This is my first meme...tagged by NYCpaganchick.
7 Things I Plan To Do:
1. Eat sushi in Japan
2. Crowd surf at a Pixies concert
3. Learn to fly a helicopter
4. Snowboard without bruising my arse
5. Find a job I enjoy that doesn't involve sitting in an office all day kissing butt
6. Find my groove
7. Grow up
7 Things I Can Do:
1. Dance
2. Roll the perfect spliff
3. Laugh wholeheartedly
4. Enjoy life
5. Ice skate
6. Play backgammon
7. Speak French
7 Things I Can't Do:
1. Play tennis
2. Tell people what they want to hear
3. Tell jokes
4. Keep a plant alive
5. Cry in public
6. Lie convincingly
7. Relationships
7 Things That Scare Me:
1. Getting married
2. Children
3. George Bush Jr
4. Global warming
5. Pain - emotional and physical
6. My mother
7. My monthly bank statement
7 Random Facts About Me:
1. I have double jointed fingers
2. I have never kissed a woman
3. The palms of my hands have so many lines on them that I once freaked a palm reader out (my hands have always been like that, since I was born)
4. Sometimes I eat cereal for dinner
5. I never wear the colour yellow
6. I have three scars
7. I hate mushy peas
7 Things I Say The Most:
1. Fuck!
2. Helen, can I borrow a fiver?
3. Thank you
4. I'm sorry, but...
5. 20 Marlboro Lights, please
6. Oh yeah, and a pack of red Rizla
7. Sorry I'm late
Apparently I now have to tag 7 people. I don't want to tag but I would be especially keen to read the answers of amourosity, Chav Mum, wdky, TJ, NewYorkMoments, Dr Marcus Khan and Network Chic to this meme.
Saturday, October 15, 2005
Fun With Memes
The Reason Why
For those of you out there who posted comments on my commitment-phobia, and made me think about why I decided that relationships suck - here's the reason why (in the lyrics of the Throwing Muses, who put it so much better than I ever could):
She colourblind tired eyes
Her hallway aching
She’ll never move him - likes it that way
He’s just a walker and he’ll never stop walking away
It’s not too soon he said, it’s not too soon at all
You might as well be dead he said
If you’re afraid to fall, I said -, I know her
She said - why do you stare so hard
Wrapped up like a doll in bad dreams and broken arms
Make these old bones shiver
It’s not too soon he said, it’s not too soon at all
You might as well be dead he said
If you’re afraid to fall, I said - I know her
The last time I saw you, you were standing in the dark
And with a freezing face, I watched you fall apart
It’s not too soon he said, it’s not too soon at all
You might as well be dead he said
If you’re afraid to fall, I said,
Done your time, been in your place
I couldn’t look you in the face
And tell you that it turns me on
It makes my stomach turn
I know her
More later.
She colourblind tired eyes
Her hallway aching
She’ll never move him - likes it that way
He’s just a walker and he’ll never stop walking away
It’s not too soon he said, it’s not too soon at all
You might as well be dead he said
If you’re afraid to fall, I said -, I know her
She said - why do you stare so hard
Wrapped up like a doll in bad dreams and broken arms
Make these old bones shiver
It’s not too soon he said, it’s not too soon at all
You might as well be dead he said
If you’re afraid to fall, I said - I know her
The last time I saw you, you were standing in the dark
And with a freezing face, I watched you fall apart
It’s not too soon he said, it’s not too soon at all
You might as well be dead he said
If you’re afraid to fall, I said,
Done your time, been in your place
I couldn’t look you in the face
And tell you that it turns me on
It makes my stomach turn
I know her
More later.
Friday, October 14, 2005
The Big Talk
Since I crossed the finishing line in a state of mind-blowing triumph the other night James has been burning up my phone line. Yes, I was that good.
Due to various distractions, I haven't been able to get in my usual 'this is what I think of relationships' talk. Which is kind of dumb of me because I know from experience that if this conversation doesn't take place right at the start of something then I am in for a whole heap of trouble.
So when James called me last night I decided I had to dive right in there and tell him how it is and how it's got to be if he wants to hang out with me.
