Crazy Club

I don’t know what I was expecting. Part of me wanted to find a room of intellectuals sitting around discussing politics and current affairs, as if the mental health illnesses that had brought them together were nothing more than the catalyst for uniting some incredible men and women of great wisdom. Another part of me expected to see people dribbling and rocking backwards and forwards in the corner, the mental health ‘professionals’ keeping watch like bored prison guards in a scene not dissimilar from that of The Asylum in American Horror Story. In truth, my first trip to crazy club was something in the middle.


It’s official name obviously isn’t ‘crazy club’. That’s just me trying to lighten things with a little inappropriate humour. It is actually a drop-in centre run by volunteers for people who struggle with mental health issues. In my bid to recover from PTSD and BPD before it completely ruins my life, I was prepared to try anything. Abstinence from the bad things I had previously relied on, such as alcohol, sex and drugs, was the first step in healing myself. Adopting some Buddhist philosophy into my life was the next. Now, I was actively seeking out support and understanding from people struggling with the same issues as me. It also gave me an excuse to get out of the house at least once a week, an activity that most take for granted but that I was finding increasingly difficult.

I was pretty confident when I first walked into the old Victorian house converted into a selection of meeting rooms. I’d taken diazepam to calm my nerves and was so determined that joining crazy club would help me, that walking through the front door was almost like entering a big ball of light. Full of promise, full of healing.

There were two women cooking in the kitchen and they directed me into the main room, where the rest of the group were situated. Lounging around on sofas or gathered around a large table, there were men and women of all ages. Julie appeared to be the youngest, around 19. She had a very loud and deep voice, mild tourettes and clearly enjoyed being the centre of attention. She talked repeatedly about being a lesbian and how she was useless at attending her drug addiction therapy.

Belle was an older woman, in her 60s, with a soft, gentle demeanour and slight smile fixed upon her lips. She sat quietly at the table, taking in everything around her and only occasionally wincing when Julie dropped the F bomb. ‘I’m getting you a swear jar,’ she muttered, ‘ or maybe we’ll need a bucket’.

Marjorie was the volunteer leader of the group. A former journalist, her mental health issues had caused her to leave the job she adored. Now in successful recovery, she worked part time and dedicated the rest of her time to helping others.

Marjorie informed me about the diversity of the group and how they could help me. Crazy Club had it all, domestic violence and child abuse survivors, schizophrenics, bipolars, PTSD, narcissists, recovering drug addicts and alcoholics and eating disorders. I, however, was their first Borderline.

I explained the criteria of Borderline Personality Disorder and how it affects my life. Marjorie looked at me intensely, clearly taking in every word I said.

‘You’ve survived a lot,’ she said, ‘and you’ve done so well to come here’.

Julie had gone outside for a cigarette and proceeded to bang on the window and pull faces at Marjorie and I,

‘ She means no harm. She has a heart of gold’.

‘I’m new,’ I reassured Marjorie, ‘she’s just showing off a little’.

Marjorie smiled and nodded, ‘exactly’.

Marjorie went on to explain how I would be an asset to the group and how she hoped, in time, to use my intellect and skill set to aid the group. She told me Peter had been an Oxford University professor before his breakdown and that she expected we would get along very well. She warned me that Darren had issues with personal space and that I shouldn’t be intimidated by it and that Mary talks to herself as much as she does anybody else and that the best way to deal with it is to act as if she’s fully integrated into whatever conversation we may be having.

‘ And we have the quiet room,’ Marjorie concluded, ‘ you can come in here and hide, read a book, take a nap, whatever you need, whenever you need to. Everyone here understands anxiety and the feelings of being overwhelmed’.

Marjorie looked down at my shaking, jittery leg. I was anxious. I was overwhelmed. But I also felt safe. This was a place I could turn up to, covered in self harm scratches and smelling like month old laundry and nobody would question or criticise. This was also a place where the simple achievements of leaving the house or making an important telephone call would be suitably praised and my self esteem lifted.

