ages, from all walks of life - are buying what they need. (I also happen to be in America at the moment, there seems to be a smaller class divide in the supermarkets here. Forget inviting the chavs to Asda and overpricing Sainsburys so that only the middle class can afford it - everyone comes together for the weekly grocery shop in the states!) As I perused the wines, a man walked past me wearing hospital scrubs. (I'm assuming he was a nurse, not an inpatient escapee.) He was so beautiful. Probably early 30s, short dark hair, a smattering of 5 o clock shadow, brown eyes and gorgeous bone structure, he looked like Matthew Fox. I did the double take thing, watched him walk past in flip flops; he seemed to notice me and I caught his eye for a second before we both looked away. It was the usual mutually appreciative glance, that even when you're only window shopping, is quite a thrill. The fact that he was a nurse just seemed to make him even more attractive to me - I imagined his caring nature, coupled with the look he gave me, of 'I'd definitely know what to do with you, given half the chance'... let's just say I was happy to imagine it.
He disappeared down another aisle and temporarily I forgot about him (like I said, I'm not on the market - he really was just viewing pleasure). But then a bit later, I was browsing something else and he came towards me and stopped a few feet away, looking at something on the shelf. I found myself captivated again. 'He must know how good looking he is', I thought. 'He probably gets stared at all the time'. I let my eyes wander over his body to take in the rest of him and there it was, as plain as day (I now believe the only reason I'd not noticed it before was because his beautiful face was so distracting) - his left arm was completely deformed. It was at least twelve inches shorter than the other, there was no hand to speak of, but what looked like something that had once started to develop into one and his arm was probably half the width of a normal one and grew narrower towards the end. It literally looked like a small branch from a tree.
I averted my gaze immediately and before I'd even had chance to mentally process a conscious decision about whether or not I still found him attractive, I'm ashamed to say my body had already made the decision for me. The thrill was gone. I didn't have that longing to catch his eye anymore, any fantasies about what I'd like to have done to him simply vanished without notice. It sunk in. I cursed myself for being so superficial. Was it just the shock, I wondered? You just don't expect to see something like that. It's normal to be a little bit - put off, at first... I so badly wanted to prove to myself that this didn't matter and that if I had been 'on the market' and he'd have asked me out, that I would have said yes and that we might have had as enjoyable sex as we would if he had two perfect arms like anyone else. That I wouldn't have cringed if I'd had to touch it and that when we went out, it wouldn't bother me if other people noticed. I had to admit to myself that I couldn't prove any of this or even suggest it to myself. I wanted to so badly, but I couldn't.
I glanced at him again. He was conventionally beautiful in every other respect, there was no doubting that fact. But I couldn't look at him for long anymore; not because I didn't want to, not even because of his arm, but because I was now paranoid that if he saw me looking, he wouldn't think I was admiring him - but that I might be thinking he's a freak! Which I wasn't; the word freak never crossed my mind anyway... at this point I was all too engrossed in trying to fathom my reaction and kicking myself for being so shallow! Why are we so conditioned to only accept and tolerate normality and perfection? We can't achieve it ourselves, abnormalities aside - no-one has a body they're completely happy with. And yet we still can't easily come to terms with something that's more out of the ordinary than usual.
I'm the last person to ever consciously make someone feel inadequate. As someone who spent most of my school life being bullied, I don't tolerate any kind of humiliation, especially of the aesthetic description. But am I really any better than someone who would single someone out in the street and laugh and point at them? If I can't feel towards someone with a physical deformity, the way I would feel towards anyone else - then aren't I as bad?
Maybe I'm being too hard on myself. It's not that I expect anyone else to feel differently. We're all conditioned the same way, unless we're one of the people who has to live with something that makes them so different. But even if I'm just the same as everyone else, even if it just merely makes me human to be deterred by what's not the fittest, the most attractive or the healthiest - it still makes me ashamed to admit it. Because we should be evolved enough to see past all that, shouldn't we? The fact that I was eyeing him up for so long in the first place, is testament to the fact that I am preoccupied with perfection and anything I deem to be beautiful. I can't decide if it's wrong, or just how we're programmed. But either way, I am not particularly comfortable with it.
I was at the supermarket today and there's always someone to fancy at the supermarket. Such a mixture of people of all ages, from all walks of life - are buying what they need. (I also happen to be in America at the moment, there seems to be a smaller class divide in the supermarkets here. Forget inviting the chavs to Asda and overpricing Sainsburys so that only the middle class can afford it - everyone comes together for the weekly grocery shop in the states!) As I perused the wines, a man walked past me wearing hospital scrubs. (I'm assuming he was a nurse, not an inpatient escapee.) He was so beautiful. Probably early 30s, short dark hair, a smattering of 5 o clock shadow, brown eyes and gorgeous bone structure, he looked like Matthew Fox. I did the double take thing, watched him walk past in flip flops; he seemed to notice me and I caught his eye for a second before we both looked away. It was the usual mutually appreciative glance, that even when you're only window shopping, is quite a thrill. The fact that he was a nurse just seemed to make him even more attractive to me - I imagined his caring nature, coupled with the look he gave me, of 'I'd definitely know what to do with you, given half the chance'... let's just say I was happy to imagine it.
He's fully pliable... and comes with all the right instruments! Or does he?
He disappeared down another aisle and temporarily I forgot about him (like I said, I'm not on the market - he really was just viewing pleasure). But then a bit later, I was browsing something else and he came towards me and stopped a few feet away, looking at something on the shelf. I found myself captivated again. 'He must know how good looking he is', I thought. 'He probably gets stared at all the time'. I let my eyes wander over his body to take in the rest of him and there it was, as plain as day (I now believe the only reason I'd not noticed it before was because his beautiful face was so distracting) - his left arm was completely deformed. It was at least twelve inches shorter than the other, there was no hand to speak of, but what looked like something that had once started to develop into one and his arm was probably half the width of a normal one and grew narrower towards the end. It literally looked like a small branch from a tree.
I averted my gaze immediately and before I'd even had chance to mentally process a conscious decision about whether or not I still found him attractive, I'm ashamed to say my body had already made the decision for me. The thrill was gone. I didn't have that longing to catch his eye anymore, any fantasies about what I'd like to have done to him simply vanished without notice. It sunk in. I cursed myself for being so superficial. Was it just the shock, I wondered? You just don't expect to see something like that. It's normal to be a little bit - put off, at first... I so badly wanted to prove to myself that this didn't matter and that if I had been 'on the market' and he'd have asked me out, that I would have said yes and that we might have had as enjoyable sex as we would if he had two perfect arms like anyone else. That I wouldn't have cringed if I'd had to touch it and that when we went out, it wouldn't bother me if other people noticed. I had to admit to myself that I couldn't prove any of this or even suggest it to myself. I wanted to so badly, but I couldn't.
I glanced at him again. He was conventionally beautiful in every other respect, there was no doubting that fact. But I couldn't look at him for long anymore; not because I didn't want to, not even because of his arm, but because I was now paranoid that if he saw me looking, he wouldn't think I was admiring him - but that I might be thinking he's a freak! Which I wasn't; the word freak never crossed my mind anyway... at this point I was all too engrossed in trying to fathom my reaction and kicking myself for being so shallow! Why are we so conditioned to only accept and tolerate normality and perfection? We can't achieve it ourselves, abnormalities aside - no-one has a body they're completely happy with. And yet we still can't easily come to terms with something that's more out of the ordinary than usual.