So I go, James, I’ve got to tell you. I don’t do relationships. Not in the conventional sense. He's like, what does that mean? I go, well, committment doesn't exactly figure big in my life. It's a no-go area for me. He's silent for a beat, then says, well, I'm not in the market for anything heavy but maybe you want to spell it out for me. Does this mean the other night was a one-off?Because I have to tell you, Sara, I hope that's not the case. I go, James, I would love to do that again. That's not what I'm saying. What I'm saying is that I don't stray into serious territory. My way of looking at it is that we have a good time, we enjoy what we each have to offer, and then when the fun fades we move on. No recriminations, no bullshit, and no emotional fallout. OK? James goes, do you have some specific timeframe in mind? I'm like, no, I'm not that organised. Then I say, I just can’t see the point of keeping something after the sell-by date expires. He laughs and says, who would?
But that's the thing. Lots of people do. Lots of people just keep on in there, thinking that anything is better than being alone, anything is better than having to go out there and find someone else who might turn out to be worse than what they have right now. My way of thinking is that it’s better to enjoy something while the spark lasts and then let it go, move on. At least this way you leave with good memories and good experiences.
I go, you're kidding me, right? Look around you. I can name at least five people in relationships who are doing exactly that. Personally, I don’t have the patience to wait for things to go sour.
He's like, pissy-voiced, so you don’t think that it’s worth hanging on and trying to sort it out? You judge it to be terminal, so you press the ejector seat button and bail out? I go, that's right. Maybe one day I’ll find someone so amazing that I’ll allow myself to wallow in vats overflowing with emotional angst but I’m not holding my breath. I don’t believe in fairytales. There's a long pause and then he says, no, nor do I.
Anyway, I'm not convinced that he entirely got it but it's been said, so at least he knows where he stands and won't start pestering me to go meet his mother or anything similarily hideously vile.
But he did talk me into going to some dinner party a friend of his is throwing on Sunday night. I'm not looking forward to it much as 1) I can't stand dinner parties and 2) James' mates sound like a bunch of twats. Oh well. The stuff you go through to get a shag, hey?
Due to various distractions, I haven't been able to get in my usual 'this is what I think of relationships' talk. Which is kind of dumb of me because I know from experience that if this conversation doesn't take place right at the start of something then I am in for a whole heap of trouble.
So when James called me last night I decided I had to dive right in there and tell him how it is and how it's got to be if he wants to hang out with me.
So I go, James, I’ve got to tell you. I don’t do relationships. Not in the conventional sense. He's like, what does that mean? I go, well, committment doesn't exactly figure big in my life. It's a no-go area for me. He's silent for a beat, then says, well, I'm not in the market for anything heavy but maybe you want to spell it out for me. Does this mean the other night was a one-off?Because I have to tell you, Sara, I hope that's not the case. I go, James, I would love to do that again. That's not what I'm saying. What I'm saying is that I don't stray into serious territory. My way of looking at it is that we have a good time, we enjoy what we each have to offer, and then when the fun fades we move on. No recriminations, no bullshit, and no emotional fallout. OK? James goes, do you have some specific timeframe in mind? I'm like, no, I'm not that organised. Then I say, I just can’t see the point of keeping something after the sell-by date expires. He laughs and says, who would?
But that's the thing. Lots of people do. Lots of people just keep on in there, thinking that anything is better than being alone, anything is better than having to go out there and find someone else who might turn out to be worse than what they have right now. My way of thinking is that it’s better to enjoy something while the spark lasts and then let it go, move on. At least this way you leave with good memories and good experiences.
I go, you're kidding me, right? Look around you. I can name at least five people in relationships who are doing exactly that. Personally, I don’t have the patience to wait for things to go sour.
He's like, pissy-voiced, so you don’t think that it’s worth hanging on and trying to sort it out? You judge it to be terminal, so you press the ejector seat button and bail out? I go, that's right. Maybe one day I’ll find someone so amazing that I’ll allow myself to wallow in vats overflowing with emotional angst but I’m not holding my breath. I don’t believe in fairytales. There's a long pause and then he says, no, nor do I.
Anyway, I'm not convinced that he entirely got it but it's been said, so at least he knows where he stands and won't start pestering me to go meet his mother or anything similarily hideously vile.
But he did talk me into going to some dinner party a friend of his is throwing on Sunday night. I'm not looking forward to it much as 1) I can't stand dinner parties and 2) James' mates sound like a bunch of twats. Oh well. The stuff you go through to get a shag, hey?
