Weekly Update #63

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I’m declaring myself a ‘No Man Zone’ for a while. This week has seen me letdown and disappointed by several men. Nothing new there I suppose, but what has been poignant about all these mini-dramas is how much I have taken them to heart and my response to that. Usually I get high, get drunk and fuck something I shouldn’t, the classic self destruct mode of dealing with hurt and rejection, but this time is different. This time I’ve taken such an emotional battering in such a short space of time that I’ve just closed down. I’ve stopped feeling anything. I’m just numb, void, empty.

Samson: Why I bother still having conversations with this man is beyond me. Everytime I think he’s finally appreciating my friendship, he says or does something so thoughtless and cruel that I end up feeling like complete shit. This time the braindead moron is refusing to believe that I don’t want to fuck him. When I finally put him in his place he turned into a snarling, miserable git, disguising his attacks on me as ‘humour’. If bullying exists outside of the playground then that was exactly what he was doing.

Mr.Fail: Lord, give me the strength not to smack this numpty fuckwit in the mouth! For the third time in as many weeks, he has given me the long winded declaration of love. He’s admitted that he has remembered his previous confessions, despite his denials, and that he just panics about getting hurt and blah blah fucking blah! Three times now I’ve told him to man up, get over his shit and ask me out already. Three times he’s said he will and that he’ll call me the next day. Three times he’s let me down. I finally told him to leave me alone. I am definitely a ‘three strikes and you’re out’ kind of girl.

The Canadian Mountie: His patience is starting to wear thin! I have to give the man some credit, he’s been feigning interest in my life and abstained from any sexual references for several weeks now. He’s done well, but now the innuendos and naughty requests are creeping back into our conversations. If only he’d tried ‘fancy a drink?’ instead of ‘fancy a fuck?’

The Tattooed One: Been a while since that name got a mention, huh? Well, the last time we had contact I told him I thought we’d come to the end of our road. Sure he’s insanely hot, the sex is incredible and there is no-one on earth I feel more comfortable with than him, but a girl needs more than that. He never knew what he wanted or when and being used as his personal yo-yo was exhausting. I deleted his number and moved on. Apparently he didn’t delete mine, because I received a random ‘hey’ message at 4am. At first I was pleased to see him make the effort, even if it was only a one syllable three letter effort, but then I realised…it was wank o’clock! He’d probably had a night out, not pulled and was lying in bed, drunk and horny. In the height of his self satisfying he’d decided contacting me was a good idea. Post jizz, I didn’t mean fuck all to him. Number deleted again.

Billy: This one hurts the most. I never, ever expected to argue with Billy, let alone have such a confrontation that we stop speaking. A minor incident left me feeling rejected and abandoned by him but, instead of being a friend and reassuring me, he turned into a teenage girl and badmouthed me behind my back. I’m devastated. I’ve never had a bad word said about him, I will defend him even when he’s in the wrong and I always thought he’d do the same for me. It’s what gave me safety in our friendship. The pain of realising I was wrong is excruciating. I miss him already.

Sex: Yes. Satisfactory toyboy sex has been had, although I can sense a drought looming…

Drugs: I’m going to have to start charging the coke fairy rent!

Alcohol: I am officially turning against my Russian roots, much to my own disgust, and am abstaining from vodka. I’ve realised it makes me as mad as a box of frogs! I am now that really classy bird who drinks pints of lager on nights out!

Physical Health: Leukopenia Alert! A low white blood cell count has left me lethargic with a sore throat and more bruises than a BDSM porn actress!

Mental Health: I feel the disappointment, the rejection, the sadness, but I can’t cry. I can’t moan or vent. I can’t feel enough to create a reaction. I know my defenses are up dangerously high, but there’s nothing I can do about it. I’m not sure I even want to. For now, the grey clouds and drizzling rain of the British weather are an accurate reflection of my mood. I think I may hibernate for a while.

Two’s Company, Three’s More Fun!

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It wasn’t as if we said, ‘hey, let’s get high and invite Weston round for a threesome!’

Ok. It was exactly like that.

