I am the skin, the cloak, the hood, the claw
I am the part of your heart you don’t care for any more
I am the ache of your teeth when something’s too sweet
I am the scratch on your back that bleeds with heat
I am sorry, I am guilty, I can’t be consoled
I am foreign and frightening, I am too hard to hold
I am the pieces of paper in the pit of your pocket
I am the texts and emails kept tight in your locket
I am the shriek in your face when I can’t get it right
I am the total disaster in a sleepless night
I am giving, forever, and warming, and true
I am all you need, I am everything, I am there in you
I am not your fault and I am not your friend
I am more than you can take, and beginning to end
I am the lies you tell yourself when you find me elsewhere
I am unbidden and wanted, I am the room to spare
I am every sad song you ever heard ever
I am every bad choice you ever make never
I am the howl in your chest and the blood in your soul
I am the teeth and the grit and the choke and the hole
I am the pain in the words and the last goodbye
I am the cold coffee on the platform
I am a forgotten voice
I am passive-aggressive subtext
I am nothing
OK, so, like, I have a thing where I have to sleep on the right side of the bed.
Always. I always sleep on the right. It’s MY side. You want to sleep with me? You’re on the LEFT, boyo. Or womano, I ain’t fussy.
There’s a reason for this. It’s a bit weird. Bear with me.
Generally, I like to sleep on the side nearest the door. When I lived in Portsmouth with my ex, in our first proper grown-up house, with our first proper real grown-up bed, I slept on the right, nearest the door. This was in case a murderer came in to our room in the middle of the night and tried to murderise us. I figured that, if I was nearer the door, I could, like, quickly wake up and deftly dodge round him and escape, while he murderised my husband. I know. I’m ALL HEART.
There are flaws to this plan. It’s been pointed out to me many a time. It’s obvious to some that me being nearer the door could, potentially, mean that I get murderised first? Whatevs. I know what I’m doing when it comes to murderers*. So I staked my claim on the right side of the bed. And it’s always been that way. The right side is MINE. The few times I’ve tried to sleep on the left, it’s been WEIRD and HASN’T WORKED. The left side is for losers. YEAH.
Until the other night when I realised I was sleeping in a double bed, all by myself, and I still slept on the right side. Just one side. Of a big old double bed. Half the bed was empty. Has been for a while. Huh.
So I slept in the middle.
Now I sleep in the middle. I’m still kind of near the door. And also nearer the window. But I’m in the middle of a double bed, by myself.
I’m not sure if this is supposed to be a sad post, or not.
Do you sleep on the right, or the left? Does it matter to you?
*Disclaimer: haven’t a fucking clue
Y’all know I’m a virgin, right? I wrote about how I’m not at all kinky and also about how I wear cardigans, which as anyone knows, means I’m a total virgin. Yes, yes, I know I said I wasn’t a virgin, but I lied. I really am. You want to know why? Well. Cos I have never owned a sex toy. Unless you count Benedict Cumberbatch trussed up in my dungeon. But GENERALLY SPEAKING, I have not ever had a sex toy in my possession. No dildos, no vibrators, no (oh god what else is there) erm, shmexy, uh, dancing wiggling THINGS that are, er, inserted in places. Variously. Innit. Quite literally: innit.
ANYWAY. Up until now, I have not owned a sex toy.
But then I bought a dildo.
At the risk of sounding even more virginal, what the FARK do I do with it? What’s the etiquette? What are the dildos and dildon’ts? Do I whisper nice things to it? Do I take it out for dinner? Maybe I should treat it mean and keep it keen? Or, perhaps, do a shmexy dance for it? I’m guessing – eventually – I shall have to use it for the purpose for which it was created. However I have an inkling that I will probably spend a good deal of time sitting on my bed and LAUGHING MY ARSE OFF as it sits, turgid, upon my duvet.
