I am now back in sunny England and yes, it is raining. I guess I would kind of be disappointed if it wasn't.
I would like to put it out there to the universe - Is there a trolly at Heathrow that is not wonky? My god, it's like trying to guide a drunk person home, through a crowd, after you have just spent 24 hours on a plane.
Now, being back on English soil, I was expecting to pleasantly smile as British correctness took over...I'm talking about etiquette here, people. The Done Thing. Within minutes of landing, I was queuing for passport clearance with my EU passport (thank god I didn't have to wait in the International line, which was 3 times as long and moving half as fast.) And, much to my disgust, 2 guys pushed in front of me in the queue. It's just not The Done Thing. But it's also not The Done Thing to actually speak up and comment on it. You just look around and sort of 'tusk' with other people, and look at the 'pushers-in' with disdain. So I did just that. I did The Done Thing.
The two gents proceeded to talk very loudly about thier dull little lives and I continued to stand behind them glaring. Now, I don't condsider myself racist but one of them was certainly not of full English origin, so I guess his behaviour can be excused, as its not The Done Thing in his culture to be polite.
Which brings me to my next whinging POM moment - where have all the English people gone in London? After making it through clearence and collecting my bag, I continued to be cut-up by Indians with their spastic trolleys, barged into by Africans with their big bags in tow, and eyed-up by dirty Korean men.
Nobody gave way to me. You would think being a single girl and reasonably attractive - although obviously not up to my usual standard after flying for the aforementioned 24 hours and eating yucky plane food (having said that, one of my best picks ups was after an international flight as Beeso can testify), that gentlemen would be polite enough to help a woman out. But no. Apprantly England has lost its politness in my absense.
So, 33 hours door-to-door, I arrived, fought my way through the mixed-race crowd and found...nobody to pick me up. They were late. 2 hours up the M4 was all they had to do. I had travelled 33 and was on time. I couldn't get the back cover off my phone to change over to my UK simcard to call them. I didn't have my parents phone numbers anywhere. And I didn't have any UK money on me. Fuck.
Fortunately, resourcefull little thing that I am, I found a payphone that took creditcards, spoke to a Yank to get connected, and phoned my brother, the only number I could remember, who rang Dad who then found me.
We drove home down a relatively quiet M4, with beautiful blue skies through the tranquil English countryside, at a pleasant temperature of 22c and it was suddenly all worth it. Drivers were not undertaking, or hopping from lane to lane, there were no Yutes (is that how you spell it?) or truckdrivers high on speed. My equilibrium had returned.
Now I'm sat in my bedroom, watching 10 horses in the field outside gallop powerfully along together through the mist of the rain.
Maybe England does still exist, I guess you just have to look for it.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Chapter 1 - The Virgin
I'm reading a book by Ayn Carrillo called Good Vibrations.
It's about a 'good girl' discovering her 'bad side' and all things sexual. She describes herself as a 'vibrator virgin' having never used a vibrator, and writes a 'Porn-to-do list' which keeps the story moving forward as she goes to a strip club, reads erotic literature, etc.
It sounded like my kind of read but it's actually quite boring. I have done everything on her special to-do list so reading about it is rather dull in comparison. I think I'm the opposite to her - a 'bad -girl-turned-good'.
I've lost my identity a bit.
I used to be the girl who was always shagging, or talking about sex and vibrators. I was the friend who people came to for confidential advice on blowjobs/anal/buying their first vibe. Indeed, this blog had the underlying intention of being very 'forthcoming'; as I explained to a fellow-blogger when asking for advice about commencing a blog - I was worried things I might say could be too x-rated for those weaker at the knees.
But now I have very little to 'forthcome' about. Being 'sexual' (for want of a better word) was who I was. It was a very big part of me. So to suddenly lose that overnight is quite a shock.
Now this blog is going to turn into a 'coming-of-age' story. So sorry about that, I will try to pepper it with sexual references as I go.
I'm actually attempting to write a book myself. It's about all the different men I have slept with, and what lesson was learnt from each one. I would like to share the first chapter with you to see what you think...
