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.




Leave The Homeland Behind


There are some big things on the horizon. Like, big things. Huge whoppers (Mmmm, huge Whoppers) of things.

The first thing I should tell you is that I’m (hopefully) going to view a flat in Essex. If it works out and if I can get everything sorted, I will be moving at the end of next month (again *touch wood*).

And the second thing I should tell you… and brace yourself dudes and dudettes…

I’m meeting an agent for lunch.

We’re going to discuss plans to turn this blog into a book.

This blog.

A book.

I am SHITTING myself, you guys. I fear that I’ve totally jinxed it by putting it out there, but I can not stay quiet anymore.

I’m nervous. Anxious. Trembling.

And I’m having a very spread-out panic attack.

Last night, I sat in bed, feeling absolutely horrid. I could actually feel the little niggles in my brain. It’s like a part of my life is about to end and something new is about to begin, and although I’m looking forward to it, I’m terrified that it still won’t happen.

I feel so unworthy.

I’m scared of losing home.

But if this happens…. if all goes well….



Thoughts From the Silence

I flutter between confusion and clarity. Sometimes, the realization is there. It’s clear what I want and what I need. And what’s going on in my mind.

It’s something I thought of last night. It’s weird when everything you once found muddled in your brain has become crystallized right in front of you.

Here are some more thoughts from the silence.

– I used to be a dancer. And I was pretty fucking good at it. I even performed a few times. Giving that up was fucking painful, and I was reminded of that when I saw the video of one of our performances sitting in our cupboard. I could have been at the top of my game now. And I regret not finding a way of pushing through with it.

– Who was I before my depression? This dreamer, who conjured up romances and film scripts in her head. The one who wrote shitty song lyrics (which we may all have done at one point in our lives) and lived on a cloud to protect herself from the harm. I think I’m finally finding her back. And I need to find a way to rhyme her with who I am now. Because there were bits of her that I actually loved.

– If I’m not careful, I might fall in love. In fact, I think I already am. And I don’t know who with… 

– I yearn to be held and touched and frolicked with.

– If I let my thoughts run freely, there is no stopping how insanely horny I get.

– I don’t really know what to write about anymore. I need to refresh myself and write new, good stuff.

– I’ve got to try my hand at some new fiction, in a genre that I’ve not written yet.


And now, a random.

Told ya it was random.


The Circles

Ah, there is nothing like a cup of hot cocoa to get your spirits up. Except maybe two…. (without added booze, I might add. But that would have been nice.)

I’ve been doing a lot of thinking during the quiet moments of my day. And I’ve said before that silence is amazing if you want to clear your thoughts a bit. I’ve worked myself through a bunch of problems in the last few days, just reading and sitting in that little bubble of quiet.

I’ve come to some conclusions.

One is that I want to put the kibosh on smut-writing. At least for the time being. There is a niggle in my brain that says I need to spread my wings and write something else. So, I’m going to try.

This is rubbish. I feel like I’ve said this all before. Do you ever get the feeling that you’re running your own thoughts into circles? I’ve mentioned not writing smut over and over again, but I keep writing it, and it keeps coming up.

I just can’t do it anymore.

But I don’t know what else to write.

I keep repeating myself, and I keep running in circles. I need to break out of that circle, but it just seems like I’m utterly stuck.



I finally made it to the doctor’s yesterday, after one of the most terrifying moments of my life. While working on the laptop, I found myself unable to breathe and squirming from pain. I thought that this was it. I’d stop breathing any time soon and drop dead. I don’t want to drop dead! I’m twenty-one, for fuck’s sake!

But as it turned out, I wasn’t going to drop dead any time soon.

“I can see why you’re in such pain.” said the doctor. It turned out that I’ve got three things going on. One is chronic hyperventilation, which has plagued me for a long time now (and often leaves me feeling like I can’t breathe). Two is a blockage in my left shoulder, which is causing the hyperventilation to flare up. Three is an infected muscle under my left breast, which explains why it’s been acting dodgy.

I can not begin to explain how happy I was. Seriously, I thought I had… well, a lot of stuff at once. Stuff that would be the end of me.

Later that night, I was reading in my room, whilst watching television. The trailer for Doctor Oz (something I watch religiously, to my embarrassment) came on, talking about “HOW YOUR COMMON COLD CAN ACTUALLY BE A DEADLY SUPERBUG” or some shite like that.

I looked around. Thought. And said “Oh fuck it”. I turned off the television and enjoyed the silence while I was reading. Might not seem major, but it was to me. I’d embraced the silence, without being scared of it.

And it did me well. The next three hours were spent reading Monique Roffey’s With the Kisses of His Mouth , a book I had managed to snatch up at Eroticon. I remember meeting Monique briefly. Can’t quite remember what she looked like though.