Maybe I’m not talking to myself like Mary, squashing my face against windows like Julie or standing so close I could lick your neck like Darren, but I wasn’t so different from them. I’ve been known to rock back and forth in a corner, screaming at myself and wishing for death. In truth, everyone is a little bit mental. To meet a truly sane person would probably scare the shit out of me.

So I will attend Crazy Club once, maybe twice, a week. I will join in their art, music and gardening classes. I will disappear to the quiet room when I’m not in the mood for people, or will help Verity prepare lunch in the kitchen when I need a calming, spiritual person by my side. I will use Crazy Club to help me help myself and maybe, just maybe, I’ll make a friend or two along the way.

Treat Them Mean…

he loves me

I don’t want to be a cliché. I don’t want to be the woman that falls for the bad boys all the time. I really don’t want to be the woman who preaches girl power and getting what you need from a man, only to fall at the first hurdle and succumb to the wily words of a misogynistic player. But I am that girl. ‘Treat them mean, keep them keen’ seems to work like a charm on me!

Firstly, let’s get something straight. When I say ‘treat them mean’ I don’t mean I like men who drag me around by my hair, beat me to a bloody pulp and rob the last twenty out my wallet and run off to buy amphetamines. I don’t want a man who’s going to fuck my sister or my best friend, destroy my self esteem with a barrage of insults or kick puppies in the street. For me, and many other women, the attractive kind of ‘mean’ is the elusive sort. The man who doesn’t call when he says he will, the man who acts interested one minute and has forgotten your name the next, the man who has you thinking about him 24/7 and tearing your hair out screaming ‘does he like me or not?!’

According to a couple of fancy American professors who coordinated a study into female attraction, women usually like a man in equal proportions as to how much she thinks he likes her, unless the man’s attraction levels are average or undecipherable, in which case she’ll like him more. Confused? Yeah, me too, so imagine this…

Ali meets Bob. He’s nice and friendly and quite attractive. He asks for her number. He calls and says he wants to take her out. They arrange a date, it goes well, they arrange a second. Ali decides that he must like her about 70%, so decides to like him about 70% too.

Ali meets Steve. Steve is rude, obnoxious and has bad personal hygiene. He insults Ali’s career choice and constantly tries to cut her out of the group conversation. Ali decides Steve must like her about 2%, so decides to like him about 2% as well, but only really gives him that percentage because she approves of his shoes.

Ali meets John. John is nice, friendly and quite attractive. They spend all evening together, chatting and flirting. He asks for her number but doesn’t call. He adds her on Facebook but doesn’t call. He favourites one of her tweets, but doesn’t call. Ali doesn’t know how John feels about her. She asks her friends for their opinions. She thinks about it when she’s at work. She thinks about it on her drive home. She thinks about him when she’s in the bath. She does an unscientifically proven quiz about her compatibility with John in a silly woman’s magazine. She repeatedly checks her phone and social networking sites to see if he has made contact. All this thinking about John has put him at the forefront of her mind and *BOOM* she’s turned their casual meeting into the relationship conundrum of the century. Ali likes John about 100% and just doesn’t understand why he hasn’t called!!!

The study, published in APS Journal of Psychological Science, concluded that the concept of playing hard to get may actually help in initially attracting a future partner,

‘When people first meet, it may be that popular dating advice is correct: Keeping people in the dark about how much we like them will increase how much they think about us and will pique their interest.’

Well ok boys. You didn’t call. You were mean. I’m in the dark, thinking about you all the time and hoping that every little beep of my phone is a text message from you. Go you. Well played. But do you know where this plan fails? Women’s internal Self Loathing Monitor.

