Tuesday, 22 October 2013

Number 27 - In Which I Am Sad.

I knew messing about with New MySpace would lead to trouble. Apparently, the mere action of me logging in triggered an email from MySpace to everyone on my "Connections" list. So now Handsome Jeremy has an email from MySpace telling him I'm back online and why not say hi? Hmm.

We didn't leave things well.

I might have intimated that I'd quite like to shag him if ever he was over from California. He said he'd rather just be pals. Thanks god for the Internet - my furious and sickening embarrassment was disguised with a jovial "LOL, I'm like totally kidding!"reply from me. Ho hum.

In other news, I think I'm coming down with a bad dose of The Fucks. Symptoms include:

  • Blatant disregard for arbitrary parking regulations
  • Irritation with idiots
  • Short temper with recalcitrant technology
  • Shouting at contestants on tellybox quiz shows
  • Increased desire for controlled substances such as caffeine, chocolate, cake and crisps
  • Decreased desire for sex
  • Fatigue
  • Argumentativeness
  • A general but all-consuming malaise

Treatment for The Fucks includes:

  • Chocolate
  • Caffeine
  • Cake
  • Crisps
  • Loud Rock Music
  • Long baths
  • Avoiding the public

Alcohol is not recommended, as may improve things in the short term, but can lead to an inadvertent releasing of home truths best kept secret. It may also lead to maudlin crying.

I'm fairly familiar with the condition so I have it in hand. I have a massive bar of Galaxy on my desk, a pot of tea on the go and Metallica coming out of my speakers. I've also just seen the new Thor trailer, and the sight of a topless Chris Hemsworth has made my blood run a bit hotter and faster.

Listening to: Metallica:  "The Black Album"
Reading: Lindsey Kelk - "About A Girl"

Monday, 21 October 2013

Number 26 - In Which I Am Frightened by MySpace.

About seven years ago, I had a MySpace account. I had a whopping 18 friends, only two of whom I ever properly conversed with, and one of whom I'd ever actually met in real life. You could add friends on the other side of the world, based solely on how funny their blog was/how hot their profile picture was. (I'm talking about you handsome Jeremy.) You didn't need their permission first. They didn't have to verify if they knew you or not. Then I stopped using it in favour of MSN Messenger, promptly forgot about it and never gave it another thought until the other day.

"I wonder," I thought, "whether MySpace Tom still has 2 billion friends?"

I logged back on today, via a followed Forgotten Password link.

MySpace is NOT THE SAME. It is shiny and new with strange icons and shiny, flashy things and where are my old blogs and photos and friends? Where is the handsome Jeremy?

I was on it for all of five minutes before I decided I hated it. Not as much as Facebook, but still. The new MySpace is an enormous sea change from what it was, circa 2006. Facebook's changes are merely gradual and insidious.

I'm not even sure what, if anything MySpace is used for these days. Is it just musicians and actors on there now? Surely FaceBook and Twitter have friend-reaching and Vine-sharing sewn up?

I'm going to cancel my MySpace account. It feels like walking back into a house you used to live in, long after you've moved away. Sort of familiar, but looks and smells all wrong.

Saturday, 19 October 2013

Number 25 - In Which I Get Lost In The Romance.

Is it true that the longer a couple is together, the less romance there is? Husband and I have been together for almost ten years, and I think he has only bought me flowers three times. Not that flowers is the be-all-and-end-all of romance, but it indicates that you have thought about your partner and got them something they'll love for no reason other than 'just because'. (Unless you believe the adage that a man only buys a woman flowers when he has done something wrong. I don't believe that. And I love flowers.)

But then I think, when was the last time I did something nice for him? Does rolling him into the recovery position count when he's passed out on the floor at 3am from too much alcohol? I used to buy him books 'just because' but money is tight now. So, no books and no flowers any more. Sometimes the occasional cup of tea or coffee is made, but that is it. And, no I don't think a Blow Job counts as romance.