I have never done anything like this before! This is my first proper sex toy experience! I’ve always had, y’know, the real thing to play with, so not really felt a need for anything made out of vulcanised steel or whatever it is that makes it sound all manly and thrusting. I know many couples use a plethora of sex toys anyway, and yeah, I’ve probably missed out on YEARS of sexytime fun parties with just me and my toys, but heck, I told you, I’m an innocent sweet little ingénue. I have never even HELD a dildo before. Or a vibrator. Though I’m a bit wary of vibrators. In my mind, they sound a lot like lawnmowers. I do not want a lawnmower/foof interface on my brain while I’m indulging in some personal lovemaking time. I digress. I have a good idea of what to do with a dildo. Please don’t leave any comments along the lines of ‘oh just shove it up there woman’. I kind of assume that’s the endgame here.
Maybe this will be the start of a beautifully filthy new relationship with the world of sex toys. Maybe, soon, I will be like a Sex Toy Empress. I really DOUBT it though. Once a virgin, always a virgin. My poor dildo will be mocked and left in a drawer to gather dust. Poor dildo! I could send it (him?) on vacations? Loan him out? He’ll get lonely otherwise. He’ll need friends, drinking buddies. Yeah. Anyone else think I’m anthropomorphising my dildo just a bit too much?
I have a dildo. it’s just a cock-shaped piece of stuff. What now? You lot seem, uh, experienced. Gimme some ideas.
That was my fierce roar. Geddit? See, I can be fierce. I can do TIGER EYES. *does tiger eyes* No, I am not merely squinting a bit. These are the EYES of a FIERCE TIGER. Be scared! Go on! RAAAAAR!
OK I’m kidding. I’m not really fierce. I got called fierce today, which was nice, but made me snorty laugh a bit, not in a derisory way, but just cos I don’t believe I am fierce, so when I get called it, I am all disbelieving, innit.
Someone I know on Twitter wanted some advice regarding their relationship break-up and while I couldn’t really offer any practical hints and tips in regard to their specific situation, I made sure to offer support and to lend an ear should they need one. They mentioned that they knew I was going through something similar myself from reading my blog, and wished they could be ‘as fierce’ as me. See? Fierce. Raaaaar. OK I will stop doing tiger eyes now. I can’t really see properly when I do that anyway.
Fierce. There’s nowt fierce about my separation. Sad, frustrating, heart-wrenching, lonely, bitter, sometimes bearable, agonising, shit and, erm, sad are terms I’d use. I have not felt fierce about it at all. I’m not sure when fierce became an acceptable vernacular for something positive (I blame Tyra Banks and her legions of squinty-eyed models) either. To my mind, fierce infers a fighting spirit, someone with a bit of spunky courage, sharp nails and a mane of hair, a loud roar and battle-ready. Is that me? I dunno. Maybe I should invoke some ferocity. Sounds fun. I can be fierce! I’ve got the eyes for it. And nails. I have sharp nails. RAAAAAAR *cough* *sucks on a throat sweet*
Some people NEED to be fierce during their separation. Sometimes it’s called for. Whether it’s cos the ex is being a mook or cos you need to stand up for what you’re entitled to, a bit of ferocity and, um, spunk can go a long way. Do it. Go for it. Be fierce. It’s better than being walked over, surely? I’m fortunate in that my ex and I get on, we communicate, and we can – I hope – one day move into an easy friendship; and we both adore The Moo, so y’know, that makes life a bit calmer. Not everyone has that luck of the draw. But I think if I had to, well… I’d be fierce. With knobs on.
I think what I’m trying to say (bear with me, caller) is that if you can see ferocity in what I do and it helps you, then GOOD. Makes all this blogging shizzle worthwhile. I like to think that y’all prefer me fierce to maudlin, innit.
*squints again* RAAAAAAA – *cough* Must stop doing that.
Can you be fierce? How d’you turn on the ferocity?
Delete as appropriate
John Dave Geoff Other
This is the
easiest most fun hardest letter I have ever had to write.