American style shopping bags, not great when you've only got one good arm... (But will you look at that baguette!!)
I'm the last person to ever consciously make someone feel inadequate. As someone who spent most of my school life being bullied, I don't tolerate any kind of humiliation, especially of the aesthetic description. But am I really any better than someone who would single someone out in the street and laugh and point at them? If I can't feel towards someone with a physical deformity, the way I would feel towards anyone else - then aren't I as bad?
Maybe I'm being too hard on myself. It's not that I expect anyone else to feel differently. We're all conditioned the same way, unless we're one of the people who has to live with something that makes them so different. But even if I'm just the same as everyone else, even if it just merely makes me human to be deterred by what's not the fittest, the most attractive or the healthiest - it still makes me ashamed to admit it. Because we should be evolved enough to see past all that, shouldn't we? The fact that I was eyeing him up for so long in the first place, is testament to the fact that I am preoccupied with perfection and anything I deem to be beautiful. I can't decide if it's wrong, or just how we're programmed. But either way, I am not particularly comfortable with it.
Sunday, 24 July 2011
AMY WINEHOUSE - A TRIBUTE, OF SORTS
The untimely if not at all surprising death of Amy Winehouse, has caused predictable mass hysteria and suddenly - everyone, (save a few brave individuals willing to pipe up that they never liked her before so why should they give a shit now) - almost everyone, is Amy's number one fan.
Misunderstood and troubled are the words of the moment, pained, lost - looking for a way out. Well hang the fuck on for a second if you don't mind... because this smacks of contradiction and hypocrisy. It's what never fails to amaze me about the press and the general public. It's fine to ridicule the living - and let's be honest, she was in a shit state. What a joke she was to us. We laughed and jibed as in the more difficult times of her life she stumbled around and was heckled off stage. We waited with bated breath as she did another stint in rehab but were all - 'I told you so' when she caved in to addiction again on the other side. We might well have loved her music and lyrics, you'd have to be lobotomised for it not to resonate somewhere within your emotions. And her voice was simply one of a kind... But forgive me if I make this now unpolitically correct observation - did most people not think she was an idiot when she was alive? Nobody cared about how troubled she was then, or how deep seated the cause of her repeated reliance on drugs was, to get by. Back when she was alive, the general public thought - she's fucking rich and famous. Why does she deserve my sympathy? She's got enough money to sort herself out but she obviously doesn't want to. What a loser.
Then she's found dead in her apartment and instantly elevated to legendary and completely heroic status of idols. A genius, a wasted life, what are we going to do without her?
Well - what did we do with her?
Friends' and co-artists words on the news of her death are touching but questionable. 'She was like a sister to me. My musical soul mate'. Great. Did she mean enough to you, or to any one of her friends who claimed to be like family, that you were prepared to drag her away from the people leading her further into the downward spiral; that you were prepared to do anything, to see her clean herself up? It's easy for me to say this, with no crack and heroin addicts as friends. Hell, even as a public bystander to the whole Winehouse affair, I didn't tweet anything about giving her a break or send her messages of support. Who did stand up for her when she was battling addiction and humiliating herself, her undeniable talent being hidden under the embarrassing effects of drugs and alcohol? Did we laugh or did we take a stand against the pressure and perceived glamour of substance abuse, that all of the most respected artistic geniuses rely on to surpress their hurt? No we didn't. Because we hate the rich and famous. When people are going through it, they're losers. When they're dead - they're finally winners.
Perhaps what grates on me the most, is that we won't even learn from this pathetic about turn of attitude. Because now, what will resonate is that her tragic life was the making of her cult status. So she's dead - but fuck, did she go out with a bang. All pale and emaciated, addled with chemicals that stifled her inimitable ability to perform a song as we all knew she could. But it wasn't her fault. What could she do, what could anyone - do? Without the drugs, she wasn't Amy.
The funny thing is, we hate druggies. They're the 'scum' we step over in the streets, begging for some money for tea, money that 'we know' is really so they can shoot up again. Do we give a shit what creative talent lurks beneath those glazed eyes - talent that given a chance, could touch souls and change lives? Do we give a shit how they came to be so hopeless, do we even care enough to ask what they're feeling, that makes their lives so unbearable and dark?
No we don't. The biggest hypocrites will spit in their faces, tell them to get a life and then spend the weekends snorting lines off a glass coffee table with the rest of their respectable friends, subconsciously trying to numb the sense of complete meaningless that defines their own lives. The only difference being - someone gave them a chance and they think they're living the dream. Here's a thought. Next time you see someone on the street begging for money, a complete low-life who clearly relies more on drugs than your approval, think of Amy. Because it wasn't fame and fortune that turned her into the mess she became. She already had the problems. What fame and fortune brought her was the ease and convenience with which to ease them.
Now, selfishly - all people can do is mourn the loss of the music that brought some comfort into their own lives. But are they really mourning the person? Did they even care about the person? Or are they quick to judge and even quicker to change tack when the very mortality of these tortured souls is brought to light and we realise they were human?
Amy Winehouse, 1983 - 2011. RIP.
Misunderstood and troubled are the words of the moment, pained, lost - looking for a way out. Well hang the fuck on for a second if you don't mind... because this smacks of contradiction and hypocrisy. It's what never fails to amaze me about the press and the general public. It's fine to ridicule the living - and let's be honest, she was in a shit state. What a joke she was to us. We laughed and jibed as in the more difficult times of her life she stumbled around and was heckled off stage. We waited with bated breath as she did another stint in rehab but were all - 'I told you so' when she caved in to addiction again on the other side. We might well have loved her music and lyrics, you'd have to be lobotomised for it not to resonate somewhere within your emotions. And her voice was simply one of a kind... But forgive me if I make this now unpolitically correct observation - did most people not think she was an idiot when she was alive? Nobody cared about how troubled she was then, or how deep seated the cause of her repeated reliance on drugs was, to get by. Back when she was alive, the general public thought - she's fucking rich and famous. Why does she deserve my sympathy? She's got enough money to sort herself out but she obviously doesn't want to. What a loser.
Then she's found dead in her apartment and instantly elevated to legendary and completely heroic status of idols. A genius, a wasted life, what are we going to do without her?
Well - what did we do with her?
Friends' and co-artists words on the news of her death are touching but questionable. 'She was like a sister to me. My musical soul mate'. Great. Did she mean enough to you, or to any one of her friends who claimed to be like family, that you were prepared to drag her away from the people leading her further into the downward spiral; that you were prepared to do anything, to see her clean herself up? It's easy for me to say this, with no crack and heroin addicts as friends. Hell, even as a public bystander to the whole Winehouse affair, I didn't tweet anything about giving her a break or send her messages of support. Who did stand up for her when she was battling addiction and humiliating herself, her undeniable talent being hidden under the embarrassing effects of drugs and alcohol? Did we laugh or did we take a stand against the pressure and perceived glamour of substance abuse, that all of the most respected artistic geniuses rely on to surpress their hurt? No we didn't. Because we hate the rich and famous. When people are going through it, they're losers. When they're dead - they're finally winners.
