Monday, 26 June 2006

The parentheses

I'm at work, and J is home doing his CBT homework. And tidying the front and back bedrooms.

This can only mean one thing. My parents are arriving for a visit tomorrow.

Once a year my mum would take me to a cafe as a treat
I'm actually really looking forward to it.

My dad usually gets on my nerves to an incredible extent after about 48 hours, but I'm hoping the World Cup can serve as a mellowing factor and keep him quiet.

I love my mum. She's really the best mum in the world. We've never argued, she's never had to discipline me, and I know that no matter what I do she will love me as much and be there for me.

She's never tried to pressurise me into doing anything I didn't want to, and has sincerely tried to love every boyfriend I've brought home since the age of 19 (before that she clung on to the hope that I was still a virgin and was going to stay that way until marriage; fortunately she gave that all up a decade ago).

She's very sweet and bakes great pizza, and all she asks in return is that I buy her sweets and cigarettes in the tax free when I come home for one of my all-too-rare visits.

My kid sister, with whom I have nothing in common, but with whom I also win every single argument by virtue of being 10 years older and a lot cleverer, is also coming to visit. Another of J's tasks today is to buy her a guest bed to sleep on.

I think it'll be great.

I was never very close to my family when I was younger; they never forced me to spend time with them, and from the age of 14 I was allowed to stay home alone when they went on holiday.

This, I think, has led me to be quite independent, but also to freely appreciate how nice it is to have a nice family.

My dad has never quite realised that I grew up, and is also very uneducated. He will genuinely say stuff like "but lots of people smoke, so it has to be good for something" which I find so intensely irritating that I can never bite my tongue for more than the above 48 hrs in a row.

This leads to arguments which I always win because I'm about 10 times better read and more articulate, and then I feel guilty because I can tell he finds it quite humiliating to be put in his place by his daughter (who is after all still a child, he thinks).

I'm hoping that if I ever have children, it'll help this situation. My dad likes kids. He just doesn't know how to relate to adults.

This is, worryingly, something he has in common with J to a certain extent. J loves kids, and they love him.

Whenever I think J reminds me of my dad, I have a mini-panic.

But then I think, J is a lot more articulate and clever, and can therefore hold his own. He only lets me win arguments if he actually thinks he's wrong; I can't talk him into the ground.

And then I feel better.

I genuinely feel sorry for J that he has such a bad relationship with his mum. I can't imagine how it would feel to have one of the most important people in your childhood always looking for new weak spots to attack.

At any rate, I'll devote the rest of this week to ensuring that my family, including my father and sister that is, have a good time here in England. Even though this includes introducing them to the above-mentioned fearful J's mum.

And then I'll be going away for a week with J to recover.

Summer; it's a great thing, really.

Saturday, 24 June 2006

Being obsessive; it's hard work

And that's me saying that; I'm just experiencing it secondhand.

J, in his usual "I'm not going to be able to be perfect in doing this so I'm just going to put it off until the last minute" faulty coping mechanism mode, put off all the homework for this week's CBT session until last night. ]

Ah, but they're not in a straight line...

He was seeing his therapist this morning at 0915.

It is weird. I've done quite a lot of reading on perfectionism and Obsessive-Compulsive Personality Disorder, and he definitely has a hint of obsessive perfectionism about him.

For instance, he can't read fiction because he finds himself unable to understand every single detail in the story, and therefore keeps reading the same passage over and over again which means he can never finish the whole book.

And he likes the remote controls to be in a straight line on the table and always has to enter a staircase with his left foot first. But his obsessive tendencies aren't all that bad.

I think, fortunately for me but not for him, that he is of the "impossibly high standards for himself" kind rather than of the more destructive for the surroundings "impossibly high standards for others".

J doesn't think he's a Good Person underachieving through other people being useless(like that second kind), he thinks he's a Bad Person because of his underachievement.

Nothing he does is ever good enough, he could always do things better, and if something goes really well it's just luck and not because of (the copious amounts of) hard work put in.

He thinks he's a fraud and is terrified that people will find out how "stupid" he really is.

Says the man who can say who scored every single goal in every single World Cup, ever, pretty much. OK, I'm not saying this is a conventional measure of intelligence, but you get my point. Incompetent he ain't.

His mother, though, I am quite convinced she has the same tendencies, but in the more destructive way where she takes it out on others. That second kind probably creates depressed individuals like J.

I'll never forget the way she yelled at her 12 year old niece for de-husking strawberries in the wrong way. It's not pleasant and I seriously think it's pathological.

Everything has to be done in her (CORRECT) way, and if anything is moved in the house or otherwise seems out of control, she completely freaks out in an aggressive emotional blackmail kind of way.

Anyway, back to J... He felt very down after failing to complete his homework properly; I felt quite proud of myself for not having mentioned it a single time for the last two weeks, despite knowing that this was how it was going to end up.

The homework focussed on how his most basic idea of himself (which I'm assuming is "I'm useless") manifests itself in everyday life.

"I think I probably need to spend time on it every day even if it's hard," he concluded ahead of a consolatory episode of Buffy last night.

