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Trusting a fart, and nine other things I'll never do again

I was up far too late the other night, because what better time to go full-on self destruct than during a global pandemic when you've got to be on an 08:00 Microsoft Teams call in little more than 4 hours? Standing on my balcony, enjoying the silence of Lockdown London and wishing I had a Camberwell Carrot with which to mitigate the respiratory menace, the sudden appearance of blue lights on the street below made me drop my metaphorical spliff in momentary panic. They hadn't come for me, it transpired.  Not yet, anyway.  Turned out it was an ambulance gliding, almost silently, into a space on the road several floors below in the deserted ghetto.  It pulled to a halt, and after a pause a paramedic descended from the passenger side, stood motionless for a minute in the road, and then released a thunderclap fart of such enormous proportions that it set off car alarms a mile away in Maida Vale. For a second I was stunned.  Should I clap for the NHS?  Would all my neighbo

Get a Grip. Taking Things in Hand While Working From Home

Over the last few years I've noticed that it typically takes me longer to find something I fancy having a wank to than it does to actually complete the task itself.  Not that I rely on visual stimuli, of course, but the profusion and availability of internet porn does offer a tempting jubilee of genitalia, a festival of flange, a carnival of cock, if you will, to the eager onanist; ready for those moments when the time is right, the hands are warm, and the mood is highly charged. Such times have been more readily available to me over the last 6 years of singledom, and would be even more so during the current lockdown were I not quarantining with my eldest child. As anyone who shares accommodation and fancies a little self-pleasure knows, the most sensitive organ of the body when masturbating is your ears.  And headphones really aren't recommended. So while circumstance or broadband outage might require a withdrawal from the dusty vaults of the wank bank, in order to make a

My Love Life, Part 3. Contains Disappointment.

My Love Life. Part 3 Part 1  and  Part 2  are right here. You really should read them first. They're better than this one. It was almost another two years until I had sex again.  But I fell for nearly everyone in the meantime. After a clutch of 'O' levels (which were like GCSEs but  much  harder, fact fans), I changed schools once again for Sixth Form.  For the very first time in the seventeen years of my life, it was my own choice, unlike my first nine schools.  It meant a move from the small town to the big city, from a white middle-class comprehensive to a mixed demographic community school surrounded by burnt out stolen cars and populated by burned out, sullen, teachers.  'Fame' hadn't long finished on TV and I was genuinely hoping someone would teach me to breakdance, or at least spin on my head. Nobody did. I didn't know a soul there.  But on induction day I met a couple of girls who took me under their collective wing.  In the years to follo

Mea Culpa - Apology and Catharsis

Nobody likes being dumped.  Although excuse me for stating the bleeding obvious. I got dumped a year ago.  On New Year's Eve, which is already the most overrated day of the year.  And it broke me. The thing that really hurt about the end, above all else, was the way that I was assured that what we'd had was so special, so precious, that it didn't deserve to be discarded like meaningless litter. Right up to the point that I was discarded like meaningless litter; blocked and deleted; cut out and cold-shouldered at my absolute lowest ebb.  Dismantled, depleted, and depressed, then dumped in a fashion swifter and chillier than Bear Grylls can manage a shit on an Arctic expedition. But we live, and we learn. We try to forgive, or we actually, eventually, genuinely, do. Full disclosure : I'd been the one who'd originally undermined the whole thing early doors. I'd dumped her. On her birthday. Whilst mid-air. Flying towards something we both desperately wanted,

This wasn't what I intended to write, but it came out unexpectedly

I was driving down from my villa this morning in search of breakfast at the nearest beach village when I realised I'd have to turn back for another poo. This, in itself, won't come as momentous news to anybody who experiences morning bowel movements.  Which, all being well, is most people, but I'd already had three between getting up, showering and leaving the property. For the record, I have diverticular disease.  This delightful piece of oversharing i s brought to you by the formation of small bulges in the wall of the colon, which has nothing to do with punctuation and everything to do with the passage of food and its by-products through the body.  It's also hereditary, which explains why both my brother and my mother have it too; although not the fact that I was diagnosed years before either of them, despite being the youngest of us.  Here comes the science bit: Who knew  I'd be younger than my mother? What it means, in real life, is that I have to be care

If We Were To Kiss... An exploratory NSFW conversation

This was first published as a guest post for @Smutathon2019 (www.smutathon.com): Sex-positive bloggers writing this year in support of the National Network of Abortion Funds.   She :  I have a vision of drinks being finished, a general air of needing to get out of public gaze. You take my hand and we leave. We walk a short way, there’s a pretty alley on your left but it’s dark and there no people. You pull me into it, my back against the wall in deepest shadow, then… You look up at me. Our eyes meet. The gentlest touch of our clothing sends a tingle through us both. My hand on your waist is an electrically charged jolt. He :  I go to brush a piece of hair from your face. You misinterpret my movement. We bump noses. Laugh. Look at each other again. And can’t help ourselves from kissing. Gently at first, then a little more urgently. Feather touches interspersed with probing tongues and fingers in hair and on back of necks… You taste amazing. Your lips are soft, and warm and

My Love Life. Part Two. Virgin on the Ridiculous.

If you haven't read Part One, and you're not being deliberately contrary, you should probably  click here .  We'll wait for you to catch up. While the other boys were playing tennis ball football in the playground during both break and lunchtime, I could be found in the library.  I probably still have my "Librarian" enamel badge somewhere.  And there's still nothing you could teach me about the Dewey Decimal System.  My pants are off  right now , girls.  Come at me, in orderly fashion.  Ideally alphabetically, well-thumbed, and with unbroken spines. Strangely, the library wasn't where I encountered any kind of vaginal enlightenment.  Even from the books in the locked cupboard, for which you had to sign for the key.  I wasn't  that  unknowing.  And the decade during which I went from 9 to 19 was the peak of that horticultural phenomenon known as "hedgerow porn."  I was already aware   that naked ladies sported an immense tangle between the

My Love Life. Part One. A Tragedy in Many Parts. A Part in Many Tragedies.

I've been a bit blocked recently in terms of updating my own dating blog.  Mainly because: I'm not currently dating I've written all the tales that follow my typical story arc* I can't write about having my heart shattered, because it isn't funny** * If you haven't read my midlife dating blog before, it's fundamentally full of the various histories of dates I've been on that turned out to be massive disasters, one way or another.  But I try to make them mildly amusing, once I'm over the trauma **Which is basically point one.  But the rule of three applies.  Plus, I've spent ages writing & deleting all my heartache, bitterness & angst. Time has passed, I'm doing my best to let things go. Anyway, there's no angst room here. This was meant to be a guest post. Then Alice  kindly asked if I'd like to write a guest post on her blog.  And I accepted, because, unbeknownst to her, she'd inadvertently caught me at the sw

Honesty, kindness, and unexpected boobies

I really, really want to be kind.  And honest. I've not always been great at it, and in my twenties ended more than one relationship horribly, in a classic remake of "If I Behave Badly Enough They'll Chuck Me" - a movie that nobody's yet bothered to make first time around.  Except me, in live non-filmed documentary form.  Because I was a bit shit at saying, "Sorry, but I don't like you as much as I used to."  Actually, worse than a bit shit. I'm genuinely sorry about that.  Especially to the lovely girl that ended up marrying one of my other good friends.  I went to their wedding.  It's OK.  Honestly.  We're all mates.  Still.  Even after my flailing arms launched a full glass of red wine over her white dress last summer. Phew. Honesty and kindness hadn't entirely worked with Angie, who'd been my first serious newly-single rebound relationship. I adored her.  She'd been the champion grenade-thrower at her Senior School.