While you’re sat on your arse playing FIFA, she’s feeling crappy about you not calling. A day or two is ok, she understands you’re trying to keep it cool. She’s a little upset that you didn’t call straight away, but there’s still hope so her Self Loathing Monitor is only gauging a 1/5 about now. Three days and no contact? She’s presumed you’re just not interested. She’s trying to be strong and nonchalant about it and has decided to browse her OkCupid messages in an attempt to find those other fish in the sea, but her Self Loathing Monitor is now at a 3/5. She’s replayed your entire conversation in the bar and berated herself for that bad joke or wearing the skirt that makes her calves look chunky. She’s convinced herself she must have drunk too much, you weren’t really into her and you asked for her number out of pity.  If you’re still radio silent after a week of possessing her number, then she’ll presume you’re never going to call. Call after a week and she’ll think you only want her because something better fell through. The Self Loathing Monitor reaches a dangerous 5/5.

What can be worse than the guy who doesn’t call, is the guy who calls occasionally, texts occasionally, acts like he’s really into her, occasionally. He says there will be a date, but no real plans ever materialise. She thinks about him quite a lot and tries to suss him out, then he disappears. Just as her interest dies down and she starts looking elsewhere, there he is again! Full of apologies for his absence and promising that damn elusive date! This tends to be the guy I have the most interest in, the one who has me in a spin, the one I know likes me, but needs a little more convincing to take me out. It’s knowing he’s on the hook, but I still have some work to do before I can reel him in. This kind of man has the Self Loathing Monitor rampaging between 0 and 5 like a bipolar teenager on crack.

So sure,  playing hard to get is a strategy that will keep us women interested, it will make us think about you, but not for long. Eventually, a woman is going to get exhausted with the unreliability and uncertainty. There’s only so much action her Self Loathing Monitor can handle before her friends rally round with wine and chocolate and tell her to get her shit together. There’s only so long before common sense and rationalisation see her stepping into those killer heels and finding someone else.  If a man really wants a woman, he needs to eventually reward her for her patience. He needs to call when he says he will, take her on that date and let her know he’s been thinking about her, as much as he forced her to think about him!

If Men Were Desserts…

Robyn and I often find ourselves quite funny. No, scratch that, we’re fucking hilarious. One evening after very little sleep and a healthy dosage of prescribed, legitimate medication, we began to talk about the men in our lives, both past and present. This conversation took a turn for the obscure when we began likening them to popular desserts. We found ourselves so amusing that we got a little carried away and frantically wrote up the list so we would not forget our comical genius. I am now sharing this list with you. Some of the men you may have read about on this blog (those are provided with links) others are still waiting to be immortalised in the written word of Little Miss Lola. Either way, Robyn and I are pretty sure you’ll recognise the types of men we’re talking about…

The Traveller – lemon meringue pie. Fruity, tangy, light and appears to be refreshingly different to the others.

Weston – Chocolate fudge brownie and ice cream…but when it’s all been mashed together in the bowl. This dessert is comforting, fun and delicious, even if it is a bit of a mess!

Monster Cock – Battered mars bar. Rough, filling and leaves you with jaw ache.


Mr. Fail – Vanilla ice cream, in one of those shitty little silver bowls you get at cheap eateries. You can try and jazz it up with a wafer and some sauce, but it’s only ever going to be a dollop of vanilla.

Perry – Ice cream sundae. Looks awesome, but is often a bit dull and disappointing when you get down to the bottom. Plus, the nutty bits always cause grief when they get stuck in your teeth.

Slim – A brandysnap. He looks sweet, tempting and the fun kind of messy, but really the insides are just full of air.


Billy – Apple Pie. Hard on the outside but sweet and gooey on the inside. Comforting, when prepared right.

The Canadian Mountie – Rhubarb Crumble. You think you want it. It sounds good. It fills the gap. Does the job, especially on a cold winters night, but wasn’t what you really wanted.

Jiminy – A kit kat. Lovely, sweet, easily obtainable and with two sides, but not a proper dessert.

Noel – A chocolate trifle. Sweet, comforting, appealing and every layer makes you feel better about life.

The Cricketer – Tiramisu. Sounds exciting and exotic but is pretty commonplace and predictable.