How right. But if I hadn't left him to find out for himself it wouldn't have been the same. Take that, J's mum. People have to be left to make mistakes, they have to learn to deal with failure not to become perfectionist freaks.

J, for instance, doesn't think what he feels for me could be love because "it's not completely perfect, I still get annoyed with you sometimes and if I was a good boyfriend and really loved you, I wouldn't get annoyed so often, would I?"

How horrible is that; being brought up to doubt whether you are actually able to feel "proper" love? Or in fact, at all having to doubt what "proper" love might be?

Not to mention the fiction book thing, that would be a real killer.

To read a good article on OCPD (which I hasten to add I am in no way saying that J has the full-blown version of), click here. Ugly formatting, but good writing.

I really admire J, not just because he's funny and clever and very, very sexy, but also because he's willing to put in so much hard work to become a happier, better person.

If only his mum would have made the same sacrifice.

Silly search of the day: "fearne cotton blowjob". Sorry, mate.

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Wednesday, 21 June 2006

Shopping torture

We went shopping today to find a dress for me for a wedding we're going to in July. After having trawled through most of House of Fraser (department stores are so handy when you're pressed for time) I saw this dress in Whistles.

This isn't it, but I though a photo might help visualise my pain
Although I knew it would be completely inappropriate for the wedding, I tried it on. It was a perfect fit.

I seem to be a model size 8 in Whistles, as opposed to every other shop, where my boobs are too small or my waist not thin enough.

It was the loveliest dress I've tried on in... I don't know, ever, possibly.

It fell perfectly across my bum, lovingly supported my breasts and wrapped tightly around my waist. It was made of light green silk with a white star pattern on it.

And, unfortunately, it was £135.

There was probably a time where I would have just bought it. After all, although not formal enough for a wedding, it would have been perfectly fine for work.

But I think J has had an influence on my spending patterns.

J hates spending a lot of money on clothes. He thinks any T-shirt over £15 is not worth having, and the only expensive item he owns is his winter cashmere coat which I think he got 2nd hand.

It's not that he criticizes me for spending too much on clothes, but it makes me feel guilty.

Because, obviously, I have an £20,000 student loan I could be paying back instead. And although I'm already making more than the minimum payment every time, I know that I could always starve myself a little more and get rid of it a little sooner.

Now, of course, that dress is completely "the one who got away", and I love nothing more than the one who got away.

As we left the store empty handed, me pouting and teary-eyed at the separation, J gave me a big hug and said: "Even if you secretly go back and get that dress, I just want you to know that I really admire the amount of willpower you just showed."

Hearing that was almost as good as wearing that dress would be.

Almost.

Sob.

And, of course, if any of you live near a Whistles, you know where to find me...

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Tuesday, 20 June 2006

Things that are wrong in the world

And I'm not talking about my cervix or about J's mother. For once. Although she is coming to visit next week, apparently, so I will be going on about it soon enough.

No.

Things that are wrong in the world #1:
You person from Lexington, Nevbraska, United States (ISP Atc Communications) who did a Yahoo search for "daddy's little girlfriend"; go get some help will ya?! It's not right, and you know it!

Things that are wrong in the world #2:
You jihadi fighters in Iraq who are bragging about attacking a row of elderly people waiting to pick up their benefits; shame on you! I understand about wanting to "free" your country, but that is just plain wrong. I'm not saying that slitting the throat of US soldiers is in any way right, but you can at least claim they were The Enemy. What did those poor old people do wrong?!

Phew. Good to get that off my chest.

Things that are right in the world though; England yet again failed to beat Sweden! Yay for Calvin Klein models who can also play football.

Fortunately for the peace of the house, though, Gerrard scored an excellent goal, so I'm hoping there won't be any domestic violence ensuing from the game.


Thursday, 15 June 2006

Get a gay boyfriend :: The elusive Perfect Blowjob

OK, maybe it wouldn't work for everyone... But I'm just being more upbeat after yesterday's 'exhibitionist but definitely not in a sexy way' post.

But anyway, my sweet blog-friend (if I am permitted to call her that; well, actually I just have) Janikos has asked me how to give a good blowjob.

If your body looks like this; sorry, not much I can do for you
Well, I would love to say that there are as many opinions on this as there are men in the world, but largely, there are a few main pointers.

I learned most of my tricks from my gay ex, who, being an expert provider (or so he said) as well as very articulate and a grateful receiver, was the best teacher I could have asked for.

Many men I meet are puzzled about that whole bit of my relationship history... but that's until I get down to business...

So here it goes.