Robyn and I had come to the end of a long and strenuous week. We were both craving a giant blowout of irresponsibility and, with the children away and a few pennies burning a hole in her pocket, Robyn decided to treat herself to some MDMA. I was perfectly content with the new prescription medication my doctor had given me, a member of the benzodiazepine family. Definitely my favourites of all the mood alterers!

A six pack of Budweiser joined me for my relaxing evening and Robyn tucked into a refreshing crate of cider. We chatted utter crap at each other, watched movies and generally allowed our altered state of consciousness’ to take us away from the mundane reality of lone parenthood, bills and household chores.

MDMA is notorious for making Robyn and I horny as hell. It’s not usual for groups of random, young male friends to descend upon our home of an evening, but as is typical of sod’s law, there’s never any cock around when you really need it.

‘You can borrow Weston if you like,’ I suggested as Robyn scrutinised a variety of fuck buddy and casual sex websites, ‘send him a text’.

Weston knows the effect MDMA has on us girls. For the last couple of weeks he’s been desperately trying to take advantage of our drug induced sexual ferocity and get his first ever threesome but had so far fallen short. Tonight would be his lucky night, if only he’d answer his damn text messages!

It was 8am by the time Weston woke up and read our demand for sex. He was at our front door by 8:15.

Now, despite the faux confidence that narcotics can provide, Robyn and I were not as comfortable with the potential threesome as some would have thought. We’d done the group sex thing before, but ‘two girls one guy’ was new territory for us.

‘How do we go about this?’ Robyn had asked.

‘We follow our usual rules I guess,’ I replied.

Our gangbang rules are simple and straightforward…

1. We do not do girl-on-girl. Neither of us are sexually attracted to the other and going lesbian for a man’s pleasure would just be awkward. If we touch accidentally it is immediately forgotten.
2. We avoid eye contact and looking at each other. Obviously we’re going to see each other naked but out of respect for the other’s insecurities we try to avoid looking directly at each other.
3. Condoms, condoms, condoms. When the cock ventures somewhere new, it does it with new wrapping!

Weston made himself comfortable on the selection of conveniently placed quilts and cushions on the living room floor. We talked for a while, smoked cigarettes and topped up our MDMA content. I don’t quite remember where Robyn disappeared to, but when she left the room, I joined Weston on the floor and we instantly began to kiss. I’m always surprised by how tender his lips are, how gentle a kisser he is. I suppose I’m used to the younger men being so consumed by their desires that all technique goes out of the window and they end up inhaling your face. Weston has never been like that.

When Robyn re-entered the room, she lay down on the other side of Weston. I moved my attention from his lips to his cock. Releasing his erection from his blue boxer shorts, I slowly ran my fingers from his inner thighs to his balls, sucking seductively on the head of his dick before taking it to the back of my throat.

Following rules 1 and 2, I did not look directly at Robyn, although I was aware she had moved positions and was now thoroughly enjoying herself riding Weston’s face. I remembered him telling me how much he wanted one girl in his mouth and one on his cock. I had to fulfil his fantasy. What kind of cougar would I be if I didn’t?!

I eased myself down onto Weston’s beautiful hard cock. I loved how it filled me, the way it stretched my wet, hungry pussy. Up and down I went, slowly, rythmically, until I reached a smooth, intense climax.

Robyn was enjoying herself also, although there was no way she would have been completely satisfied with just some tongue action. She’d been on a cock mission all night and now her efforts were going to pay off. We switched positions, her finally getting to enjoy Weston’s impressive girth while I sat on his face and took full advantage of his masterful tongue strokes.

To be fair, Weston didn’t last as long as I’d hoped. Our previous encounters had shown a phenomenal amount of stamina, but I guess the idea of fulfilling his threesome fantasy was just too much excitement for the young lad to cope with. He came hard and looked suitably exhausted by the end of it.

‘We can’t tell anyone about this,’ he said as we shared post coitus cigarettes.

‘You got back with your ex, didn’t you?’ I replied.

You can’t really blame the boy for being a cheating scumbag. Young and impressionable, the idea of fulfilling his all time fantasy with two women, who clearly knew what they were doing, was just too much to resist. Maybe Weston and I will get to enjoy each others company again at some point, but for now, the girlfriend is just one girl too many.

