Frantic Notes at Two in the Morning

What follows are actual notes I took last night. They make sense, I swear. Well, in my head they do.

Tired, sticky, air gone. I wish I had night-vision goggles so I could read in the dark.

I might melt.

~  (on the ongoing heat. This was at midnight, by the way.)

 

I need to be studied. Obv. paranoid. I want to be perfectly spherical.

~ (on reading Charlotte Street by Danny Wallace.)

 

I have come to the conclusion that I hate summer.

~ (because I really really do.)

 

I am pretty anal about which books and DVDs I buy, because I know when I’ve got something good.

~ (On the impact of culture in my life. Still didn’t stop me from buying Fifty fuckin’ Shades though)

 

Because in Dr. Oz Land, everything means death.

~ (because I’m getting pretty sick of hearing things like COULD YOUR COMMON COLD BE A DEADLY SUPERVIRUS?)

 

Why are we so obsessed with seemingly trivial things like smelly feet, grey hairs and cellulite? Just means that your body is working. Also that you need to wear socks.

~ (Again on Dr. Oz. It’s like we’re being convinced that everything in the world is wrong with us and we should be cyborgs. Or something like that.)

 

(Quote from Charlotte Street)

‘ But that didn’t take away from the truth that is universally acknowledged, that once in a while, even Mr. Motivator needs a kebab.’

~ (I love you Danny Wallace. The rest of the note read “Seriously, who names themselves Feargal Sharkey?”)

 

Obsessions with work-outs. Garrumph. 

~ (……. No, me neither.)

 

I think I like it better when it rains.

~ (but do I also like it when it’s complicated?)

 

This blog is my transformation. What is the next step?

~ (I don’t know. And I’m dying to find out.)

 

Of all the ideas for stories I’ve ever come up with, Candy Lads is my favorite. It’s my chance to nestle into the head of a bloke. Sorta me genderfucking on the page. Or not.

~ (Pleased to report that I’m finally, tentatively, working on a rewrite of Candy Lads, which was my NaNoWriMo project last year. And yes, it is still about men taking their kit off.)

 

Don’t know on what note to end on, so I’ll end on a Random.

 

 

Wil Wheaton. He’s pretty.

 

 

 

What I Did On My Much-Needed Break

Eager readers might have noticed that I’ve not been feeling myself lately. So, what does one do when one’s lost touch with herself?

One buggers off for four days, of course.

It wasn’t meant to be four days. But after I discovered that I was more relaxed on the dentist’s chair, having a root canal done than working on my blog, the decision was quickly made. I needed the rest. I needed to focus on something else than whatever it was I was up to. Plus, I had a fucking huge stack of books I wanted to read. I mentally wrote up more blog posts than I could ever imagine, but the memory of the words has faded.

So, here’s a run-through of what I did. I will elaborate more in future posts. I finished The 52 Seductions, Girl with a One-Track Mind (I’m meeting her next week! WOOOP!), Miss Moneypenny’s Career Advice for Ambitious Women and How to be a Woman. I’ve started reading The Female Eunuch, Catch -22 and Moab is my Washpot. So far, I’m not loving Female Eunuch. But then, I’ve only read like two pages. I should read more of it. Question is, will I feel more like a strident feminist when I finish it? Or will I want to punch Germaine Greer in the face?

Judging from the way it’s written, it feels like Eunuch is a bit dated. Although Germaine herself writes in her new foreword that it’s not. I’m determined to see it through and read more of it, but it just feels like How to Be A Woman is much more suited to this day and age. Of course, that one was published last year… Anyway, I’ll persevere and read Eunuch!

Catch-22 is a godsend. It’s just… oh my God, it’s so fucking good! I’m pretty sure I’m missing the point entirely, but it’s one of the best things I’ve ever read.

I found Moab between a pile of books my cleaning lady had so helpfully removed from sight. I’ve been meaning to read it for a while now, and I don’t regret for one moment that I started reading it last night. Stephen often strays from the events that took place to write about the things floating around in his mind. I really don’t mind it at all. In fact, I love it. I actually feel like a smarter human being now that I know all about what he thinks. It’s like I’ve been granted access to his enormous and very sexy brain. Like I’m walking around in the vast library that is his mind.

I realized that if I somehow could learn only half that Stephen knows, I’d be unstoppable. I’d be like this massive brain machine. A very sexy, massive brain machine. Maybe I’m overreacting.

It helps when you picture Stephen Fry reading it to you, by the way. Adds to the experience.