Give a perfect blowjob -in three easy steps

  1. No sharp teeth! You'd think this goes without saying, but according to some of my exes it doesn't. Nibbling a little is fine if you know someone, but sharp biting is never a good thing. The best way to avoid this is to kind of wrap your lips around your teeth as you slide down the shaft. Doing this also helps you apply pressure.
  2. Make sure you like it. If a man likes the idea of forcing you to suck him when you actually hate it, you should probably grab your stilettoes and run, girlfriend. But if you seem like don't like it, there's largely no point. One of the biggest turn-ons for many is hearing/seeing the girl enjoy giving head. Although don't overdo the slurping/moaning thing, you're not a dog/in porn! If you're not a moaner, you're not a moaner. If you think cum tastes rubbish, switch to a hand job before he does. Or make him eat cinnamon and avoid dairy and cheap meat produce which generally makes it taste awful.
  3. Use your hand(s). You have two; if he's lying down and you're bending over between his legs, support yourself on one and use the other as a helping 'handjob', as a live cockring or just to hold the skin tautly at the base of the shaft. Or, even better, clench your bum to support yourself and use both hands! Bouncy buttocks and pleasuring boyfriend, all in one! That's sexercise for you... If your bum can't take the pressure, kneeling in front of the man is also a tried and tested exercise to free up both hands. Also, your hand will help you control the thrust which feels safer; I have emitophobia and although my gag reflex is not much to boast about, I wouldn't want anyone to hit it.
Only three steps, I hear you exclaim.

Well, of course there's all that Cosmo bullshit about twisting your tongue around his urethra and massaging the prostate (from the outside or the inside) or sucking on a testicle (again; DO NOT CHEW!) or throwing in a bit of rimming for good measure.

But I've actually found that the above three do the job for most guys. All the other stuff is stuff you can try out with each guy when you get bored, or when he gets bored (unlikely; I've never met a guy who said "oh no, not more oral sex, purleeease, eurrgh, fed up now") or when you just feel adventurous.

And, lastly on the topic:

The blowjob dilemmas every girl has to face

  1. To suck or not to suck: Well, that really depends, doesn't it. When you close your lips around a penis, you basically create a soft vacuum in your mouth on the 'upstroke' without any added sucking. Best to ask "do you want me to suck harder?"
  2. To stop or not to stop: Some guys are actually so sensitive that if you keep going frantically when they cum it's painful for them. You should know him well enough to be able to tell "that fucking hurts" writhing from "oh yes please" writhing or you probably shouldn't be sucking on his you-know-what.
  3. To swallow or not to swallow: Sorry. I've never met a guy who said "I like it when you spit". If you really hate the taste, don't feel obliged, but try:
    • Catching it in the back of your mouth and swallowing without really tasting it (as you would cod liver oil).
    • Avoid washing it around in your mouth (again; you wouldn't do that with cod liver oil unless you like it).
    • Take a sip of something to drink to wash it down.
    • Have sex often. A man who's been saving his load for weeks on end => potentially yuk.
    • Keep going for as long as possible before he shoots his load (I felt this article would be incomplete without that expression, dear readers) as this tends to make the cum more runny and digestible. Why, I do not know.

But anyway. If you've brought him to the edge of orgasm he should be thanking you regardless of whether you insist on spitting it out on his chest (in fact, many men like cumming on chests so it's important they know what it feels (and smells!) like).

Also, just knowing he's turned you on enough to want to go down on him is usually a turn-on for him. You're damn hot, you are! If he's too shy to tell you how he likes it if you're doing something wrong, that's his loss. Having read this, you're now a cocksucking goddess. If such a thing exists.

And remember: A blowjob a day keeps other women away.

Good luck, and all you men out there, you really, really owe me. And I'm not just talking to the select few who have personally tasted the goods.

The challenge is on for one of you to return the favour for all those girls who are too shy to direct you properly...

PS! Also avoid getting cum in your eye. It stings.

Wednesday, 14 June 2006

Playing doctor

OK, but not in the naughty way you are all hoping for.

As I reported a few weeks ago, I had a dodgy smear test result which meant I was referred to the hospital for further checks.

Smear test cells, aren't they pretty?
Of course everyone kept telling me that it wasn't a big deal, and I was personally quite convinced after the initial panic that it wasn't.

But, to make a long story short, it turned out that my cervix was covered in pre-cancerous cells which had to be removed.

The whole procedure was projected onto a colour screen.

I was lying there in that gynecologist dentist-style chair, spread-eagled and covered only by a very unattractive NHS towel (bless the NHS), whilst a little camera was pushed up my vagina to project my cervix to the TV.

For some reason whenever I have dealings with the NHS it involves a trainee watching it, so this Asian girl had the pleasure of staring at my privates whilst the doctor woman made comments like "can you see here?" and "I'll take some pictures so we can study them closer afterwards".

Which I guess it's good; it must mean they're hiring a lot of people and training them properly... Always willing to help scientific progress, me.

They gave me a local anaestetic distributed by a horse syringe sized needle to my cervix, which was only medium painful but made me really light-headed.

"Don't look at the screen," the doctor said. "It sounds as if you're in a tin," I said, "my head feels really strange."

"The needle doesn't go quite that far up," she quipped.

My cervix looked very sorry for itself. Instead of its regular happy pink, it was white, kind of the way your tongue would look if you'd burnt it all over. Even I, knowing nothing about cervixes, knew that this wasn't good.

"We'll remove all this abnormal tissue," the doctor said, and again I wasn't allowed to watch.

They put a large sticky patch on me to ground me and heated up a metal wire loop to burn it off with.

I think this was the closest I'll ever get to having a barbecue in my vagina (some good Google search material there I think). It felt really hot, but obviously due to the anaestetic I felt no pain. I could faintly smell burnt meat as she seared the area to create a scab.

