Number 13 - In Which I Am Procrastinating.

Buzzfeed is a terrible place to go if you actually have to get some work done. I followed the most innocent of links, and find myself still on the site AN HOUR later.

I found the following and as I can't survive with at least one ebook and one paper novel on the go at any one time, I think I'll follow its advice and read all these:

http://www.buzzfeed.com/ariellecalderon/books-to-read-before-they-hit-the-big-screen

The summer is shaping up to be a good one...

Number 12 - In Which I Reminisce About Being A Harlot.

I can't sleep and I had a row with Husband earlier over why I'm such a frigid bitch. I can't use the "It's not you, it's me" line because it's such a cliche and besides, it's not wholly true. Some of it IS him. The drinking and consequent lack of erection bothers me. And I don't think I am frigid. I get urges. Sometimes it slams me so hard in the gut I'd happily jump the man in the butchers whose fat hangs so far below his waist, it swings as he moves.

OK. Maybe not him.

I am thinking now; thinking back to pre-marriage, pre-child and pre-weight gain. When I was an uninhibited student. (For uninhibited, read "slut"). There is one encounter that I always draw on when in need of release. Sometimes I wonder if it actually did happen at all, or whether my sexually-frustrated mind wished so hard, it made it into something so real, I can still feel and smell and taste every second of the most memorable night of my life. I'll share it, because if it's written down then it's there in black and white. And you might enjoy it too.

(I have removed my name from the following, to protect my anonymity and those mentioned within. )


The indroduction was short, to the point. "S*****, this is Alex. Alex; S*****." Phil jabbed a thumb at each of us in turn as he said our names. I held out my hand to shake politely, Alex grabbed it, pulled me towards him and kissed me on the cheek. I grinned and we headed into the pub to meet with the rest of the group.

From the beginning the tension between us was palpable. Gazes were held for longer than socially acceptable, as he told his stories from his travels around practically the whole world, his eyes never left mine, as though he was recounting them to me and me alone. Within an hour I'd forgotten where I was. The noise of the bar, the thick smoke, the stench of stale ale and Motorhead roaring out of the jukebox; all that seemed to fade. As we played our drinking games, every accidental touch from him seemed to send charges coursing through my body. The beer kept flowing, tongues were loosened, inhibitions began to subside and I swear, that night, I've never laughed as much. Something about being in the company of good friends, with flowing beer and under the gaze of a dark, intense member of the opposite sex was invigorating.

The more lightweight members of our group soon cried off though: pleading inebriation, exhaustion and deadlines as excuses to leave far too early. The rest of us decided somewhat boldly that we'd hit a strip club after the pub closed. We were down to four, and Phil and his other friend Adam had garnered the attentions of two women and were currently busy making out in dark corners of the bar, leaving Alex and I alone at our now deserted, beer-stained table. In contrast, we were not touching, and in fact, not saying very much. Just small talk. He asked me about my life; my stories were pale in comparison to his adventures, but he listened and asked questions. I was a bar supervisor, he was an armed cop. I was recently single after dropping my deadbeat boyfriend. He was long-term single as his job demanded a level of commitment not conducive to having a woman at home. As we talked, he lightly traced patterns on my hand, which was resting on my knee. I was having trouble concentrating.

Without warning, my stomach rumbled, snapping me back into the real world momentarily as I realised I hadn't eaten since breakfast and I was starving. "Let's go and get something to eat," he suggested and I nodded mutely. After arranging to meet up with Phil and Adam later, Alex and I left the bar and headed towards Piccadilly Circus. Neither of us knew where we were going but it didn't seem to matter. He took my hand decisively and I watched him as he led me across the teeming Shaftesbury Avenue towards Chinatown.

It didn't take us long to find somewhere. Every second shopfront seemed to be some sort of restaurant and the aromas were enough to make me near faint with hunger. After mutually choosing a place, we emerged a while later with boxes and bags filled with duck rolls, pancake rolls, sesame toasts. Finger foods. We ate as we walked around, not heading anywhere in particular, just taking the opportunity to see more of London: its people, its tourists, its secrets. We laughed a lot, at ease with each other and slipped into a comfortable, often teasing banter. He fed me a bite of duck roll and without thinking, I caught his finger in my teeth and licked it slightly. He was surprised for a split second then smiled slightly and I knew that without thinking, I'd caused things to shift up a notch.