Eat, Pray, Love Words

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It was one of those nights where I couldn’t sleep. No matter how many valium I poured down my eager throat, sleep was determined to evade me. I decided to indulge my increasingly unhealthy obsession for James Franco. Netflix provided my next hit, ‘Eat, Pray, Love.’

Now as films go, I wasn’t that impressed. Julia Roberts has failed to convince me she’s a fumbling, confused girly girl since she strutted her legal stuff in Erin Brokovich and there’s no way on earth any woman is going to get out of bed with Franco to make out with some hairy old dipshit she met on a spiritualist retreat. Anyway, despite my reservations about the film (I’ve been told the book is much better), one line stood out for me. I’m paraphrasing, but it was something like,

‘Every country has a word. London’s is ‘stealthy’. Stockholm’s would be ‘conform’. Rome’s is ‘sex’.

Personally I’d say Rome is more likely to be ‘abundance’. Food, wine, religion, sex, architecture, history…Rome has it all in abundance. And so, this minor line in a minor film got me thinking, what is my word?

My mind first went to ‘discovery’. I’m always looking for new ideas, new places, new experiences, a new me. A new me. Is that discovery or escapism? Is my word, ‘escape’, ‘fearful’, or maybe ‘lost’? Wanderer. Wanderlust. Seeker. Loner. Hunter. Hidden. Coward.

I still haven’t worked out my word yet, but I will. When my ego accepts a word that is honest, rather than running towards a word that sounds fulfilling and interesting. I just know I don’t want to be London or Stockholm. Although, Rome and I may be soulmates…

What’s your word? Why?

Dear Mr Williams

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Dearest Robin,

Firstly may I apologise for the informal approach to this open letter. I appreciate it is, at best, impolite to address someone I never knew in such an informal manner. In my defense, I believe what I have to say here will permit me some familiarity.

I wanted to wait until after the media storm of your tragic death had eased before I jumped on that horribly crass death band wagon. Publicly announcing my deepest sympathies over the loss of a celebrity is not something I would usually do. I am not a Facebook RIP’er. I don’t tweet about people now flying with angels. It’s not my thing. I believe true grief is the ethereal briefly connecting with the human, it lives and breaths in the flesh, it flows in the blood of those who truly mourn. It is personal, not fodder for social media.

However, this is where I become a hypocrit. I break from my own rites and rituals for bereavement of the famous and I write this, although I can’t begin to justify why. Some things just feel right, you know?

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I, like countless others, grew up with the great Robin Williams as part of my mental pop culture encyclopedia. The films, the voices, the stand up, the humour. The tears I wept uncontrollably during ‘What Dreams May Come’. My utter fascination with the Genie, my childish giggles during ‘Flubber’. Reading of your death on the front page of the newspaper shocked and saddened me. I knew our world had lost a true treasure and that the public outpouring of grief and condolences for your friends and family would be immense. It was a sad day, but I consoled myself with the knowledge that it is one we will all fall foul to eventually.

Then my heart truly broke. Suicide. I no longer cared that a great comedian had died, that the man who made my stomach ache with laughter had passed. Your celebrity and fame meant nothing. I could only empathise with the pain you felt in your final moments.

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I remember waking up alone in hospital after an attempt to take my own life. My very first thought was ‘oh fuck’. Oh fuck, it hadn’t worked. Oh fuck, I was still here. Oh fuck, there would be questions and disapproving looks and therapy and a whole bunch of shit that I so desperately wanted to avoid. I sat up in that hospital bed, entangled in tubes and wires, a blockade of machines between me and the door, and I tried to make a break for freedom. My freedom being another chance to do it properly. As it happens, an elderly Indian cleaner was somewhat surprised to see this thirtysomething wobbling down the corridor, barefoot with a tit hanging out of her hospital gown, and after shouting and waving his mop at me for a few moments, promptly fetched a nurse. My escape plan had been foiled. Again.

