Two months ago this guy came round to mine. Don't get too excited, I did know him - we'd been out a few times (a decent number of times). Let's call him Dave. I did. It's not his name and he did get quite annoyed, but names have never been my strong point.
Anyway, we had a lovely evening. He cooked. We skipped dessert. We headed through to the bedroom (insert 80s synth and saxophone music here). We were standing by the bed, I was facing 'Dave'. I reached down behind me and pulled back the duvet. My bedspread is red (this isn't just girly detail by the way, it's an important factor). Suddenly, Dave stopped kissing me. I noticed his expression had changed.
"What is it?" I asked.
He moved his head forward to indicate in the direction of the bed. "Eh, what's that?"
I froze. Even though I knew there was nothing weird or dodgy in my bed, I was reluctant to turn around. Eventually I did and I was totally shocked by what I saw.
There were numerous 'white patches' on my red fitted sheet. 'Oh my God, what the hell is that' I silently floundered. "Erm ... eh ... it's not what it looks like," I finally managed.
"Well, that is what it looks like."
"Well, it's not. It's definitely not. I mean I haven't. And if I had, I would have washed the sheets."
"Well, what is it then?"
My mind ticked over furiously. I couldn't think what it might be. C'mon, c'mon, what is it. After what seemed like an eternity, it finally clicked into place.
"Aha," I ventured victoriously. I turned back to face Dave with a proud smile. "It's heel cream!" I remembered that I'd been putting it on my heels every night. You're supposed to put socks on after you've applied it, but I loathe wearing socks in bed so I'd opted to dangle my feet over the edge until it had been absorbed. Obviously, I hadn't waited long enough and some of it had been absorbed by my sheets.
"Heel cream? What the fuck is heel cream?"
"It's cream, for putting on your heels so they're all silky and smooth in the summer."
Dave didn't look convinced.
"Look! I'll show you." I pulled open the top drawer on my bedside table and pulled out the heel cream. "See?" I said rattling the box.
He wasn't looking at me. He was staring at my open drawer. I looked down.
Next to the heel cream were three boxes of condoms.
"There was a three for two offer on at Boots," I offered sheepishly.
He burst out laughing and we lay down on the bed.
"I'm definitely not going to have to pay you after this am I?"
We ended up laughing ourselves to sleep.
Showing posts with label sex. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sex. Show all posts
Friday, July 04, 2008
Monday, June 23, 2008
On trying to be a good citizen
Today at work, I gave blood. I'd been put on a 12 month ban following my Cambodia trip, so it was good to finally do it again. It was my ninth donation and, apparently, I get a badge the next time I donate. I'm trying to put that across and sound like a good citizen, but it's not really that impressive, as if I'd stuck to my three times a year promise I should have donated around 30 times by now. Hmmm.
As always, the form you have to fill in causes me no shortage of dilemma. One of the questions is 'Have you ever had sex with a man who has ever had sex with another man?' I mean, how are you supposed to know that? Occasionally I flirt with the idea of telling them about that one guy. The one whom I wouldn't be surprised to hear is actually gay. But I don't know for certain and it might just cause more hassle than it's worth - like the time my mum let slip my grandma was dead when she was trying to cash in my grandma's astronomically high BT shares. Bummer.
The other question that causes me problems is the one that asks 'Have you ever had sex for money?'
Now technically, the answer to that is of course 'no', but I have done it out of pity. Once. And I know a few people who have done it for jewellery. Oh, and one person who did it for a sports car. So what's the big difference? Why don't they just ask 'Are you, or have you ever been, a prostitute?', rather than making people who aren't prostitutes feel bad about themselves when all they're trying to do is be a good citizen.
Obviously the reason I would feel bad about myself is because I know that 'pity' is not a positive reason for having sex with someone. However, I also feel bad because at least the prostitutes had the good sense to get paid for something they didn't really want to do. So here's a new slogan for the Blood Donation Service ...
... Feel cheap and stupid:Give blood.