"You'll have a bloody discharge for about three weeks until it heals," one of the assisting nurses said. "And if there are black bits, don't worry, it just means the scab is coming off."

Yum.

My poor cervix bit has been sent away for further analysis, but they're hoping they caught it well in time. I have to go for annual smear tests for the next ten years though.

Then for the death blow: "No sex for about three weeks," she said.

I'd consulted web sites beforehand which all indicated about 10 days, but hello! THREE WEEKS?!

What am I going to do with my life until then??!

Although J helpfully remarked when I told him: "That'll be until the end of the World Cup, then..."

Monday, 12 June 2006

Does football do it for you?

What is it with men, sports and sex? I actually remember giving my ex-boyfriend a blowjob once while he was watching an NBA game.

I found it mostly amusing but he seemed to really enjoy it.

Angola. Not the best place for football, or a peaceful life in general...
I have a few theories about this:

  1. Watching balls makes them think about their own balls, and therefore about sex
  2. Getting sexual favours while doing something that intrinsically irritates the person providing the favours (usually girlfriend) gives them a power trip
  3. They are all closeted gays and get turned on by watching men in skimpy shorts pile on top of each other (this is especially my theory for rugby and US football)
  4. The adrenalin rush makes them think they're horny
  5. They feel the need to have sex to drown out the feeling of failure they have over never becoming a sports star themselves

I don't know. But anyway.

J actually forsaked (forsook?) Iran/Mexico today to hang out with me, with which I was very pleased.

We went down to the park and threw a frisbee around instead; it was lovely as the sun was setting over the trees and you could smell the sweet illegality of weed being smoked by a bunch of teenagers further down the field.

I cooked a lovely marinated chicken dinner (no disasters today) and afterwards I read the family section of yesterday's Guardian whilst J watched Angola-Portugal (well done Angola for only conceding one goal; I thought the ITV commentators were being a bit harsh on them).

At half time I went and had a cool shower and then decided not to get dressed afterwards. Although the weather was slightly less hot today, it was still too sticky for my taste.

I positioned myself on a towel on the floor between the comfortably seated J's legs, and he seemed to gain worrying amounts of satisfaction from prodding my bum with his toes.

Despite the football still going on (and this is saying something when it comes to J), he leaned over and started groping my breasts in an uncharacteristically hungry manner.

He found it quite frustrating that he couldn't really lick my nipples from that position and was clearly torn between Angola's desperate efforts to score in the last 10 minutes and the buoyancy of my breasts. Very endearing.

As soon as the final whistle blew, he got up from the chair and said "sex?" with a commandeering/hopeful tone in his voice.

Who am I to argue. It was even hotter in the upstairs bedroom, and he pushed me dowo on the bed, ripped his clothes off, follwed me there and pulled me across his face while lying on his back.

He really, really likes to bury his face in my tummy (again, who am I to argue; I sometimes wonder if he imagines that it's a giant boob) and likes even more to nibble on that bony part where my pelvis reaches out for my venus mound.

It is bizarre. With clothes on, J is this quite shy and retiring person, always preoccupied with whether he's doing things right and whether he's being considerate and loving enough.

In bed, he's completely different. He likes to guide my head when I give him blowjobs, and to arrange me into different positions. Maybe that's why I really like sex with him; I don't have to be in charge and he just seems to instinctively know what to do.

Having masturbated only a few hours prior, I was actually too exhausted to receive any oral sex. Just the penetration alone made me completely dizzy.

I sucked J off; he was incredibly hard and came even harder; I did that thing where you spin your tongue around the shaft up and down, afterwards I was genuinely worried he was having a heat stroke.

I fanned him with a magazine while he was catching his breath, and he actually couldn't speak for several minutes. When he did, his first word was 'lick?'

I politely declined as I knew I would end up in an even worse state than him. He rolled over on his side away from me; I find it strange how he really, really likes cuddles, just not after sex. After sex he always needs a little while to himself to gather his thoughts or something.

It makes me into the kind of girl who wonders if sometimes he just uses me for sex.

Which is of course especially stupid since I know that most of the time he doesn't know what leg to stand on in order to please me.

But sometimes it makes me feel lonely.


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Sunday, 11 June 2006

But not only a fantasy

It's important to have erotic fantasies, I think.

While discussing this with J (he likes secretaries and nurses... a lot... I think it's quite sweet), we decided that they usually are best left that way, as fantasies. I don't know if I could take myself seriously in a nurse outfit. French maid or secretary - maybe.

Mornings... I like them
But that doesn't mean I don't find fantasising incredibly arousing. Like yesterday's hot neighbour story, for instance...

In fact, when I came back from writing it, I found that J was still asleep in bed, a rare occasion as he usually wakes earlier than me.

He snuggled up to me, and I felt his morning wood knocking gently on my buttock.

Still half asleep, his arm brushed across my nipples. It was only then I realised how incredibly horny it had made me to write the story.

I sneakily turned around and slid down J's body, popping his cock in my mouth and sucking.

"Baby, the sucking is really nice..." he said. "Do you mind if I just like on my back while you take advantage of me?"

