Girl Cock

Prompted by a comment left by the lovely girl with the pink teacup, today I thought I would discuss with you why fucking a boy with a strap-on is one of my very favourite ways to make love. And for my opinions on love-making, please see here.

I am sure that when most people visualise a woman fucking a man with a strap-on, they picture some amazonian dominatrix and a weedy little man bent over something. But that is not the way. Not the way at all. Well maybe for the unenlightened.

And I haven't always included this particular activity in my list of favourites. There was a time when I too thought it was all about bending him over and sticking something up his arse. However, one night at a party, I had to fulfill a promise I had made to Alistair. A time before, when we were particularly wasted at another party, he had pleaded with me to fuck his arse. And I had declined because I was too high, it was time to go home, and the concept wasn't quite working for me. Despite this, I left with the promise that the next time around...

Next time around had arrived. The party had wound down, most people had left, and we were alone in the living room. As I recall, I had him on all fours on the floor, with a rubber-gloved, lubed finger in his arse, and a cock strapped to my groin. And this is how I began fucking him. "This isn't too bad," I thought to myself.

"This isn't too bad" isn't good enough, where sex and I are concerned.

And somewhere along the way, Alistair stopped me. He turned himself over so that he was laying on his back looking up at me. As I pushed inside of him, I could see the look in his eyes, see his lips move as a moan softly escaped them. As I lowered myself to kiss him, I felt his soft, naked flesh brush my breasts, and I felt enveloped in one of the most intimate experiences that one might have. There is something quite intoxicating about each little noise made by your lover as you slowly slide inside and out of them.

And I wondered, is this how it feels to fuck me like this? That night, I obviously did not learn what it was like to have a cock. But I did learn what it feels like to penetrate someone, to watch their face, their eyes change, to feel their legs wrap around my back. Being penetrated is qualitatively different to penetrating, and a person's reactions to one or the other follow this. And I liked swapping places with my lover. A lot.

Though we were not in love at the time, were high on MDMA and oxytocin, which amounted to a rather good simulation. So this is how I know that strapping on my harness is one of my very favourite ways to make love.

Would you be a guest at Ms. Maisie's?

"I would like to know a few very important things about you, along with some photographic evidence preferably. If you were going to allow us to spend a night at YOUR home, I would like to know the following:
What books are on your favorite shelf?
What DVD's are on your favorite shelf?
What are your TWO favorite cookbooks.
Select 1-3 recipes you will cook for your special guest.
What will we be drinking that is available?Feel free to add pictures/descriptions of anything else you want. I think we will be able to learn a lot about eachother, simply by seeing what we like to read, eat, drink, etc..." said Mr. C

Generally, unless somebody is already a pervert, or knows me well enough to realise I am adorable, any offer of a night at my place is greeted with a look of trepidation.
Still, let us press on.
I am going to assume sex is not on the cards. This is out of kindness to those of you who are nervous, and because I am fussy.

I live in London, close to the centre, in a very desirable part of town. This amuses me, since I am a poor student. As has been mentioned in previous entries, I live with three other friends, most notably, my beautiful boy (yes, it's platonic), Courtney.
We don't have a lounge in our flat, so this is really more of a tour of my room... For dinner, we would be popping over to Alistair's. His house is big, and has a dungeon.



Let's get the DVDs over with. (I like 'em, but books are better...) Actually I now realise Courtney has pinched several.

South Park is a big part of our lives. I favour Butters. LotR are my favourite movies of all time, and not just because I want to be gang-raped by elves. David Attenborough is a god, and I like to draw with him playing in the background. We have lots of horror. Favourites from my childhood (i.e. Carebares). And Twister. I have a tornado obsession.

I am drowning in books, this shelf is quite representative:

A bit of darkness, much philosophy (I love you, Wittgenstein), women's history, early modern history, feminist literature, much stuff on sex, and the Forgotten Storm, documenting the Tri-State tornado of 1925.

There's more:

Lots on vintage clothing, burlesque philosophy, childhood books (I never throw away books), knitting books (oh, yes...)

Wall of books:

Under my leopard-print bed:

more...

more...

I am nursing Courtney's Umbrella plant back to health. The previous inmate, I mean housemate, attempted to kill it. See how it is now sprouting anew. I am pretty much more comfortable with animals and plants, despite being so outgoing. And note the rainbows, the colour. You just can't keep a clinically depressed goth-girl down.