As always, the form you have to fill in causes me no shortage of dilemma. One of the questions is 'Have you ever had sex with a man who has ever had sex with another man?' I mean, how are you supposed to know that? Occasionally I flirt with the idea of telling them about that one guy. The one whom I wouldn't be surprised to hear is actually gay. But I don't know for certain and it might just cause more hassle than it's worth - like the time my mum let slip my grandma was dead when she was trying to cash in my grandma's astronomically high BT shares. Bummer.
The other question that causes me problems is the one that asks 'Have you ever had sex for money?'
Now technically, the answer to that is of course 'no', but I have done it out of pity. Once. And I know a few people who have done it for jewellery. Oh, and one person who did it for a sports car. So what's the big difference? Why don't they just ask 'Are you, or have you ever been, a prostitute?', rather than making people who aren't prostitutes feel bad about themselves when all they're trying to do is be a good citizen.
Obviously the reason I would feel bad about myself is because I know that 'pity' is not a positive reason for having sex with someone. However, I also feel bad because at least the prostitutes had the good sense to get paid for something they didn't really want to do. So here's a new slogan for the Blood Donation Service ...
... Feel cheap and stupid:Give blood.
Thursday, December 28, 2006
Oh Henri!
I spent the week before Christmas in New York. It was a gift from my parents - not that they were banishing me or anything (although, at times I'm sure that would have been preferable for them), it was a family holiday.
It was my brother's first time in NYC so we did the Empire State and Statue of Liberty thing, but the weather was much nicer than last time so I didn't mind too much. We went to the Top of the Rock too, which was really good. I finally made it to Katz's Deli for pastrami on rye and a cherry soda - unbelievably good, and generally got to know the place much better than in previous visits.
In my experience, when faced with the New York welcome the trick is to maintain a poker-face and resist the urge to lash out while the rudest person in the world checks your passport. I swear, if they'd used staff from New York's airports as immigration officials on Ellis Island, most of the immigrants would have turned right around and sailed 12 weeks back across the Atlantic.
On my last trip, I encountered Sherrondah. She works behind the Ground Transportation desk at Newark. Upstairs, I'd purchased my ticket for the bus into the city and was told that Sherrondah would point me in the right direction regarding which stance to catch the bus. I made my way downstairs and asked Sherrondah my question. This is what happened:
Sherrondah: "They told y'upstairs."
Me: "Er... no. They didn't."
Sherrondah: "Yess dey dit."
Me: "No, they really didn't."
Sherrondah (with the irritating snake-neck popularised by the Riki Lake show): "Mmm, uh-huh, yess dey dit."
Me: "No ... they ... did ... not."
Sherrondah: "Mmm, uh-huh, yess dey dit."
Me: "You're clearly mistaken Sherrondah because if you really did have such powers of insight you wouldn't be stuck sitting on your fat ass behind the Ground Transportation desk at the FUCKING AIRPORT!!!"
This time I flew into JFK and was hoping things would be different. Not so. Enter Lapuzzo, the immigration officer. I swear he took 20 minutes to check four passports and take our index fingerprints, treating us like complete morons in the process. "M'am ... I nee-eed you (pointing at me) to place ... your (pointing at me again) RIGHT ... INDEX ... FINGER ... HERE (pointing at the touchpad)." I did so. After 20 seconds, Lapuzzo nodded - slowly - and said: "Goooood".
Oh ... my ... God!!!!
On our last day in NY, we all went our separate ways: my mum to Macy's, my brother to Bloomingdales, me to Fifth Avenue, and my dad to the Celtic supporters' club.
I visited Henri Bendel to buy some presents - mostly for myself. It's the most perfect place I've ever been. I floated around in a state of pure bliss. I stocked up on some M.A.C items, got a gorgeous grey merino cardigan and a Lotus home fragrance candle for Mog. I took Mog's pressie up to the third floor to have it gift wrapped and experienced a moment of unequaled pleasure. I used to think women who said shopping was better than sex just didn't know how good sex could be. Henri changed my mind.