Of course, being a nice girlfriend, I didn't have to be asked twice. I kept sucking on him, he started moving and I when I pinned his legs to the bed, he grabbed my head and started directing me to move faster, faster.

I kept going painstakingly slowly although I was pretty much ready to swallow him whole, and of course, after a few minutes of expert treatement he moaned "I think I need to be inside you now" through gritted teeth.

I straddled him and couldn't help groaning as he thrust into me; he always gets incredibly hard when we have sex in the morning.

"The neighbours!" he said. "It's quite early for a Saturday!"

And with no further adoo, he flipped me around on my stomach and entered me from behind as I lifted my bum up to welcome him.

When I thought I couldn't take any more, he returned to his previous position, and while on his back pulled me on top of him so he could lick me. As he buried his beautiful face between my legs, he joined in the groaning choir.

J loves going down on me, and it really turns me on when I hear him (unsuccessfully) try to hold back from moaning out loud while licking.

I was so horny I just wanted to come straight away, but it was quite difficult, the sensation of his mouth was almost too much. My clit was so sensitive that in the end he barely needed to touch it with the tip of his tongue in the end to bring me over the edge.

I just about managed to avoid collapsing in a gasping heap on top of his head, and as I came to my senses I popped him back in my mouth and sucked him off. Suffice to say he quite liked that.

And then there were cuddles, of course. And much moaning from J about how I catch him unawares and wear him out.

You'd think with a gorgeous man in my bed there'd be little time for fantasies, but to the contrary... I'm thinking repeat performance from myself tomorrow morning, unless I've now ruined the surprise element for a week or so to come... No pun intended.

Up the ladder

OK, so I'm not the most present-minded of people even at the best of times, but when I've been on night shifts it's particularly bad.

That's partly the reason I ended up outside my house wearing no underwear. And had to be "salvaged" by a very helpful Member of the neighbourhood...

All you need is a ladder...
I woke in the middle of the afternoon, really hot and heavy-headed; despite having left the window open it was so warm that I'd woken after only about 5 hours sleep.

I slipped on a floaty skirt and a skimpy top and headed for the kitchen to get something to drink, hoping to get back to bed asap.

On the way past the front window, I saw that some of the plants outside were very depressed-looking; drooping from the heat.

So I had a cup of icy water, filled up a watering can and headed outside to take care of the poor limp things.

And then I heard a bang.

The wind and draught from the window upstairs had slammed the door shut. It felt like 45 degrees, the asphalt was already burning my bare feet and J wasn't home to let me in.

I felt quite desperate, and not at all in the mood to sit outside and wait in the heat for four hours until J came back from work.

That's when I saw my extremely hunky neighbour returning from what appeared to be quite a prolific shopping trip with his wife. She was, as always, quite surly looking. Very good-looking, but I am thinking she gets most of her pleasure from his credit card rather than his cock by the looks of it.

I hobbled over and explained the situation. The wife completely ignored me, but the hubby was very sympathetic, and offered that I could climb over the fence in their garden and sneak across the handful of lawns between their house and mine.

He walked me into the garden and we looked across; it turned out there were at least three fences too high to climb. I also knew I wasn't wearing any underwear, and wasn't too keen on climbing and flashing my privates to the world.

As I stood on my toes to look across the fences, I noticed that I was making an effort to arch my back and make my legs look more shapely; I could feel his eyes on me.

Despite the heat I was suddenly very aware that my nipples were rubbing on the soft fabric of my thin white top. He's about twice my age, but I've noticed coming and going, usually in tow after his wife with enormous amounts of shopping showing off his toned torso.

"I can't climb that high," I said, and as I turned around, he took his eyes back, but not until they'd met mine for a split second. To my surprise I felt heat surge between my legs.

"Yes, you can," he said. "I'll hold the ladder for you."

He wedged it in between the wall and the sloping roof of the bay window, put one leg on either side of the ladder and held it firmly with both hands. "It'll be safe," he said, holding my gaze for just a little longer than what was decent.

I ducked in under his arm and gripped on to the ladder. I could smell the salt on his skin, and felt his hot breath on my neck where my hair had haphazardly been scoped up in a ponytail.

As I put my bare foot on the bottom step, I couldn't help myself.

Half-consciously I jutted my ass out just a little bit, brushing his crotch as I stepped up.

It only lasted for a second, but I felt the unmistakable jutting of a very eager erection under his black linnen trousers. I wasn't sure, but I could swear he stifled a moan.

Slowly I stepped up the ladder. As the edge of my skirt ascended above his head, I heard him clearly catching his breath. I knew he could see straight up skirt, and I was suddenly glad I'd been keeping trim by regular cycling trips. Not to mention exfoliation and shaving...

I thought of the bulge in his trousers, it had felt invitingly large... Again, I felt his eyes on me; I could feel my pussy really wet now, swelling up by the second.

Read on...

Saturday, 10 June 2006

Up the ladder II

As I straddled the windowstill and hauled myself into the bedroom, I scraped the inside of my thigh, but by now I was so aroused I barely noticed.

I rushed down the stairs and opened the front door.

My neighbour was still there, bending over away from me pretending to be folding up the ladder, but it was quite clear he was trying to hide his hard-on.