I suppose we ought to get onto dinner...

So we'd have to sprint across the road to Alistair's.

I would be serving:

Pan-fried scallops on a bed of leaf salad, with mild chili salsa.

Fillet steak with a wild mushroom sauce and thick duck gumbo, with rice.

Key-lime pie.

If you don't drink alcohol, I could offer you lavender tea, with lavender sugar:

I love lavender. I have my microwaveable lavender bag here. When I am stressed, depressed, and feel alone, I heat it and hug it. Kinda like Linus and his blanket.

If you do drink alcohol, as the notice-board says:

The gin would be Hendrick's, served the correct way. Marks for knowing what this is. (Note the little heart at the bottom, written by Axel ages ago, when I was really down. As has been mentioned: love of life, no longer together. I refuse to rub it off the board. Not saying no-one will ever be so important to me again, just that they are going to have to prove themselves before I let them quite that close).

After-dinner mints?

Well, you didn't think I'd be able to resist, and how right you were. We have plugs, pegs, clamps, duct-tape, vibes, strap-on harness, etc. To be honest, we would probably just go to the proper dungeon over the road...

But see how subtley all of that hides under the yellow scarf beside my bed. You'd never know, and it is easily accessible.

So here is the door. Thank you for coming...

Mystery Illness

I have a mystery illness. It is not the swine, but it 'aint pleasant.

This is why I have fallen so quiet.

Making Love

As you may have already gathered, even ladies like me like to be made love to. Yes, that's right, and let me say it again: made love to.

You may very well be able to whisper those vicious nothings in that dulcet tone, and how wonderful it is that you aren't afraid to slap my face so hard that my eyes water. You should be giving yourself an extra-special congratulations if you are a man who has ever managed to make me cry. No, not by bludgeoning me with that big stick, you dolt, by getting into my head. My head is awful hard to get into. And if you do, it's not always the most comfortable of places to be. Some of my penchants for emotional fucking are a little out of most people's comfort zones. Nevertheless, you don't have to convince me that I am the worst person in the world, or that you have just killed my kitten to make me cry. All you have to do is take a part of me away. Because I promise you, every time a man truly penetrates those barriers, (the ones that are so invisible, most people don't even realise they are there), the tears will fall. Everytime I am taken to that place, the one where the line between consensual and non-consensual becomes questionable, I lose a little of myself.

So, you may have been there, done that, but can you make love?

And here's the thing. I don't do one-night-stands. When single, I'll occasionally fuck a friend or two, and I'll fuck a regular play-partner, if I have one (though, that kinda counts as a friend too). When in a relationship, I'll fuck my boy/man a lot, and depending on the nature of the relationship, the rest of the fucking still applies. The point is, almost all sexual activity that I engage in involves an expression of love, fondness, affection... whatever you want to call it. In short, I need a degree of emotional exchange to get off. In that sense, you could say that I am always making love.

Nuh-uh.

Firstly, making love = in love. We have to be in love with each other for this to be working. Secondly, and this is not a rigid requirement, I like my love-making served up unadorned, nothing added, nothing taken away. No whips, chains, impossibly large insertables.* In the past, my love-making has been notable by its complete lack of power dynamic. I am not dominating him, he is not dominating me. (Truth be told, even when engaging in the most normal sex, there is usually some sort of subbie/dommie spin I am creating in the privacy of my head). But I find the sheer wondrousness of the art of love-making so arousing that I don't need my kinky little foibles to have an orgasm. And please note, the lack of power dynamic is not deliberate, it just happens naturally. I should also make it clear that it would be impossible for people to do certain kinky things to me unless I loved them. And indeed, (as has been said), those acts are an expression of love.

But there is something inherently different about the way a man looks at me when he is making love to me. And I am fairly sure that he can see it in my eyes too. It is a look that is difficult to put into words. One that speaks of a want, need, not just for your lover's body, but for their mind and everything that they are. As if, for those fleeting moments, (before animalistic passion takes over, as it often does...), you could absorb, or breathe, the other person into yourself. After all, they are inside you, all over you.