Thursday, October 13, 2005
my 1,000th visitor!
Congratulations! Whoever just visited this blog from the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency - yes, that's right, you, the one who's surfing on company time, tut tut - you are my 1,000th visitor!
:-)
Do I have a prize for your landmark visit? Well, no... sorry. But you do have my undying gratitude and that's got to mean something, right?
:-)
Do I have a prize for your landmark visit? Well, no... sorry. But you do have my undying gratitude and that's got to mean something, right?
A storm in a B-cup
Lingerie. Underwear. Whatever you want to call it.
It's a subject overripe for a heated debate.
Helen told me this morning that her new guy (from the party, remember? He's practically living at our house at the moment, much to my disgust) has a thing about pervy underwear. And I mean pervy underwear. If he has his way Helen will be spanking her student grant in Ann Summers and trussing herself up in the sort of outfit a bargain basement hooker would kill for. But then again, Helen's new guy is ex-public school so it's to be expected. As I told her, it's only a matter of time before he starts squeezing himself into his own peekaboo bra and crotchless thong.
Personally, I favour comfort; after all, there's nothing worse than being on the tube wearing knickers that threaten to cut off your circulation. Is there a polite way to tussle with your underwear in public? I don't think so.
I just called Karen to ask her opinion on the subject. Apparently, her last boyfriend liked her to keep her bra on during sex. I told her that she should take that as a personal insult.
What's the general consensus? Ladies AND gentlemen please... (and guys, do note that I said "gentlemen"...)
It's a subject overripe for a heated debate.
Helen told me this morning that her new guy (from the party, remember? He's practically living at our house at the moment, much to my disgust) has a thing about pervy underwear. And I mean pervy underwear. If he has his way Helen will be spanking her student grant in Ann Summers and trussing herself up in the sort of outfit a bargain basement hooker would kill for. But then again, Helen's new guy is ex-public school so it's to be expected. As I told her, it's only a matter of time before he starts squeezing himself into his own peekaboo bra and crotchless thong.
Personally, I favour comfort; after all, there's nothing worse than being on the tube wearing knickers that threaten to cut off your circulation. Is there a polite way to tussle with your underwear in public? I don't think so.
I just called Karen to ask her opinion on the subject. Apparently, her last boyfriend liked her to keep her bra on during sex. I told her that she should take that as a personal insult.
What's the general consensus? Ladies AND gentlemen please... (and guys, do note that I said "gentlemen"...)
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
Fun with archives
This has been around for a while, but I thought I'd jump on the bandwagon. Cheers Osbasso!
Fun with Archives
The Rules:
1. Go into your archive.
2. Find your 23rd post.
3. Find the fifth sentence (or closest to).
4. Post the text of the sentence in your blog along with these instructions.
5. Tag five other people to do the same.
My result: Why? I'm not entirely sure.
I guess that says it all.
I'm not going to tag anyone, so help yourself if you'd like to use this.
Fun with Archives
The Rules:
1. Go into your archive.
2. Find your 23rd post.
3. Find the fifth sentence (or closest to).
4. Post the text of the sentence in your blog along with these instructions.
5. Tag five other people to do the same.
My result: Why? I'm not entirely sure.
I guess that says it all.
I'm not going to tag anyone, so help yourself if you'd like to use this.
Touchdown!
OK. So here I am, tired as hell but I have to admit I'm pretty psyched.
I had a good night. A very good night. And I am pleased to announce that James is definitely NOT gay.
We met up at the Walmer Castle in Notting Hill - the best place for Thai food in West London. It felt as if I hadn't seen him for ages but in reality it's only been a week. But then I guess a week is a long time when you're buzzing with sexual frustration.
Last night felt different from the moment James kissed me hello. The other times we've been out he's been a little distant; charming, funny and attentive, but definitely physically remote. Last night he was making contact from the outset, doing all those little things that really make an impact when you're wondering if someone is truly attracted to you; stuff like touching my hand, lighting my cigarette, feeding me from his plate, brushing a stray strand of hair out of my eyes, touching me in the small of the back when we go upstairs. I'm not sure what's happened the past week but I have the feeling that he suddenly decided that it's OK to be into me. For whatever reason, he's stopped holding back.
Hey, I'm not complaining.