As we headed back to meet the others, he suddenly stopped dead and pulled me in close. We stood there, noses millimetres apart for what seemed like an hour, and the kiss when it came was a shock. It was so delicate, so faint. I'd expected him to be aggressive, every move on his part that night was executed with an underlying dominance. However the kiss was soft but suggestive as I felt the gentlest flicker of his tongue on my lips before he pulled away.

We reached the others shortly after, paid the exhorbitant entrance fee into the strip club and climbed the stairs into the dingy bar area. I can't remember the name, I'm not sure I ever knew it, I wasn't paying attention. Phil led the way past the bar and into the stage area. It wasn't very big, not at all what I'd expected, meaning that the girls were close. VERY close. It made it all the more erotic and as we took our seats I sat down fascinated, watching a very pretty brunette writhe around a silver pole in the middle of the tiny stage. She was close enough so I could see the faint regrowth of her pubic hair and it was nothing like I'd expected it to be. A quick cursory glance around revealed I was the only woman in there; in fact apart from us, the rest of the clientele were middle-aged men.

Alex took off his jacket and laid it gently across his knee then placed his left hand on my thigh. He began to lightly trace his fingers across my leg, down to my knee where he idly circled his fingers and thumb. Sometimes little more than a feather touch, then he'd knead a little harder. His actions and the naked girl on stage were starting to make me incredibly aroused.

This went on for ages; the girls came and went and he just kept on caressing and stroking. He was priming me and I knew it. Slowly getting me more and more turned on until I'd be all but powerless to stop. I shifted in my seat slightly to get comfortable, and it was then that he carefully placed his jacket on my lap, covering his hand. I looked down in confusion and then at him and what I saw on his face made my stomach churn. I knew then what he was going to do. He studied me for a second, his expression questioning, giving me one last opportunity to say no. I didn't. I smiled and nodded almost imperceptibly and he began. He turned slightly to face me in the tacky red velvet chair and he switched hands, his right one now, moving it inwards, in between my legs, gently pushing them apart at the knees. With one eye on the stripper and the rest of the room he began to lightly caress the inside on my thigh under my skirt. He never rushed, never forced. He took his time, making damn sure that every single nerve in my body was alert with anticipation. As his hand moved slowly higher my breathing became more shallow. His other hand snaked behind my head and he gently played with the nape of my neck, kneading it softly with his thumb. Then he leaned in and rained soft kisses on my neck, jaw and earlobe. I was on fire. I squirmed in my seat as blood pooled in my groin and there was a roaring in my ears. I felt like I was going to burst if he didn't move his hand to where I wanted it soon. He knew what he was doing though. The most torturous of foreplay is always agonisingly, deliciously slow. I moved my hand across to his lap and was surprised to find him rock hard. I couldn't move my hand much though as he had me pinned. All the time he was whispering in my ear, filthy and suggestive phrases peppered with the odd command and request. "Don't move." "Where would you like my hand to go?" "Do you like this?" I was a gibbering idiot when his fingers finally glanced ever so slightly over the crotch of my pants which were pretty wet by this point. He seemed pleased that I was so turned on, called me a "wicked girl" which I loved, and his pressure increased slightly as his fingers found my clit. That was all it took. Just one touch. I gasped and climaxed so suddenly and so hard, my head snapped back in the chair and I arched, raising slightly out of the seat. He kept his hand where it was as my whole body trembled and only moved it to rest on my thigh once I'd stopped shaking and got my breath back.

"Fuck me," I breathed in awe as my tremors subsided and he murmured in reply, "Count on it."