Perhaps what grates on me the most, is that we won't even learn from this pathetic about turn of attitude. Because now, what will resonate is that her tragic life was the making of her cult status. So she's dead - but fuck, did she go out with a bang. All pale and emaciated, addled with chemicals that stifled her inimitable ability to perform a song as we all knew she could. But it wasn't her fault. What could she do, what could anyone - do? Without the drugs, she wasn't Amy.
The funny thing is, we hate druggies. They're the 'scum' we step over in the streets, begging for some money for tea, money that 'we know' is really so they can shoot up again. Do we give a shit what creative talent lurks beneath those glazed eyes - talent that given a chance, could touch souls and change lives? Do we give a shit how they came to be so hopeless, do we even care enough to ask what they're feeling, that makes their lives so unbearable and dark?
No we don't. The biggest hypocrites will spit in their faces, tell them to get a life and then spend the weekends snorting lines off a glass coffee table with the rest of their respectable friends, subconsciously trying to numb the sense of complete meaningless that defines their own lives. The only difference being - someone gave them a chance and they think they're living the dream. Here's a thought. Next time you see someone on the street begging for money, a complete low-life who clearly relies more on drugs than your approval, think of Amy. Because it wasn't fame and fortune that turned her into the mess she became. She already had the problems. What fame and fortune brought her was the ease and convenience with which to ease them.
Now, selfishly - all people can do is mourn the loss of the music that brought some comfort into their own lives. But are they really mourning the person? Did they even care about the person? Or are they quick to judge and even quicker to change tack when the very mortality of these tortured souls is brought to light and we realise they were human?
Amy Winehouse, 1983 - 2011. RIP.
Friday, 17 June 2011
DIGITAL LOVE
All this talk of technology in GQ has got me rather moist! Not just because it allows efficiency and simplicity to prevail (supposedly), but because I’ve imagined, with a healthy amount of optimism, the future of visual arousal. Sex has always found its way into the visual medium; first there were drawings and paintings, next came photographs, cue film and later 3D… next: sweet holograms. With the Japanese committed to creating realistic holographic TV by 2016, it’s not unimaginable how things will develop once the visuals are near perfect. For God’s sake, I can’t be the only one who’s watched Star Trek and questioned why the hell they aren’t creating virtual orgies in the ‘holodeck’. The fact is, it’s a principle based on some already developing technology, that will mean before I die - I might be able to have sex with Batman and it won’t involve a real person in a cheap, spandex all-in-one from the joke shop.
Where can I get a costume like this?!
By the time they’ve perfected holographic projections and found a way to trick us into thinking they’re solid matter (there’s talk of sensory manipulation and ultrasonic waves to create pressure sensations…); prostitutes for one and the pitfalls of using them, will surely be a thing of the past. For one initial, albeit it crippling, investment – all of the sex in the world could be right at your dirty finger tips and the package would come minus contraception, embarrassment and a guilt complex.
It seems obvious to me. How else would you explain the design of this mask?
Of course, the concept would never replace human to human chemistry, this would merely be an expensive sex toy. But imagine the perks: being able to program a simulation of pure aesthetic perfection and input your favourite sexual routines, then have them played out in order or randomly, to your exact specifications. I can picture it now: one minute I’d be hanging from Bruce’s office window at Wayne Enterprises (badly attempting suicide due to the unrequited nature of my obsession), the next I’m plummeting to the streets of Gotham (the sensations and G force of which, in an ideal world, would also be simulated, don’t laugh!); when suddenly, the caped crusader himself swoops past and saves me, taking me to the top of a nearby skyscraper where he lays me down, rips my knickers off with his teeth and gives me head. Oh God. Cunnilingus and the bat mask. Can I get a moment? There’s a reason those ears are so pointy and firm. They were designed to be held, while he buries his sexy mouth into some poor damsel’s cooch. (Preferably mine.)
The other obvious advantage to this enhanced form of virtual reality, is being able to test scenarios out before you debut them on real people. Sure, the computer generated eye candy you’re playing with is going to react exactly as she or she is programmed to – but it would give you, the user, an idea of your own boundaries and the scope to experiment beyond your wildest and most cringe worthy fantasies. Think you might want to have your face bukkaked, but also want your credibility in tact? Enter your bespoke team of non judgmental holographs-cum-Olympic virtual spunk shooters. (Pretend wet wipes optional.)
There are a couple of obvious drawbacks. Firstly, you’ll be so used to borg-style perfection, that sex with someone flawed, involving bad (or even half bad) technique, will become simply unbearable. And of course you’ll be so spoilt for choice with what’s readily on offer, you’ll quickly become bored and sex may be in danger of becoming (God forbid) passé. With nothing off limits, what will remain taboo, apart from the notion that you could still always be doing the unspeakable with a real person? Who cares? It’s a risk I’ll be willing to take. In the mean time for my technology thrills, I’ll stick to using my iPad to watch porn on the tube.
There are a couple of obvious drawbacks. Firstly, you’ll be so used to borg-style perfection, that sex with someone flawed, involving bad (or even half bad) technique, will become simply unbearable. And of course you’ll be so spoilt for choice with what’s readily on offer, you’ll quickly become bored and sex may be in danger of becoming (God forbid) passé. With nothing off limits, what will remain taboo, apart from the notion that you could still always be doing the unspeakable with a real person? Who cares? It’s a risk I’ll be willing to take. In the mean time for my technology thrills, I’ll stick to using my iPad to watch porn on the tube.
Saturday, 4 June 2011
THE TROUBLE WITH WOMEN
There are exceptions to every generalisation and there are certainly exceptions to the sweeping generalisation I'm about to make about women and the evil shit they pull when they get their jealous, insecure and scheming little minds together. But if you've ever suffered at the hands of this type of woman (or if you're really unlucky, women) then I won't have to explain myself. You see the kind of women I'm talking about must have such a low opinion of themselves, both physically and mentally (although they probably don't realise the latter) - that they expend every scrap of their energy on sniffing out women who are confident, at ease with themselves and (God fucking forbid) attractive and glamorous, and aim to bring their 'enemy', with unscrupulous yet subtle tactics of sheer spite, down to their own pitiful depths.
We've all met women (and in some cases men) like this. But for some reason, women have the edge. It seems to me, that only women are prepared to go to the lengths they do, in order to try and gain the upper hand over someone. Being a woman myself, it does concern me that there are so many who are willing to tar the entire gender with the bitchy brush - but let me assure you, the day I become like this is the day I'll expect to be strangled by my own hair.
My last job was taking care of marketing and PR for a small company where the head office was staffed entirely by snakes, sorry - women. My main responsibility was acting as a PA to the MD (a thankless task for a miserable, loveless bitch), also putting together editorials, copywriting for adverts and brochures, and perhaps most importantly - managing the company website, which from day one (not my doing, you understand) was riddled with spelling, grammatical and punctuation errors. I didn't even make a dint on that side of things - there wasn't time before I got kicked out.
"What did you do to deserve such a cruel fate, after only 6 weeks?" I hear you ask. I'll let you decide.