And the eyes are so very important here. Your eyes should not break with mine. As you slowly push inside of me, I want to feel your eyes penetrate me as well. In addition to the word "eyes", another key word is "slowly". I am aware that this may shock some of you who know me well. After all, I am the girl that it seems impossible to fuck too hard and too fast. But may I remind you, we are not "fucking".

Nobody is saying that we can't speed things up a little in a moment. Slower is better for now. It allows one to fully appreciate the non-verbal exchange that is taking place. And this is another surprise. I am a great lover of aural sex (one of the quickest ways inside my head, if you do it right). However, due to my artistic temperament, I am highly emotionally charged, so when this love-making business occurs in just the right fashion, I am pretty much lost for words. And there are only three I have a need for at this point, "I love you".

*Important clarification: Obviously, if I am making love to a man, I do actually need an insertable strapped to my person, but it does not have to be impossibly large.

Food for thought...

http://bitchyjones.wordpress.com/2009/07/03/whos-a-pretty-boy-then/

Some boys are too good for this world.

Did you ever meet somebody who seems to exude goodness and warmth, strength and frailty? Somebody, who, when you look into their eyes, you see something there that sets them apart?

It was during March that I first laid eyes on Courtney. Alistair and I had thrown a party, and one of our friends had asked to bring someone with him. Alistair had met this person once before and recalled him being nice enough, but not that "fetishy". I was apprehensive... our friend had brought people along before, and I had wished he hadn't.

I took a little longer to get ready than is usual, and people had started to arrive by the time that I made it downstairs. As I recall, I was wearing my pink rubber baby-doll, (which has no relevance to the story). I walked into the living room, and there, sat at the table, was this slender yet wiry man. Apart from his boyish, very good looks (if Alistair has a picture in the attic keeping the wrinkles at bay, Courtney must pop to Never-Never Land each night... And these seem to be very appropriate comparisons. If faced with the question of whom best fits either Dorian Gray, or Peter Pan, the answer is very obvious). As I was saying, apart from his boyish good-looks, Courtney stood out due to a distinct lack of fetish-gear. He was wearing slightly baggy jeans, and a t-shirt, and was carefully rolling a spliff. I said a fleeting hello, and our paths did not cross much for the rest of the evening.

Until the dungeon. This was the night where Alistair had ever so slightly forgotten that it is rude to ignore the lady you are "with", whilst spending the whole night feeling up/abusing a newer girl. When faced with a situation like this, I did the only thing I could. I grabbed the pretty Courtney, put some eyeliner on him, and basked in his cuteness. I then proceeded to electrocute him with a violet wand, and later, attempt to fuck him in the medical room with a strap-on. Having never been "seen to" in this way, and given that we were both severely wasted, it was more a painful semi-rape. Courtney and I still look back on it wistfully, as he backs out of the room. To be honest, I didn't get very far, his little arse was way too tight.

Prior to the raping, we had spent some time getting better acquainted, and continued this, post-raping. We had an instant rapour, and that night/morning, I became friends with a very remarkable young man. It is quite disarming to have somebody who looks so young, and at times, innocent, speak as intelligently and profoundly as Courtney does.

Around this time, I realised that I could no longer go on living in the place that I was, as the people were driving me insane. It transpired that Courtney had a room that would soon be vacant in his flat, and the rest, as we say, is history.

In the time that I have lived with him, I have come to know a boy who is both extremely damaged, and extremely strong. In one of our conversations, I have said to him that some people seem to be touched by life more. Are more sensitive to the brutality of the world. Not that the world does not have its beauty. Courtney is one of those people. He is intensely smart and artistic, he has a studio and works in the sound industry. He is extremely "spiritual", and has achieved that rarity of speaking about such things, and not producing either a smirk or look of disdain on my atheist face. In fact, sometimes when he speaks of such things, I find myself wondering.

He is perhaps the most empathic person that I have ever met, and seems to be able to penetrate to a person's core, and know what they are thinking, feeling, what motivates them. He certainly knows exactly what to say to me, and when to say it. He sometimes seems to realise my thoughts even before I realise I am having them myself... And he has been wonderfully supportive of me throughout this twisted romantic soap-opera.

Courtney is an amazing, fascinating individual. I am lucky to know him, and live with him.

South Park Me

An ex and good friend of mine has captured my likeness. Since I am not especially eager to flaunt the whole face, this will do nicely. Note the carefully chosen elegant living space behind me...

I see you...

Sooner or later...