We left then, making our excuses to our friends and practically falling down the stairs onto the street. I was in charge now, and I led him by the hand towards the nearest tube station, almost getting run over by those wobbly rickshaws and the occasional black cab. We weaved our way through the back streets of Soho, running and laughing. Every single one of my senses was on fire. We weren't far from Covent Garden when he suddenly pulled me into little more than an alley. All foreplay gone now, the kiss that came next was hard and forceful and we slammed against a wall as lips parted, tongues clashed and I vaguely remember it was raining. Within minutes my dress was soaked and clinging to my body, somehow intesifying every sensation, making my nipples as hard as pebbles so that with every movement of his torso on mine, the contact sent shivers pulsing down into my groin. He had me pinned with my back to the wall and I blindly fumbled with his belt and the fly of jeans allowing his cock to spring free, gasping, panting and moaning.

I remember a fumbling with a condom and then blazing heat as he thrust into me hard, all the way to the hilt. He had his hands under my butt and I had my legs wrapped around his waist. He held me there and with every thrust he slammed me into the wall behind. Only later on did I realise I was covered in grazes across my back and shoulders from each repetitive thrust but at that moment it only served to arouse me more. Something about that pain mixed with the pleasure I was getting from him set me on fire.

His teeth grazed and bit my neck, my ears and my lips; my hands were clenched in his hair. I was vaguely aware that I was half sobbing, half laughing as he brought me closer and closer to orgasm. He came with a roar and a final thrust and afterwards as we were disentangling ourselves, every limb movement felt slow but sore as every muscle had been stretched taut and clenched.

The journey back to my hotel was one I can only recall vaguely. From the moment we stepped onto the escalator at the tube station to the minute the elevator doors opened and we fell out onto the third floor corridor of the hotel, laughing and whispering "shhh!" we'd probably only stopped kissing three or four times. I knew we were getting all manner of looks from the other tube passengers, but I didn't care and neither did he as he never let me go once.

We pretty much destroyed my room. As the door closed behind us, we were tearing at each others clothes, occasionally laughing at stubborn buttons and clasps. I ripped his shirt, he tore my bra clean off my body. Clothes were strewn everywhere as we made our way across to the bed, but we didn't stay there for long. We fucked on the floor, the armchair, the table, against a wall, in the shower. Lamps fell and smashed, a curtain got yanked from its rail and a shelf in the bathroom got seriously loosened. I have no idea how he managed to stay hard, I know we got through a full pack of condoms. We tied each other up and terrorised each other with tongues, fingers, ice, and spirits from the mini-bar. We finally fell asleep at around 6am, totally exhausted and so sore I knew I wouldn't be able to sit properly for a week. I'd been spanked, slapped, licked, sucked and I made damn sure I gave as good as I got.

We woke up about two hours later and were both too exhausted to move, so we just laid there talking and recalling exactly what we'd done the night before. We had a chance to scrutinise each other's bodies as the murky morning sun beamed through the window; the curtains still open from the night before. He showed me scars he'd obtained as a result of his job and then marvelled over my various dents and scrapes and tattoos. Upon discovering my back was filled with tiny bits of gravel from being slammed into the wall, he was mortified until I told him it was okay and I didn't care. We had sex again then, not frantic and intense like the night before, this time it was slow and sensual and brought with it a whole new batch of sensations.

I checked out early and we went out for breakfast after desperately trying to put the wreckage of my room back together and sharing a long shower. No sex this time as I'm not sure either of us had anything left. It wasn't uncomfortable between us though. I don't suppose it could have been really as we were laughing too hard over the amount of damage we'd done. I was only mildly concerned that my credit card would be hit for the damage later.

My train home was at noon, his shortly afterwards, so the rest of the morning we wandered around and ended up on a tour bus where we headed straight for the back seat, and missed most of the tour as we made out instead. No urgency this time though, it was far more tender, as though we were a new couple, still in that honeymoon phase.

I was standing on the platform at the side of my train by 11:50 and we both knew that this was it, just a one time thing. I didn't mind too much - we swapped email addresses and phone numbers but I knew we'd lose contact quickly, we were from two different worlds. We kissed deeply for a long time once more time before I boarded my train and I think I smiled all the way home.

I'd like to thank Club Quarters in the City of London for advertising your rooms cheaply on LastMinute.com. I'm also very sorry about the mess to my room. Thank you for never charging the damage to my credit card.