It was my brother's first time in NYC so we did the Empire State and Statue of Liberty thing, but the weather was much nicer than last time so I didn't mind too much. We went to the Top of the Rock too, which was really good. I finally made it to Katz's Deli for pastrami on rye and a cherry soda - unbelievably good, and generally got to know the place much better than in previous visits.
In my experience, when faced with the New York welcome the trick is to maintain a poker-face and resist the urge to lash out while the rudest person in the world checks your passport. I swear, if they'd used staff from New York's airports as immigration officials on Ellis Island, most of the immigrants would have turned right around and sailed 12 weeks back across the Atlantic.
On my last trip, I encountered Sherrondah. She works behind the Ground Transportation desk at Newark. Upstairs, I'd purchased my ticket for the bus into the city and was told that Sherrondah would point me in the right direction regarding which stance to catch the bus. I made my way downstairs and asked Sherrondah my question. This is what happened:
Sherrondah: "They told y'upstairs."
Me: "Er... no. They didn't."
Sherrondah: "Yess dey dit."
Me: "No, they really didn't."
Sherrondah (with the irritating snake-neck popularised by the Riki Lake show): "Mmm, uh-huh, yess dey dit."
Me: "No ... they ... did ... not."
Sherrondah: "Mmm, uh-huh, yess dey dit."
Me: "You're clearly mistaken Sherrondah because if you really did have such powers of insight you wouldn't be stuck sitting on your fat ass behind the Ground Transportation desk at the FUCKING AIRPORT!!!"
This time I flew into JFK and was hoping things would be different. Not so. Enter Lapuzzo, the immigration officer. I swear he took 20 minutes to check four passports and take our index fingerprints, treating us like complete morons in the process. "M'am ... I nee-eed you (pointing at me) to place ... your (pointing at me again) RIGHT ... INDEX ... FINGER ... HERE (pointing at the touchpad)." I did so. After 20 seconds, Lapuzzo nodded - slowly - and said: "Goooood".
Oh ... my ... God!!!!
On our last day in NY, we all went our separate ways: my mum to Macy's, my brother to Bloomingdales, me to Fifth Avenue, and my dad to the Celtic supporters' club.
I visited Henri Bendel to buy some presents - mostly for myself. It's the most perfect place I've ever been. I floated around in a state of pure bliss. I stocked up on some M.A.C items, got a gorgeous grey merino cardigan and a Lotus home fragrance candle for Mog. I took Mog's pressie up to the third floor to have it gift wrapped and experienced a moment of unequaled pleasure. I used to think women who said shopping was better than sex just didn't know how good sex could be. Henri changed my mind.
Sunday, July 09, 2006
You may remember me ...
... I used to write a blog.
This is the longest I have gone between blog entries, which means that I have broken one of my New Year's resolutions. Not the first, I might add - that one died on January 2nd when I ate something consisting of more than 100 calories . Still, six months is pretty good going and I'm back on the wagon.
I'd love to say that my non-blogging was due to an active, exciting and thoroughly full life. Alas, it's mostly down to the biggest dose of inertia ever. I also went slightly crazy for a few weeks due to a particularly annoying and persistent cold/flu virus. It hung around for about 4 weeks, but never made me ill enough to take a day off work.
A strange response (I actually said the words "so many people would love to catch my germs" aloud during a meeting at work, and now - understandably - people think I'm weird. God damn my self-love) got me to thinking that I could sell my virus on E-bay. People have sold individual baked beans to the highest bidder so I felt sure I was onto a winner. I attempted to secure buy-in to this notion from a few of my colleagues, but failed miserably.