We settle the bill and he tells me that he's got a great bottle of wine back at his place and would I like to share it? I go, well... Like I have to think about it, like it's a tricky decision to make, but since he's made me wait for longer than is truly necessary I'm thinking that the least I can do is play hard to get for all of, oh, three seconds.
So we head over to his place (which fortunately is close by since I took TJ's advice and pulled the out the va-va-voom stops, which for me always means the highest and most impractical shoes I own). His flat is gorgeous, in fact it's so gorgeous that I start wondering about his sexuality again as soon as I see it. It's about a million light years away from the hovel I live in. We settle down on his sofa, he puts the stereo on on (Transglobal Underground, not a bad choice) and we demolish a kick-ass bottle of red wine (can't remember what it was apart from Margeux, Chateau de something, French), and the flirt factor starts revving up more than a few notches.
One spliff, most of the wine and lots of conversation later, and James gives me this really intense look. I'm like, OK, what's happening here? He reaches over, takes the glass from my hand, his eyes still fixed on mine, and places it on the floor. Then he pulls me to him.
I thought that the last kiss was pretty good but this... this is incredible. It’s a showstopper. A truly Technicolour vaseline-lensed Hollywood moment. I smell his shampoo and something else, deliciously peppery-sweet. I melt.
Yep, we did it right there, on the sofa.
Maybe because it's been a while, maybe because I'd almost forgotten what sex is like, but this was truly amazing.
Throughout, I felt shrink-wrapped, insulated, my mind numb, all energy diverted to the senses, knife-sharp, crystal-refracted, like the moment before the parachute opens, before bare feet leave the warm edge of the highest diving board, when pure impulse and adrenaline kicks in and everything else shuts down.
Yeah, it was that good.
And afterwards, he holds me close and says, promise me you'll want to do that again.
I promise.
And as you'll know if you're a regular to my blog, I very rarely break my promises.
BUT, I like this guy and that really freaks me out. Whatever, I've got to keep a grip on this; I've just been shagged stupid by a hot piece of ass which means I'm hormonal soup right now.
It’ll end up being just another experience for me to notch in my memory, on my bedpost, another story for my friends to laugh over, another layer on my history, another chapter, another verse, another stanza in The Saga of Sara.
I have not undergone some strange seismic shift in the past couple of hours.
And the important thing to remember is that I never, ever, allow myself to believe the hype.
I had a good night. A very good night. And I am pleased to announce that James is definitely NOT gay.
We met up at the Walmer Castle in Notting Hill - the best place for Thai food in West London. It felt as if I hadn't seen him for ages but in reality it's only been a week. But then I guess a week is a long time when you're buzzing with sexual frustration.
Last night felt different from the moment James kissed me hello. The other times we've been out he's been a little distant; charming, funny and attentive, but definitely physically remote. Last night he was making contact from the outset, doing all those little things that really make an impact when you're wondering if someone is truly attracted to you; stuff like touching my hand, lighting my cigarette, feeding me from his plate, brushing a stray strand of hair out of my eyes, touching me in the small of the back when we go upstairs. I'm not sure what's happened the past week but I have the feeling that he suddenly decided that it's OK to be into me. For whatever reason, he's stopped holding back.
Hey, I'm not complaining.
We settle the bill and he tells me that he's got a great bottle of wine back at his place and would I like to share it? I go, well... Like I have to think about it, like it's a tricky decision to make, but since he's made me wait for longer than is truly necessary I'm thinking that the least I can do is play hard to get for all of, oh, three seconds.
So we head over to his place (which fortunately is close by since I took TJ's advice and pulled the out the va-va-voom stops, which for me always means the highest and most impractical shoes I own). His flat is gorgeous, in fact it's so gorgeous that I start wondering about his sexuality again as soon as I see it. It's about a million light years away from the hovel I live in. We settle down on his sofa, he puts the stereo on on (Transglobal Underground, not a bad choice) and we demolish a kick-ass bottle of red wine (can't remember what it was apart from Margeux, Chateau de something, French), and the flirt factor starts revving up more than a few notches.
One spliff, most of the wine and lots of conversation later, and James gives me this really intense look. I'm like, OK, what's happening here? He reaches over, takes the glass from my hand, his eyes still fixed on mine, and places it on the floor. Then he pulls me to him.
