...than Rafael Nadal...
...but 20 years older in both cases!!!
A change is as good as a rest and it's been three years of long hair, but it looks odd when I look in the mirror...who is that man?
]]>
...than Rafael Nadal...
...but 20 years older in both cases!!!
A change is as good as a rest and it's been three years of long hair, but it looks odd when I look in the mirror...who is that man?
]]>
2. Sex in the morning, afternoon or night? - Afternoon as the evening light fades...but I won't turn it down at any other time.
3. What side of the bed do you sleep on? - I don't sleep on the side I sleep on top.
4. Have you ever taken your clothes off for money? No
5. Have you ever had sex in the shower or the bath? Yes to both. The shower is a particular favourite. Cleanliness is next to sexiness I believe!
6. Do you watch/read pornography? Not really. Most of it leaves me cold.
7. Do you want someone aggressive or passive in bed? Depends on the mood, but I probably lean towards preferring someone who takes the lead.
8. Do you love someone on your blogroll? I plead 5th Amendment.
9. Would you choose love or money? Love, obviously.
10. Your top three favourite kinks in bed? What's kinky? One man's kink is another man's norm. But if it's kinky then being tied up, or tying someone up, blindfolds, threesomes!
11. Has anyone ever gone beyond your personal line of respect sexually? No.
12. Where is the most romantic place you have had sex? In the sea off a quiet beach in the Aegean Sea.
13. Where is the weirdest place you have had sex? On the car hood?!?
14. Have you ever been caught having sex? If you count the passing cars honking their horns
15. Ever been to a bar just to get sex? No.
16. Ever been picked up in a bar? No.
17. Have you ever kissed or had sex with someone of the same sex? No.
18. Had sex in a movie theater? No. Although I did bring her off!
20. Had sex in a bathroom? Of course...where else would the bath/shower of Q5 be?.
21. Have you ever had sex at work? Yes.
22. Bought something from an adult store? Yes.
23. Do you own any sex toys? No.
24. Does anyone have naughty pics of you or are you on film? I am on film, but not in a naughty way.
25. Have you ever had sex with someone and called them the wrong name? No.
26. Do you think oral sex constitutes a form of intercourse? Well it's clearly sex, but it's not intercourse.
27. What's your favorite sexual position? From behind, standing, with her bent over the table, end of the bed, back of the sofa (you get the idea). But I like her to ride me too!
28. What's your favorite sex act? As opposed to sex position? Was this written by a celibate? Well to add to Q27, giving and receiving.
29. Have you ever had sex with more than one person at a time? in the same room? How can you have sex with more than one person at a time in different rooms?!?! Jesus you'd need a big cock for that!! But yes I have. In the same room, not yes I have a big cock. Well maybe I do, but not THAT big!
30. How many bloggers do you think will post this meme this week? Who cares!
]]>The day before I made the reacquaintance of an old friend. She'd been gone for a few months. But she was back with a bang (and a blow job to boot). Couldn't keep our hands off each other. And everything else. Bathroom floors, living room doorways, wetness and hardness combined. And loads of laughter too. Fucking perfect....
And there may be the (never thought it possible) return of another who figured so much back in the early days of blog...but I'll be more circumspect this time with my writing if I'm not to bugger it up once again.
]]>She works for another organisation to me, but we're working on a project together. She's twenty years younger. I can see no reason why she should pay me the slightest attention, but I am sure that she is doing just that. Her e-mails are slightly more informal than I would expect when we know so little of each other (and ostensibly I am her boss in this commission). And that would be that, but the other day I swear she kept extending our chat outside the office even though she was clearly frozen cold (God, I almost offered her my jacket!) and wanted to get in her car and even though we'd finished talking work and even though I kept providing opportunities for her to finish the conversation. I asked her if she wanted to join me at the next meeting (and she had every reason to decline), but she said i would like to come to the meeting with you. Not I would like to come to the meeting, but I would like to come to the meeting with you. And now I have her mobile number too and it wasn't hard.
So perhaps she has a crush on me?!? Hmmm....On Monday we meet again. I will assess her body language and her language and demeanour once more.
In the meantime I think about her far more than is right. In an escapist, fantasy kind of way. That feels nice. That's a nice, thrilling sensation. Been a while since I felt such emotions. Not since Peach really. So two years. Reality would be messy though. But escapism is a buzz. Probably never amount to more. Not even sure what more means in this context. An illicit kiss would probably be all the thrill I need.
Oh and she runs too. God, the thought of her in lycra is more than the old ticker can take!!!!