Number 11 - In Which I Am Dealing With Bodily Fluids.

I have a teenaged daughter. She's rather awesome; very clever, sings like a nightingale and most of the time, is rather charming. Unless it is Time Of The Month. Then all bets are off. A curious surge of hormones makes her throw up on the first day of Her Time, most months. For a few years now, I've had to patiently explain to her school that no, it's not a tummy bug; no, she doesn't need to be quarantined. But still they fear vomit and rules must be obeyed. She puked last night, which sent my mind on a journey as I cleaned the bathroom. 

When I was twenty I started working as a bar supervisor in very popular local pub. There was nothing special about it really, but for some reason people as far away as Wakefield and Doncaster came every Sunday to drink there. You were nobody if you didn't drink at this pub on a Sunday night. It was akin to a church whose worshippers were social butterflies and Rusty Nail drinkers. Working there was even better; as staff, we had the inside track on all the coolest after-hours parties. Life back then was fairly awesome for a young, single twenty-something. I had no worries other than which one of the many cute guys I was going to go home with, and whether to wear D&G, Versace or Lacroix jeans on my nights off. Like any popular drinking hole, it also attracted its own minority of jackasses who used to get loaded up and start fights purely for fun. We had a watch-list and to this day I can still recite the names of those who were barred and provide detailed descriptions - such was the frequency with which we had to study the Loser List. There was usually a parked police car on standby every weekend as you could guarantee that someone would be going home bleeding and another getting arrested.

One night, in the middle of World Cup 1998, things were moving along as normal - five deep at the bar, the DJ playing some cracking tunes to which we'd loudly sing along and my friend Karen and I working together like a well-oiled machine. We were channeling Tom Cruise in Cocktail - oh how we moved and ducked and dived - there was even some adventurous throwing of glasses and bottles and lots of laughs. I think it was a Wednesday night; England had just played and won and as a result, spirits in the bar were high. We called last orders at ten to eleven on the dot by way of a large brass bell that hung on the side of the bar, near Till 3 - mine and Karen's position. The place was clearing pretty quickly, probably because the highlights of the footy were on at around eleven and everyone wanted to watch, and by about ten-past the place was practically empty and the drip trays were already in the industrial dishwasher in the back.

It was then that everything suddenly started to go horribly wrong. The sound of smashing glass is one you get used to working in a bar, but in the back of my mind it's always been a sound that I equate with trouble. And seeing the stragglers in the pub suddenly bolt towards the male toilets kind of cemented that. Then there were excited shouts and one of our glass collectors, a delicious specimen of manhood called Jason, appeared and yelled, "get the coppers!" Seconds later emerged a kid of about my age, flanked by about four other guys, one of whom was being held in an armlock by a bloke I only knew as Baz - big bloke, arms like the Hulk, with an expression of permanent, "fuck with me and I'll end you" grimness. The rumour mill had him as ex-SAS, ex- Royal Marine, ex-oil rigger and ex-convicted murderer. I learned years later that he in fact worked as a special needs teacher in Sheffield somewhere and wouldn't hurt a fly if his life depended on it. But anyway, as Baz led the guy in the armlock outside, suddenly I realised that there was something strange about the kid I'd spotted first. Everything about him appeared to be red. Then I saw why.

"Oh fuck," Karen whispered. "I'll ring for an ambulance."

The kid was holding his right lower arm with his left hand in an futile attempt, it appeared, to keep it from falling apart. I remember vaulting over the bar (something I've never been able to do again, it's true what they say about adrenaline) and whipping my staff teeshirt off over my head. I couldn't understand why nobody was helping him as he stood there, blood actually pumping through his fingers which were growing slippy, causing his grip to loosen. People were just rooted to the spot in sheer horror, watching him bleed.

"What happened?" I yelled at Jason the gorgeous glass collector, who replied numbly, "he put his hand through the window."