I managed a lot of other stuff too. I wrote some of the first bit of Awkward Soup, my novel-in-progress. And I wrote this retrospective thing on my teenage years and what being a teenager is like now. Honestly, I like that idea more than just writing about crushes. I’m taking the laptop with me to London next week, so I can catch up on writing.

I’m loving how Awkward Soup is shaping up in my head, by the way. It’s the first time I’ve seen something clearly. So, yay, I think!

This time next week, I’ll be in London. I’m incredibly chuffed about that, although I spent some days considering cancelling the whole trip. But I really can’t wait to just dive in and spend two weeks there. I’ll first go to Bristol for Eroticon 2012, which you’ll be hearing more about later. And I’ll finish my trip by volunteering at the Semi-finals of the Erotic Awards! The motherfucking Erotic Awards, people! That’s serious shit, right there. I never expected ever being a part of this, and I’m so ridiculously excited that I am going to be there!

If I can manage, I’ll probably go to the Finals in May. Night of the Senses. Fucking aye. I remember looking on the website last year and thinking “If only I hadn’t missed that.”. Now I might actually be there. That’s freaky.

Anyway, that’s all you need to know for now. I’ll be posting more regularly now, but I’m going to try and take occasional breaks. Because even Bare Naked Ladies need an occasional lie-down.

This is a thing that happened.

The Cobblestones

Sometimes I say to myself…

“You’ve made it out of the water.

Not only that. You’re past the dyke and on to the cobblestones.

Walking the streets, trying to dry off.”

It’s my way of trying to convince myself I’m doing well in life.

That I can fight my problems and that I’m a strong person.

And I believe I am.

I believe that I could be so much in life.

But fuck… those cobblestones seem slippery.

Sometimes I trip on them.

And have a moment like now.

A moment where I feel like I’m about to be pulled back into the water.

Under the water.

These moments pass. And this one will too.

I have faith that I’ll wake up ready for another day tomorrow.

But for now… I lie on the cold, wet stones. Waiting for the morning to come.

A Feast for the Senses

By know, you all know that the act sex itsself tickles every sense of one’s being.

The sound of flesh slapping together.

The smell of cum and sweat in the air.

The taste of your lover’s lips.

And the sight… the sight of it all. Glorious.

But, inspired by something the Tweeples of SpankingUK posted about things that people find evocative, like smells and sounds, I decided to riff on that.

Cos really, sex is everywhere. It’s in the sights and sounds and smells and tastes of the world around us.

Think about it.

Sex is everything and everywhere.

It’s there when you warm your lover’s hands and feet on a cold day.

When you walk through the sand on a beach.

In the sound of the ocean.

The cadence of the voice of your favorite singer.

In your lover’s accent.

As much in the smell of herbs and spices as in the smell of baby oil and the terse leather of a flogger.

The taste of a hearty meal.

It’s all there. We live and breathe sex with all our senses.

And how does this all apply to me?

What do I find particularily evoking?

Well, there is a certain song. By a certain group. And it evokes memories of my first kiss.

The smell of leather makes me giddy. Don’t know why.

Words that remind me of conversations I had make me shiver. “Pussy”. “Cock”. All those and more.

God, thinking of that last one just gave me shivers..

21

So, my lovelies. 21 years and nineteen minutes. A good nineteen minutes so far. Lovely messages on Twitter and in my inbox, so thanks all for that! Have been thrown in Twitjail for now though. Which is ACK.

I wanted to share a thought, or something significant or some shit like that, but it seems like today is not a day for profound thoughts about things other than the many chocolate cakes waiting for me when I wake up.

No presents though. I think. Due to reasons. It’s ok, I can wait. The Lelo Gigi I’ve put on hold will still be there in a few days. I will still possibly have that fantabulous g-spot orgasm I’ve been planning to have with it.

Shall probably make changes. Small ones. Maybe finally take the pictures of Jason Statham off my wall. Get my hair done in a different color. New glasses. Big changes too. Moving. Starting a new course. A new life.

“It’s a new dawn, it’s a new day, it’s a new life… for me…

And I’m feeling good.”

Talk To Me

I know as I sit here, writing this post, that I’m going to have difficulties doing so. I’m not an expert at this.

I wanted to do a post on dirty talking, as the idea came to me in the early hours of this morning. But as I think about it, I have to reconsider being all… well, myself about it. Because, although some people might beg to differ, I can’t really bring myself to do proper dirty talking. In my stories, it’s fine. On Twitter, I’m a pro.