"Fancy a cold beer as thanks?" I asked innocently. "Oh, that would be... lovely," he said, looking up from the latch on the ladder.

He came inside, following me into the dining room as I headed to the kitchen for a beer. As I opened the fridge, I made sure I bent over quite far to reach the bottom shelf, my skirt sliding up to right below my buttocks.

Again, I could feel his eyes on me as he shifted in his chair. For a moment I regretted inviting him in, my pussy was so hot it was almost hurting, and I didn't know what to do.

When I came into the dining room again he had positioned himself cleverly with legs crossed and trying to look calm and collected.

I passed him the beer, and my hand brushed the inside of his. I could see the dark hair on his arm standing up at my touch, a little reminder of something larger standing up further down.

I heard him gasp. "What's wrong?" I said.

"You're bleeding," he answered, pointing to a thin, red line working its way down the inside of my leg.

Suddenly I words coming out of my mouth, completely uncontrollable: "It must be a scratch from the climbing... Maybe you can help clean me up..."

As he put his his dry, warm hand on my thigh, I could feel the hair standing up on my arms and all down my back to match his. We both went completely quiet, and all I could hear was his rapid, shallow breaths.

"Please..." he said. Then: "Oh God." I couldn't stop myself, I grabbed his hand and shoved it right up on my naked, wet pussy.

With his free hand he unbuttoned his trousers, exposing a pair of white boxers from which a huge erection was dying to be released.

He grabbed me and pulled me in close, I felt his cock throb against my stomach. "Please, please, just let me lick you," he whispered in my ear.

And I couldn't say no.

He sat me down on a chair and kneeled between my legs, separating them, running a hand up my thigh again to my aching pussy. I put one leg on each of his shoulders, pulling him in closer.

His tongue was amazing. It was like an animal with a life of its own, it darted across my clit with incredible speed and then slithered inside me like a firm, thick snake, then out again so I could rub myself on it, and rub I did.

I felt him slip three fingers inside me, I was so tight he had to really push. He started rubbing on my g-spot, still lapping away, staring straight at me.

I knew I wouldn't last very long, that I would have the kind of orgasm where my juices would gush all over him, and managed to moan "I'll cum all over you if you... don't... stop..".

This prompted him to grab my ass and pull me closer, putting the length of his tongue against me, but I could barely feel it anymore, I could only feel the heat spreading from my pussy across my whole body as everything went red. I could feel hot juice squirting from my pussy in an amazing release. "Yes, yes," I heard a voice in my head, and realised it was his, he was lapping it up with his eyes closed now, "yes, please, I want to drink you..." and my orgasm continued for what seemed like forever.

I collapsed back into the soft chair, trying to catch my breath.

As I slowly opened my eyes I saw him, he was standing up in front of me, completely naked now, his erection dark and hot, throbbing before I could even reach it with my hand.

It was so hard it looked circumcised; the dripping wet head joined seamlessly onto the veiny shaft. I put one hand on my soaked pussy, moistening it, before closing my fingers around his cock.

I had suspected he'd be a bit of a moaner since that first stifled noise he made when I was still on the ladder, and boy was I right. As I started stroking him, slowly at first, he started making noises, low-frequency gutteral moans, in time with my hand's movement. His cock was straining outgrow my firm grip, to my amazement I felt that he was still getting harder.

I pulled the straps of my top across one shoulder to free my breasts, which I felt had been ignored for too long. Whilst jerking him off, I used the hot, wet tip of his cock to rub on my nipple.

It felt so good I couldn't help myself, I found myself bringing my other hand between my legs to play with my clit some more, it was like a marble in oil, and I couldn't believe I was touching myself in front of a guy I didn't even know the name of.

He opened his eyes, they were dark and glazed over, but he saw my hand and it was enough to bring him over the edge. He gripped onto my shoulders, and I felt his cum forcing its way through the rock hard shaft and onto my breasts as I realised the sensation of him pumping in my hand, uncontrollably now, had brought me to another orgasm. I clung onto him for my dear life and buried my fingers deep inside myself, my muscles gripping them in spasms.

"Maybe you should start leaving a key hidden in your front yard somewhere," he said.

...well, at least that much is true. As if I'd ever cheat on J! The story is true in part, though, except unfortunately this particular helpful neighbour is rather unattractive and not someone I'd pick even if I ever felt I should be cheating.

And I am quite convinced he inadvertedly looked up my skirt. I didn't think that I wasn't wearing any underwear until I came downstairs to thank him and he was completely red-faced, hurrying off as soon as I'd said thank you...

Late night musings

Do people ever really end up with the one they love most?

Sometimes when I'm having dinner with J, or we're watching Buffy together, or I am waiting for him to come home after work, I worry about this.

Negotiations with myself are constantly ongoing
I love J. I really do.

But I have loved others, and from my first love I will always have a hole in my heart, as if I'm waiting for him to return and fill it.

Maybe your first love is always like that, maybe you never quite forget them.

It's easy to keep meeting new people, because the first flush of passion drowns out so many things.