The One That Got Away
– Banoffee Pie. Dad approved, sturdy, reliable, just enough naughty to keep you interested. Never disappoints. You know what you’re gonna get and its going to be good.

Redneck (Robyn’s fuck buddy) – Chocolate Eclair. More fullfilling than a brandysnap. Just as desirable and bad for you but still full of air.

The Junkie – Cheap Digestive biscuits. They were exciting once because, well, any biscuit is kind of a treat when you’re young, but now you’re an adult you realise these are ten a penny. Pretty in the wrapping, but inside they’re shit.

The Tattooed One - Blackforest Gateau, because it’s got everything. He’s cake, he’s cream, he’s chocolate, he’s fruit. The Blackforest Gateau has got it all. The only problem…you’ll never keep this dessert to yourself. It’s made for sharing.

The Neighbour – A Mince Pie. Not around very much and so the anticipation is great and exciting. Sadly, the realisation is not worth it. It doesn’t taste any better when you’ve warmed it up either.

Jake – A giant, multi layered, whipped cream, strawberries, nuts, sprinkles, toffee sauce, rocky road ice cream, profiterole sundae. Made for a group but an impressive challenge if you can handle it on your own. Just too much in one fucking bowl.


Isaac – Chelsea Bun. Nice with a cup of tea. Mild flirtation with the naughty but dedicated to its cause as a loyal, predictable pastry.

Samson – Spotted dick. No other reason than he’s a dick.

The Footballer – A treacle tart. It looks smooth and appetising, it’s rich and sweet, but ultimately it’s going to leave you feeling a little bit sick in yourself.

So there you have it, Robyn and I clearly used a free evening to put the world to rights and discuss the important issues of the day. I invite you now to join in our crazy little game and let us know what desserts are the men in your lives?!

Lola & The Buddha


It’s been three years since I took a concoction of 180 pills in an effort to end my own pain. I won’t call it a ‘suicide attempt’ anymore. It wasn’t that. I just wanted the emotional agony to stop and if death was a result of that, so be it. In those three years I have seen countless doctors, psychologists and psychiatrists. I have been prescribed uppers, downers, anti-psychotics, mood stabilizers and anti-depressants. I have filled in endless mental health questionnaires about how often I feel the urge to harm myself, what my relationship with my family is like and what makes me happy. I have been told over and over again that I am on the waiting list for different therapies that are meant to cure my ailments and save my soul. Three years and I’m still waiting.

I have ambitions, dreams, goals. I have a life to get on with. I’m a little bit sick of waiting. So, I eventually decided to take control of my own illness. I read academic articles about the causes of post traumatic stress disorder and borderline personality disorder. I looked into past therapies, current therapies and the research into new therapies. I analysed my own symptoms, triggers and self destructive behaviour. I was trying to find a way to help myself and, finally, I came across Kiera Van Gelder’s memoir ‘The Buddha and the Borderline’.

Her humorous account of her own mood swings, internal confusion and belief that a good blow job could keep any man, rang so strongly in my own mind that it was as if my soul had dictated every paragraph. This woman was able to accurately portray the struggle of trying to live a normal life when you are only equipped with half of the mental and emotional tools necessary. It took me one afternoon to read Kiera’s story from cover to cover. When I placed that memoir lovingly on my bookshelf, I knew what I had to try in order to kick start my own recovery.

I have an honours degree in Theology and Religious Studies. Despite this, I am not religious. I am a humanist, a believer in Gaia, a spiritual person, but I do not adhere to a religion. Yet the principles of Buddhism and the practises of meditation and mindfulness suddenly seemed like the key to my future, as it had been for Keira Van Gelder.

I returned to my bookshelf and read all the literature on Buddhism that I had acquired during my university studies. I took from it all that rang true within myself and my own beliefs and discarded that which did not feel right. Combined with the twelve steps programme associated with Narcotics and Alcoholics Anonymous, from which I was familiar through both my own addictive personality and that of my father’s, I developed a personalised recovery programme which now, a few weeks in, seems to be working.