It was obvious that, eventually, there would come a point where I would not be able to write what I wanted to. For reasons, see earlier post about intrepid explorers.

Therefore, I have decided to write certain installments in draft only, with a view to feeding you at a more appropriate moment.

In the meantime, enjoy this little representative image, and pretend it is me. I know I will be...

Interesting times... often in the Chinese sense...

Last night, was a first. For almost its entirety, the ex and Ben were very much "together", and Alistair and I were the same, (though I felt it was slightly by default).

Dinner was good, and afterwards, we made it through a quarter of the second Harry Potter movie. Lucius or Severus, Severus or Lucius... Oh lord, why must you present me with such difficult decisions. Both at the same time? When the film was switched off, we made our way to bed, she with Ben, and I with Alistair. Happy happy.

In the morning, Alistair was very snuggly with me, curling up against me, and snaking his arm over me. For once, I think he had enough sleep, because he was the first to suggest we get up. I trundled downstairs to fetch the coffee, as is my ritual. Sometimes I marvel at what a great catch I am, and the fact that Alistair never scampers around my feet in sweet adoration. I brought him breakfast in bed yesterday afternoon, because he was too tired to get up.

Anyways, I am tremendously excited by this evening. We are having a large roast, with several friends invited. Among them is one of my favourite men whom I have yet to mention here. Not only is he a fantastic dom, but he is intelligent, kind, attentive, and a hoot. And he always knows the right things to say to make me smile.

Live from the Reichstag

I am sat on the sofa beside Alistair. We must look like bizarre twins, with our laptops resting on our knees, our dark attire, and our matching long, dark hair. Opposite me, the ex and Ben are snuggled on the other sofa in each others arms. Outside of everything that has happened, is happening, or will come to pass (I love dramatics), they are a sweet pair.

It's at times like these that I wish that they could be happy together, and Alistair and I could be happy together. And then, we could all link arms and skip into the sunset. Sunshine, lollipops, and rainbows everywhere.

It all sounds very nice, but I am not particularly certain that Alistair would want a "proper" relationship with me. I don't really bother to ask, because I don't think it would get me anywhere.

21.47 GMT: It's a couple of hours since the last post, and for the past hour, the ex and Ben have been absent. Having just come back from the loo, I can confirm that they are not upstairs. This means they must have gone downstairs, and even more likely, they are in the dungeon. Alistair has been looking increasingly more peeved. I am sure it is a mixture of the usual Ben/ex issue, and the fact that she was supposed to be roasting a duck for us tonight. I think we may be eating at the witching hour... I am always grateful when I am cooked for, and she has a marvellous talent for it, but my tummy is grinching at me. And besides, I would not dream of disappearing off for mutual molestations with Alistair and leave them sitting upstairs. It's a bit of a faux pas, isn't it?

Cupid Gets the Point

It was 6 0'clock on Thursday evening and I had made my decision much earlier in the day. No, I would not be going out to that London singles meetup off the internet, no I would not be wasting my makeup, and yes, I would be preserving my dignity. So it was inevitable that I would throw down my art pencil, and proudly exclaim, "Singles, here I come." Well, I have never been to one, and I am always looking for new levels of wrong. Not that all similar groups are wrong, but my spidey-sense was twitching.

On went the meticulously applied eyeliner and trademark red lipstick. I decided that my usual level of sexy would seem plain desperate in this environment, so I decided to show off the legs, (which at 35" on the inside, are one of my best features), and cover the top.

And she's off...

No, no she's not. Where is her appropriate coat? Bollocks, it's a Alistair's.

Call Alistair. Odd - no answer. Alistair recently told me that I did not need to ask to go round. Despite knowing that this is one of the silliest notions ever, I really needed my coat...

So with that, I strode purposefully, yet sexily out the door, (ignoring the cigarette hanging out of my mouth). I teetered up the steps to his house, punched in my access code, and upon entering, launched myself up the stairs. "Hello...? Alistair...?" The house seemed empty. I made my way up to the office, and there he was. With a face that had "bad time" written all over it, and a little storm-cloud hovering above his head. I asked if he was ok, and he shifted awkwardly. I said I needed my coat, and walked into the office. The ex was in one of the chairs, scrunched down, with her face buried into the back. She must have been crying, and she's the type who likes to feign invulnerability. Personally, I am all for bawling in public.