I'm not by saying this trying to hint at wanting to oust J from my life; I've decided it's time for me to settle down with someone; he's a lovely person and I can see us having a good life together (once he gets on with his therapy).

It's just that I always thought that when I got to this stage, where I want my boyfriend to love me and buy me a house rather than love me and leave me, I'd stop thinking of the one who got away, I'd stop having the kind of dreams where you wake up with a sick feeling of longing in your stomach, where you want to write down in detail the memories you still have of the person because you can't bear the thought of them slipping away even more.

But it's still there, the longing.

My first love; when I look back I can see that he has ruled every relationship decision I've made for the past ten years.

When he broke up with his long-term girlfriend, it was the nudge I needed to break up with my boyfriend.

When he settled down with another girl, I finally found the peace to settle down with someone else as well. J.

I understand. Our mutual friends tell me (knowing very little of how I feel) that he has talked about me much, I know he sees me as the one who got away.

Why he went with someone else in the end I don't know. Maybe he got tired of waiting for me to come home. Ten years is a long time to wait.

Maybe he realised I would never want to save him, so he found someone who wanted to.

But I still miss him, I miss the feeling that everything is OK just because you're next to someone, that you don't have to weigh your words because it doesn't matter, but you do anyway because you want to be the best you can for that person.

And I look around me, people are getting married and settle down; have they all met that one person that makes them feel just right?

Or have they not, and don't know what they're missing, or maybe they don't care?

I know deep down that settling with J is a choice I've made. I've never been forced to do it by the strength of my own emotion, that feeling that this is the person who's been out there waiting for me all these years.

And there's nothing wrong with that. That conviction gives me the strength to fight against the tough times when we argue and he's depressed. Because I made a decision that we could make it work.

Yet at the moment, my mind feels blank.

He just called me at work to say he's going to bed, but is looking forward to a long cuddle when I get back tomorrow morning.

He bought two slices of strawberry cheesecake and said they were both for me, he just wanted to see me enjoy them.

He patiently explains why the World Cup playoff is called 'the finals', even though I think only the actual finals (from 'quater finals' onward) should be called 'finals'.

Of course I love him. Still after so many times of our bodies meshing together I find there are little curves I haven't yet explored, and I look at him and deeply want him. I love him, but loving J and being with him is never easy, it's always hard work.

I feel tired.

It could just be because I slept all day and then wasted the evening and afternoon watching two games of football.

But I feel old.

Monday, 5 June 2006

Take this broken wing

I saved a pigeon yesterday. Well, at least I think I might have.

And, I hasten to add, it was a fluffy young nice wood pigeon, not a nasty rat-with-wings city pigeon, although personally I hold no grudge against the latter.

The pigeon, in all it's fluffy injured glory.. I want a pet!
J and I went for a lovely jog in the nice weather and ended up at Tesco Express (the natural goal for any exercise I'm sure you'll agree) where we purchased supplies for dinner.

On the way back to our house, I spotted a pigeon.

It was sort of wedged in between a row of Victorian workers' cottages and a main road, and looked very fluffy and forlorn.

It didn't move although we were about a foot away from it.

"We should call the RSPCA," I said. "You do whatever you think is best," J said. He was never allowed to have pets as a child by his evil mum, so hasn't had a chance to build up my kind of excess pity for injured creatures.

Got home, called the RSPCA (8p per minute!) and was on hold for so long that I actually had time to cook dinner while waiting. Thank God for loudspeaker phones. The lady at the other end took my address, the address where I spotted the pigeon, and I thought that was the end of the story.

But no. At the end of the dinner, another woman called me back and said they would pick up the pigeon "but only if it was confined".

Cue me walking back to where I spotted the pigeon with a wine box to capture it with. It sort of half hobbled and half flapped down a stair from the perch where it had been sitting in an attempt to get away, and I used a newspaper to wave it into the box. From work with pigeons in animal labs I know that once they're in a dark box they think it's night and sit completely still, and it worked.

When I got home, I tipped the pigeon into a larger box and gave it some water and bread. It was completely shell-shocked and it probably didn't help that J, unbeknownst to me and again demonstrating why it is important that children have pets, went into the same room to call his mother.

After about 90 min it started flailing about a bit and I got my hopes up. Its one shoulder looked wonky so I thought it probably had a broken wing.

About 2130 in the evening yet another RSPCA lady arrived, to pick up the pigeon. She expertly grabbed it and said, "oh, it's neck is broken, what a shame."

Seeing the horror on my face, as I had become quite attached to the bird during its stay in my front room, she quickly added "we'll monitor it and see how it gets on."

When you call the RSPCA helpline, it tells you you won't be told what happens unless you specifically request to be. And I didn't, so now I'll never know. But I strongly suspect the poor pigeon was put down.

And as I went to bed in the evening, I was thinking; what if my relationship with J is like the pigeon? What if I think it's got a broken wing that will heal and be fine, whilst actually it has a broken neck and will slowly starve to a painful death?

I haven't mentioned any of that to J. As I said, he never had any pets and wouldn't understand.

Saturday, 3 June 2006

The chicken that never would

You know how they say; lucky in gambling, unlucky in love.

Well, at the moment, I am thinking that I am lucky in love but unlucky in... cooking.