But in real life…

As I have mentioned before, a long time ago, I’m not the most natural of flirter in the flesh. My first kiss will tell you that I’m actually quite shy. Another person might beg to differ, but the truth is that MFK was absolutely right.

In real life, I can’t dirty talk for crap. I have this tendency to rehearse what I want to say in my head, sometimes months before I need to actually say it. In my head, I can talk smut with the best of them. On paper, in writing, I can too.

But when vocalizing how much (for example) I want to see a guy come for me, I really, really feel very uncomfortable. I become all… floopy and weird, and end up actually saying “I can’t believe I just said that.”

The first time someone asked me if what he was doing was making me wet, I think I internally died a little. I had never been asked that before in my life, and being asked just that, and actually admitting it was something weird.

I’m slightly more used to it now. I know who I can confide my longings to. I know who I can talk openly to.

Still, it doesn’t mean that “I want your thick, hard cock.” rolls from my lips as easy as “Reverse the polarity of the neutron flow.”

Rain

Lost for inspiration. I know the feeling all too well by now. Especially with this NaNovel I’m working on. Tonight started out quite horrific. I felt completely blocked.

So what was I to do other than trawl the NaNo forums for inspiration. And I did find it. In the most incredible place.

There was a link to a site called rainymood.com , which is basically a site with the sound of rain playing.

It inspired me enormously. So much that I’m still listening to it. It got me over the 11k mark on The Candy Lads.

Rain can be enormously sexual.

Think about it. What could be more arousing than raindrops falling on your naked skin, the heat in your body cooled momentarily by a wonderful storm.

Or heat brewing with the sound of the rain violently clashing against the pavement? The arousal rising as you feel the urge to be taken and to scream your heart out whilst the storm roars above you?

Or long, slow, languid lovemaking, with the window open and the delectable cold and humidity from outside drifting in.

Options are endless.

Water is a fetish of mine. Being emerged in water makes me feel weightless. It’s oddly relaxing.

Masturbating in water is something I’ve only tried once though. Wasn’t a nice experience.

I’d love to fuck in a swimming pool or a jacuzzi. Jacuzzi especially. Just to feel the bubbles and the scented water and just drifting… I imagine it would be blissful.

I think water is sexual. But then again, I see sex in almost everything. The whipped cream on top of a Belgian Waffle. The smell of old and new books. A campfire. Fresh, crisp sheets.

All sexy in their own way.

Think about it.

In the Wee Small Hours

Sleepless.

Forever watching the ceiling and the wooden orbs turning through the wind of my fan.

Contemplating masturbation. But I’m not aroused. Far from it. I’m lost in my own thought, as per usual.

Music drifts in and out of thoughts.

Sex drifting in and out of thoughts.

I want to be held and rocked to sleep. I want to feel.

The wee small hours are the most painful. I realize that I’m alone.

Help me.

I can’t help but muse about being alone. I’m sorry if I’m boring you or upsetting you, but it’s just so daunting. I think I’ve lost a bit of myself in the past few days. Could still be there though. In the teeny tiny corner of my mind, I am hidden.

Fuck, I need to sex up my mind. But I can’t. I can’t concentrate on anything and I feel miserable. Fuck.

Solo

solo [ˈsəʊləʊ]

adv

by oneself; alone

 

Last night, I fell ill.

Battling with the umpteenth stomach ache, I spent most of the night in quite a lucid state, mentally writing down the bones of this very post.

I realized last night that I hate being alone in bed. I hate having no-one to hold on to and no-one to randomly kvetch to. It’s just me and my thoughts and that’s frightning me.

More than anything, I need to feel a presence next to me. I need the sound of another human being breathing to keep me calm. An occasional touch, a whispered word, just anything.

In lieu of that, I grabbed my pillow and held on to it for dear life. It was the most desperate night. I needed someone to calm me down and tell me that I’ll get better. I needed someone to rub my back to ease the tension.

I just needed.

As I’m writing this, I realize that my longing for physical contact has gone way beyond the need to get shtupped by a handsome Greek God or anything sexual.

It is a need to be held, a need to be loved and appreciated. And a need for intimacy. God, I need intimacy. I need to be close to someone, I need to feel a warm body against mine.

Being alone. I can’t do it anymore.

Burn

Consider this a call for help.

I’m drowing in a sea of unwritten thoughts and lines and words. That’s all I have. Thoughts, lines and words. No stories to frame them in.

I’m burning up physically and mentally.

I yearn to be with someone, but I don’t know who.

I don’t know anymore.

I’ve burned out.

“Cry now, scream now, bitch! Your flame has stopped flickering.”