But what defines romance? What makes us romantic? I am struggling to think about anything that indicates romance other than flowers/books. That's a bit sad, but I suspect I am not alone, which is why Romance books still sell so incredibly well. Despite knowing pretty much how every Romance book I buy is going to end, I still buy them. I still want to read about romance, even if it's lost in my relationship. I want the girl to get the guy, and even though I sigh and roll my eyes when it inevitably does happen ("god, this is soooo cheesy!") I read on to the end, then start the next one.

I have a pile of them at the moment. I have just finished Alexandra Brown's 'Cupcakes at Carrington's' which was delightfully lighthearted, funny and made me crave cake like you wouldn't believe.

Husband likes cake, especially carrot, and coffee and walnut. If I go and bake one 'just because', that would be romantic, right? And serves a dual purpose in that there will then be cake in the house. I think that's a win all round.

Listening to: Billy Joel - "Piano Man"
Reading: Lindsey Kelk: "About a Girl"

Tuesday, 15 October 2013

Number 24 - In Which I Replace One Fantasy With Another.

I think Wank Banks vary - whereas Husband's seem to focus on things that have happened, mine is things that I wish would happen. His is based in tactility, mine is based in fantasy. I suspect that is the same for most men and women. Certainly the ones I have spoken to.

Despite the fact that Husband and I have been together for almost ten years, we haven't talked about sex as much as I'd like. I have had more than twice the number of sexual partners as him, and he was married once before, whereas I had been in relationships without the 'I Do'.

With Ex, the boyfriend before Husband, things were much more open. Again, my sexual encounters massively outweighed his (he was another first marriage gone wrong, and I was Sex Partner number 2). The difference here was that we were both younger (I was 23, he was 25) and I think with a decade in our favour, it was easier to be open about what got us revved up. I disclosed my same-sex encounter, the many one-night stands and past borderline S&M relationships. He disclosed how he had only had sex with one woman before me and how she and I were polar opposites in every sense.

Through Ex, I met one of his friends, Drew (via ICQ and telephone, never in person). For you guys under 35, ICQ was an instant messaging service. I have no idea if it is still a thing. I used to converse with EX via ICQ (after meeting him via an online dating site). It was instant, obviously, and cheaper than telephones or text messages (back when we had to pay per message, before Unlimited tariffs properly existed).

Anyway, Drew was an expat who lived in the US. And Drew was incredibly aloof and incredibly intelligent. So naturally I saw this as a challenge and our conversations were frequent and long. Ex and I were engaged at the time, and looking back I think Drew saw me as as much of a challenge as I saw him. He opened my eyes to my dysfunctional relationship with Ex, and I pursued Drew's approval and craved his attention. He made me want to use my brain and learn and grow as a person. He was a man who challenged me, toyed with me and forced me to see that the cocoon Ex had wrapped me in was not healthy. Ex wanted me to himself, and I was discouraged from forging friendships. The whole time we were together, I did not have one other friend that was mine alone. All my friends were his.

When Ex and I came to the inevitable end, Drew hung around. We'd email and chat and things took a turn for the darker. Phone calls led to phone sex, and ICQ chats led to video chats which led to divulging parts of our anatomies that had until then, only been imagined. I'd never had phone sex before. I was terrible at it the first time, but after a few attempts, I got the hang of it and let down my guard.  Emotional walls came down, secrets were shared and my eyes were well and truly opened to a dark side of myself that I had suppressed. I liked the danger. I liked closing the curtains to my bedroom, putting on crotchless knickers and peephole bras, and tantalising myself as he watched or listened. The first time he dropped his jeans and showed me his semi-erect cock via a terrible quality webcam, I thought my heart was going to explode, it was pounding so hard. Masturbating via webcam was not as sexy as it sounds, given this was a few years ago and they were not as clear and smooth as they are now, but at the time it served its purpose and the sight of him shooting cum all over his desk is imprinted in my brain forever. It was possibly the most erotic thing I had ever witnessed.