My ideas for web-based money making refused to die and I came up with something else as I was building a wardrobe with a friend. "I bet there's an appetite on the internet for watching women engaged in manual labour," I stated. "Eh? What on earth are you on about?" followed her natural response. "I once saw this programme about the sex industry and how there was an appetite out there for the most bizarre things. Some guys paid to access a site with videos of women bursting balloons. There was even a group of men who got off watching women fall over or have minor accidents whilst going about their daily business. So I'm thinking we could set up a web-cam and let people pay to watch us build this wardrobe." She looked at me like I was insane. "Don't you see, this is brilliant," I continued. "We could make money from doing all the stuff that we have to do anyway. Who cares if some weirdo gets off watching us? As long as I don't have to take my clothes off, touch myself or touch anyone else then I'm game. We could call the site - 'Build it and they will cum'." "Of all the things you've ever come out with," she stated calmly, "this is the strangest. I really worry about you sometimes." I still think it's brilliant.
I got the keys for my new flat and set about moving my belongings with all the gusto of a nineteenth century Iowa farm boy. My introduction to the neighbours had none of the grace I had envisaged, as I lugged box after box up the stairs wheezing, sighing and shaking whenever I stopped. Adding to my embarrassment was the fact that my (gentle) perspiration meant I was sporting a demi-wave to rival that of a young Frank Sinatra.
The flat is lovely and instantly felt like home. I was lying in front of the fireplace reading my book as I waited for a delivery. I had one of those moments where you feel so blissfully content you hope you remember it forever. My favourite task so far has been buying art and taking it off to be framed. Julie, my designer friend, produced a big poster of one of her designs for the living-room wall. It looks just fab.
Julie actually convinced me to get out of bed at 5:30am last Tuesday to attend a business networking event. It was out in Corstorphine and I got lost. I stopped in the car park of the Maybury hotel, getting a few suspicious looks from the drivers of the other few cars also in there. I had the uncomfortable notion that I had inadvertently stumbled upon some early morning dogging session. Luckily, Jules responded to my message and gave me directions to my desired destination.
Writeink is coming along slowly but nicely. The business cards are being printed and I've had my first lots of 'official' money, which will come in very handy in paying for September's Asia trip.
This is the longest I have gone between blog entries, which means that I have broken one of my New Year's resolutions. Not the first, I might add - that one died on January 2nd when I ate something consisting of more than 100 calories . Still, six months is pretty good going and I'm back on the wagon.
I'd love to say that my non-blogging was due to an active, exciting and thoroughly full life. Alas, it's mostly down to the biggest dose of inertia ever. I also went slightly crazy for a few weeks due to a particularly annoying and persistent cold/flu virus. It hung around for about 4 weeks, but never made me ill enough to take a day off work.
A strange response (I actually said the words "so many people would love to catch my germs" aloud during a meeting at work, and now - understandably - people think I'm weird. God damn my self-love) got me to thinking that I could sell my virus on E-bay. People have sold individual baked beans to the highest bidder so I felt sure I was onto a winner. I attempted to secure buy-in to this notion from a few of my colleagues, but failed miserably.
My ideas for web-based money making refused to die and I came up with something else as I was building a wardrobe with a friend. "I bet there's an appetite on the internet for watching women engaged in manual labour," I stated. "Eh? What on earth are you on about?" followed her natural response. "I once saw this programme about the sex industry and how there was an appetite out there for the most bizarre things. Some guys paid to access a site with videos of women bursting balloons. There was even a group of men who got off watching women fall over or have minor accidents whilst going about their daily business. So I'm thinking we could set up a web-cam and let people pay to watch us build this wardrobe." She looked at me like I was insane. "Don't you see, this is brilliant," I continued. "We could make money from doing all the stuff that we have to do anyway. Who cares if some weirdo gets off watching us? As long as I don't have to take my clothes off, touch myself or touch anyone else then I'm game. We could call the site - 'Build it and they will cum'." "Of all the things you've ever come out with," she stated calmly, "this is the strangest. I really worry about you sometimes." I still think it's brilliant.
I got the keys for my new flat and set about moving my belongings with all the gusto of a nineteenth century Iowa farm boy. My introduction to the neighbours had none of the grace I had envisaged, as I lugged box after box up the stairs wheezing, sighing and shaking whenever I stopped. Adding to my embarrassment was the fact that my (gentle) perspiration meant I was sporting a demi-wave to rival that of a young Frank Sinatra.