I grabbed my coat, refused to divulge my rather sad destination, and got the hell out.

We were told several million had been spent on the decor, we were told it was exclusive. It sits in the heart of Mayfair, so why shouldn't it be? As it transpired, Singles Night was held in a basement club consisting of two levels. Both designed to look like a 1980s nightclub from the Essex suburbs that thinks it's extra decadent. I basked in the splendour. Think cheap pink chaise-lounge with gold trim... think ornamental giant gold phallus in corner, think plastic perspex dancefloor with television screens underneath, connected to a camera filming the whole room... And then the overwhelming glory dimished when I surveyed the various life-forms surrounding me. Actually that makes it sound like the place was packed. To be honest, I was looking at a smattering of males with various degrees of social ineptitude. There was a small female contingent, which, apart from mad-mature-lady-in-floral-frock-and-brown-leather-bum-bag, seemed attractive and well adjusted. One by one, they departed rapidly.

Gin in hand, I decided to avoid eye-contact by staring at the large photo-slideshow on the wall. My suspicions were confirmed. This was a strip-joint. The curtained booths kinda gave the game away. Oh, the glory. The club proprieter clearly fancied himself, featuring in every other picture. He was old and round, and looked like a cross between an extra on Eastenders and a seaside-resort comedian from the 70s. He was resplendent in his vibrant pink suit, which was quite the most aggressive shade of pink that I have ever seen. What followed were several pictures of him with celebrities. As I sipped my gin, I pondered how he had come to be opening a car door for Cherie Boothe.

My train of thought was interrupted by a vacant looking man in a sports t-shirt and denim jacket and hat. He looked like he collected dolls. The kind that have convenient holes, and need a good wipe. We were surrounded by posters that shouted "Sexy and Single!", and I wondered if they could be prosecuted for false advertising. It became very clear why this man was still single. He proceeded to spend the next twenty minutes talking at me in monotone about the structure of the dancefloors of London. I was dying inside. I ran to the security of the loo.

It was bejewelled and punctuated with hearts. The sink was a heart. The lights were hearts. I threw open a cubicle door and was confronted by an odd shaped toilet seat lid, with a giant conch which had been made to look even more vagina-like. I stood and stared, and the woman in there with me told me to open the other doors. One contained a giant rhinestone egg, which one had to open the front of to reveal the toilet-seat. Another contained a giant plump, red mouth, where you could sit on the lower lip, and lean back on the upper. My loo of choice was a giant toad-stool, with Alice all the way from Wonderland looming over it.

During the evening, there were three men who were notable for their conversational skills. I mean to say that they could actually hold a coversation. One was a fairly cute black guy from Atlanta. He was around my age and had a gorgeous accent. He was nice enough, but not for me. He told me that the table of guys he was sitting with had been "checking me out", apparently thinking I was attractive enough, but too tall. I am used to this.

Rudy was the club photographer. He kept following me out to smoke and to tell me about all his amazing photographic escapades. I told him I frequented unusual clubs, and he leant in and whispered that he had done pictures at a fetish club once. He refused to allow me to leave without first taking my photo, and on our way back in, my heart leapt for joy. There, seated by the bar, was Mr. Pink himself. I was almost blinded by colour. "Rudy, make sure you take a picture of this beautiful woman," he barked. Rudy did. Sadly Rudy also tried to tempt me into the back room under the pretence of the privacy necessary to pose naturally.

As I left, Mr. Pink offered me a drink, asked me if I modelled, and promptly invited me to a sex party next week, which in his own words would be "A real one".

Oh, and man-who-collects-dolls was seen leaving with brown-leather-bum-bag-lady.

One last thing...

I have finally decided that I will go and attempt to pick me up something pretty tonight.

I wanted to leave things on a slight positive. I popped over to the Reichstag yesterday in a fit of the suicides. Alistair was quite sweet to me. Included in this sweetness was the moment when he came over to the sofa to share my cigarette. I was perched on its back looking out onto the balcony. He gently ran his fingertips up and down my back. I could feel the faint pressure of his nails. I love to be touched like this, it always gives me goosebumps. After a time, he smiled his mischievous smile, and pushed my hand against his crotch, and told me I was exciting.
Long live the small victory. My life pains me to distraction, and I generally look like a wreck. And in this particular instance, I looked like a wreck. Yet, I Miss Maisie, (that's Ms. to most of you), can still tighten pants, even when looking like a bag-lady who has just climbed out of a bin.
And actually, that does provide me with some comfort.