I thought that the last kiss was pretty good but this... this is incredible. It’s a showstopper. A truly Technicolour vaseline-lensed Hollywood moment. I smell his shampoo and something else, deliciously peppery-sweet. I melt.
Yep, we did it right there, on the sofa.
Maybe because it's been a while, maybe because I'd almost forgotten what sex is like, but this was truly amazing.
Throughout, I felt shrink-wrapped, insulated, my mind numb, all energy diverted to the senses, knife-sharp, crystal-refracted, like the moment before the parachute opens, before bare feet leave the warm edge of the highest diving board, when pure impulse and adrenaline kicks in and everything else shuts down.
Yeah, it was that good.
And afterwards, he holds me close and says, promise me you'll want to do that again.
I promise.
And as you'll know if you're a regular to my blog, I very rarely break my promises.
BUT, I like this guy and that really freaks me out. Whatever, I've got to keep a grip on this; I've just been shagged stupid by a hot piece of ass which means I'm hormonal soup right now.
It’ll end up being just another experience for me to notch in my memory, on my bedpost, another story for my friends to laugh over, another layer on my history, another chapter, another verse, another stanza in The Saga of Sara.
I have not undergone some strange seismic shift in the past couple of hours.
And the important thing to remember is that I never, ever, allow myself to believe the hype.
GO SARA! GO SARA! GO SARA!
Just some of the people who are delighted to hear that I am no longer a(n almost) technical virgin.
More later... after I get some sleep...
Tuesday, October 11, 2005
Confessions of a band-aid
To get myself into the mood for tonight - my date with James (three chances, how lucky is he? I'm surprising myself with my levels of tolerance here. Belive me, I'm not usually so forgiving) - I'm going to blog about my rock star. Possibly my favorite liaison so far.
I met him on a train. I had no idea who he was and to be honest even if I had it wouldn't have made all that much of a difference; one thing I am not is a groupie. I was idly checking out the other people in the carriage when I see this guy. He was kind of plain but endearingly scruffy and he was reading Jay MacInerney's Story of My Life, one of my favorite books of all time. He must have sensed me staring because he looked up and smiled. It was the smile that got me. I've never seen such a great smile - it totally transformed his face. So I went over and we got talking. He was a bit shy and almost too polite. But that smile... so we swapped numbers, he said he'd call me, and that was that.
One month later, I'm at a festival with this other guy I had something going with at the time, coming up on e, and my mobile goes. I'm trying to balance a beer in one hand, cope with insane shivers going up my spine, my head's about to explode into a rainbow, the other guy is licking my neck, and at the same time I'm on the phone to the rock star, who I'd pretty much forgotten about by this point, attempting to hold it together enough to have a conversation. The reception is really bad, so I'm like, where are you? It sounds like there's a squirrel chewing the line. He's like, oh I'm in New York, it's the last night of our US tour. So of course I go, what do you mean, US tour? And he goes, all casual, oh didn't I tell you? I'm the drummer with (insert famous band name here). By this point my vision is refracting and the other guy is starting to do a silent winge, plus I'm thinking that having to act straight is seriously interfering with my high, so I go, great, that's cool, look I really have to go, when are you back? And he says, next week, let's hook up.
We went out when he got back to London, got on fine, had amazing sex; it must have been because he played drums for like twenty hours a day but whatever the cause, he really knew what to do with his hands. He understood the fine line between soft and hard, he knew when to be wild and when to be gentle, and he understood sensuality. We had a great time.
He kind of turned into my boyfriend for a while. It worked well because he was on tour for most of the time which meant we spent a few days a month together, either where he was playing or he'd come back to London. There was no hassle, no grief, no time to get bored. And he had so many other diversions, if you know what I mean, there was no way he was going to get possessive.
That was the perfect non-relationship. If only the band hadn't split up, leaving him in London full-time...
I met him on a train. I had no idea who he was and to be honest even if I had it wouldn't have made all that much of a difference; one thing I am not is a groupie. I was idly checking out the other people in the carriage when I see this guy. He was kind of plain but endearingly scruffy and he was reading Jay MacInerney's Story of My Life, one of my favorite books of all time. He must have sensed me staring because he looked up and smiled. It was the smile that got me. I've never seen such a great smile - it totally transformed his face. So I went over and we got talking. He was a bit shy and almost too polite. But that smile... so we swapped numbers, he said he'd call me, and that was that.