Ironically, my own programme is not that dissimilar to the Dialectical Behaviour Therapy created and championed by recovered borderliner Marsha Linehan. It is DBT that I have been waiting three years for yet, had I been motivated enough to do my own searching earlier, I could have been further along in my recovery by now. But I will not dwell on the past and its failures. Under Buddhism, the suffering of myself or others will only ail me further.

I no longer drink alcohol, engage in recreational drug use or have sex. The latter I am saving for someone who will love and respect me as much as I am learning to love and respect myself. I do not eat meat or drink caffeine, finding that my body feels less weighted and lifeless without them. I meditate every day. In stressful or uncomfortable situations, I mentally assess the situation as if from the outside looking in, offering myself advice while concentrating on my breathing. Mindfulness is incredibly difficult when you are the type of person who is lead by their emotions and intuition, but I’m getting there, slowly.

I’m not cured. I have not recovered. These techniques I have discovered may only be a new and temporary coping mechanism, but at least they’re not harmful to me or others in the way my drug use and promiscuity used to be. I am now aware of myself as a person of value. I can achieve great and wonderful things, once I have my PTSD and BPD under control. I can have a life worth living.


Pub Quizzes & Lost Loves


I’d barely left the house in two
weeks, so when my local pub advertised a harmless quiz night, I decided to use it as a goal. A goal to leave the house, to socialise, to get my life back on track.

I also thought I’d use the quiz as an olive branch for Perry, not that I was technically the one who needed to be making peace. Be the bigger person, I thought. He’s your friend, your best friends partner, father to your godson. He is also a man, so, if I wasn’t going to make the first move towards a reconciliation, no one would.

‘We need your useless knowledge in the pub quiz next week,’ I’d texted, ‘you in?’

Perry said yes. He even confirmed he still wanted to take part the day before the event.

I wasn’t surprised when he didn’t show. I wasn’t surprised when he ignored my messages. I wasn’t even surprised that I’d been a total fool to give him the benefit of the doubt. It’s my modus operandi…believe the liars, the tricksters, the con-men. I see the good in them when everything in me is screaming at me to run a mile. For someone who claimed to be a friend, who said he loved me and would do anything for me, he’s done a pretty piss poor job of showing it. I feel no guilt or remorse in washing my hands clean of Perry now. I tried. There is nothing more I can do.

On the upside, I had a really lovely evening with Robyn and Isaac. Isaac was far too stoned to contribute any answers to the surprisingly difficult pub quiz questions that were being launched at us…history, science, general knowledge, literature, sports and pastimes, tv and film…but Robyn and I did a damn good job for a party of two! Most importantly, I laughed. I laughed and smiled so much that I forgot about those who’ve hurt me and let me down. I enjoyed myself from the moment I walked into the bar and any anxiety I may have felt, instantly disappeared. This was in no small part down to seeing Noel.

I really do adore that man. He gave me a hug and showed concern in all the right places, then was very gracious when his team beat us in the pub quiz. I suspect Noel carried the rest of his team, so am now mission bound to recruit him for next month’s quiz. With him, Robyn and I will be unstoppable!

The Cricketer was also there that evening. I knew he would be. I was prepared for it, or so I thought. Bumping into past conquests isn’t usually a big deal for me, but the last time we met he’d told me he’d never gotten over me and then proceeded too shove his cock up my arse. We’d only passed each other in the street since then. He’d had a huge grin on his face every time.

I was aware of The Cricketer sneaking little looks at me. I noticed how he went outside for a cigarette the same time I did. I knew there was a deep conversation brewing in his brain and, sure enough, he finally got his opportunity.

He is asked if was happy, what I wanted out of life, if I really wanted to be single. He asked if I’d give up my intentions to volunteer and teach abroad if I had a man here in the UK. He told me he wasn’t happy with his girlfriend (they never are!) and that he had no intention of marrying her (they always do!) He asked what it would take to make me change my life goals and what I would consider a successful relationship. I felt like I was at an interview, my mind racing to come up with suitable responses,

‘I just want to be happy and emotionally safe,’ was all I could really say.