Sigyn

You should pronounce it "Sigün".

This is Sigyn:

The gentleman in chains, (if you could call him that), is her husband, Loki.
It struck me that Sigyn's name was mentioned in recent conversation, which has led to another train of thought.
Though relatively minor, she is my favourite of the Norse deities. Not only is she married to the mysterious, enigmatic, amoral, and at times, down right naughty, Loki, (obviously the god I'd most want to shag), she has one of the most touchingly beautiful myths surrounding her.

After Loki murdered Balder, the gods took their revenge. Thor prised three rocks out of the cavern floor of the underworld, and set them up on edge. A V-shape was split out of the top of the rocks. It was obvious that only magic bonds would hold Loki, and so Odin ordered the capture of Loki's two sons, Vali and Nari. The Gods charmed Vali into the shape of a wolf and he immediately set upon his brother, savaging him to death. Nari's entrails were collected and used to bind Loki so that he lay prone along the three rocks standing on edge: one stuck under his shoulders, the second under his loins, and the third under the hollows of his knees and ankles. Finally he was also bolted down with iron.
Skadi the giantess, daughter of Thiazzi and wife of Niord, caught a poisonous snake and trapped it by the tail so that it writhed above Loki's head, dripping its venom into his eyes. Each drop threw him into such terrific convulsions that the whole of Midgard shook.
Loki's faithful wife, Sigyn, vowed to the gods that she would sit with him forever, if only they would allow her to hold a basin under the poison drops. And there she now sits patiently beside her husband. However, every so often, her basin becomes full, and she must hurry away to empty it. In those moments, the snake's poison falls into Loki's eyes, and Midgard is once again shaken by earthquakes.

I know some Aphrodites, I know some Artemises, but I fear I am a Sigyn. Gah.

I almost snarfed my tea through my nose when I learned today that Sigyn means "victorious girlfriend". Oh, sweet laughter.

(Oh, and another thing, Loki once indulged in a spot of crossdressing in order to retrieve Thor's stolen hammer. And the parallels ride on...)

Snuggs

As I have said, I am way behind in documenting recent events. Especially the more explicit ones, which are probably what you want to read.

After the most recent party, Alistair "negotiated" with the ex, so that I could go to sleep with him in his bed that night. A proper weekend should always end tucked up in bed with the person you are with. Kinda sad though, isn't it, that if I want to do something as simple as fall asleep next to a man I love, it has to be "negotiated"?

It was almost as if he knew that on the other Sunday, I cried all the way home. Thankfully, I live within spitting distance, as I was dehydrated to begin with. From behind his closed door, Courtney sensed the upset, and came into my room. I remember spluttering something about my efforts to make his birthday special, but still not meaning quite enough to him that he'd ask me to stay the night. Despite this, I did not do or give anything to gain anything, and even with hindsight, I would do the same again. It's just that every once in a while, reality punches.

But we were discussing the most recent party, and the fact that I got to stay the night. The longer this drama goes on, the more I am afraid that men and women really are different, something I have always disputed with a passion. I say this because when I told Courtney about the "negotiation", and how it gained me a pillow, he grinned and said "Result! You must be pleased." And I responded with saying that it would have been nice if it had been done because Alistair wanted to spend the night with me, not because he thought I would be irked if I did not spend the night with him. Is it a woman thing? You see, I want to be made to feel like he wants me, not reminded that I want him... Courtney gave me a playful, verbal smack. He said it was a good thing, and an acknowledgement of my needs... and I had to agree. Since it is the thought that counts, one must try to understand the intentions behind the thoughts.

In any case, for whatever the reason it was done, it felt good to be under the covers in his arms.

Never one to miss the opportunity to tease me, he told me that he looked forward to my next blog entry. What followed was a quiet discussion of the blog and the situation. Instead of being riddled with angst and frustration, it was oddly tender. And, whilst I am a woman who thrives on consensual abuse, the best way to soothe my mind is through tenderness and love. Being told you are loved, being hugged, they are both wonderful, but anyone can do that. It's those moments where you can really feel it, believe it, that's the good stuff. A previous entry contains one of those moments (in fact, it's the most read one). This wasn't quite the same as that, but I felt calm and warm.