Yes, that's right. Cooking.

If you want to try the recipe, click here
I am not a bad cook. In fact I'd say I'm quite a good one. I've helped cater for weddings of up to 150 people and never once spilled anything on the bride.

I've also singlehandedly cooked a three course dinner for my mother's 50th birthday, with no food poisoning incidents.

So I thought that a simple dish of oven-baked Moroccan chicken for J and I should be a doodle. How wrong can a lustful person be...

I open the fridge and take out the chicken thighs purchased at Waitrose two days earlier. As soon as I open the plastic I know something is wrong. That sickly sweet smell of rotten chicken. Not very strong, and only from one side of two of the thighs.

And having witnessed my ex-flatmate very recently in a food poisoning situation where he had to leave both his bedroom door and the toilet door open on a permanent basis due to time constraints, I decided not to tempt fate and bin the chicken.

It was already 2010 in the evening, so J suggested binning the marinade I'd already made and getting a Domino's instead.

But just like a man who refuses to ask for directions when they know they're lost, I decided to be brave and cycled to the nearby Co-op to purchase more chicken. They offered a choice between very dodgy-looking chicken breasts, and a whole chicken.

The Dante's Inferno Test has banished me to the Second Level of Hell!

LevelScore
Purgatory (Repenting Believers)Low
Level 1 - Limbo (Virtuous Non-Believers)Low
Level 2 (Lustful)High
Level 3 (Gluttonous)Moderate
Level 4 (Prodigal and Avaricious)Very Low
Level 5 (Wrathful and Gloomy)Low
Level 6 - The City of Dis (Heretics)Very Low
Level 7 (Violent)Moderate
Level 8- the Malebolge (Fraudulent, Malicious, Panderers)High
Level 9 - Cocytus (Treacherous)Very Low


Arriving back home with the whole chicken, I took a meat cleaver to it (curiously satisfying) and put the carcass in a pot to boil for stock. I then put the chicken on to marinate for half an hour and turned on the oven. While I'd originally planned some relaxing playstation playing, I spent instead the 30 min obsessively scrubbing anything that had been in touch with the off Waitrose chicken.

As I finished the dishes at about , I realised that our glass baking dish was nowhere to be found. I looked high and low. J looked high and low. The dish had obviously disappeared to an alternate dimension.

I decided instead to use a cake baking tin, the kind with a detachable rim. I tipped the chickpeas in, positioned the chicken which fit in snugly just like it was supposed to, and then poured over my lovely home-made stock.

Which then trickled out at the bottom at an alarming rate, spreading chicken fat to everywhere in my kitchen, including the inside of the cutlery drawer.

Panicking slightly as it was now 2110 and I was very hungry, I scrubbed the grill pan, which J had left with salmon fat in it for about a week, and decided to use that instead. But could a girl win?

No. Because I then realised that the oven wasn't working. Yes, that's right. It was stone cold. I hadn't noticed because the light on the cooker was on due to the stock simmering on the stove top.

I tried the top oven. It wasn't working either.

Extremely pissed off, I tipped the chicken, chickpeas and stock into a pot, which turned out not to have a matching lid, covered it with a dinner plate and boiled it on the stove top.

Instead of relaxing while it was cooking (my original reason for picking this dish!) I spent the next 45 min scrubbing the kitchen floor and washing the whole contents of the cutlery drawer.

Then, amazingly, while steaming some couscous to go with it in the remaining stock, I managed to burn the couscous.

When J came home from playing football (which he'd managed to do in the interim), I almost started crying because I was so pissed off. Fortunately, he was very supportive, and even more fortunately, the chicken actually tasted great in the end. Apart from the burned couscous.

I don't know if this story has a moral, I just needed to get it off my chest. Maybe "leave cooking to the menfolk, who would give up and order a takeaway pizza before it's too late".

Friday, 2 June 2006

Sometimes things go so well...

...that you're almost just waiting for something to go 'bang' and disaster to come crashing down on you.

J and I haven't argued for four days in a row now, which I belive might constitute a new 2006 record.

And it's available from Amazon...
I really think this new therapy is helping; although there is lots of work ahead he sees some hope that he'll soon feel better, meaning that I'll possibly soon no longer have to feel like a complete bitch for constantly upsetting him.

He received a pack of self-help books with exercises in yesterday, and I had a quick look through them. They're CBT (Cognitive Behavioural Therapy) based, and by God are they hard work! I don't think I could do it.

Basically they aim to change the most fundamental way you see yourself. This means undoing in about six weeks something which took over 30 years (in J's case) to establish.

However, when reading the books, the examples of "destructive parenting behaviour which might impair a child's self-esteem" were pretty much a case study of J's mother but with her name altered to something more English-sounding.

He's seeing his new therapist today, and I am really hoping for his sake that she'll manage to support him through this. Maybe because his education has been dominated by authoritarian attitudes, he is a bit suspicious of her because she looks like "a normal middle aged lady" and doesn't wear suits.

Or maybe that's just another fundamental believe that he'll have to change.

Meanwhile, summer seems to finally be inching its way to these parts of the planet; I'm very excited!

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