]]>Oh and I've got tickets to see Muse in November....wahoo!
And Massive Attack were excellent last week.
Nothing beats having your music in, around, all over you. Music, sex, red wine, cinema, chocolate, cheese and peanuts. But not always in that order! Bring me these and I will be a loyal and faithful (maybe that's not the right word for me?!?!) servant. I have my den I escape to and play the vinyl and the CDs loud and feel like a teenager again, but with less angst!
I feel surprisingly good after the worst two years of my life. About time too.
Makes me blog less though. Misery is the midwife of words and happiness washes them downstream.
]]>In my job I get people ranting at me occasionally. If you don't want to respond to the questionnaire, just bin it. I know I do. But, no, they ring me up and threaten to sue me for infringing their personal space with my terrorist inspired, bureacratically attired, human-rights infringing nosiness. Not-In-My-Back-Passage (not a place I wish to visit at the best of times) they scream. I agree and then tell them to go back to their banjo-picking and cousin-marrying homestead or their be-moated mansion.
Similarly the blogger with a chip on his (it's nearly always his) shoulder about people he hates, but who have never done owt to him except breathe the same air and piss in the same water pool. If it was Pol Pot or Attila The Hun or Brigadier-General Reginald Dyer then fair enough. But celebrities or bands you don't like are such a boring and easy target. Why waste your ire? I truly don't get it.
Meanwhile...go see Simon Amstell on tour. Bloody hilarious. And buy Elbow's shortly to be re-issued Asleep In The Back. Or watch Brass Eye. Or get naked. Just enjoy the here and now and ignore those who bore you. You protesteth too much. Life is much better when you don't give the bores the time of day.
]]>Thanks to all who took the time and commented previously. That's what is good about The Blog.
More smiles than angst for now.
Mind you this doesn't mean I don't still chase the skirt and go down from time to time. The last (ten days back) was sweet as sugar candy and as tall as the sky, she sang like a siren and tore into me with the strength of a lionness.
]]>This was the fourth of the those 144 for me and whilst a moving occasion probably the least of all the ten times I have seen them since 2001. Elbow's music is a warm, melancholic, richly detailed, tapestry of emotions which doesn't suit the arena. They're at their best in smaller venues or oudoors but not in soulless sheds with the acoustics of an aircraft hangar. Guy Garvey is the most sincere and romantic frontman around and can charm any crowd (and he did yesterday), but his talents are wasted on the corporate airheads who occupy the boxes around the venue, sipping champagne, chatting throughout and adding Elbow to their list of things they've done paid for by KPMG/Shell/RBS along with the soulless drone of Coldplay, the pre-calculated angst of U2 (what were you thinking Guy?), a Manchester derby, the Henley regatta, opera in the park and Ascot. I wish the corporate twats would fuck off and leave more tickets to those who actually want to see a live music event because, I don't know, perhaps, they like to hear live music.
So please Guy, Pete, Craig, Mark and Richard promise not to play arenas in future and leave the bankers in their penthouses with their silicone-enhanced blondes and their powder- filled noses.
On the plus side, thank you so much for playing Scattered Black and Whites, Mexican Standoff, Bitten By The Tailfly along with the usual suspects. And Weather To Fly ("are we having the time of our lives?") and One Day Like This were dewy-eyed perfect.
]]>Jessica Ennis: I wrote before about how sexy she is, but more importantly she is a true world class athlete. To come back from such an injury and such disappointment to win the World Championship gold in just a year is a remarkable feat. And she's gorgeous too!!!
And talking of gorgeous athletes...
Well you can't blame a guy for dreaming...
]]>She is a good woman, a good mother, a good wife. The part of me that plays away (both mental and physical) abuses her with its selfish games and yet...
She said a beautiful thing the other day to our daughter. She said that when I'm in the room she feels better about herself. If she knew what I have become, what I do, it would shatter her into a million pieces. She doesn't deserve that, not even for the lapses she made in the last millenium.
We had sex (we didn't make love) on Saturday night. We both wanted it, but it wasn't great. Must be at least the second, maybe the third, time this year. It was functional. Orgasms achieved but little passion spent.
Just one week prior I got very naughtily naked with a beautiful, tall, Amazonian air hostess. I was five miles high! I got hard just talking to her. I came as I tongued her to orgasm and listened to her moans of ecstasy, her cries of release. I came again as she sat astride me, looking me in the eye and smiling with the control she had over me. I want to see her again.