One month later, I'm at a festival with this other guy I had something going with at the time, coming up on e, and my mobile goes. I'm trying to balance a beer in one hand, cope with insane shivers going up my spine, my head's about to explode into a rainbow, the other guy is licking my neck, and at the same time I'm on the phone to the rock star, who I'd pretty much forgotten about by this point, attempting to hold it together enough to have a conversation. The reception is really bad, so I'm like, where are you? It sounds like there's a squirrel chewing the line. He's like, oh I'm in New York, it's the last night of our US tour. So of course I go, what do you mean, US tour? And he goes, all casual, oh didn't I tell you? I'm the drummer with (insert famous band name here). By this point my vision is refracting and the other guy is starting to do a silent winge, plus I'm thinking that having to act straight is seriously interfering with my high, so I go, great, that's cool, look I really have to go, when are you back? And he says, next week, let's hook up.
We went out when he got back to London, got on fine, had amazing sex; it must have been because he played drums for like twenty hours a day but whatever the cause, he really knew what to do with his hands. He understood the fine line between soft and hard, he knew when to be wild and when to be gentle, and he understood sensuality. We had a great time.
He kind of turned into my boyfriend for a while. It worked well because he was on tour for most of the time which meant we spent a few days a month together, either where he was playing or he'd come back to London. There was no hassle, no grief, no time to get bored. And he had so many other diversions, if you know what I mean, there was no way he was going to get possessive.
That was the perfect non-relationship. If only the band hadn't split up, leaving him in London full-time...
The Last 10 Albums I Listened To
While Helen is hard at work giving me the perfect pedicure (in the hope that I'll be getting laid tonight) I thought I'd spread some musical joy...The last 10 albums that have graced my CD player (yeah, I'm still kind of old school when it comes to music):
- The Pixies - Bossanova
- Primal Scream - give out but don't give up
- Alanis Morissette - Jagged Little Pill
- Salmonella Dub - killervision
- Journeys By DJ, Nicolas Matar - Latitude 40degrees
- The Cure - Disintigration
- Death in Vegas - The Contino Sessions
- The Pixies - Doolittle
- David Bowie - Christiane F.
- Buddha Lounge, Volume 4
However, my latest musical enthusiasm is for the Arctic Monkeys. They're going to be huge. First single is out on 17th October. Check it out.
I'd love to offer sound as well as words but I haven't figured out how to do that yet. Can anyone advise?
Monday, October 10, 2005
The Great Withholder - will he submit?
James just called me.
At least this time I wasn't stoned out of my brain so I think that maybe I came across as a reasonably normal person. Hah, sucker.
Anyway, we're going out tomorrow night. Let's hope he gets some sense into his head by then and decides to give it up.
Otherwise, I'm going to have to ask him if he's gay. Do gay men enjoy snogging women? Because he sure wasn't faking it when we last locked lips...
Mind you, he did admire my shoes when we went out last week, so it's a strong possibility...
At least this time I wasn't stoned out of my brain so I think that maybe I came across as a reasonably normal person. Hah, sucker.
Anyway, we're going out tomorrow night. Let's hope he gets some sense into his head by then and decides to give it up.
Otherwise, I'm going to have to ask him if he's gay. Do gay men enjoy snogging women? Because he sure wasn't faking it when we last locked lips...
Mind you, he did admire my shoes when we went out last week, so it's a strong possibility...
Pudding? No thanks
Oh man. Lars is on my case again.
Lars is this second-rate DJ who gets pulled in to play at the club whenever any other DJ pulls out. It's like, oh shit, it's one hour before we open and DJ BigDick has pulled a whitey. OK, what do we go for, Lars or silence?
Personally, I'd prefer silence, but then that's just me.
Lars is pretty hot in the physical sense; he passes for a tall blonde Norwegian Love God under the club lights and I guess the fantasy holds for as long as he keeps his mouth shut. Most people mistake Lars for a sexy silent type but I know better; the lights might be on but his brain cells are definitely on an extended holiday. The things that come out of his mouth are intensely dumb; I mean, this is the guy that once told me that he doesn't read books because they give him a headache.