I have never met Drew in person. He's in Massachusetts, I am not. And when Husband came on the scene, Drew and I sort of fizzled out. I haven't heard from him in years. But since Giant has ceased to fill me with that delicious rush of blood to my clit, I revisited some of my archived ICQ chats with Drew. They were much more suggestive than I remembered, but looking at them with many more years' maturity is interesting. I was such a giggly fangirl, it's quite cringey to read. I'm almost tempted to email him and say "hey, remember 10 years ago when we wrote this?" and copy and paste snippets of the transcript. But I won't. The lure of him is still there in the back of my head. He'll always be there, this mysterious almost-stranger with whom I shared some of my deepest, darkest desires. And I think I like him better as a deep, dark secret that managed to enlighten me about myself more than anyone else ever has.

Number 23 - In Which I Have The Worst Week Ever.

I think the title says it all really.

This week I have learned that:

My mother has had a nervous breakdown and is heavily medicated and off work (from the job that broke her) indefinitely.

My father is also on the verge of a breakdown. He is an only child, and his elderly mother is in the throes of dementia and lymphoma. He cannot cope with caring for her alone and is leaving her for three weeks to go to Thailand. How she will manage during this time is unknown. I have offered to go and stay with her. This was rebuffed by him. He is hoping Social Services will get involved, but when they visited her last week, she told them, she was fine and refused all help offered. My dad cried on the phone that night. Something I haven't seen or heard him do since he was dumped at Christmas about 6 years ago by a slag of a girlfriend he insisted was in it for the long haul. We still don't talk about her.

My other Gran is also terminally ill, but she does so with a quiet dignity and grace that belies the viciousness of the cancer attacking her whole body.

Husband is also close to a breakdown after the stress of his job has him yelling, pacing, fuming and drinking more than he has ever done before. Every day he comes in and I listen to the same diatribe daily. He is caught in an impossible situation; he has an incompetent boss who repeatedly breaks employment laws, with a board of Directors who turn a blind eye and don't give a fuck. I am worried that Husband will crack.

My daughter is struggling at school, something she hasn't experienced so far in her education. This is making her frightened and incredibly tense as she comes to terms with the fact that school is hard, for the first time in her life, as GCSEs loom.

My business is also struggling; it seems that while the rest of the country may be slowly recovering from the recession, this hasn't spread to the desolate North. People still are not spending and as a result, my company is feeling the pinch. Invoices are being paid later and later, and customers are fewer.

But in the midst of all this utter shit, I learned through the grapevine yesterday that Giant proposed to his long-term partner. This is delightful, and a long time coming for them, but I hate that I felt a pang of resentment as I was told the news. He's not mine, he never has been, and yet I felt a flash of jealousy! I am now disgusted with myself, but oddly, when I try to conjure up the normal fantasy from my Wank Bank, it sort of fails and I don't get as excited. It's time for a new fantasy.

Sunday, 13 October 2013

Number 22 - In Which I Read And Cry.

I like books.

No, that's an understatement. I fucking LOVE books. I try to imagine sometimes, when life gets me down, what I'd do without stories. What if Enid Blyton hadn't written about the Faraway Tree? What if Roald Dahl hadn't conjured up a factory where sweets and chocolates and all manner of deliciousness were created? My entire childhood was built upon the blocks of Enid Blyton stories. I still look for dark rings in grass, and feel around to see if there is a magic button that will take me to see fairies and pixies. And I still check trees in woods to see if there's one tree that is impossibly high.

I'm never without a book. I have a queue of about twelve on iBooks and Kindle and a pile about 2 foot high next to my bed.

This blog was  never created to be specifically a diary-style rant, nor did I intend to review anything but I've read some books lately that I believe deserve a review.

Today's is a book called 'The Drowning of Arthur Braxton' by a relatively unknown author called Caroline Smailes. After I read this, I instantly fired up trusty Google and went on a bit of a stalk, and bought all her other books in the space of two minutes.

'Arthur Braxton' is at times visceral, at times mystical and at times whimsical. The story switches between several of the characters and with each switch, the voice changes flawlessly. I'm not going to give a full synopsis as other blogs and reviews do this, and I think too much information beforehand gives the magic of the book away.