I can't stop this. I love sex. I love women. I love my wife. Are these things mutually exclusive? Am I deceiving myself as well as her? Or is this who I am: a good man on the outside, but a philanderer nonetheless?
]]>It's not easy TV. It's not for the casual viewer: in fact David Simon the writer famously said, "fuck the casual viewer". You have to work at it. You have to invest time in it. And if you do, you will be rewarded beyond anything you have ever given yourself over to on TV. The Wire is the apotheosis of TV, the perfect opposite of the reality junk and 24 hour news that spews forth on a daily basis from the box in the corner of the living room.
If you are a fan then go try this quiz: http://www.guardian.co.uk/media/organgrinder/quiz/2009/jul/07/the-wire-quiz. If you have not sampled its delights then buy, rent or steal Season 1 and wait for the scene when D explains chess to Bodie and Poot. If that doesn't hook you in, then you have no soul my friend, no soul.
McNulty, Bunk, Omar, Bubs, Det. Freamon, Mayor Carcetti, Ziggy, Herc and Carver, Daniels, Gus, Pearlman, Avon and Stringer, D, Michael...we may never see your like again. Fuck, yes. I will.
Season One, episode one here I come again...
]]>Is it me, or does Monica Bellucci just get more beautiful as she gets older?
And Sin City, that's where I live!
My Friday afternoon was spent between the thighs of an angel (Statement 2). Said Angel is the spit of my first love, which mean I finally get to fuck Claire...it's only taken me 29 years! Said Angel also shares her name with a high street fashion emporium (Statement 3).
So you tell me...which one's the lie?
Angel is very pretty, a perfect doll, a fake blond, but dumb nonetheless. The blonde is not all she fakes, but she is as sweet as candy. It's a dick thing. On sight I'm aroused. Once kissed I'm enthralled. And when I went down it was all I could do to not cum first. She can give, but boy can she receive! There was no meeting of minds but the clash and friction of bodies created such shock and awe, I could forgive the charming nonsenses that slipped from her mouth. It won't last but it did for a Friday afternoon.
I still need a regular lover, a fuck buddy, someone I look forward both to getting naked with and the moments after. Brains and beauty, needing but not needy, wanting but not wanting, to be taken but not kept.
Send your CV if you want to be considered.
]]>Then we were on the sofa. And then she wasn't. She was kneeling in front of me. And she had my cock in her mouth. I made no attempt to stop her. And for nigh on 30 minutes she licked and sucked and kissed and carressed and I was powerless to stop her (although I did keep saying no so that I wouldn't cum). But after she took me deep inside her yet again I could stop no more and all that promise unloaded upon her tongue and down her throat and she swallowed it all and carried on licking and sucking until I had nothing left.
Later on the bed we kissed and cuddled and laughed some more. She fell off the bed as I fell off the wagon.
]]>I feel my sex life is no longer of interest...to you or me.
My muse lies elsewhere and my words are inhabiting another dark corner of blog. They're a bit more specialist. If you're bothered, I'll tell you. If you're not, that's fair enough.
The Sexy MotherFucker has left the building...
]]>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.
]]>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 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?
]]>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 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!
]]>Down to the running track tonight for a hard interval session and then tomorrow I head south to the old family mansion to help clear the detritus of a life lived. Started reading Herzog finally and realised I had found a book that me and the old man would have agreed on (we could agree on TV, films and politics but never on books and music).
Toying with playing away on Saturday but can't decide whether it would cheer me up or make me feel emptier. She definitely cheers me when I'm with her, but after, sometimes, I feel...I don't know...sad I guess.
There's also someone missing and is missed by me.
]]>And while I'm at it, I just want to say I hate bullies. And I particularly hate corporate bullies who throw their legal weight around to make life miserable for the small business. You know who you are, you pus-filled fuck. I hope they make you redundant, your wife leaves you for a younger sexier model and you end up swimming in your own piss in the gutter.
Guess I'm in a bad place right now, but an opportunity for change has appeared and I may well take it. Change is as good as a rest.
]]>I could give you update on my listening pleasures (TV On The Radio, Fleet Foxes, Bruce Springsteen and The Killers live in Manchester Monday last), but I can't be bothered.
I could bore you with Achilles tendons and tight calves, but let's face it, you've got better things to read.
I might even submit book reviews (Huraki Murakami, Saul Bellow, my father's manuscript), but I can't summon the energy.
I've consumed TV (Mad Men, The Daily Show, Red Riding, a return to ER) and movies (Man on Wire, Ghost Town, Sin City), but am unable to spew it back out (that said, Mickey Rourke is awesome in Sin City and Jessica Alba a sinful revelation for me!).