But that doesn’t really matter. Her book spoke to me, in a way that maybe other similar books couldn’t. I could relate to her, with the way she wrote and with what she told her reader. This was a book about finding yourself, and finding sexuality. It didn’t matter that there’s an age gap of twenty plus years between us. I felt like coming home.

In between reading bouts, I had to put the book down a few times. The silence and the words (I’m all about the words, don’t you know) had made it possible to think clearly, perhaps for the first time in a long time. And I can now say that I have clarity on what I want now.

So, here is a comprehensive bullet-point list, because yes, I’m THAT anal.

  • From now on, I want to be referred to as Jillian or Jilly.
  • I want to change my religion and become a Pastafarian. Why? Because I can.
  • I want to dye my hair in a really funny color, because if not now, when do I ever get to dye my hair pink?
  • I need to get myself a smartphone, so I can stop being surgically attached to my laptop and actually speak to Jason.
  • I want more peace and quiet.
  • If I can manage to find something, I want to move to a quiet place in the UK.
  • Failing that, I’d like to retreat to the UK countryside for a few months to write and generally bask in nature.
  • I want serenity. Not the film. The actual concept.
  • I need to cut down on the blog for a while, and gather my thoughts in another way, namely by taking up writing in a journal again.
  • I think I don’t really fancy writing erotica for now. I’m not in the right mindset.
  • I want to be able to write like I write in my mind. If that makes sense.
  • I want to stop and smell the roses from time to time.

I’m sure there’s more, but that’s about what I can come up with for now. Hey, it’s a pretty impressive list. If you’d asked me this a month ago, I’d pulled major Slowpoke face and flailed in your general direction.

I’m glad I could figure all of this out.

Now, here is a picture of a thing.


The Empty Bed Syndrome

I woke up this morning, after only a few hours of sleep, feeling undeniably gloomy.

This isn’t really a new thing. Lately, my dream scape has been driving me insane. When you dream about death as much as I do, one is bound to wake up with a sour face.

But that wasn’t the issue.

I felt gloomy because I was alone.

After yesterday’s experience with IO, I was experiencing this massive drop. One that made me want to curl up in my sheets and eat a tub of dough. Yes, ACTUAL dough, people. That’s how rubbish I felt.

And one thought and one thought only repeated itself in my head.

I miss Jason.

I don’t know why, but I really wanted him around. I think I just needed to talk.



What I Want And What I Need

I want this house to be a home

No more cold rooms and cold hearts.

I need something I can come back to.


I want my body and mind to stop conspiring against me.

To feel like I’m healthy.

To stop living like I’m dying.


I need to put my money where my mouth is.

I want to make the changes.

But I’m not sure how.


I want the noise to stop.

To have a peaceful moment all to myself.

And take a deep breath and inhale the world.


I want to be fucked.

I want to make love.

I want to kiss and touch and caress.

Under warm sheets and in strong arms.


Hurt me.

Break me.

Hold me.

And build me up again.


I want to be loved.

I need to belong.

I need to be free. 

But I want it all

and I need it all,

with a greater love standing next to me.


x Jillian


Inspired by the lovely Mia at Little Girl Lost. May we both find what we are looking for.



This morning didn’t exactly start off well.

For one thing, I only went to bed at 6am, knowing full well that I needed to be at city hall to get a new passport a few hours later. So when Mamma Boyd woke me up… 

Have you ever felt so exhausted from an all-niter that it feels like someone’s dropped an anvil on your face? That your eyes are being held open by tiny spreader bars, making you afraid to even blink?

I shit you not, that’s exactly how I felt this morning. I was due to meet up with our cleaning lady, who would pick me up after her meeting. So, I waited for her at the reception.

Minutes ticked by.

And then I overheard a frankly alarming conversation. The man behind the counter had been informed that the main passport system in Brussels had gone tits up and that they had no idea when it would … go tits down.

To give you a hint of how panicked I was: I have to leave for London on the 30th. The passport takes two weeks to arrive. I can not afford to get it any later. And I am not even allowed access to the UK without it.

Add to that the mother of all panic attacks, and you’re there. Congratulations, you are now officially as freaked out as I was.

In hindsight, I really shouldn’t have worried.

I left my home phone number, so they could contact me when the system was back up. After meeting up with the cleaning lady to go arrange something together, mamma called. They’d called to say the system was back up.

So, in effect, I had stressed out for absolutely fuck all.

But I shouldn’t be surprised. This is, of course, the age of stress. I saw a report on yoga classes for toddlers last week. To hear children as young as 6 talking about how they can’t sleep due to bad thoughts breaks my heart. The reporter talked about increased stress in the class room. There is apparently a very high need for children to succeed these days, and this is conditioned into their minds from a very early age.