I sensed undertones of bitching from certain women right from the start, but that's life. There were the whisperings behind my back and laughing when I left the room, some of which I naively put down to co-incidence, but really I knew it wasn't a co-incidence. What were they laughing at though?! Did I have bird shit in my hair, toilet paper stuck to my shoe or 'whore' written on a post-it note and stuck to my back? No. I soon realised that my problem was simple - ego trips aside, I was too attractive with too many nice things. This occurred to me like an epiphany one day. I pulled up to work on a warm, sunny morning with the top down on my BMW, wearing a big pair of Jackie O shades and a black dress. A few members of staff had been stood chatting until they saw me, then they just stared and started whispering to each other. The dress wasn't anything special, just sleeveless, a high cut neck, belted, tight, 3 inches above the knee. It's what I like to call business-like but flattering. No tights, tanned body, long hair down and (this seemingly being the straw that broke the jealous camel's back...) a beautiful pair of beige open toe high heels, with a big bow on the front.
The whole of that day, women just stared at the lower half of my body like I'd sprouted a third leg or hadn't shaved the other two for 6 months. Despite having heard no compliments on the shoes or anything else, I considered it flattery and thought no more of it, until at 4.45pm, the HR Manager (younger and infinitely more dowdy and clueless than me) took me into the board room. In an unnecessarily OTT display of her authority, she sat me down and told me not to wear the shoes again, or any like it, as the heels damage the parquet wood floor of the Victorian building. A fair point, I conceded, and apologetically (but resentfully) vowed never to wear another stilettoed shoe to work.
The following morning, I dutifully arrived a work in a pair of flat ballet pumps. Minutes later, the HR Manager (aka the shoe police) arrived, click-clacking her way across the parquet floor in a pair of stilettos. This was the moment my steady demise began, because from that moment on - it was clear what their problem was and not being the subordinate type, I saw this as a game, a form of amusement in the name of female one-upmanship. So in an act of antagonistic defiance, I began keeping a pair of red stilettos in my car, so that every day, if the HR Manager wore hers, I'd put mine on. This lasted until a Company Director called me to her office to raise the same concern about the floor. At which point, I wasted no time in dragging the HR Manager down with me. However, being aware of still being in a probationary period, I caved in and went shopping for less sex-Goddess heels, that would still give me some posture. Taking advantage of the thicker summery heels that are in fashion and the platform soles that take a bit of pressure off the foot, I bought three new pairs just for work. (Parquet floors are a work of art after all!)
I managed almost a full week of wearing my new shoes in rotation, when I got called into the same Director's office. This time, my shoes were banned on Health and Safety grounds. And while she had me sat there in a lovely coral blouse and a pencil skirt - I was told about a mysterious company policy which appears on none of my contracts or documents, a policy that stipulates no colour should be worn to work. Black, grey and white only were permitted, in what she called 'corporate style', and if skirts or dresses were to be worn, they should always be accompanied by black tights. (Funnily enough, this didn't seem to apply to anyone but me. There were red jumpers, bright tribal print dresses and powder blue blouses all around.) My hackles raised. After fighting my argument on the ridiculousness of their request for well over half an hour, I left the office completely dumbstruck. Was I dreaming this, or was it a hoax - a joke at my expense and after a few days, they'd all shout - 'Not really, we're just winding you up!!' ?
Now at this point I'd like to remind you - there are no men working for this company. Not a single whiff of testosterone (unless you count the women in HR). So I couldn't even blame this pointless attempt at trying to de-sexify me, on them trying to win male attention.
Green with envy
Two days later, I was summoned to the Managing Director's office, to meet with her and the aforementioned Director. The meeting, under the guise of a 'performance review', seemed strangely unplanned and I was lead in, wearing black trousers, a black top, a camel coloured cardigan and some flat shoes - (which in their words, made me look lovely). I sat down, prepared to finally talk about my contribution to the company, which under the shadow of the stir my dress sense had created, had gone completely unnoticed. Alas - there was no mention of work. Oh no. The Managing Director had got wind of what she called, 'the unrest caused among staff members, relating to dress codes'. There had been several complaints and ruffled feathers caused by my chosen outfits (I kid you not) and I was given a verbal and physical dressing down, for my part in the matter. There I sat for a good hour, being told that my unwillingness to conform was being duly noted and that I was completely out of order for pointing out that on the day I was told off for dressing inappropriately in a black pencil dress, the MD had an even shorter red dress on. (With no tights.) I stood my ground as calmly as I could, but the anger and tension building inside me was causing me to shake - I thought I might explode! "What about my work?" I asked. "Is it not even worth a mention? Because that kind of feedback would be more useful to me!"
"We can't fault your work," they told me, without even a flinch or an awkward glance at the floor, at the irony and sheer stupidity of the whole situation. "You're doing a fantastic job." I almost burst out laughing. After realising I'd have no chance of keeping my job unless I kept my mouth firmly shut and agreed to do whatever the fuck they asked, I was allowed to go home at 6.20pm. (I was supposed to finish at 5pm.)
I went home and consumed a bottle of wine to calm my nerves. I was being humiliated, they were trying to rob me of my personality, my individuality, my attractiveness. They wanted me to fade into the background and wouldn't stop hassling me until I did. I'm ashamed to admit that they made me feel this bad, but I cried. A lot. Perhaps out of frustration more than self pity.
The next day, I wore the most beautiful grey pencil dress to work. A few inches above the knee, tight enough to make me wiggle instead of walk, frilled cap sleeves, flattering in every way possible and accessorized with a gorgeous over sized belt and some kitten heels. (Less conspicuous than stilettos, but I didn't give a fuck about the floor anymore.) It was my version of a massive 'fuck you'. I was subject to the usual glares but I rose above it. Before I left that day, I placed a letter on the Managing Director's desk, telling her in the politest way possible, everything I should have said in the last meeting, had I been allowed to get a word in edge ways. I pointed out the obvious victimisation that was going on, the hurt I felt about being forced to be someone I'm not and the insult I also felt, at the fact that they evidently hated me so much with no apparent reason. I appealed, in the sweetest way possible, to her better nature - that she would try and see beyond whatever was pissing her off about the way I look. I agreed to dress down slightly - albeit not down to the frumpy level they were expecting. I asked that they might cause less fuss about my clothes and concentrate a bit more on my work. Finally, I signed off by saying that I'd really love for myself and everyone to be able to put this whole matter behind us and start again, because despite everything, I was (was) enjoying my work.
The next day I was off to attend a hospital appointment for a cancer-related examination, which they forced me to tell them about, before they'd believe I wasn't just having a day's holiday to sun bathe. I went to the hospital feeling guilty for not having made an appointment at the weekend instead, despite having been instructed to attend as a matter of urgency. (I'm not dying, by the way. Thank fuck. Although they'd probably like me to be.) Later that day I received a phone call from the HR Manager (shoe police). No mention of "How did you get on at the hospital?" or "Are you OK?" - all she wanted to tell me was that they'd decided to terminate my contract with immediate effect, due to what she called 'incompatibility and irreconcilable differences'. "Don't come back on Monday," she told me, "We'll pay you a week's notice." Being in a probationary period, there wasn't a single thing I could do.
"You're too hot. You're fired!"
I should add (although it ought to be irrelevant), that in order to get the job in the first place, I made the fatal error of dressing down for the interview. I know how this shit works, I'd have never got the job if I'd dressed up and I knew this, but I wasn't going to be frumpy forever! And why the fuck should I be? I just wasn't prepared for how much I would enrage them by showing them my true colours once they'd taken me on.