Am I underestimating the emotional punches that life has thrown me these last few weeks? I think I feel alright. But I'm not sure that I am alright. I think I'm a bit numb, cold, some might say unfeeling. I don't want to be, but I'm not sure if I can affect change, I think only time will do that. I feel like an automaton: walking as needed, talking when required, smiling as necessary, but all without motivation.
For a while someone cheered me up through text and e-mail, reminded me what being alive is. And she can still make me smile, it's just that circumstances have made that less frequent.
And so I search for the words inside me and find husks instead, empty shells, the remains of words, used and discarded as if abandoned on the forest floor by some sociopathic squirrel. That's me, right now, the sociopathic squirrel...but not yet a psychopathic squirrel...that would be weird!
]]>Never read The Rules, me, so I have no idea what I'm supposed to do. Very much out of practice. Not much time to practice though because the "window of opportunity" will be firmly shut pretty soon. Our time is running out...
A few snatched hours in the middle of the day. Station, coffee, chat. Stroll, wine, chat. Return to homes at opposite ends of the same railway line. Three hours or three minutes?
Texts flew before and after. Damn, she's smart. Conversation eased after the walk and a glass of wine. Damn she's bright. There was a moment when I was distracted by her lips and wondered what they'd be like to kiss. Damn she's pretty. And in full flow her eyes sparkle. Damn, she's sexy.
Hope there will be another moment, a longer moment, one to keep safe inside my head. I'd like it. Meantime, she'll tease some more and I'll try and hold on to my dignity.
Colin and Beryl may only ever have one more chance. I think they should take it. Nothing ventured nothing gained.
]]>But then Saturday was a good day. Up at 7, jog couple of miles down to the park for the 5K time trial, then beat my previous time trial best by 25 seconds (but not my 5K PB yet...but it could be on the cards in the next few months), and jog home, shower and dress and out the house again by 10.30. Which is usually the time I'm out of the house on a Saturday, but I've not normally run 7 miles by that time.
Sunday (start of Week 2) was good too. 12 miles at reasonable marathon training pace. Bit sore today though. Now I just need to make sure I get out this week and get the mileage up. 15 weeks to go!
In other news, there's not much to say. I almost had a latte liaison but health stopped play. Took the raincheck. Could be back on this week. Hope so.
Clients are being strangely nice. No doubt a calm before a storm, but I'll take the calm whilst I can.
I have no shenanigans to report. My life is shenanigan-free at the moment. I might have to right that shortly. Wouldn't want to forget how to ride the bike so to speak. Can you forget I wonder?
]]>Twice, walking through the station, my head was turned, by puss in boots. One young who was more attractive from the back than the front, but brilliant grey, satin pleated short skirt with tights and knee-high black boots. The other an elegant swellegant miss of my kinda age with a knee-length dress and boots to match.
I don't think it's a fetish, is it a fetish? It's not like I want to sniff them or kiss them or lick them. I just think they look brilliant. Not Ugg mind, they're just uggly and WAG-ish...yuk!!! Short skirt, long skirt, not jeans because then the boots stop being sexy. In fact not trousers at all; that's a whole different fetish!
They don't have to be thigh high. And maybe Mariah Carey is best avoided...
]]>Funeral went well, people liked my tribute, I feel okay, things are less painful.
I ran a race last week and recorded my second best ever 10K time (best in almost three years).
Started my 16 week training programme for Edinburgh marathon yesterday with 10 miles in the ice and snow.
Trying to work today, but it's soooo boring.
I need some loving.
]]>"I've got to go buy that" she said, pointing at the bound pages nestling in the side pocket of my bag. I was, at this point, still in recovery from an intensely erotic play time. A very slow, sensual, long build to an almighty climax. I'd acted on an impulse, and it proved correct. Her full lips and wide mouth created the most beautiful smile and the most erotic kisses. Her silhouette was hourglass, her skin as black as midnight, her compliments and laugh disarming. Disarmed, defences down, I surrendered. We kissed and touched, teased and squeezed, licked and sucked and mine was loud, but hers was louder (and longer).
And then in the afterglow, perspiration running down my back, she exclaimed her desire to read about Mr Obama, President-elect Obama.
So that's twice. Two moments. Two black people. One white boy. The same comment. Not a definitive survey, no statistics can be determined nor confidence quoted, but a pattern nonetheless. But not yet half way through. Page 164, Chapter Nine, working in Chicago. Still time for more.
]]>