I apologised if anything he read had offended or upset him. He told me it hadn't because everything I wrote was the truth, though some areas were my own particular take on things (naturally). He said that the only thing which had upset him was the amount of hurt he had caused. I fell silent. It felt as if I was sinking down, down into the bed. He held me a little tighter and kissed my head. As I write now, I wonder how it feels inside his head. What he felt at that moment. I asked Alistair if he realised that the ex is in love with Ben. He said that it was pretty obvious, but that she grows bored of people quickly. So I suppose he means to do what he did last time she was with someone else. Hang on, hoping that the other man will eventually go away. I told him this. It all seems to point to the fact that he wants to be with the ex, (which is supremely inconvenient, because if he gets his wish, I shall have to think of another name for her on this blog). He always simply says that he doesn't know what he wants. Alistair told me that he doesn't know what will happen. He said that he knows that she loves him, but is not in love with him, and he knows that I am in love with him. And we all know where this conversation led.

I asked him if he was in love with me. What he said was this. "I think am. I mean, I have all the same feelings as when I am." I was expecting one of two answers. Either that one, or "Why must you always differentiate between types of love?" Courtney had an interesting take on it, and here we are back again at the men are from Mars crap. Courtney thought it was a good answer. For had it been a resounding yes, it stood a 50-50 chance of being a lie. As Courtney saw it, Alistair was honest with me... According to him, love is a confusing thing for guys, and they're not always sure, it's up down and all around. Is it? Or, perhaps Alistair is not in love with me, and this response was the gentler "get out of jail" alternative.

I wonder, if the situation was not complicated, (and even with the situation like it is), does he see any possible longevity between us? And I am not looking for an anything is possible Flying Spaghetti Monster type answer here. I want sensible.

And I have to congratulate myself, because assuming he will read this, (by the way, hi Alistair), I have done an excellent job of still writing as I would have anyway. If nothing else, we can enjoy the fact that an extra sick twist has now been added. The wronger, the better, I always say.

Failure and small victories.

Failure because I failed yet again to write a decent blog entry due to unmanageable depression. Success, because in spite of this, or maybe because of this, I managed to have my first orgasm in I can't remember how long. The head-pills prevent me reaching orgasm, like any drugs relating to seratonin. But I gave it my best shot, and victory was mine. I was, however, left with the rather uncomfortable fact that my despair aided my arousal.

I spent most of the day laying on my bed, my brain metaphorically oozing onto the floor. This led me to want to go back to sleep, as this is my favourite method to shut down the horrible feelings in my head. And the circle goes round, because sleeping my life away and accomplishing nothing only makes me loathe myself more.

I stared at the ceiling and thought of interesting physical ways I could be hurt which could produce some tears, thus making me feel better. Which led to me thinking of non-physical ways. Which led to me thinking of various methods of degradation. Which led to the extremely weird headspace of absolute desolation and rampant horn.

But at least I came.

Bravo.

Now the news is reporting on a sex-ed program to cut pregnancy among at-risk teenagers. Apparently, it didn't work. I wonder if it had worked, would they have reported it? In any case, background is so important. If these kids had been brought up with opportunity and ambition, something to strive towards other than a quickie behind the bikeshed (whoa, do they still have those?), perhaps they wouldn't have fallen pregnant.

Good Grief.

They make a sperm in a test-tube, and already it's all about the outrage of "removing the need for a man". Because obviously, men are defined by there ability to impregnate women.

Now how am I supposed to write with honesty...?

It was always easier when I could pretend that Alistair was not reading my blog, but he had to go and make it Crystal Tipps clear, didn't he? How on earth do I write exactly what is on my mind now? No matter how hard I try, on a subconscious level at the very least, things will be affected.

I have decided that I will attempt to press on. I can't help wondering if reading this has altered how he feels about me, us, all of it? Mostly, I am not actually that bothered, since I stand by all that I have said. To be sure, some of it was written in the heat of the moment, but it was real at the time. He says he looks forward to my next post, but I have to go rearrange the kitchen cupboards first.

Poor time management.

So I still have to tell you about Club Antichrist, and Alistair's birthday party, (and I really did have an awesome time playing with him...) I will get round to it.