I wrapped my teeshirt around the kid's wrist and arm then held it tight, and sort of part caught him and part fell as he crumpled to the floor, inadvertently pulling me with him. So when my boss appeared from upstairs to do his nightly 'liberate half the Glenmorangie from the bottle because it's my pub' routine, he emerged to find me on the floor in a pool of crimson applying pressure to the leaking arteries of a man who kept saying over and over: "I'm so sorry, I'll pay for the window. I'll pay, just don't tell my girlfriend I got drunk."

Funny thing about adrenaline. While it's pumping, everything is crystal clear. My first aid training had come flooding back and I knew exactly what I had to do to stop this kid from dying on my lap, and barked out orders to numb onlookers - "you, go into the kitchen and find clean towels, you, get me the first aid kit, I'll need bandages, you get out of his way!" However, at that same moment, Time was a concept that was shimmery and ethereal and behaving most strangely. For instance, I thought that under normal circumstances a single severed wrist artery wouldn't necessarily kill you as, if cut cleanly, wrist arteries and veins go into spasm and practically close themselves off as they are very narrow in that part of the arm. But I knew this guy was very drunk and alcohol thins the blood, and as I fully took in the state of his arm, if he kept bleeding as fast as he was, he could be dead soon. The cuts were what very suicidal people and Emos will tell you were "the right way" - that is, longitudinally from his wrist up to almost his elbow, severing both the ulnar and the radial arteries in several places, not just the wrist but higher up the arm also. And the blood was squirting hard and fast like I'd only ever seen before in dodgy horror films. So I knew Time was something that we didn't have much of.  But to this day I couldn't tell you how long we were slumped there on the floor and how long it took for the paramedics to arrive. It seemed like hours. 

I remember the kid saying: "I don't want to die, my girlfriend will kill me," over and over and me saying: "I won't let you, you're not going to die, this time next week you'll owe me big time and I like double Bailey's over ice," back at him. 

I remember my arms aching from holding his arm up and pressing so hard. 

I remember people finger pointing and yelling a barrage of angry words over our heads. My boss was one of them and his words I remember clearly, because at that moment and forever after, I hated him: "What the fuck is she doing on the floor swimming in blood? That's never going to come out of the wood. Get her up now!" I couldn't seem to make anyone understand that I couldn't let go. This kid was losing his strength and losing consciousness so couldn't apply pressure himself and if I let go, he could die. My boss was screaming about insurance and re-sanding wood floors and AIDS and me not wearing latex gloves and: "Why the fuck is she only wearing a bra? Is that our teeshirt around his arm? That's coming out of your wages, lady!" I couldn't find the words to explain that I hadn't had the time to run into the back and spend twenty minutes finding the first aid kit and putting on gloves I was allergic to anyway, or that I gave a rat's ass about my now ruined uniform teeshirt as it was the only thing handy at the time to use as a compress.

It transpired that the kid (whose name I found out was Nick) had had a few too many jars of ale and was a bit worse for wear when he'd gone to the lav before heading home. The guy that Baz had had in the armlock outside had been taking the piss out of David Beckham, calling him a nancy-girl who couldn't play football for shit and then things in the men's room had become heated. There had been a scuffle and apparently Armlock guy had shoved Nick forward who had put his hand out to stop himself and, being pissed, had missed the wall and put his hand straight through the window instead. Armlock guy had laughed and swung a punch but had been stopped by Nick's mate who'd got one in first.

When the paramedics arrived time went weird again. The time it took them to lift him off me and put him in the ambulance and shout at me: "Are you cut too? Are you bleeding?" and for me to shake my head, well, it was an aeon - it all happened in slooooow moooootion too, as if they were moving in zero-gravity or underwater. At one point I screamed "hurry up!" to which a male paramedic simply smiled, wrapped me in a blanket and told me everything would be okay. The time it took for the police to question everyone and for my boss to fire me on the spot for blatant disregard of the rules of my employment - well that was a sort of "blink and you'll miss it" event. I just climbed up off the floor, a bit wobbly, and left the pub, still wrapped in a blanket, under which my pink bra was now permanently blood red.

