Euwww, I don't feel so good

Helen and I went to this party last night. For her, it was a shag raid. For me, it was favour payback time. I owe Helen big time since she managed to hook Jimmy The Stalker up with this girl she knows, who, rumour has it, is the proud owner of a trick pelvis. I haven't heard from him for two weeks so I guess the rumours are true.

I wasn't really in full-on party mode. I've been burning the candle at both ends for so long that a night in was all I really wanted, one of those gorgeous nights of telly sloth with a pile of additive-rich snacks piled in front of me. Plus I was half pissed by the time we went out, thanks to my blog having been deleted yesterday afternoon, so my eyes were bugging out from sitting in front of my laptop trying to get to grips with techie-geek jargon for too many hours to be healthy. But Helen insisted and dragged me out of the door as soon as I'd managed to get it together enough to throw some mascara at my face and put my heels on.

The party was at this amazing house in South Kensington, one of those places that looks like a wedding cake; all white pillars and stucco frosting. The crowd was kind of lame, full of crimson-cheeked rubgy boys and girls with hockey legs, you know the type. I got lots of bitchy looks from vowel-rich Veronicas with flicky hair. I guess a girl who isn't towing an arse the size of Daddy's estate is a bit of a rarity in that postcode. It was like I was some kind of tourist attraction.

So Helen hooks up with the guy she's after - a full five years older than her usual victims, I was kind of amazed - and I'm left to my own devices. I'm pretty good at amusing myself and within half an hour I'd found the real party, upstairs in a bedroom the size of Buckingham Palace populated by a bunch of slightly edgier hoorah's hoovering up the party dust. That kept me busy for a while but if someone is boring to start with then a nose full of marching powder only serves to enhance it. If you're going to do drugs it really should be with the aim of having fun; for this lot, it was an excuse to drone on about the usual shit they drone on about on a daily basis, just with added attitude and less silences between sentences. Like, zzzzz. I held out until four a.m. and then I got the fuck out of there.

I guess that scene doesn't really do it for me. But Helen texted me a smiley face this morning, so it was all for a good cause.

My face looks like it's on a fast train to Botox and since I'm working at the club tonight so I'd better go back to bed to try and repair some of the damage.

More tomorrow.

I rock!

Yay! My blog is back up and looks pretty much like it did before disaster struck. So I'll be back in business as usual tomorrow.

And I've decided I need a new pic of myself on the blog, so I'll be roping Helen in for a spot of photography this weekend. Come back and check me out.

Right now I'm off to some dodgy party with Helen so she can get her hooks into this guy she has the hots for. God, the stuff we do to help our mates to get laid.

Nightmare

For those of you who come here often, yes, it looks different, and yes, my blog has been unavailable for most of the afternoon.

Why? Because my old blog was accidentaly deleted in the pursuit of design perfection.

Ah well.

So bear with me while I rebuild it.

And in the meantime, please feel free to leave comments sending big love to help me through the hours ahead as I sit hunched over a hot keyboard, cursing and chain-smoking Marlboro Lights. I have a feeling the vodka will be coming out very, very soon...

My first Half-Nekkid Thursday Post!

Why is it that almost every picture I take with my crappy digital camera looks totally gross?Anyway, here is my (lame) tribute to Half-Nekkid Thursday.


Yeah, I know I'm a wuss.

The Withholder... continued

If you're a regular to this blog, then you'll know that I was hoping to end my self-imposed sex drought last night. If you've read my post from this morning then you'll also know that the drought continues. Big bloody disappointment.

I have to admit that I was kind of excited prior to the event. Why? I'm not entirely sure. I'm usually pretty cool about guys, take 'em and leave 'em is how I tend to operate.

I mean, it's not like my aim in life is to get married and settle in the 'burbs with a lifetime of B&Q Sundays stretched out before me. I don't believe in 'the one', nor am I obsessed with the search for a soul mate, quite simply because I don't believe in all that shit. And from seeing my friends go through the relationship mill and get sucked into all the inevitable heartbreak, I know it's not for me. I'm a realist, and I'm lazy, so my view is why bother to put yourself through all that emotional excess when it's a cast-iron guarantee that it'll get nasty at some point -which is the point that it becomes too much of a fuck up for me to want to have to deal with.

Mind you, it is possible that I'm an emotional coward. Whatever. Who cares? I'm having a whole load of fun so I'm not about to change things.

Anyway, I meet James in Notting Hill - it turns out that's where he lives, the swanky bastard - and he takes me to the Electric on Portobello Road. Nice meal, lots of lovely wine, great conversation, lots of flirting. I'm sitting there enjoying the view and the aural foreplay, thinking that he's obviously planning to get into my pants or why else would he have booked a table at a restaurant around the corner from his place? Seems fairly obvious, right?

Wrong.

We finish our meal, he pays the bill (I did offer to pay my half but he refused, please note that I am not some kind of pathetic gold-digger) and, while I was hoping to have James for dessert, it turns out he's got other ideas.