CHAPTER 1 - THE VIRGIN
Everyone always remembers losing their virginity. (Unless you were very, very drunk...but then it doesn’t count anyway). You remember where you were, how you felt, how ‘it’ felt and, of course, the name of the lucky significant other being blessed with ‘taking your cherry’, ‘popping your cork’ and ‘opening the gates’.
I remember being horny before I even knew what being horny meant. By the time I was 15, I was ready. I knew what ‘it’ was and I knew I wanted it. Preferably NOW. But the act of actually losing ‘IT’ had to be so special and important, so meaningful and loving. About a month before I met the virgin I had been invited to a party. The idea of a party when you’re 15 isn’t, as you tell your parents; ‘a few of us having maybe an alcoholic drink or two...but I don’t really want to drink because I don’t want to get drunk and not know what I’m doing...’ In fact, its quite the opposite; getting as drunk as possible, preferably without throwing up, and making out with whoever it is you have had your eye on at school, or perhaps more accurately; whoever your eyes happen to land upon - and that’s only if you can actually see straight. Good times, great fun. Anyway, there was this boy I had kissed a few times and he had taken me to the cinema and held my hand. We discussed - via text I am hasten to add (I was easily wooed) - whether we should ‘do it’ at said party. But then I got my period. So that made the decision very easy for us.
I can’t recall first laying eyes on the virgin, my heart didn't skip a beat, I didn’t instinctively know he was ‘the one’. I was a month or so away from my 16th Birthday, on a cruise around the Caribbean with my family, we had fallen in love very quickly, within a couple of weeks, and were finally alone in my cabin onboard, despite my dad’s best efforts not to leave us alone.
The epitome of all the best virgin one-liners.
“Is it in?” both of us uttered.
I am sorry to report that after feeling around and deducing that it wasn’t anywhere else, then that must mean that yes, it was in. And whilst I couldn’t feel much it still managed to rock my world. At the time anyway. I would just like to point out that the reason behind not being able to sense a great deal was not due to me having a gaping great *insert your own preferred term here*, it was certainly due to his, eh-hem, undeveloped form. Unfortunately one of many I was to encounter. I was with the virgin for over a year - a long time at that age. He lived 5 hours away by train and every other weekend I would begin the long trek down to his house.
Before I lost my virginity I remember being so certain that I would be one of the careful ones who always wore a condom and was sensible about sex. But then a virgin has never experienced that dying urge of a throbbing cock positioned just outside your very wet and aching self. At which point a condom, although somewhat at the forefront of your mind, is not at the front. The first weekend I went to see him we ran out of condoms but continued anyway. Very silly I know. And Monday morning, on my lunch break at school, I trudged around 3 chemists until I finally found one that would supply me with the morning after pill. Then I worried for the next few weeks and convinced myself everyday that because I had a spot/my boobs hurt/I was hungry it must signal impending motherhood. Although there is always that part of you that wouldn’t be entirely disappointed if you were. And there is always that tiny part of you that is disappointed when you’re not. Even though it would be terrible and you totally couldn’t handle it and there are so many reasons why not and its a BABY for crying out loud...it’s also a *sigh* baby. Biology is to blame.
Lesson #1: Falling in love is the best.
It's about a 'good girl' discovering her 'bad side' and all things sexual. She describes herself as a 'vibrator virgin' having never used a vibrator, and writes a 'Porn-to-do list' which keeps the story moving forward as she goes to a strip club, reads erotic literature, etc.
It sounded like my kind of read but it's actually quite boring. I have done everything on her special to-do list so reading about it is rather dull in comparison. I think I'm the opposite to her - a 'bad -girl-turned-good'.
I've lost my identity a bit.
I used to be the girl who was always shagging, or talking about sex and vibrators. I was the friend who people came to for confidential advice on blowjobs/anal/buying their first vibe. Indeed, this blog had the underlying intention of being very 'forthcoming'; as I explained to a fellow-blogger when asking for advice about commencing a blog - I was worried things I might say could be too x-rated for those weaker at the knees.
But now I have very little to 'forthcome' about. Being 'sexual' (for want of a better word) was who I was. It was a very big part of me. So to suddenly lose that overnight is quite a shock.
Now this blog is going to turn into a 'coming-of-age' story. So sorry about that, I will try to pepper it with sexual references as I go.