As most of the customers filtered out of the bar and only the regulars remained, I got chatting to Jessie. I swear, he is the funniest man you could ever meet. Luckily for me, a few coked up conversations with Jessie in the past had seen us bare our souls to one another and we’ve had a fun and open friendship ever since. Everyone always knew Jessie deserved an amazing woman, and it seems that he may have finally found her,

‘She’s my soul mate,’ he told me as we huddled against the bar, ‘you not found yours yet?’

‘I don’t think I have one,’ I tried to explain. It’s a difficult thing to say without people thinking you’re feeling sorry for yourself, ‘I believe we all have our own paths and that in life, this time around, I’m meant to do it alone’.

Jessie looked at me pitifully, ‘but you and The Cricketer were close?’

I didn’t know what he was getting at. Had he seen us chatting and drawn his own conclusions? Did he think I was going to screw his mate’s life up by persuing him, regardless of his live in girlfriend? Jessie never seemed the sort of man to issue warnings!

‘Yeah, we were,’ I replied cautiously, ‘but I screwed that one up’.

‘ He talks about you all the time’.

Ok. So Jessie wasn’t warning me off. Was he encouraging me? Maybe he was just reassuring me that if The Cricketer could still hold me in fond regard, maybe another man in the future might be able to too.

The evening ended pleasantly enough, with congratulations on Noel’s team’s success and my sworn vow to humiliate them with my genius at the next quiz night.

As I got into bed I wondered if I should text The Cricketer and see if he fancied lunch one day in the week. Just a mates date, absolutely nothing more to it, because I really do miss our friendship. The next day, I text.

‘I’d love to, but I don’t think the Mrs would like that,’ came the response.

I hate it when men say that. Just because I have a vagina doesn’t mean I can’t be friends with a member of the opposite sex. They’re not all so god damn irresistible that I’ll be forcing them to motorboat me within the first five minutes of meeting. And, for the record lads, it’s a pussyhole cop out when you blame your wife or girlfriend. The Cricketer should have just said he couldn’t handle the temptation, because I suspect that, if a little arrogantly, that is the truth of the matter. I wasn’t torn up by the rejection, but there was really only one way I could respond,

‘ She probably wouldn’t have liked you putting your cock up my bum a couple months ago either, but hey, that’s cool’.

The Footballer

I don’t know why I finally decided to write about this man. I’d never intended to because he never really had much of an impact on me, however his name cropped up the other day and I thought ‘what the hell! It’s not like you have any recent sexcapades to write about Lola, you boring cow!’ Now, as with The Musician and The One Off The Telly, I will not be revealing any names. I’m not a kiss ‘n’ tell kinda girl so for literary purposes, ‘The Footballer’ will serve perfectly well.


Walk into any bar in my town and you’re sure to bump into someone who wants to tell you all about The Footballer. They’ll tell you they saw his incredible footballing skills when he was a young child, how they grew up with him, drank with him, worked with him, how they are his cousin through marriage twice removed. Some will talk about him like he is a god, how his good looks attract the highest calibre of women, how his professional footballer wage has afforded him a glamorous and exciting lifestyle and how his sporting success has made him an even better person than he was before. Others will tell you he’s an arrogant, spoilt little rich kid, rude and obnoxious, who’s success is most definitely not deserved. A common parody phrase being ‘it could have happened to a much nicer guy’. I, personally, have conflicting opinions on The Footballer.

The night we first met, I was meant to be on a date with someone else. I had been stood up. In hindsight this was probably a good thing, what with him being a skinny, badly tattooed ex con with a flourishing career in the illegal trade of cocaine distribution, but at the time I had taken the rejection to heart. I reacted in a way quite typical of me back then and headed to my local pub to drown my sorrows.