I'm never going to apologise for looking after myself, for keeping a great figure, for dressing to accentuate it, for having a fetish for expensive, sexy shoes, for driving a nice car and for not watering all of this down by being a brainless bimbo. I take great pride in my appearance and I work my fucking fingers to the bone to afford everything I have. Nothing stops everyone else from doing the same, expect perhaps for some drive and determination. All I can say now, is give me men any day. I've had it with bitches.
We've all met women (and in some cases men) like this. But for some reason, women have the edge. It seems to me, that only women are prepared to go to the lengths they do, in order to try and gain the upper hand over someone. Being a woman myself, it does concern me that there are so many who are willing to tar the entire gender with the bitchy brush - but let me assure you, the day I become like this is the day I'll expect to be strangled by my own hair.
My last job was taking care of marketing and PR for a small company where the head office was staffed entirely by snakes, sorry - women. My main responsibility was acting as a PA to the MD (a thankless task for a miserable, loveless bitch), also putting together editorials, copywriting for adverts and brochures, and perhaps most importantly - managing the company website, which from day one (not my doing, you understand) was riddled with spelling, grammatical and punctuation errors. I didn't even make a dint on that side of things - there wasn't time before I got kicked out.
"What did you do to deserve such a cruel fate, after only 6 weeks?" I hear you ask. I'll let you decide.
I sensed undertones of bitching from certain women right from the start, but that's life. There were the whisperings behind my back and laughing when I left the room, some of which I naively put down to co-incidence, but really I knew it wasn't a co-incidence. What were they laughing at though?! Did I have bird shit in my hair, toilet paper stuck to my shoe or 'whore' written on a post-it note and stuck to my back? No. I soon realised that my problem was simple - ego trips aside, I was too attractive with too many nice things. This occurred to me like an epiphany one day. I pulled up to work on a warm, sunny morning with the top down on my BMW, wearing a big pair of Jackie O shades and a black dress. A few members of staff had been stood chatting until they saw me, then they just stared and started whispering to each other. The dress wasn't anything special, just sleeveless, a high cut neck, belted, tight, 3 inches above the knee. It's what I like to call business-like but flattering. No tights, tanned body, long hair down and (this seemingly being the straw that broke the jealous camel's back...) a beautiful pair of beige open toe high heels, with a big bow on the front.
The whole of that day, women just stared at the lower half of my body like I'd sprouted a third leg or hadn't shaved the other two for 6 months. Despite having heard no compliments on the shoes or anything else, I considered it flattery and thought no more of it, until at 4.45pm, the HR Manager (younger and infinitely more dowdy and clueless than me) took me into the board room. In an unnecessarily OTT display of her authority, she sat me down and told me not to wear the shoes again, or any like it, as the heels damage the parquet wood floor of the Victorian building. A fair point, I conceded, and apologetically (but resentfully) vowed never to wear another stilettoed shoe to work.
Who knew they'd be such trouble makers?!
The following morning, I dutifully arrived a work in a pair of flat ballet pumps. Minutes later, the HR Manager (aka the shoe police) arrived, click-clacking her way across the parquet floor in a pair of stilettos. This was the moment my steady demise began, because from that moment on - it was clear what their problem was and not being the subordinate type, I saw this as a game, a form of amusement in the name of female one-upmanship. So in an act of antagonistic defiance, I began keeping a pair of red stilettos in my car, so that every day, if the HR Manager wore hers, I'd put mine on. This lasted until a Company Director called me to her office to raise the same concern about the floor. At which point, I wasted no time in dragging the HR Manager down with me. However, being aware of still being in a probationary period, I caved in and went shopping for less sex-Goddess heels, that would still give me some posture. Taking advantage of the thicker summery heels that are in fashion and the platform soles that take a bit of pressure off the foot, I bought three new pairs just for work. (Parquet floors are a work of art after all!)
I managed almost a full week of wearing my new shoes in rotation, when I got called into the same Director's office. This time, my shoes were banned on Health and Safety grounds. And while she had me sat there in a lovely coral blouse and a pencil skirt - I was told about a mysterious company policy which appears on none of my contracts or documents, a policy that stipulates no colour should be worn to work. Black, grey and white only were permitted, in what she called 'corporate style', and if skirts or dresses were to be worn, they should always be accompanied by black tights. (Funnily enough, this didn't seem to apply to anyone but me. There were red jumpers, bright tribal print dresses and powder blue blouses all around.) My hackles raised. After fighting my argument on the ridiculousness of their request for well over half an hour, I left the office completely dumbstruck. Was I dreaming this, or was it a hoax - a joke at my expense and after a few days, they'd all shout - 'Not really, we're just winding you up!!' ?
Now at this point I'd like to remind you - there are no men working for this company. Not a single whiff of testosterone (unless you count the women in HR). So I couldn't even blame this pointless attempt at trying to de-sexify me, on them trying to win male attention.
Green with envy
Two days later, I was summoned to the Managing Director's office, to meet with her and the aforementioned Director. The meeting, under the guise of a 'performance review', seemed strangely unplanned and I was lead in, wearing black trousers, a black top, a camel coloured cardigan and some flat shoes - (which in their words, made me look lovely). I sat down, prepared to finally talk about my contribution to the company, which under the shadow of the stir my dress sense had created, had gone completely unnoticed. Alas - there was no mention of work. Oh no. The Managing Director had got wind of what she called, 'the unrest caused among staff members, relating to dress codes'. There had been several complaints and ruffled feathers caused by my chosen outfits (I kid you not) and I was given a verbal and physical dressing down, for my part in the matter. There I sat for a good hour, being told that my unwillingness to conform was being duly noted and that I was completely out of order for pointing out that on the day I was told off for dressing inappropriately in a black pencil dress, the MD had an even shorter red dress on. (With no tights.) I stood my ground as calmly as I could, but the anger and tension building inside me was causing me to shake - I thought I might explode! "What about my work?" I asked. "Is it not even worth a mention? Because that kind of feedback would be more useful to me!"
"We can't fault your work," they told me, without even a flinch or an awkward glance at the floor, at the irony and sheer stupidity of the whole situation. "You're doing a fantastic job." I almost burst out laughing. After realising I'd have no chance of keeping my job unless I kept my mouth firmly shut and agreed to do whatever the fuck they asked, I was allowed to go home at 6.20pm. (I was supposed to finish at 5pm.)
I went home and consumed a bottle of wine to calm my nerves. I was being humiliated, they were trying to rob me of my personality, my individuality, my attractiveness. They wanted me to fade into the background and wouldn't stop hassling me until I did. I'm ashamed to admit that they made me feel this bad, but I cried. A lot. Perhaps out of frustration more than self pity.