I'm actually attempting to write a book myself. It's about all the different men I have slept with, and what lesson was learnt from each one. I would like to share the first chapter with you to see what you think...
CHAPTER 1 - THE VIRGIN
Everyone always remembers losing their virginity. (Unless you were very, very drunk...but then it doesn’t count anyway). You remember where you were, how you felt, how ‘it’ felt and, of course, the name of the lucky significant other being blessed with ‘taking your cherry’, ‘popping your cork’ and ‘opening the gates’.
I remember being horny before I even knew what being horny meant. By the time I was 15, I was ready. I knew what ‘it’ was and I knew I wanted it. Preferably NOW. But the act of actually losing ‘IT’ had to be so special and important, so meaningful and loving. About a month before I met the virgin I had been invited to a party. The idea of a party when you’re 15 isn’t, as you tell your parents; ‘a few of us having maybe an alcoholic drink or two...but I don’t really want to drink because I don’t want to get drunk and not know what I’m doing...’ In fact, its quite the opposite; getting as drunk as possible, preferably without throwing up, and making out with whoever it is you have had your eye on at school, or perhaps more accurately; whoever your eyes happen to land upon - and that’s only if you can actually see straight. Good times, great fun. Anyway, there was this boy I had kissed a few times and he had taken me to the cinema and held my hand. We discussed - via text I am hasten to add (I was easily wooed) - whether we should ‘do it’ at said party. But then I got my period. So that made the decision very easy for us.
I can’t recall first laying eyes on the virgin, my heart didn't skip a beat, I didn’t instinctively know he was ‘the one’. I was a month or so away from my 16th Birthday, on a cruise around the Caribbean with my family, we had fallen in love very quickly, within a couple of weeks, and were finally alone in my cabin onboard, despite my dad’s best efforts not to leave us alone.
The epitome of all the best virgin one-liners.
“Is it in?” both of us uttered.
I am sorry to report that after feeling around and deducing that it wasn’t anywhere else, then that must mean that yes, it was in. And whilst I couldn’t feel much it still managed to rock my world. At the time anyway. I would just like to point out that the reason behind not being able to sense a great deal was not due to me having a gaping great *insert your own preferred term here*, it was certainly due to his, eh-hem, undeveloped form. Unfortunately one of many I was to encounter. I was with the virgin for over a year - a long time at that age. He lived 5 hours away by train and every other weekend I would begin the long trek down to his house.
Before I lost my virginity I remember being so certain that I would be one of the careful ones who always wore a condom and was sensible about sex. But then a virgin has never experienced that dying urge of a throbbing cock positioned just outside your very wet and aching self. At which point a condom, although somewhat at the forefront of your mind, is not at the front. The first weekend I went to see him we ran out of condoms but continued anyway. Very silly I know. And Monday morning, on my lunch break at school, I trudged around 3 chemists until I finally found one that would supply me with the morning after pill. Then I worried for the next few weeks and convinced myself everyday that because I had a spot/my boobs hurt/I was hungry it must signal impending motherhood. Although there is always that part of you that wouldn’t be entirely disappointed if you were. And there is always that tiny part of you that is disappointed when you’re not. Even though it would be terrible and you totally couldn’t handle it and there are so many reasons why not and its a BABY for crying out loud...it’s also a *sigh* baby. Biology is to blame.
Lesson #1: Falling in love is the best.
Monday, June 8, 2009
What the fuck?
What the fuck?
I've just found out (via bloody Facebook) that the Londoner was most likely cheating on me. Bastard. I'm not bitter and twisted because I want him back...I'm bitter and twisted because he screwed me over. That hurts.
With hindsight, I am pleased we split because now it means I'm going back to England and seeing Ross. Plus, the Londoner really couldn't spell all that great (he wasn't the brightest spark in the box) and got mixed up with his exclamation marks and question marks?!?!? Seriously.
And he didn't last all that long. Or want it all that much. Which is really not good enough. Besides, sex only gets you so far.
I'm just not used to being cheated on and dumped! What the fuck.
Rant over.
Thanks for listening.
I've just found out (via bloody Facebook) that the Londoner was most likely cheating on me. Bastard. I'm not bitter and twisted because I want him back...I'm bitter and twisted because he screwed me over. That hurts.