A band was playing and I’d arranged to meet a couple of my girl friends for an emergency ‘girl drama’ drinking session. The shots came thick and fast and we quickly found ourselves doing that unattractive, inebriated gyrating on the dance floor to covers of 80s rock bands. It was my loud and carefree wiggling and giggling that attracted the attention of The Footballer.

Given the vulnerable state I was in, I’d have probably gone home with anything with a penis that night, but The Footballer felt like I had hit the jackpot. Tall, dark and gorgeous, he was a decade younger than me but approached me with the confidence and charisma of a seasoned lothario. I was feeling fat and dowdy but he ignored all the scantily clad girls around him and made me feel like a goddess. He danced with me, brought me drinks, joked and flirted with me all evening. I felt special.

‘I give the best blow jobs in the county,’ I’d bragged.

Not my classiest move I’ll admit, but for all his woo-ing, I knew my encounter with The Footballer wasn’t going to be an epic tale of love and romance. It would be an ego boosting one night stand and I was more than ok with that.

I remember drunkenly walking in the middle of the road in the early hours of the morning, heading to his place. The air was cool, but comfortable. The street lights emitted a warm orange glow along our journey. There were no cars, no people, just a soothing silence. Something changed in the The Footballer somewhere between leaving the pub and walking up that road. As we talked, his arrogance faded away and what was left was an insecure boy with deep rooted fears of failing his successful and wealthy father. A boy who carried the expectations of generations on his shoulders, a boy who believed he was unable to fulfil his own dreams because of a birth rite commitment to his family’s growth and development.

The Footballer gripped my hand tightly as we sneaked in through the back door. We were trying desperately to be quiet but were probably doing that drunken thing of overly loud ‘ssshhhh-ing’ and knocking into furniture. When we got into his room, I sat on the edge of the bed while he fetched us a drink.

‘Whiskey and coke alright?’ he said, handing me the cut glass tumbler, ‘that’s all I could find’.

The Footballer suddenly seemed nervous as he sat beside me and sipped from his glass, ‘you won’t tell anyone what I told you tonight, will you?’ he said with concern.

His dark brow was furrowed and he was anxiously playing with the glass between his hands. I took his glass and mine and placed them on the bedside table. Running my fingers along the collar of his t-shirt, I gently pulled him towards me. As our lips nearly touched, I whispered,

‘Not if you can find a way to shut me up…’

His confidence came back pretty quickly after that. This lad was chucking me all over the place like we were mission bound to enact every position in the karma sutra at lightening speed. He was eager for sure, his kisses hard and forceful on my lips and his hands exploring every part of my body as if I had the key to life written upon me in braille. The only time this boy calmed down was when I threw him on his back and showed him why I was, indeed, the best blow job in the county.

‘That was incredible!’ he said when I finally came up for air.

It fucking ought to have been, particularly when you consider I had to alter my tried and tested technique to accommodate an unexpected surprise about his penis. It was big, which I was more than happy with, but this cock was seriously bent. I know that some of them have a slight tilt on occasion, I was already familiar with that. I know that they come in all shapes and sizes, bumps and veins as eclectic as Lady Gaga’s wardrobe, but seriously, if a right angle is 90 degrees, this guy was carrying a fully loaded 70 at least.

As it turns out, a cock with that much of a kink to it can hit a gal’s g-spot in blissfully unique ways, so I certainly didn’t have much to complain about. When our marathon sex session was over and I began to sober up, I spluttered out some hastily made up excuse and left him, naked and sweaty on his bed.

As I proceeded with my walk of shame home, I grinned to myself for a job well done. I’d banged a hottie, had something to brag to the girls about and had completely forgotten all about the waste of space drug dealer.

