things I wish I'd said to the man harrassing me as I browsed in Ann Summers

Man "Natural is better." [bonus: guess what I was looking at].

What I Didn't Say:
"Not with you."
"I'm not sure your wife would agree."
"Liar."
"My girlfriend and I don't think so."

Feel free to contribute.

PS: apologies for surfeit of sex posts.

calling

I went to buy lined paper today, for revision season is upon us.

As I left the shop, a man came up to me; tall, black, hot.
He wanted to tell me I was the prettiest girl he'd seen in two weeks.

Precision aside (bizarre), I smile and say thank you, because, well, he isn't a weird Hispanic bloke.
"I'm moving to America tomorrow" he continues; "I work in the adult film industry."
...
I got propositioned for a porn job in WH Smiths.

ta

Dear Auntie Jean/Granny/Weird Uncle,

Thank you very much for my [usually money]. I have already hit the sales [because I had to escape the crushing weight of all the food and old people in the house] and have treated myself to a new sweater [actually from the Maternity section of Topshop, which caused slight consternation at home]. I will have to visit the shops again when the crowds have disappeared to see what else I can find! [as I am actually going to blow all the cash on a corset].

We had a quiet Christmas with family [if "quiet" entails Boxing Day Massacre of squirrels by Grandad, with shotgun] and I spent New Year at home with friends from University, which was great fun. [And it was so]. Mum and Dad were a big help on the night with all the food and preparation, and we were all pretty tired the next day! [For me, principally because I was up until the sun rose fucking my boyfriend].

I am looking forward to getting back to London now [LIES] though not so much to my exams. [couldn't give a fuck. I mean, I'm blogging about thank you letters instead of revising]. Hopefully they will be better than I expect! [they won't be].

Thank you again [for your contribution to my journey through the shops of Soho].

With love [especially from my boyfriend, who is delighted I'm spending a ridiculous amount of money on something that is essentially for his enjoyment],

xx

pillow talk

On the phone, late Sunday evening, dozing as we compare weekends and make plans, conversation inevitably draws back to how cold it is. Because we are British. And incredibly interesting.
I am always cold. I list what I am wearing; Pyjama bottoms, two tshirts, my enormous (and unwashed) university hoodie, and socks. I even have the hood up.

It dawns on me, when we hang up, that should Law fail as a career, I'd be a great phone sex worker. You know, for that niche sector that likes girls in oversized grubby layers. Filth!

doris and the wank puppets

"Can you undo a bra with one hand?" I sway a little on my stool and reach out to JW, steadying myself on his shoulder.
"I have done." he says, with hesitance. I laugh.
"That" I pour more dark wheat beer into my wine glass "means no."
I drink. "It's a life skill."

Miss McG makes noises of agreement from the sofa.
I turn to the other boys.

M tells a story about removing a bra from a lady named Doris, a patient at the hospital he volunteers in. Doris is incontinent. Doris, incontinence, bra removal and M all unfortunately coincided. M wins the multi-tasking bra removal award, which consists of us all making retching noises.

"How did we get from sex to shit?" I am still drinking. I have also figured out how to use my new phone while slipping into drunkenness. This is bad for the person receiving my enthusiastic text messages.

As I hunch over my electronic downfall, Miss McG drags the conversation back towards fucking. "...had a wank puppet."
It is enough to snap me away from the messages. "What?"
"A friend of mine had a wank puppet. It was a character from that Sooty show - the little grey one. Sweep?"
"Yeah. It was called Sweep... but oh my... a wank puppet?"

The boys decline to comment further.

Eurovision parties seem to bring people closer together, certainly.

two favourite chat up lines

Both rather politically incorrect.

#1: "Nice shoes. Wanna fuck?"

#2: "Wanna play the Rape Game?"
"No!"
"That's the spirit!"

I am a sucker for bad taste. Also, I am sick of Feminism. Dissertation-itis has set in.

santa forgot one

I rarely check my stats.

Tonight an unexpected present loomed! My first creepy hit! Joy To The World and Come (ha) All Ye Faithful!

The searcher was, er, searching for "sexy cypriot ladies".

He (she?) didn't stay long. Oh well.
You probably couldn't afford me anyway.

(This isn't the proper post. Just in case the Christmas coma hasn't worn off yet.)

keeping a promise

Hi. So.

My sister gave me a leather journal for my birthday. I've yet to mark it. Three weeks have gone by and I haven't posted here, either.

All I've written is scribbled notes about chastity and Christian sexuality. Go Google the former. I didn't realise male chastity belts existed, but apparently it's a very technical world.

My entire life revolves around screwing. My dissertation is all about Greeks fucking and Christians... not. There are men here and there but the single life, it does not suit.

I have spent a month working not quite hard enough and drinking just a little (read lot) too much. Writing (about things not related to sex, this is) has fallen by the wayside and this isn't good, says the psychologist in me. Alcohol is not a friendly escape route. Neither is going to bed with men you don't know, no matter how hot that French accent.

I'm back, ladies.

more sex chat

Two days reading about orgasms in the university library is not as exciting as you might think. Even though the name of the building I study in carries the delightful acronym of A.S.S., leading to predictable insinuations about one's sexual preferences (and there is a connection in there somewhere about how best to achieve that Big O), the necessary groundwork for writing my dissertation this year was far from scream-worthy. Reading about other women's orgasms is rather like discussing how tight your vagina is with your friends.

That initial queasiness that you are feeling imagining me and my friends chatting about muscle walls and stuff (this is presuming you're not indulging in some girl-on-girl wank here; I've got better material than that if you're interested) is not really the reason we don't gossip about it. I'm fine with frank sexual discussion, as long as I know what I'm talking about. And most girls have no idea how many Kegel exercises her friends do to keep it all happy, just as they have no clue what another woman's orgasm feels like. There are some aspects of sex talk that are just so personal (and this does not necessarily equate to private, kittens) that unless you have made the effort to explore such differences in width, length, depth, whatever, you have no basis for comparison. Vagina-wise, this doesn't apply to lesbians, obviously, but understanding how an orgasm feels for someone else is still presumably intangible.

This is why we talk about the size of your cocks, gentlemen, because as most of my friends are straight and sexually active, we have collectively seen more penises than we have pussy.

I'll leave you with an anecdote from my travels.
While beyond wasted one night in the Czech Republic, my Favourite Aussie Ever turns to me and says "Have you ever been with a guy who describes what he's doing to you while he's doing it?"
Weirdly enough, I had. "Yes" answer I, stumbling vacantly into the bar and waving money at the man until he gives me more Becherovka "I have." I drink some of the clove gin and realise I have ordered two. Or maybe my appearance grows more like an AA member's by the day. I think about what she has said and eventually add, "It was fine when I was slaughtered, but when I sobered up it did seem a bit fucking weird."
"What did he call your..."
"...My cunt? Pussy." I remember and something tightens in my lower belly. It was good sex. "I guess it's a bit Daddy's Little Girl porn-y. Maybe why I found it odd."
She looks as ponderous as her colourful cocktail will allow. "And what do you call it?"
I grin, because this is a near replay of a conversation I have had with a man of great interest to me in recent months. "Depends who I'm talking to."
(In my head, I always say cunt. With a man, I would say the same. The conversational situation has not yet arisen with my girlfriends.)
I do not expect the fully grown nurse sat in front of me to say what she does next.
"I call it my flower."

And that, dear children, is the other reason why we don't talk about it.
Because hysterical laughter makes other people feel bad.