The next day, I wore the most beautiful grey pencil dress to work. A few inches above the knee, tight enough to make me wiggle instead of walk, frilled cap sleeves, flattering in every way possible and accessorized with a gorgeous over sized belt and some kitten heels. (Less conspicuous than stilettos, but I didn't give a fuck about the floor anymore.) It was my version of a massive 'fuck you'. I was subject to the usual glares but I rose above it. Before I left that day, I placed a letter on the Managing Director's desk, telling her in the politest way possible, everything I should have said in the last meeting, had I been allowed to get a word in edge ways. I pointed out the obvious victimisation that was going on, the hurt I felt about being forced to be someone I'm not and the insult I also felt, at the fact that they evidently hated me so much with no apparent reason. I appealed, in the sweetest way possible, to her better nature - that she would try and see beyond whatever was pissing her off about the way I look. I agreed to dress down slightly - albeit not down to the frumpy level they were expecting. I asked that they might cause less fuss about my clothes and concentrate a bit more on my work. Finally, I signed off by saying that I'd really love for myself and everyone to be able to put this whole matter behind us and start again, because despite everything, I was (was) enjoying my work.
The next day I was off to attend a hospital appointment for a cancer-related examination, which they forced me to tell them about, before they'd believe I wasn't just having a day's holiday to sun bathe. I went to the hospital feeling guilty for not having made an appointment at the weekend instead, despite having been instructed to attend as a matter of urgency. (I'm not dying, by the way. Thank fuck. Although they'd probably like me to be.) Later that day I received a phone call from the HR Manager (shoe police). No mention of "How did you get on at the hospital?" or "Are you OK?" - all she wanted to tell me was that they'd decided to terminate my contract with immediate effect, due to what she called 'incompatibility and irreconcilable differences'. "Don't come back on Monday," she told me, "We'll pay you a week's notice." Being in a probationary period, there wasn't a single thing I could do.
"You're too hot. You're fired!"
I should add (although it ought to be irrelevant), that in order to get the job in the first place, I made the fatal error of dressing down for the interview. I know how this shit works, I'd have never got the job if I'd dressed up and I knew this, but I wasn't going to be frumpy forever! And why the fuck should I be? I just wasn't prepared for how much I would enrage them by showing them my true colours once they'd taken me on.
I'm never going to apologise for looking after myself, for keeping a great figure, for dressing to accentuate it, for having a fetish for expensive, sexy shoes, for driving a nice car and for not watering all of this down by being a brainless bimbo. I take great pride in my appearance and I work my fucking fingers to the bone to afford everything I have. Nothing stops everyone else from doing the same, expect perhaps for some drive and determination. All I can say now, is give me men any day. I've had it with bitches.
Tuesday, 22 March 2011
EGO AND STATUS
Men don't usually need an excuse to let their egos take over them, so when a man has celebrity status, even as a minor celebrity (and more to the point, when there are too many women willing to suck his cock just because...) then you can imagine how over inflated he becomes. I don't know if this works the same way for women, I try to remain impartial when it comes to gender issues, but personally I don't think I'd ever get far enough over my insecurities to assume that anyone and everyone wants to penetrate me!
I'll tell you a little story...
Not so long ago, in a professional capacity I took my friend to a gig being played by musicians (if you can call them that) with something of a cult status in the industry. They're famous, there's no doubt about that - but more as an act than individuals, and it's doubtful whether they'd be recognised in the street. Anyway, we got invited to the after show party where one member of said 'act' seemed to take a shine to me and asked if we would like to join them backstage for drinks. I hasten to add (and I know readers, you'll find it hard to believe I can be this naive...) I thought nothing of it, other than friendly/professional chat. After all, I genuinely didn't find him attractive!
I'll tell you a little story...
Not so long ago, in a professional capacity I took my friend to a gig being played by musicians (if you can call them that) with something of a cult status in the industry. They're famous, there's no doubt about that - but more as an act than individuals, and it's doubtful whether they'd be recognised in the street. Anyway, we got invited to the after show party where one member of said 'act' seemed to take a shine to me and asked if we would like to join them backstage for drinks. I hasten to add (and I know readers, you'll find it hard to believe I can be this naive...) I thought nothing of it, other than friendly/professional chat. After all, I genuinely didn't find him attractive!
A drink. Also known as SEX.
At this point and in hindsight I should ask a rhetorical question - why, when someone shows an interest in talking to you, should you automatically assume (with only limited evidence) that they want to fuck you? In my opinion, it would be terribly arrogant to do so! I mean, think about it. Can you imagine bringing this up to set them straight, only to be told the person doesn't even find you attractive?! The shame.
Anyway, I digress. There we were, backstage. With a glass of wine I sat next to said man on a leather sofa and we talked, opposite us my friend sat next to a member of his band, and they talked. We talked mainly about work, in case you're wondering. There were a couple of mentions of us being beautiful, but I chose to ignore that. To the best of my knowledge, I did nothing to lead him to believe I would be stripping off later and all seemed to be well. After half an hour or so, my friend and I then got invited to see their tour bus. A tour bus! Tres excitation! It's worth remembering by the way, that neither me or my friend fraternise with many celebrities, so this was a rare (and somewhat pathetic) treat. The tour bus was plush, as you'd expect. Like a winnebago with tinted windows. Guitars strewn about, an Xbox and a widescreen TV, drinks, more leather sofas... I spent a lot of time deep in thought, planning the decor of my own bus when I get asked to tour Waterstones. Before I knew it, we were being ushered out of the tour bus and into a nearby hotel, because the after show party had been cut short by the venue and the crew were expected. (In hindsight, the signs were apparent, I do realise this; but you realise a lot in hindsight.)
In the hotel lobby whilst waiting for keys to rooms that had been checked into earlier, the man in question seemed to have an obsession with the hotel's jacuzzi and whether or not it would still be open. At this point, bells were ringing but it wasn't as easy as you'd expect, to make my excuses and leave. I'm a writer and I had my own ulterior motives. I was hankering after this guy's little black book of A listers. And he definitely has one. I can handle this, I thought. Play it cool, steer it around. I'll get him so interested in my conversation that he'll think far too much of me to waste the night exchanging bodily fluids!
Moi?!
Upstairs, my friend and I parted company as her new 'friend' led her to his room and I was being led in the opposite direction with you know who. In his room (with no double bed, a minor offering from above) I sat awkwardly on a single bed pushed up against the wall. So awkwardly you might say, that I was trying too hard to not look awkward, which clearly had the opposite effect. I probably looked like I was ripe for a good seeing to. As he came and sat next to me I jumped up and escaped to the loo to consider my options. Do I -
A. Leave now to avoid further trouble?
B. Stay but continue to be coy and either - win by convincing him I'm not his type and befriending him instead, or - risk driving him crazy and eventually being chucked out on the grounds that I'm a cock tease?
C. Fuck him and hope for the best, although knowing full well that if I did this I'd never hear from him again and I'd be branded one of his cheap tour sluts.
Not tonight, dear.
As I surveyed my slightly overgrown bikini line, mis-matching underwear and the simple facts that I didn't fancy him and I have an ego myself, I wandered back out into the bedroom, imagining the best way to execute plan B. It wasn't easy. I had to be next to him and while ever I was next to him, he was trying to kiss me or was licking my neck. (Which I'm ashamed to say felt fucking divine and left me with slightly damp knickers.) I made some jokes about him doing this every night and having a girl in every city, which he calmly denied. Then I told him I was married. To which he answered "What's a bit of harmless fun between adults?" What is it indeed, when you're outrageously attracted to someone, and I was quickly being convinced. Eventually he managed to kiss me properly, mid conversation. His tongue was slow and gentle, then hard and probing, and for a split second I reverted to plan C. Then either God intervened or my brain engaged. I stood up and moved onto the other bed (two singles, remember). "I can't do this, I'm sorry. I didn't expect it to come to this, I know we were getting on but I thought we would just be friends..." (In other words, listen cunt - if you're under the impression I'm that easy, you've taken one too many pills. I call the sexual shots. And I'm no-one's groupie.)