A yoga class for kids under six was also shown. These kids come in with their mothers, because they need the time together. It seemed to be some sort of bonding ritual. But the narrator made it sound like mums do this to quench the guilt from being at work and missing their kids growing up.

Should we really blame parents for this pique of stress in young children?

Or is it that social pressures have crossed the final frontier and are firmly aiming their poison arrows at pre-schoolers and first graders?

As I’m writing this, I realize that I’ve firmly meandered into something completely different from I was supposed to post. But in a way this relates.

Stress is now hitting everyone at every age. And the fact that I freaked out at something like this shows that I’m among the people who have become so highly perceptible to every little irk and quirk that it’s making it impossible to go through the day in a relaxed state. 

Anyway, that’s just my two cents. And now, back to your regularly scheduled sexy time.

x Jillian


I Can’t, I Won’t

Do you ever get the feeling that you’re dying? 

That your body is numb and your breathing slow and you don’t even know it, but you’re slipping in and out of life and desperately trying to clench on to the moments where your eyes are open?

You’re not alive, but not quite perished. You’re still there, but you feel like at any moment you won’t be.

That’s the scariest shit you’ll ever experience.

And I’ve had it more times this week than I care to count.

More and more, I feel like I don’t belong anywhere I care to go. I never fit in at school. Not even when I actually had friends there.

When I started this blog, I felt so ridiculously alone in this world. And even though I now know I’m not, I still feel that way. I’m here, behind this laptop, chatting to all my friends. Blogging and laughing and having a generally jolly time.

But when I switch off the laptop, I just feel like a piece of shit.

Half of the time, it feels like I’m screaming to make myself understood. I can’t half keep my blogging identity a secret, mainly because it’s too fucking hard to do so. And when I do tell people, I spend the next half an hour explaining why I am a blogger and why I write about sex. When I talk about writing and submitting stories and that entire rigmarole, people look at me like I’m possessed by whatever it is that possessed Reagan in The Exorcist (alternatively: Pamela Stephenson in Strictly Come Dancing). 

Why do I even care to explain?

I mean, I’m writing a story about sex zombies. Do I really need to explain to anyone I know why I’m doing that? Or what the hell is wrong with me, and could I possibly seek some help/check myself into the mental hospital/seek out an exorcist?

I’m writing a story about sex zombies because I like writing stories about things that pique my creativity. So what if that’s a story about someone waking up in tears or a science experiment gone wrong or about any fucking thing I’ve ever written about?

Do I need a reason for doing what I love?

Do I need to explain?

Like fuck I do.

I’ve often wondered what the fuck I’m doing here. It’s just so hard. I can’t properly read people, I can’t judge which side I should take that won’t get me eaten alive by more confident people. I can’t even point out what’s right or wrong to believe in.

I don’t know how to work on the first one. But the two other things… it’s my choice, no? The great thing is that I get to believe in whatever I want. I can take the side I most firmly believe in. Sure, I might still get eaten alive. But at least I stood up for what I believed in.

And it’s time that I did that.

(author’s note: This was written during one of my down moments. I wouldn’t survive those if I didn’t have my friends. So thanks. I love you all. x)

Miser for a Day

Let’s just recap how my day has gone so far.

In the 1h45 minutes that it has been Saturday, the following has happened.

  • Boris Johnson has been re-elected (I’m not a Londoner, but fuck, I hate that man.)
  • If I wish to book at the same hostel I was at last time, it’ll cost me 448 euros, which I don’t have.
  • I got my first rejection e-mail.
  • I bought Fifty Shades of Grey and I want to hurl it off a cliff (25 pages into the book).

This is all small pickles. I’m sure that I’ll get over it.

Boris Johnson is an utter titmonkey, that’s for sure. But… well, yeah. Let him be an utter titmonkey for a few more years, and we can only hope London sees its mistake.

I’ll get myself booked into that hostel any which way I can.

Sure, rejection stings like a fucking massive migraine, but it’s a sign that I shouldn’t give up. And I will find someone who will like this story.

I can confirm after 25 pages that I’m finding it extremely hard to concentrate on Fifty. I’ve lost track of the dialogue and monologue quite a few times already. But I’m willing to stick to it. At least until the sex kicks in.

(author’s note: I REALLY fucking hope it kicks in soon, because I swear….)

But all this doesn’t mean that I don’t feel like a massive clot as I’m writing this.

I don’t know. I’ve had a pretty shitty week in general. It’s hard to pick yourself up from that. I’m allowing myself to be a miser for the remainder of the night.

But there’s something I need to keep in mind. It’s a mantra I live by, and I don’t care who first coined it. I just know it was said by a woman who’s music was a big part of me growing up and who’s death I still regret till this day.

From the mouth of Saint Aaliyah…

“And if at first you don’t succeed, dust yo’self off and try again.”