With hindsight, I am pleased we split because now it means I'm going back to England and seeing Ross. Plus, the Londoner really couldn't spell all that great (he wasn't the brightest spark in the box) and got mixed up with his exclamation marks and question marks?!?!? Seriously.
And he didn't last all that long. Or want it all that much. Which is really not good enough. Besides, sex only gets you so far.
I'm just not used to being cheated on and dumped! What the fuck.
Rant over.
Thanks for listening.
Saturday, June 6, 2009
What the hell do we know?!
On a Girls Night last Friday, something struck me...what the hell do we know?!
There we were, six girls ranging from 21 - 31 years of age, most of whom are single, or unhappy in there relationship (only one, the 31-year-old is married)...all giving each other advice on men and relationships. But really, what the hell do we know?
Posing this question to the group, there was a momentary pause as it sunk in. Why are we asking advice from other people who are single? Or who are in a relationship, but seeing a couple's counsellor? Shouldn't we be seeking answers to our heart-ache woes from people who are happily married, or at least, in a loving, prospering relationship?
I feel sorry for blokes. I really do. When they date a women, they are not just dating one woman. Oh no. Unbeknown to them, they are dating at least five other women as well (and with none of the benefits of dating five women at once). So they are not just dealing with one emotional female, but a whole fleet of them and their moodswings. All of whom have a different opinion of what he does, what he says, and how he shags.
Poor buggers.
There we were, six girls ranging from 21 - 31 years of age, most of whom are single, or unhappy in there relationship (only one, the 31-year-old is married)...all giving each other advice on men and relationships. But really, what the hell do we know?
Posing this question to the group, there was a momentary pause as it sunk in. Why are we asking advice from other people who are single? Or who are in a relationship, but seeing a couple's counsellor? Shouldn't we be seeking answers to our heart-ache woes from people who are happily married, or at least, in a loving, prospering relationship?
I feel sorry for blokes. I really do. When they date a women, they are not just dating one woman. Oh no. Unbeknown to them, they are dating at least five other women as well (and with none of the benefits of dating five women at once). So they are not just dealing with one emotional female, but a whole fleet of them and their moodswings. All of whom have a different opinion of what he does, what he says, and how he shags.
Poor buggers.
How often have you thought one thing, been so sure of it, then spoken to friends and your view has flipped 180? Or, at least, it puts a thought into your head which wasn't there before...a new way of looking at something.
We need to find the balance between taking on board enough advice so as we don't find ourselves recklessly sailing off into the sunset with some crusty-nobbed freak... and letting so much advice on board that our ship sinks.
That metaphor made much more sense in my head. Look away now if you are feint at heart but for those that are wondering, the crusty-nobbed freak refers to an ex of mine who once had, well, a crusty nob. Like dried Cornflakes on the end. Yuck.
Anyway, my conclusion here is to walk alone for a while. I'm going to see how I end up not listening to anyone's advice, just my heart.
Hopefully I won't encounter anymore cereal varieties along the way...
We need to find the balance between taking on board enough advice so as we don't find ourselves recklessly sailing off into the sunset with some crusty-nobbed freak... and letting so much advice on board that our ship sinks.
That metaphor made much more sense in my head. Look away now if you are feint at heart but for those that are wondering, the crusty-nobbed freak refers to an ex of mine who once had, well, a crusty nob. Like dried Cornflakes on the end. Yuck.
Anyway, my conclusion here is to walk alone for a while. I'm going to see how I end up not listening to anyone's advice, just my heart.
Hopefully I won't encounter anymore cereal varieties along the way...
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Oh! Sorry, I forgot I existed for a second there...
I'm sat here with my cup of tea, as per usual, typing and clicking away on Facebook with my glasses on...looking very English as I sip my tea with my little finger in the air...
...and who should add me on Facebook but Number 20. As in, he wasn't even memorable enough to give him a fake name...the only reason I have any recollection of who he is, is because you always remember your multiples of '10'. At least I do, anyway. When you have had more than 20 men, before you have had 20 years of life, you remember each decade with disturbing clarity.