I genuinely expected him to be nice about this, but as it happens, he was anything but.
"You want to be friends? Ok, what the fuck shall we talk about? Hmm? Shall we be best fucking friends?" He spat the words at me with pure venom from across the other side of the room where he'd walked to, pacing and fidgeting with what seemed to be anger waiting to vent. The priceless contacts I wanted slipped from my grasp, I was getting fuck all from him, like he was getting fuck all from me.
"I'm leaving." I said, fumbling to try and get my heels back on quickly, which isn't easy when they're lace up shoe-boots and a size too small. He wasn't planning to let me off that easily...
"I mean for fuck's sake, what the fuck are you doing in my hotel room at 2am, if you aren't going to fuck me?" (Questionable.) "You want to be friends? Grow the fuck up!"
Wow. Despite my shallow intentions, the words cut my own ego sharp and easy, like a knife through butter. He hated me. And all because he wasn't going to get laid. Somehow I got my shoes on and left the room, slamming the door behind me.
Fuck.
I spent the next forty minutes in the street, trying to make contact with my friend and waiting for my husband to pick me up. It wouldn't have been such a long wait, had I not decided to tell him everything on the phone before he even left. (We have a relationship built on honesty and open-mindedness above all else.) I was seething and shivering. It was only a few degrees and I'd left my fucking jacket at the venue. Eventually my friend came walking towards me, being chaperoned by her squeeze of the evening, his coat wrapped snugly around her shoulders, his arm around her waist. Now she hadn't fucked him (whether or not she was willing to is irrelevant -) but he hadn't flipped out like a spoiled brat who'd had his teething ring snatched off him and rammed up his shit covered arse!
I'm still wondering whether I was wholly to blame or whether a more reasonable man might have taken the sexual rejection a little more pleasantly. Either way, the black book still in sight I gave him another chance to accept the hand of friendship with a casually worded facebook message and a backhanded apology the next day. He's yet to reply...
I defy any woman to have handled this better without losing her self respect.
Wednesday, 16 March 2011
SEX ON FIRE
They're not fucking joking when they tell you not to put Veet hair removal cream near your labs. As you can imagine, I don't heed advice very readily. Pah. Labs of steel. They've been through much worse. And so I proceed to spread the Veet cream over my cunny with a vigour only usually afforded to whipped cream and lube. (I like the word cunny. I am pleased that Boardwalk Empire has lovingly brought it into the 21st century.) In a few minutes, I think to myself, I'll have a landing strip worthy of P. Diddy's private jet and the rest will be smoother than Gail Porter's head. So I give it a good fifteen minutes and make myself a brew with no knickers on. It starts to tingle. That just shows it's working! (Yes, this is my genitalia, I should probably give more of a shit but, well... it's only hair removal cream.)
As it stands, I have the cunny of a 16 year old again! So as I push 30, my vagina looks virginal. Things always work out for the best... It is however, a cruel fact of life that we're not destined to have great sex without a whole lot of effort. This is where most marriages go wrong. Sometimes you have to do whatever it takes to keep things moving. And I mean whatever it takes. Veet's not even the tip of the iceberg...
Aeroplane picture courtesy of Allan Tegers Bodyscapes - http://www.bodyscapes.com/
It seems they don't advise using it on the inside bits!
Nothing appeared to be wrong until I put my thong on and left the house. I spent the rest of the day throwing discretion to the wind and trying in vain to pick the stringy fabric from my bits, to alleviate a pain that can only be described as taking rough sandpaper to your most sensitive area. (It's not easy when you're wearing skin tight jeans, to stop your thong from rubbing.) As the day went on it got worse and when I visited the ladies, it was official. My cunny had been given a chemical peel and the remnants of skin were everywhere.
Imagine having this up your crack.
Later that day after several applications of Johnson's Baby Lotion, my husband, having caught sight of my new coiff ("I like your cunny's new hair do!", the word is really growing in popularity...), suffered the beginnings of a hard-on, that in my mind, was definitely not to be relieved, unless by his own hand or my mouth. Feeling generous and myself slightly turned on by the Jenna Jameson look I was modelling, I stripped him off and licked the tip of his cock until it sparkled with saliva and pre-cum. Then I took it, achingly stiff, into my mouth; sucking it hard, up and down, occasionally taking over with my hand so I could move onto his balls (which he regularly and so thoughtfully de-fluffs for my pleasure... should I tell him about Veet??) ...all the while granting him an unprecedented view of my new 'hair do' as I straddled him backwards, teasing myself with the close proximity of his face. The sight must have overwhelmed him because before I knew it, I was on my back being slammed into, whether my newly peeled cunny approved or not. When you're that turned on, a bit of pain is quickly over-powered by a deep relief when you finally get filled up and pounded really hard, in exactly the right spot.
Cumming in to land...
As it stands, I have the cunny of a 16 year old again! So as I push 30, my vagina looks virginal. Things always work out for the best... It is however, a cruel fact of life that we're not destined to have great sex without a whole lot of effort. This is where most marriages go wrong. Sometimes you have to do whatever it takes to keep things moving. And I mean whatever it takes. Veet's not even the tip of the iceberg...
Aeroplane picture courtesy of Allan Tegers Bodyscapes - http://www.bodyscapes.com/
Friday, 11 March 2011
CUT TO SHREDS
Writing is THE most frustrating of creative practices. Not the writing itself, you understand - because when you can truly write, when you care about your work and other people can appreciate and enjoy your ability and fiercely individual style, it's cathartic, uplifting and fulfilling. Each finely edited piece of work is something that is so deeply considered, so painfully extracted that it's like a piece of your soul. Take this blog for example. As much as writing comes easily to me, I take on average four to five hours to perfect, re-edit and format each blog entry until I'm happy for it to be read. Because unlike most other bloggers, I do this properly. I don't just mindlessly spew out my day's events in a torrent of badly punctuated, non structured musings and expect people not to be bored senseless within the first paragraph. Instead, I consider this part of my portfolio and as such it deserves the same care and attention I give to all my work. (In fact more so most of the time, because this blog is going to remain the way I intended.)
Any creative work is sacred to its creator. Ask a musician how they feel about their compositions or an artist what their paintings mean to them and you'll begin to understand. Yet unlike pieces of visual art which are accepted and loved in their finished form as declared by the creator, writing is a craft that people feel they can fuck about with, because some twat always knows how it would be better put. Well FUCK YOU editors, sub-editors and well meaning colleagues, who ought to consider their own professional inadequacies before looking for the most trivial of mine. Aside from spelling errors, bad grammar and incorrect punctuation (none of which feature in my work unless it's a typo due to consuming cream liqueur whilst writing), there is no reason why if someone thinks my work is good enough to feature in their publication in the first place, they should then presume to know what I meant to say, but for some reason - (known only to the dick head that is trying to re-word it) didn't.
Give me strength.