Anyway, Lars walks into the club on Saturday night and makes a beeline for my bar. I'm feeling all kinds of crappy so I'm not on for a slime-fest, but it doesn't seem that I have much choice in the matter. Lars is full-on, all smooth charm and wolfish smile, both a sure sign that his girlfriend is out of town and he’s looking to fill the temporary vacancy. He’s out of luck. I might be partial to meaningless emotionless sexual encounters but I’m not a complete idiot - I’ve had intimate knowledge of Lars before and he wasn’t much of a main course so I’m certainly not in the mood to go back for dessert. From my first and last foray on his Ikea futon, I can confirm that Lars is definitely a legend in his own underpants.
Lars goes, babe, how's it going, eyes checking out my t&a. I'm like, yeah, it's going great, at least it was until you walked in. You'd think he'd get the hint but Lars just keeps on talking at me, or rather, at my tits, yada yada yada, on and on until I start feeling violent. I mean, there is only so much a girl can take, right? So I go, Lars, look, you're doing my head in. Can you just stop talking? Just stand there and look pretty, otherwise I really can't be held responsible for my actions. I might have to kill you or something.
I'm expecting him to be a little offended. I mean, wouldn't you be? I fucking well would be. But no, Lars just laughs, pokes his finger down my cleavage and replies, so, fancy coming back to my place tonight?
I actually think that Lars gets some kind of sexual kick out of me being mean to him. Maybe I should change tactics and be really sweet. Maybe if I beg him for sex he'll run a mile? Then again, I'm not sure it's a risk I'm willing to take.
Lars is this second-rate DJ who gets pulled in to play at the club whenever any other DJ pulls out. It's like, oh shit, it's one hour before we open and DJ BigDick has pulled a whitey. OK, what do we go for, Lars or silence?
Personally, I'd prefer silence, but then that's just me.
Lars is pretty hot in the physical sense; he passes for a tall blonde Norwegian Love God under the club lights and I guess the fantasy holds for as long as he keeps his mouth shut. Most people mistake Lars for a sexy silent type but I know better; the lights might be on but his brain cells are definitely on an extended holiday. The things that come out of his mouth are intensely dumb; I mean, this is the guy that once told me that he doesn't read books because they give him a headache.
Anyway, Lars walks into the club on Saturday night and makes a beeline for my bar. I'm feeling all kinds of crappy so I'm not on for a slime-fest, but it doesn't seem that I have much choice in the matter. Lars is full-on, all smooth charm and wolfish smile, both a sure sign that his girlfriend is out of town and he’s looking to fill the temporary vacancy. He’s out of luck. I might be partial to meaningless emotionless sexual encounters but I’m not a complete idiot - I’ve had intimate knowledge of Lars before and he wasn’t much of a main course so I’m certainly not in the mood to go back for dessert. From my first and last foray on his Ikea futon, I can confirm that Lars is definitely a legend in his own underpants.
Lars goes, babe, how's it going, eyes checking out my t&a. I'm like, yeah, it's going great, at least it was until you walked in. You'd think he'd get the hint but Lars just keeps on talking at me, or rather, at my tits, yada yada yada, on and on until I start feeling violent. I mean, there is only so much a girl can take, right? So I go, Lars, look, you're doing my head in. Can you just stop talking? Just stand there and look pretty, otherwise I really can't be held responsible for my actions. I might have to kill you or something.
I'm expecting him to be a little offended. I mean, wouldn't you be? I fucking well would be. But no, Lars just laughs, pokes his finger down my cleavage and replies, so, fancy coming back to my place tonight?
I actually think that Lars gets some kind of sexual kick out of me being mean to him. Maybe I should change tactics and be really sweet. Maybe if I beg him for sex he'll run a mile? Then again, I'm not sure it's a risk I'm willing to take.
Sunday, October 09, 2005
What do women want?
WDKY did a post on this the other day and all the comments discussing the subject got me thinking. In fact, it got me thinking so much that I ended up spending most of this afternoon in the pub forcing my friends to talk about it.
If you're a regular to my blog, you'll know that what I want from a guy is quite simple. I want to have a laugh and I want great sex, not necessarily in that order. I'm not the type to leaf through wedding magazines or get a dreamy look in my eye when a baby throws up all over my brand new Karen Millen silk dress (yes, this really happened; I'm still tempted to send the parents the dry cleaning bill). I'm not a commitment kind of girl. Variety is the spice of life, you know?