I am better now, kind of. I take the medications, talk the therapies and give my friends and family reassuring glances and smiles so that they don’t feel they have to worry about me anymore, but the truth is, I still want out. I’m not reaching for the razor blades or anything, but I feel ready to go. I have carried my shit on my own for too long and if the Reaper was to come knocking tomorrow, I’d greet him with open arms, a cup of tea and a slice of cake. Or maybe a whisky. I imagine he’s a whisky man.
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This is why your death has had such an impact on me. It’s because I understand. I know exactly how it feels when all your worries and concerns, all your emotional pain and disappointments, all that doubt and self loathing, just won’t leave you the fuck alone. Give me childbirth, beat me to a bloody pulp, gouge out my fucking eyeballs if you want, but nothing, NOTHING hurts more than that yanking, writhing, aching mass of black, heaving tar growing inside you.

Some believe it is selfish to commit suicide. I smile for those people because it means they have never felt such excruciating agony. Those who know its darkness, the way it swallows everything good and raps confusion on your skull over and over again, would never call it selfish. They’d say its selfish to expect you to live with that degree of pain. They’d be truly grateful that you were no longer suffering. I am one of those people. I am one of those people who understands that you did not desire death, but a release from the unrelenting torture.

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63 years old. Well done Robin. You’re a trooper, a man of strength, an inspiration. If you can battle your entire adult life with this disease that strips the sufferer of any lightness they may deserve, then you are not only my hero but a true martyr. 63 years, haunted by your own misery but dedicated to making the lives of others better. It saddens me deeply that you felt taking your own life was your only means of escape, but its ok. I understand.

Enjoy your freedom Robin.

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One Perfect Day

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Give me one perfect day, just so I know that they exist.

I could handle the dull, the dreary, the mundane and the depressed if I still believed in one perfect day.

Give me the refreshing, cool morning air, a light breeze stroking my face, waking to a soft melody of bird song. Allow me to lie under the cotton brushed covers a moment or two, embracing my half sleep, before stepping my toes onto a welcoming sheepskin rug.

Give me a perfect breakfast of hot, English tea from a perfectly hand painted, patterned teapot. Golden brown toast that melts a small swirl of salted butter, creamy scrambled eggs with tiny bites of pale smoked salmon. A tall, frosted glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. Give me a vase of blossoming flowers, every colour of the rainbow. A vase that fails to hide him sat opposite me, sipping on his black coffee and reading the sports pages in the newspaper.

Give me a good hair day, a skinny day and an outfit that makes me feel like a goddess. Let us spend the morning in an art gallery, motionless in awe as the sea of paints, oils and pastels reaches inside us to resurrect our souls from the rubble of grey and fog and grime that is life away from those gallery walls. Kandinsky, Matisse, Rothko. Let our fingers intertwine, our eyes meet with a smile, his lips subtly brush my cheek.

Give me a perfect lunch hour walking around food stalls at a local market. The atmosphere full of the hustle and bustle of trade and banter. Let us taste, let us smell, let us be carried away by the new and exotic. Let us be comforted by old favourites. As we indulge in the sights and scents of fresh fish, spices and freshly baked pastries, give my palette a perfect awakening. Infuse me with inspiration. Let us stroll through old bookstores, where he’ll mock my geekishness and tease my puritan approach to good binding and gold leaf edging, but will be intoxicated by my passion nonetheless. Let me buy a book to read to him, words written on a page as if only for us to share.

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Give me a perfect afternoon at the ballet, or perhaps a Shakespeare play. Let me feel the music and bellowing voices reverberate through my skin. As he sits beside me, let him be as fascinated, enamored by the colourful movement on stage, the sound of feet treading the boards, the emotion emitting from the tiny players. Let his heart beat as fast as mine during the peril and the pain. Let relief and gratitude bless his face, as mine, when goodness prevails and the charm of the theatre behind the curtain falls.

Give me the end to a perfect day, snuggled up in familiar old pjs, my legs draped over his as we share a takeaway before the glow of the late night television screen. Let us share comfortable silences, marijuana cigarettes and the warmth of each other’s bodies.

Please, let me have just one perfect day. A day that reminds me there is something beautiful to be pursued amidst the drudgery, the monotonous, the disappointing. Just one perfect day.

I need this.