I recently 'culled' a lot of Facebook friends...I had around 400 friends, of which I culled to around 200. Even now, I swear to God, I couldn't name 200 people I know. I guess Number 20 was one who just didn't make the cut, even in Cyberspace. Who are these people?! I don't care what they are doing, or how they are feeling. Forget 'Sam is...' more like 'Who is Sam?'
But I feel bad clicking 'ignore' on friend requests. So I don't. I just kind of...leave them there. In Reject-cyberspace. Eventually, they fade away. And I don't feel bad.
It's like when you see someone you know but don't want to talk to on the street. And you either look at your phone as you pass them, or look behind you as though you heard a noise, or (my favourite) look into the distance as though you are SO engrossed in your own, deep, meaningful thoughts, that you don't even notice what world you are in.
Then, if they do talk to you, you can sort of 'jump' in shock - not just at seeing them, but at the mear idea you actually exist outside of your own head...
Just me that does that? Ok then...
...and who should add me on Facebook but Number 20. As in, he wasn't even memorable enough to give him a fake name...the only reason I have any recollection of who he is, is because you always remember your multiples of '10'. At least I do, anyway. When you have had more than 20 men, before you have had 20 years of life, you remember each decade with disturbing clarity.
I recently 'culled' a lot of Facebook friends...I had around 400 friends, of which I culled to around 200. Even now, I swear to God, I couldn't name 200 people I know. I guess Number 20 was one who just didn't make the cut, even in Cyberspace. Who are these people?! I don't care what they are doing, or how they are feeling. Forget 'Sam is...' more like 'Who is Sam?'
But I feel bad clicking 'ignore' on friend requests. So I don't. I just kind of...leave them there. In Reject-cyberspace. Eventually, they fade away. And I don't feel bad.
It's like when you see someone you know but don't want to talk to on the street. And you either look at your phone as you pass them, or look behind you as though you heard a noise, or (my favourite) look into the distance as though you are SO engrossed in your own, deep, meaningful thoughts, that you don't even notice what world you are in.
Then, if they do talk to you, you can sort of 'jump' in shock - not just at seeing them, but at the mear idea you actually exist outside of your own head...
Just me that does that? Ok then...
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
When did that happen?
Growing up. Sneaks up on you doesn't it?
I used to be able to go and get laid every weekend without giving it a second thought. It's easy for girls isn't it...if you want some, you can get some. And don't get me wrong - I'm not 'past it'. I can still go out and get some with great ease. But that's the problem - it's got too easy.
In the past month I have been on 3 dates and had 4 guys in my bed and, although given the opportunity, I couldn't fuck any of them. I just couldn't. And I'm not entirely sure why. As I said before...it's been second nature in the past. In order to get over people I get under others. But I think I have grown up. And I don't like it!
On the flip side, I used to convince myself that I wasn't going to have random sex anymore, that it had to mean something. But inevitably I would always get horny and one thing would lead to another and...well, you know the rest. But now I want to get down and dirty but my head is stopping me. Now it really does have to mean something.
I guess it shows my growing maturity - that I now want more from men than just sex. I want someone who wants my body to cuddle, as well as shag. I want someone who (sometimes at least) makes love gently. And I want someone I can talk to after they have made me scream.
Growing up. Sneaks up on you doesn't it?
I used to be able to go and get laid every weekend without giving it a second thought. It's easy for girls isn't it...if you want some, you can get some. And don't get me wrong - I'm not 'past it'. I can still go out and get some with great ease. But that's the problem - it's got too easy.
In the past month I have been on 3 dates and had 4 guys in my bed and, although given the opportunity, I couldn't fuck any of them. I just couldn't. And I'm not entirely sure why. As I said before...it's been second nature in the past. In order to get over people I get under others. But I think I have grown up. And I don't like it!
On the flip side, I used to convince myself that I wasn't going to have random sex anymore, that it had to mean something. But inevitably I would always get horny and one thing would lead to another and...well, you know the rest. But now I want to get down and dirty but my head is stopping me. Now it really does have to mean something.
I guess it shows my growing maturity - that I now want more from men than just sex. I want someone who wants my body to cuddle, as well as shag. I want someone who (sometimes at least) makes love gently. And I want someone I can talk to after they have made me scream.
Growing up. Sneaks up on you doesn't it?
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