If you can't find a technical flaw in my work, leave it the fuck alone and write something yourself, if you think you're so shit hot.
http://www.guardian.co.uk/media/2008/jul/29/sundaytimes.pressandpublishing?INTCMP=ILCNETTXT3487
As Hilda Ogden and Vera Duckworth so convincingly point out, sub-editing is a noble and thankless profession, apparently so because The Times have no standards which they ask contributors to fulfill. It seems they let any twat write for them, hence the need for a sub-editor who so nobly has to re-arrange their work into some readable form. Here's the thing - why is this 'badly structured, poorly spelt, appallingly punctuated, lazily researched' bullshit they speak of, ever submitted to or accepted by The Times in the first place?
Any creative work is sacred to its creator. Ask a musician how they feel about their compositions or an artist what their paintings mean to them and you'll begin to understand. Yet unlike pieces of visual art which are accepted and loved in their finished form as declared by the creator, writing is a craft that people feel they can fuck about with, because some twat always knows how it would be better put. Well FUCK YOU editors, sub-editors and well meaning colleagues, who ought to consider their own professional inadequacies before looking for the most trivial of mine. Aside from spelling errors, bad grammar and incorrect punctuation (none of which feature in my work unless it's a typo due to consuming cream liqueur whilst writing), there is no reason why if someone thinks my work is good enough to feature in their publication in the first place, they should then presume to know what I meant to say, but for some reason - (known only to the dick head that is trying to re-word it) didn't.
Give me strength.
If you can't find a technical flaw in my work, leave it the fuck alone and write something yourself, if you think you're so shit hot.
Touche.
I must at this point, refer to a rant of legendary status, by Giles Coren.
http://www.guardian.co.uk/media/2008/jul/23/mediamonkey
The pure venom in this letter almost threatens to splatter you in the face if you get to close to the screen. And duly so. I can't express it any better and simply adore the C word.
http://www.guardian.co.uk/media/2008/jul/23/mediamonkey
The pure venom in this letter almost threatens to splatter you in the face if you get to close to the screen. And duly so. I can't express it any better and simply adore the C word.
I complained to my editor today, about one of my interview features that's barely recognisable in its published form, with an embarrassingly cringey title, everything re-arranged, the last two paragraphs sliced off altogether, no ending to speak of, all my little quips stripped out and worst of all, my name still at the top. It's as sterile as the needle full of diazepam I'd like to inject into my arm right now. Here's the profoundly indifferent response I received -
You have to get used to that when you write stuff. (That ‘stuff’ of 800 words you’ve just hacked apart took me four hours to construct, that’s after I spent a day researching and conducting the interview.)
Whether it’s for us or national magazines. (Please, I'm about to laugh...)
You might not agree with it but we know what we’re doing. I’ve been doing this for 16 years. After I’ve tweaked it, it’s seen by the Features Editor who may make changes, then the sub-editor. (Is it any wonder it doesn't look anything like my work when it comes out from your office, having been gang raped by three red pens?)
Then it’s checked again. (What the fuck is this, MI6?)
Sub-editors do the headlines. (Badly!)
Feature interviews tend to end with a quote – it’s a style thing. (Does that mean you look for the quote nearest the end of the piece and then slice off everything that follows, because you're too fucking lazy to re-construct the mess you've just made?)
If you want to stop doing it, fair enough – but even I get copy changed that I don’t agree with. And I’m ace. (No, you're really not. But in any case it's nice to know you're grateful for my efforts and show such concern.)
My tantrums aside, trying to get an editor to understand the stupidity of his/her actions proves to be more pointless than educating Liz Jones. Equally laughable and barely worth the internet server space it takes up, is a bleating reply to Giles Coren's letter, from some disgruntled Times subbies.
You have to get used to that when you write stuff. (That ‘stuff’ of 800 words you’ve just hacked apart took me four hours to construct, that’s after I spent a day researching and conducting the interview.)
Whether it’s for us or national magazines. (Please, I'm about to laugh...)
You might not agree with it but we know what we’re doing. I’ve been doing this for 16 years. After I’ve tweaked it, it’s seen by the Features Editor who may make changes, then the sub-editor. (Is it any wonder it doesn't look anything like my work when it comes out from your office, having been gang raped by three red pens?)
Then it’s checked again. (What the fuck is this, MI6?)
Sub-editors do the headlines. (Badly!)
Feature interviews tend to end with a quote – it’s a style thing. (Does that mean you look for the quote nearest the end of the piece and then slice off everything that follows, because you're too fucking lazy to re-construct the mess you've just made?)
If you want to stop doing it, fair enough – but even I get copy changed that I don’t agree with. And I’m ace. (No, you're really not. But in any case it's nice to know you're grateful for my efforts and show such concern.)
My tantrums aside, trying to get an editor to understand the stupidity of his/her actions proves to be more pointless than educating Liz Jones. Equally laughable and barely worth the internet server space it takes up, is a bleating reply to Giles Coren's letter, from some disgruntled Times subbies.
http://www.guardian.co.uk/media/2008/jul/29/sundaytimes.pressandpublishing?INTCMP=ILCNETTXT3487
As Hilda Ogden and Vera Duckworth so convincingly point out, sub-editing is a noble and thankless profession, apparently so because The Times have no standards which they ask contributors to fulfill. It seems they let any twat write for them, hence the need for a sub-editor who so nobly has to re-arrange their work into some readable form. Here's the thing - why is this 'badly structured, poorly spelt, appallingly punctuated, lazily researched' bullshit they speak of, ever submitted to or accepted by The Times in the first place?
Liz Jones. Either she gives head to the Mail editors, or they're as stupid as she is.
This leads me to my next point, adding the vilest insult to injury of car crash proportions. I'm being completely taken advantage of, because I (who can string a decent sentence together and don't need my spelling corrected or my brain lobotomised, as the lady above does...) have never been paid a penny for my work. Yes, it's true. Because I don't have a famous Daddy and Piers Morgan isn't my fuck buddy (but for the record, I wouldn't say no...) - I have spent the best part of four years writing for various publications who like to think of themselves as charities. They're local newspapers who rake in money from advertising, pay a few reporters, editors and admin staff and then allow all the poor, disillusioned wannabes to write them valuable features and columns for nothing but an email of thanks, if the editor can spare the time.
I'm not going to pretend I get nothing out of these opportunities to write. I get to build my portfolio, that collection of published work, invaluable to all new writers. Only I'm not new anymore. I'm an established writing graduate, with inimitable style, whose portfolio is busting at the seams and who's getting to the end of her fuse with national papers who 'don't know me' and local rags who 'don't pay me'. Does my unfaltering determination not speak for itself? I'd have given up by now if I didn't think I was born to do this. In any case, what fucking good is the aforementioned portfolio, when it's actually the portfolio of sub-editors? (And a shockingly bad one, at that.)
Me. "What's that you say? It would be better if I put whose name at the top?"
I'm not going to pretend I get nothing out of these opportunities to write. I get to build my portfolio, that collection of published work, invaluable to all new writers. Only I'm not new anymore. I'm an established writing graduate, with inimitable style, whose portfolio is busting at the seams and who's getting to the end of her fuse with national papers who 'don't know me' and local rags who 'don't pay me'. Does my unfaltering determination not speak for itself? I'd have given up by now if I didn't think I was born to do this. In any case, what fucking good is the aforementioned portfolio, when it's actually the portfolio of sub-editors? (And a shockingly bad one, at that.)
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