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Weekly Update #62

It wasn’t a quiet week by any stretch of the imagination, although that was certainly what I had planned.

Robyn and her children were on holiday with her family and the house was rendered silent but for my son’s occasional requests for food or money. During the days I read, cooked meals, laundered clothes, watched movies. In the evenings, things looked a little different.

Monday night I spent two hours on the phone to someone I will only ever disclose as ‘my American friend’. We speak semi-regularly and usually with great ease. We are never lost for words, able to share the most mundane aspects of our lives alongside philosophising about the wonders of the world or fantasising about things we desire. He is an unexpected friend, but one I feel, now, I couldn’t be without.

Tuesday evening saw the return of Weston. My son was staying over at a friend’s house for the evening which gave me free rein to ride the toned, tanned and taught youth into a mass of heaving and sweaty goodness.

Wednesday saw more men knocking at my door, but this time my knickers remained firmly on. Billy and Isaac descended on my quiet evening with crates of beer and some of the most incredible cocaine I’ve had in years! Seriously, the last time I snorted coke like that was in the 90s, when suited yuppies with their filofaxes and oversized mobile phones started demanding a little more from their friendly, local drug dealer. Music was played, laughter rang out and the world’s problems were rectified during our deep and intense conversations. Even without the drugs, I love those lads intensely.

Thursday saw a quick catch up with my dear pal Adele. There are very few people in my life I can greet with, ‘Hi! I’m banging someone young enough to be my son and I think I’m developing an addiction to some insanely expensive cocaine’ and not have them run for the hills or call the nearest mental asylum. Adele is such a friend. She may not always ‘get’ me, but she accepts me. That’s more than good enough.

Friday night saw Robyn arrive home from her holiday. With her children at their father’s for a few days, it was time to help Robyn detox from a week with the family elders. Adele, Robyn and I started early on the cocaine and ciders. We were a gaggle of giggling misfits by the time we got to the pub. More drinks were ordered, more secrets shared and even more inappropriate information was divulged to the unwilling, yet still amused, audience…like Samson’s love of excrement during sex, the size of the Cricketer’s penis and why Mr. Fail was totally batting out of his league with me. We danced. We took more drugs. We ended up back at my place with Billy, Slim and Adele’s pal Terry, singing songs and making up our own, unique band. Don’t expect a single release from ‘Billy and the Things That Hold His Trousers Up’ anytime soon though. We’re still practicing the sex, alcohol and drugs part of being rock stars.

Saturday night was a slightly calmer affair. Jemima joined Robyn and I for a more subdued girl’s night in. To be honest, when you have Jemima and a bag of weed, there’s really no need for any other form of entertainment!

Sex: Hell yes!

Drugs: Yes…but it really was incredible coke, I could hardly turn that down!

Alcohol: Yes, although not as much as in binge weekends gone by, so I guess we can call the progress.

Physical Health: Not bad seeing as my body has been trying to keep up with a 20 year old!

Mental Health: Did you miss the bit about me fucking a 20 year old?! Of course I’m fucking happy, inside and out!

A Spy In The Camp

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I’m not a strong believer in consequences. They contradict my belief in fate and destiny. When something looks like a coincidence, I, with my trust issues and tendency for the dramatic, automatically suspect foul play.

It is this that has led me to believe there is a spy in my Dating Dramas camp.

As you are aware, this blog is anonymous. All names and locations are changed not just to protect myself, but primarily the other people I may write about. Some are aware they will feature in my writing from time to time, others are not. It is not my place to tell their stories, hence the anonymity.

When I originally wrote about Mr.Fail, it was in a post called ‘The Player And The Played’. I described how I felt he had played me somewhat and that my attempt to pursue a more mature relationship had resulted in a big, fat fail, hence his nickname.

Today Mr.Fail’s Facebook status update read, ‘I’ve got a player to play. You’ve been warned’.

Yes, it could be coincidence. I could be paranoid. Or there may be a traitor in my midst. However, if his status is as I suspect, it is a childish example of the games I wished to avoid in a mature relationship and only proves that I had a lucky escape. Whatever it turns out to be, I am alert. I am waiting. I own my stories. If people wanted me to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better.

Now who has been warned?!