I’ve spent most of the morning
drinking rum dancing naked in the rain crying. I realise that there was nothing I could say that you wanted to hear. I hope I didn’t make a nuisance of myself. I’m a total arse-biscuit fuck-donkey twat-face noob like that.
In a way, it is better that I express myself through
mime sky writing blogging. I can’t say everything I want to say here, but, I hope you know anyway. Otherwise, it’s all been for nothing.
Choose one or more of the following clichés:
- it’s not you, it’s me
- it’s for the best
- time’s a great healer
- it will get better
Or write your own:
I never saw this coming. I thought we were solid. How farking shiteballs.
In the meantime I will put on
an air of nonchalance a tartan cape a brave face. This may seem stupid uncaring cold-hearted or all three but I don’t know what else to do. Life has been so stupidly totally really hard lately that I sometimes feel quite hysterical. I guess this is all a coping mechanism. Hope you find one too.
Choose one or more of the following sentiments:
- I miss you √
- I will always adore you √
- you are one of the best people I have the privilege to know √
Or write your own:
You said it won’t ever be the same. But in my heart I know one day it will be better than it ever has been.
WARNING: PUBLISHING THIS LETTER IS ILL-ADVISED, ESPECIALLY IF THE USER IS UNDER EXTREME EMOTIONAL DISTRESS AND HAS NOT REALLY SLEPT VERY WELL. THE USER MUST ACCEPT ALL RESPONSIBILITY FOR ANY ADVERSE REACTIONS. IF YOU ARE THE USER AND ACCEPT RESPONSIBILITY, CROSS HERE : X
Choose one or more sign off:
- yours sincerely
- yours faithfully
- that’s all folks
Or write your own:
Print your name here:
a broken-hearted MoVo
Family members/the Queen and the Pope/anyone called Geoff may want to look away NOW. Innit. Soz!
Let’s talk about shmex.
No, c’mon, let’s! It’ll be fun. Ish.
OK, OK, I’ll start. With a confession. Y’all know I’m not a kinky soul cos I told y’all in this here blog post that I’m not. Not even close. The kinkiest I get is dropping biscuit crumbs down my cleavage by accident and then getting someone else to fish them out. I know, I know: form an orderly queue, please.
So it may not amaze you to learn that the missionary is my shmexual position du jour, tous les jours. I heart it. Like, proper woop woop let’s DO THIS heart it. Oh, I’ll do others. But I’ll inevitably default to the good ol’missionary. Yee-ha.
Why? Let’s face it: I get to lie down; all the fun stuff happens as it should cos all the fun bits are in the correct position for fun stuff to happen; and, erm, yeah, I get to lie down. OH AND ALSO, I can gaze lovingly into the face of my loved one. Cough. OF COURSE. That goes without saying, obvs.
I don’t think I’m alone in this. Maybe it’s not fashionable or cool to admit to liking the missionary, but I don’t care. When do I ever care? It’s sex, sex is fun, we should be able to talk about sex without fear of judgement or ridicule. So I like possibly the most tame position out of all the positions there are (there’s about four – yeah? No? Four and a half?) – so what? I don’t hear anyone I’ve had sex with WHILST ASSUMING THE AFOREMENTIONED POSITION complaining. Unless their complaint is being delivered to me by Royal Mail. In which case, I might never receive it, you’ll have to resend it. Using recorded kiss-my-arse.
And what else is there, anyway?
What about the other popular shmexual positions? I say ‘popular’, I mean, ‘ones I can think of’ and without googling ‘shmexual positions’ – which I probably shouldn’t do – I can think of about three more. I know. I have a lot to learn. Innit.
Well, there’s girl on top. This is good, I can work with this. My boobs look great when I’m on top. On the downside, my thighs hurt like a bastard afterwards. Either I’m really really really unfit or I’m doing it wrong. But, it’s OK. This is maybe my second favourite.