Anyway, Helen and I are in the pub as we usually are on a Sunday, flicking through the papers and talking shit. Today we had Karen, this girl who's at Uni with Helen, and an old mate of mine, Evie, with us. So I bring the subject up and the girls are all like, oh God, what do women want in a guy? Well, isn't that just the million dollar question?
Helen goes, babe, the first thing is that you have to differentiate between is guys you just want to fuck and guys you really like. She says, I'm happy kissing a whole load of frogs until I want to get more serious, maybe in like five years or something, then I'll start thinking about all that steady commitment shit. And I wouldn't want to end up with most of the guys I've been fucking since way back when.
Karen is like, yeah, totally. The guy you end up with, you have to really like, you know? 'Cos this is the person who, in an ideal world, you'd be buying denture-grip for thirty years down the line. It's got to go beyond the sex thing.
We all stare at Evie, who's practically the only grown-up we hang out with on a regular basis (all the others have disowned us), and has been with the same guy forever. We're like, so Evie, what's the real deal? How come you can still stand the sight of Dave when you've been fucking him for most of your life?
Evie goes, sometimes I can't stand the sight of him. Which is when I seek out the company of you lot. We're like, thanks bitch; but seriously, how come you're still with Dave? What's so great about him over all the other millions of men in the world?
Evie goes, I don't know. I just love the guy. It's that complicated and it's that simple. Oh yeah, and he's got a huge cock. Which is kind of up there on my essentials list.
So we keep on talking, and we're all doing our ideal man lists (and in my case, my ideal man means a different thing to theirs, like I said, I'm no great believer in forever), and the only thing that we can agree on is that we have to have a guy who's great in the sack.
So the message to you guys out there trying to figure this shit out? All the lame stuff you focus on to try and pull women, you know, the car, the clothes, the gym-fit physique, the jokes, the job - it's nothing more than window-dressing. You just concentrate on honing your sexual technique and it'll turn out fine.
If you're a regular to my blog, you'll know that what I want from a guy is quite simple. I want to have a laugh and I want great sex, not necessarily in that order. I'm not the type to leaf through wedding magazines or get a dreamy look in my eye when a baby throws up all over my brand new Karen Millen silk dress (yes, this really happened; I'm still tempted to send the parents the dry cleaning bill). I'm not a commitment kind of girl. Variety is the spice of life, you know?
Anyway, Helen and I are in the pub as we usually are on a Sunday, flicking through the papers and talking shit. Today we had Karen, this girl who's at Uni with Helen, and an old mate of mine, Evie, with us. So I bring the subject up and the girls are all like, oh God, what do women want in a guy? Well, isn't that just the million dollar question?
Helen goes, babe, the first thing is that you have to differentiate between is guys you just want to fuck and guys you really like. She says, I'm happy kissing a whole load of frogs until I want to get more serious, maybe in like five years or something, then I'll start thinking about all that steady commitment shit. And I wouldn't want to end up with most of the guys I've been fucking since way back when.
Karen is like, yeah, totally. The guy you end up with, you have to really like, you know? 'Cos this is the person who, in an ideal world, you'd be buying denture-grip for thirty years down the line. It's got to go beyond the sex thing.
We all stare at Evie, who's practically the only grown-up we hang out with on a regular basis (all the others have disowned us), and has been with the same guy forever. We're like, so Evie, what's the real deal? How come you can still stand the sight of Dave when you've been fucking him for most of your life?
Evie goes, sometimes I can't stand the sight of him. Which is when I seek out the company of you lot. We're like, thanks bitch; but seriously, how come you're still with Dave? What's so great about him over all the other millions of men in the world?
Evie goes, I don't know. I just love the guy. It's that complicated and it's that simple. Oh yeah, and he's got a huge cock. Which is kind of up there on my essentials list.
So we keep on talking, and we're all doing our ideal man lists (and in my case, my ideal man means a different thing to theirs, like I said, I'm no great believer in forever), and the only thing that we can agree on is that we have to have a guy who's great in the sack.
So the message to you guys out there trying to figure this shit out? All the lame stuff you focus on to try and pull women, you know, the car, the clothes, the gym-fit physique, the jokes, the job - it's nothing more than window-dressing. You just concentrate on honing your sexual technique and it'll turn out fine.
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