What the fuck did I do?

It's been a while, but you don't forget, do you?

And it works. Well nearly always. By which I mean, the adrenaline rush, the endorphin release, flowed through my veins and for a while untethered me, released me from the ropes holding me down and I floated up among the clouds.  At least as high as the seventh floor. For it was on the seventh floor, that heaven proffered an angel.

Not my type, I might once have said. But I've long ago realised that type does not refer to hair colour, height, curves or brains.  Well, maybe brains, but even that was disproved at least once. So she was blond (this gentleman normally prefers brunettes). She was petite; a whole foot shorter than me and probably half my weight and I would normally go for curves and a height that didn't make me feel like Goliath. And under 25 and that is usually a warning that what would follow would be mechanically satisfying but emotionally empty.  In all these measures she failed to meet my preferences. But in everything else she was a perfect 10.

I knocked. Heels clattered. The door opened. Pretty as a picture, wrapped in a little black dress, the curve of her perfectly proportioned derriere just visible. A smile that gladdened a weary heart. A kiss that quickened a mournful beat.

Wine, conversation, kisses.  Warmth, turned to heat, turned to perspiration in the spring sunshine. From sofa to bed in my arms, abandoned clothes leaving their telltale trail.  Kisses, tongues, lips, brushed against perfumed, soft skin.  I could not keep away from her neck, her nipples, her thighs. My hand trailed between her legs and brushed the soft skin and moist lips there. She flinched slightly. My fingers returned to tease out the heat, to tempt forth the juices, to bring on the moans.  She gave in to my control and gave herself over to the mounting passion. Her ever quicker breathing, the wetness between her legs, the grip of her cunt around my fingers told their familiar story.  Going down she pulled at my hair and pushed my face into her now soaked pussy.  The combination of her scent and her moans had brought me close to release, even before she put that delicate hand around my shaft. But I resisted the release. In a moment she had me on my back, covered and defenseless as she slowly and expertly impaled herself upon my cock. With her hands upon my chest she slowly raised and lowered her hips, and with each stroke brought me to the point just before the point of no return only to stop, breathe, smile, and then move again.  This went on for an eternity of minutes, the rising ecstasy a treasure to savour each and every time.  Finally when I could last no longer she ground herself hard against me, taking me deep within her, until both our cries ceased. And there she stayed gently clenching and unclenching her cunt, keeping me hard inside her.  Forever. Or for as long as time allowed.

Sweet. Perfect. An ache massaged away. Warmer. Happier. Brighter.

Most people when they experience traumatic events, seem to lose weight. Me, I put weight on. Now, it's not that I envy them their trauma (split marriages, bereavement, serious illness), but honestly it's not bloody fair! I've been stressed to point of bankruptcy and breakdown and do I get less. No, I become more! I've been orphaned and had heart scares and does my fat decrease. No it decides to set up a permanent home on my waist. It's so unfair. I mean, at least if I was feeeling shit, I could cheer myself with the thought that there was less of me feeling shit than felt good six months earlier. But oh no those pounds and stones just come round, plonk themselves on my belly and have a good old chuckle at my expense. Even running over 40 miles a week has not shifted my weight. And before you start, I know that I'm not overweight (although I lie just outside the acceptable BMI), but I have been weight aware since childhood and since being the fat kid the PE teacher wanted as prop in the school rugby team, not because I was any good, but because I was fat.

But on different matters, the real reason for the post title, is my observation that when I am depressed I return to certain teenage and twenty-something bands and musicians to take me back to when life seemed so much easier and less burdensome. When I still had parents and didn't have responsibilities. So this last week I have been listening to a lot of Roger Waters (even Radio KAOS, which is not particularly good) and James. Comfort music I call it. Like having Mum's plum crumble or biscuit cake. And I'm trying to heed the message of optimism and humanity contained in "Every Stranger's Eyes". I'm trying really hard.

I love this song and it's on the list of the top 168 songs to be played at my funeral.

A quick review to say that Waiting For Godot with Ian McKellen and Patrick Stewart was faultless, perfect theatre. Two old friends, playing two old friends; you could taste the genuine affection. I'd never seen the play before and I don't think I would ever see it again because no one could top that.

A perfect trip to Edinburgh there and back in the day. A lovely end to the Easter holidays.

And yet, on my way back, as the sun set, I wrote these words:

"I am deeply unhappy, deeply disconsolate. I am trapped in a world I don't care for and I don't believe in. I live with a constant underlying anxiety. I want to be free of this empty self-pity."

Today I would add that only when I run and only when I cum do I feel untethered and free. Hence my addiction to both.

But this can't be good. Can it?

I made a Simnel Cake. It's lovely. My grief is being expressed in baking. Baking homages to my mother. My father's death has taken me back thirty years to my mother's side as she baked cakes. Every weekend. Always trying new ones, regularly returning to tried and trusted recipes. Cake was always in the cake tin.

For 45 years I've resisted baking. Couldn't see the point. Cake has no nutritional value whatsoever. It's just calories and I try to keep the calories away, at bay. That said, my speciality has been desserts. But only when occasion demands. I have a sweet tooth of that there is no doubt and it's not hard to see where that came from.

So far my homage has consisted of vanilla fudge, cherry cake and this weekend's Simnel Cake. Bakewell tart coming soon. Then maybe Dundee cake. Or Barm Brack. And there's this Guiness cake she used to make, for which I've not yet found the recipe. I'm making up for lost time. And I'm giving my daughter a taste of my childhood. Mum died before Daughter was born. It's all a gold mine for Freud.

Happy Easter!

PS I've run 47 miles this week!!!

I had a purge

I never had many friends

Now there are a few less

Some were too little

Some were too much and I couldn't see past them and some got lost in the melee

Sociopath!

I'm off to see David Byrne on Saturday. I wanted to put a link to Mr Jones here (sprang to mind reading another's post!), but enjoy this instead.