And it is magic. There is magic in the writing (I can picture the swimming baths so clearly, it's like I am there) and the story is heartbreakingly beautiful. And, unlike Enid Blyton's fairy tales of old, this one is a fairy tale with a grown-up twist. One I will read again when I've finished devouring her other books.

Buy it here: Amazon

Sunday, 6 October 2013

Number 21 - In Which I Have Very Bad Thoughts.

My parents divorced when I was about twelve. I have a dim recollection of much shouting and screaming, fraught phone calls to hospitals and the police and the eventual showdown when it transpired that my Dad was late home not because of an horrific accident (as my mother had rang every hospital and police station in the entire county), but because he'd been shagging my Mum's friend. I no longer have a good relationship with my Dad as he still thinks with his cock, twenty-odd years later and I have no respect for someone who is so fickle with relationships as to have a new one every year, often overlapping.

When my sister had a fling which subsequently wrecked her marriage, I was so disgusted, I couldn't talk to her properly for months.

So I have a dim view of extra-marital affairs.

So the thoughts I have been having lately are abhorrent to me, yet still they persist. I won't ever act on them, but I go there in my head and it is tantalising, titillating and wholly capable of getting me off when the need arises.

He is local. He is in a long term relationship with the mother of his children. He is a giant of a man, both in stature and personality. He speaks with a broad, local dialect which often I cannot understand, so I imagine him bending close to my ear and whispering slowly, his breath tickling my neck and earlobe. He works with his hands, so they are rough and calloused and when I imagine them touching me, I start to get warm in places I shouldn't.

I am friends with his partner. We are not close friends but I have been in her kitchen and sat with her and some other friends, drinking tea as we talk about our teenagers, our dogs, our men. And I hate myself for having such wicked thoughts about her man. But still they persist.

In the grip of one of these moments of madness, I initiate sex with Husband. He's not very dominant in bed, nor is he is real life and often I get tired of being the one who wears the proverbial trousers, both in the bedroom and out of it. I always thought that the submissive woman and the Man In Charge was a horribly sexist cliché but in fact, it is quite arousing to relinquish control and let sexism take over.

So, with thoughts of the Giant in my head, I approach Husband for sex. But of course, it's fairly late at night and he's on to beer number 6. At first, he is reluctant, (tired, stressed, drunk?) but I can't think of many men who would turn down sex when offered to them on a plate.

We start to go at it, and he asks me what I want. I am thinking of Giant, his rough hands all over me, and I ask Husband to slap my ass and take me from behind.
Pull my hair.
Be rough.
Take me like you own me and can use and abuse me any way you want.
Call me a whore.

He does this, initially with some glee, but after about five minutes, he stops. He's gone soft again, and pulls out, sitting back on the bed with a frown. He says he's tired. Normally I would go down on him, and Blow Job him to life, but this time I don't. I am tired too. Tired of having to constantly coax some sort of firmness out of his alcohol-wilted cock. And I'm tired of hearing that it is my fault because we don't do it enough, so his cock has forgotten how to work. But I don't say this, because I know it will cause a row and it will be one that we may never recover from.

He goes downstairs and I hear the sickeningly familiar sound of beer number 7 being cracked open. The sound of the ring pull. The crack and hiss. I go to the bathroom, brush my teeth and go back to bed. I take out of the sex drawer my favourite vibrator (the quietest too) and finish myself off. But it's Giant I'm thinking off as the orgasm rips through me, leaving my skin sticky with sweat and my entire groin pulsing with release.

I awake at about 3am to Husband missing from bed. I go downstairs, and find him passed out on the floor. I stand and watch him for a while, snoring and grunting. He's flat on his back, beer number 8 knocked over and making a urine-coloured puddle on the living room carpet. I clean the stain as best I can, and think about waking him up. But we've done this dance before. I'm fed up of it. The last time I woke him and told him to come to bed, he told me to fuck off and stop being his mother. So with the stain cleaned as best I can, I turn off the TV and the lights and leave him on the floor.

The next morning, he goes to work without a sound and I wonder whether this is my life now.