We're walking along Portobello, talking shit, laughing about stuff, and suddenly he has his arms around me and we're kissing. Oh my God, he's a master kisser. None of that tongue-rammed-down-the-throat horror, just teasing and sensual and extremely sexy; I could have had him then and there, without a care in the world. Then he takes a step back, far too soon for me, looks me straight in the eye and goes, God, you're fucking gorgeous.

And then he hails me a taxi, bundles me into it, gives the driver enough cash to cover my fare home, and tells me he'll call me soon.

?????

What the fuck is going on with him?

I mean, here's the usual (heterosexual) story: boy meets girl, boy and girl like each other, boy and girl have sex, then maybe boy and girl have more sex, and so on, and so on, until one or the other gets bored and walks off into the sunset on their own.

So, why is James withholding? Beats the fuck out of me.

Anyway, I found out all kinds of stuff, most of it interesting (to me at least), some of it not. Here are the highlights:

• He's an older man. Not by that much though, only by five years, so no prospect of playing at Sugar Daddies (damn)
• He works in the City. Argghhh. A proper, respectable job. In that respect, so not my type. I bet he jerks off over the Financial Times.
• He was a model in his early twenties. Hmmm. Not sure what I think about that.
• He's separated, soon to be divorced. Not sure what I think about that, either.
• He likes a lot of my favorite authors, artists and musicians. Which is weird because otherwise we are so different.
• He's into weird shit such as going to the gym. Euwww.
• He has a pension and a stock portfolio. And he's proud of the fact. Double euwww.
• His friends sound like a bunch of total arseholes.
• He's extremely good looking.
• He's so fucking clever it hurts.
• He's funny. Wry funny. I like wry funny.
• Did I mention that he's extremely good looking? Oh yes, so I did. Yeah, I'm shallow.

That's it for now. Anyone who wants to play agony aunt, please feel free. I just can't figure this one out.

The Saga Of The Great Withholder Continues...

I'm kind of hungover so I'm going to keep this short.

NO. I DID NOT GET LAID.

But, oddly enough, I still had a good time.

Is he gay? Impotent? Asexual? Am I repulsive? Why am I so bothered?

More later when my brain cells have untangled themselves. In the meantime, I'm diving into a sea of chemical intervention and going back to bed.

Gnghhh?

The Alpha Male - aka Mr Brains On Toast - called me last night. It turns out his name is James.

I wasn't prepared for a phone call from anyone and I really wasn't in the right state of mind to handle a phone call from the guy who left me in a state of severe sexual deprivation a few nights ago. I have to admit that it dented my ego, despite the rejection having being padded out with nice-guy reasoning. I mean, I wouldn't say I'm up there with the supermodels but this kind of thing isn't exactly what I'm used to. It's a little confusing.

So there I was, sprawled on the sofa, seriously stoned and trying to figure out how the hell I'm going to drag myself to the SPAR to satisy my carb cravings when the phone goes. I pick up the phone, like, Gnghhh? and a male voice goes, Sara, is that you? I go, I think so.

Talk about bad timing. There's James calling me with the intention of having a conversation when the only verbal reasoning I was capable of at that moment was with a packet of Hula Hoops.

Anyway, my lack of verbosity didn't seem to put him off and he's taking me out for dinner tonight.

I'm in two minds about the whole thing, to be honest. James is pretty hot and has the bonus of being in possession of a very appealing brain, but do I really want to spend time with someone so sexually serious? I'm not entirely sure that he's my type. In my experience, the nice guys just can't be trusted to stick to my (non)relationship rules.

Then again, it's about time I got laid.

Watch this space.

10 Things You Need To Know About Me

1. I will never tell you that I love you.
2. I never make promises I know I can't keep (unless I'm drunk, fucked-up or desperate to get laid).
3. I'm allergic to relationships.
4. I work in a club. Behind the bar. Yes, I know that's not much of a career, nor do I care.
5. My father is a cosmetic surgeon. Think about that next time you get the fat hoovered from your arse.
6. My mother is a psycho borderline-obsessive. But she looks great (see above - they're divorced but she still gets substantial discounts, I think it was part of the settlement).
7. No, I haven't had anything done. By my dad? Are you kidding?
8. I have great shoes. And a major footwear fetish.
9. I got kicked out of school when I was 16 for turning up to the end of year dance off my face on mushrooms and claiming to be the Virgin Mary (that's a Catholic education for you).
10. I don't want to remember how many guys I've slept with. In truth, most of them were pretty forgettable. Which I guess is kind of sad.

Check This Out

The NY Naked Truth put me onto this wickedly funny site, Black People Love Us.

But be warned - if you're the sort of person who suffers a serious sense of humour failure when anything strays beyond the blinkered boundaries of political correctness, then I can promise you that you will not like it one little bit.

Make sure you look at the letters page; check out the outraged rantings from those who just don't get it and laugh, laugh, laugh.My personal favorite is the guy sounding off about the site being 'racist' (it's not, by the way, or rather it's not if you possess half an ounce of brain) and then calls the site creators 'faggots'!!! Anyone else get the irony?

By the way, if you are one of those tedious politically correct types then what the hell are you doing reading this blog? Piss off.