I never expected to hear from The Footballer again, but I still do and on a semi regular basis. We’ve hooked up a few times over the years. He finally made his was up through the English football leagues and is now a rising star in the Premiership. Of course, his family and friends are proud of him and he himself has finally gotten rid of the weight he carried regarding his responsibilities to the family business. I see the relief on his face. Even since he made it to the big leagues and with all the beautiful celebrity women he must now have access to, he will without fail, ask me to spend the night with him if we bump into each other. I get the odd drunken 4am message from him too, making the same request. My answer is always no. The Footballer’s success has, in my opinion, not made him a better person. I’d love to spend an evening with the man who walked in the middle of the road with me that night, but I suspect he is long gone. The Footballer is now grossly arrogant. He is ignorant and selfish. He has an unattractive air of entitlement, an entitlement that stops short of ever coming near my pussy, or my blow jobs, again.

She Is My Person

After the rough few weeks I have been having, and the bitching and moaning I have done about it on this blog, I am tiring of my own depression and just want to move forward. It will take lots of tiny, positive steps to do this and the start of that is to have some closure on my last emotional meltdown. Robyn’s guest post here, giving an ‘outside looking in’ first hand perspective of me during such a breakdown, may just be the closure I need…

‘Promise me you’ll always remember: You’re braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think’ – A A Milne.

‘I’m not coping here’.

Just that one text message was enough to tell me that something really wasn’t right. The thing about Lola is, she never asks for help. She’ll suffer in silence before you figure out that something’s off and it’s extremely rare that anything will slip out without you bringing it up first. But unfortunately for her we seem to share the same brain wave, so it doesn’t escape me easily. For her to express her feelings in that moment, we were on red.

I was spending the night at my mothers and hadn’t picked up the message until about six hours after it was sent. I felt awful. Guilty because I hadn’t been there. It’s so rare for me to spend a night out of that house, it was typical that this happened on the one night I hadn’t been there. 

I told my mother that we needed to go. I needed to get home. Something wasn’t right with Lola and I had no way of contacting her. Oh the joys of bad credit and pay as you go mobile phones! 

On the way home I remember sitting and running through the list of possibilities in my head. I was almost certain that she hadn’t made an attempt on her life as I would have expected to hear from her son before then had that been the case. But it was still a possibility. Lola isn’t afraid of death. In fact, she welcomes it.

I walked straight up the stairs and made a beeline for the living room the second I got through the door. I took hold of her hand and professed how sorry I had been for not being there, for being a bad friend. She assured me that I couldn’t have known. And I couldn’t have. Perry had destroyed her. He had destroyed everything. Thank fuck for Blue who came to the rescue when nobody else did!

She told me what had unfolded, I was shocked and disgusted. The games he had been playing were baffling. And there was no clear reason as to why. 

As Lola started to come out from under the duvet, it was clear that this was affecting her just as much physically as it was emotionally. Her skin was pale, there was no light behind her eyes and the cat-like scratches on her chest gave away just how bad a night Lola had had to endure. 

She felt betrayed by everybody she knew. She didn’t trust anybody. And if I’m being perfectly honest, I was angry. Perry had made her question her trust in me and in my opinion, that was simply not fucking okay.

‘Please don’t leave me down here alone with my own head,’ Lola begged one evening.

It wasn’t even a question that needed answering. I wasn’t going anywhere. This was my friend, my sister, my children’s auntie, my family. If there was anything I could do, I was going to do it. So I held her hands to stop her from scratching her skin red raw, rolled endless joints to keep her as calm as I could and watched shitty channel 5 murder documentaries with her until my eyes stung. I walked her to the doctors when she couldn’t face going outside alone, I made late night dashes to the local shop because ‘I needed cigarettes’ knowing full well I had a pack of twenty in my bedroom, I just wanted to make sure she wasn’t suffering in silence because she simply couldn’t face going outside. 

I am not a girls girl. I love men and I hate 95% of women in this town. But this is not a girl, this is a woman. A woman who has no idea how spectacular she really is, how inspiring she is or how she lights up a room when she walks into it. And every now and again, somebody turns that light off.

It’s my job to turn the light back on.

She is my person.