So it's fair to say that the sight of blood has never bothered me. Most human fluids don't. The only exception is vomit. I have no resilience when faced with puke and it takes all I have not to give up the ghost and join in. It's the sight, sound and smell of it. The Trio of Terror. So when my daughter woke up at 2am on Thursday night and hurled all over the bathroom it took a feat of unsurpassable will not to throw up myself as I cleaned up and sent her back into bed. And as I laid awake for the rest of the night listening intently in case she threw up again and choked on her own vomit, the whole severed arm incident came back to me. I wondered how I could have let a stranger bleed all over me, with blatant disregard for my own health (what if he has AIDS? I'm not keeping her in employment if she gets AIDS from this idiot because she's too stupid to put on gloves first!") when the sight of my own daughter's vomit makes me ill. I suppose I'm just odd that way. But I'll still clean it up. One of the many perks of being a parent, with less risk of getting fired for not wearing gloves and ruining a perfectly good uniform shirt.

Number 10 - In Which We Find The Ceiling Missing.

We got the keys to the new house today. It's quite large, with enough room for us all to happily avoid each other, and as it's only round a couple of corners from the old house, I still have a view of the park. So, I'm happy.

What was not so great was opening the door and finding the ceiling in the shower room on the floor of the shower room. It appears the water tank has burst between the owners moving abroad (beginning of April) and us moving in (today).

So, we await a builder, a plumber and a takeaway curry from the new place in town.

Number 9 - In Which We Find The Dream House.

The last couple of weeks has been a time of firsts.

First lambs spotted, always adorable. (On the coast in North East England, near the coolest castle in the country).
First time my debit card has been rejected. (Oh, the horror. It was in Sainsbury's. In peak-shopping time on a busy Saturday. The day before Easter Sunday.)
First time I've ever not devoured my Easter Eggs in one sitting. (Due to a dodgy tummy after an even dodgier curry.)
And we were the first to view a house that has just come onto the market. It was perfect so that same day we hotfooted it to the lettings agent and pretty much said "we HAVE to have it!"

We got it. We move in May. Hurrah!

Oh, and my debit card? Cloned by some total bastard somewhere and used to buy shitty online games at $20 a go, and online casino credits. Classy. No doubt the actions of a spotty teenager, sitting at home in his room, in his underwear somewhere. I will hunt you down you little wanker. And tell on you to your mother.

Number 8 - In Which We Decide To Move House.

We live in one of those houses that is about two years old, was thrown up in a week and was then sold for more than the GDP. One of those houses that has top of the range light fittings and switches, but shoddy wiring. Three toilets costing £1000 each (yep) but plumbing that could have been done by a toddler. And very possibly was.

So when it rained indoors last year (a result of the fancy bath being attached to the outflow pipe by fairy tears and nothing else and subsequently dumping an entire bath full of water through the floor), we decided we needed to move to a house that was built properly. I would rather pay an extortionate amount per calendar month for a house that won't fall down round my ears when it's windy, as I suspect this one will very soon.

I won't miss the view of the park. I am a bit tired of seeing FiFi the Pitbull being walked by its owner who thinks it's OK to leave FiFi's shit for someone else to stand in. Our parochial little backwater may be frightfully middle class, but as it turns out, it's these middle classers that are the laziest at picking up after their pooches but are the first to write to the local paper complaining about other dogs' messes. 

Small town dramas. I shouldn't complain really. The biggest drama we've had round here recently is that someone's bike was stolen from their front garden. Headline news that. For two weeks.

Number 7 - In Which Twitter Mocks The Mighty.

I'm back on my feet again after being struck down by a fearful curse. (Pleurisy, bleurgh.) Things at work are changing, and I'm supposed to be working right now in fact, but I am not. I am procrastinating by writing this, wasting far too much time on Twitter and howling with laughter at Buzzfeed.

Three words: Poor George Osborne. You have to feel sorry for the weak-willed little wanker. He goes and tries to get all down with today's society, joins Twitter then gets publicly ridiculed and lambasted. I wonder how long he'll last?

In other news, I saw my first lamb of the year today. Super cute. And I also go emailed this delightful picture which reminded me not to complain about being cold:

I'm colder than you, so stop complaining.