The flat is lovely and instantly felt like home. I was lying in front of the fireplace reading my book as I waited for a delivery. I had one of those moments where you feel so blissfully content you hope you remember it forever. My favourite task so far has been buying art and taking it off to be framed. Julie, my designer friend, produced a big poster of one of her designs for the living-room wall. It looks just fab.
Julie actually convinced me to get out of bed at 5:30am last Tuesday to attend a business networking event. It was out in Corstorphine and I got lost. I stopped in the car park of the Maybury hotel, getting a few suspicious looks from the drivers of the other few cars also in there. I had the uncomfortable notion that I had inadvertently stumbled upon some early morning dogging session. Luckily, Jules responded to my message and gave me directions to my desired destination.
Writeink is coming along slowly but nicely. The business cards are being printed and I've had my first lots of 'official' money, which will come in very handy in paying for September's Asia trip.
Monday, April 03, 2006
The vodka monster returneth
Why am I such a weirdo when I'm drunk? Why, why, why, why, why?
Ok, so what I didn't say, when I was blogging for the love of tea on Saturday, was that I was quietly dying and (less quietly) wretching my sorry little soul out. Whilst it is indeed true that the arrival of the teapot was my favourite part of Friday night, I neglected to mention that I later welcomed the arrival of Queen Mother (God rest her soul) quantities of gin and even more vodka.
What I learned today, when I finally turned up at work, was that I am no ordinary drunk. Oh no baby! Not for me the crying nor the fighting nor even the sexual deviance of normal inebriated beings. Oh no, when I get pished I ... wait for it ... interview people; random strangers - about all manner of things.
How bizarre is that?
Apparently, I spent large parts of Friday evening dancing my way over to complete strangers whereupon, I'm told, I whipped out a pad and pen and began asking them - like some kind of demented Joseph Rowntree - about their jobs, their relationships, their health, and their feelings on the sorry state of Italy.
On Sunday evening, I had been puzzled to discover that my notebook was full of complete and utter pish I couldn't explain, so at least my colleagues' playful jests helped clear that one up. The notebook also contains around 20 email addresses next to which I've written: "Email with voucher for free meal." "Oh, that's right", said one of my colleagues, "you told everyone you interviewed that they'd get a free meal courtesy of Le Monde."
I am, of course, disturbed by this behaviour because it is truly class A, nutjob stuff, but I find it even more worrying that a significant number of people actually entertained what must have been the incoherent ramblings of a total steamer.
Never again, I promise, promise, promise.
Ok, so what I didn't say, when I was blogging for the love of tea on Saturday, was that I was quietly dying and (less quietly) wretching my sorry little soul out. Whilst it is indeed true that the arrival of the teapot was my favourite part of Friday night, I neglected to mention that I later welcomed the arrival of Queen Mother (God rest her soul) quantities of gin and even more vodka.
What I learned today, when I finally turned up at work, was that I am no ordinary drunk. Oh no baby! Not for me the crying nor the fighting nor even the sexual deviance of normal inebriated beings. Oh no, when I get pished I ... wait for it ... interview people; random strangers - about all manner of things.
How bizarre is that?
Apparently, I spent large parts of Friday evening dancing my way over to complete strangers whereupon, I'm told, I whipped out a pad and pen and began asking them - like some kind of demented Joseph Rowntree - about their jobs, their relationships, their health, and their feelings on the sorry state of Italy.
On Sunday evening, I had been puzzled to discover that my notebook was full of complete and utter pish I couldn't explain, so at least my colleagues' playful jests helped clear that one up. The notebook also contains around 20 email addresses next to which I've written: "Email with voucher for free meal." "Oh, that's right", said one of my colleagues, "you told everyone you interviewed that they'd get a free meal courtesy of Le Monde."
I am, of course, disturbed by this behaviour because it is truly class A, nutjob stuff, but I find it even more worrying that a significant number of people actually entertained what must have been the incoherent ramblings of a total steamer.
Never again, I promise, promise, promise.
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