And the charmingly named doggy style. FFS. I know why it’s called that, but still. FFS. Boys like this one, and fair enough. Personally, in the moment, yes, let’s go for it – but if you go near my, uh, other hole, you will be swiftly expelled from the premises. That is not for playing with. Never and no way.
One more? Is there? Oh crikey. Thought I’d done them all. I am so lame at this. Oh, y’know what? FARK IT. I love missionary. And unless someone can convince me otherwise, that’s how I’ll remain. I might get a T-shirt made: MISSIONARY LOVER. Maybe not.
Maybe a badge.
Do you love missionary? C’mon, own up. If not, what rocks your horizontal (or maybe not!) world?
Friends. Friends are good, yeah? There’s songs about them. And TV sitcoms that revolve around groups of them. Literary novels and epic poems written in their honour. They’re everywhere. Look! A friend! How lovely. I love my friends. Y’all are supery-dupery niceness on a plate, with added shmink and rum cocktails. Innit.
We need friends. Friends get us through all the troublesome bits of our lives. They lift you above the scummy patches. They make you lemonade when all you got is lemons. Or something. I’ve counted on my friends A LOT in recent times and I am truly grateful to every single one of them. Makes me feel all warm and squishy inside, it does. Though that could be the rum cocktails.
This is why I am ruminating on friendship: I’ve been worrying the last week whether it is possible to remain friends with my ex. I mean, sure, it is POSSIBLE. But do I want to? This is a man I am still married to, but separated from. By all accounts we now lead different lives. He has his friends, a new job starting soon which means a move to a different city, opportunities to get on with things afresh and – ostensibly – without my input. Fine; fair enough. Am happy with that. I’m doing my own kind of moving on. We’re cool. It’s groovy.
But friends? Like I said, friends do good things for you. They’re yo buddies, ya mates. I can’t think that I’d call my ex if I needed a good sob about my love life. Ack, no. Similarly, I don’t want to know about his. I’m guessing that topic is totes off limits, as might be money, personal bodily malfunctions, family matters, celebrity divorce (too topical) and, erm, the state of the economy (just cos I find it boring). So we talk about the usual stuff, which generally means: Moo. And films. Again, fine. No problemo. I can do the whole ‘let’s be amicable’ bit. It’s when things get a bit iffy that I baulk.
Like last weekend, when I had some issues with one of his so-called friends. Ha! That’s a whole different vent about friendship and what it means. But I guess y’all got the gist of that anyway. Yeah. Ahem. Indeed, I just feel awkward now, knowing that a person I object to rather violently is still a part of his life, and it seems I can’t do anything about it. Fun times. On top of that, it’s our wedding anniversary at the end of this month. A day of sadly fond remembrances. Huzzah. Wahoo. That’ll be weird on a stick.
So it’s a tricky concept, methinks. The whole friends-with-my-ex thing. Am I hoping for too much? Is there always going to be a barrier there? Or do I just need to give us some time? Everything is still so raw. I can’t conceive of ANYTHING long-term right now, cos if a year ago you’d have said all this would be happening, I’d have guffawed in yer face and most likely given you a Chinese burn for being a cheeky minx and making up such horrors about me and mine.
I’m sure what we have is better than what others have. In fact, I know it is. And I know I’m most likely overthinking again. But that’s what blogs are for, right? Overthinking spillage? But I genuinely want to know: how do I deal with this?
Tonight is DATE NIGHT. Wahoo!
This is one of them age-old traditions that couples have. It usually means that a) you have finally found someone to babysit your little demon, and b) you need to inject a little ‘magic’ back into your withered love life. A date night used to involve not shaving your legs in preparation, sitting in silence throughout most of a meal somewhere vaguely popular but definitely beyond your means, and then attempting some fumbly shmexy-time in the car while the babysitter sits inside and necks all your farking liquor.
However, this is the modern age. And it’s me.
So, date night tonight will go something like this:
not shaving my legs in preparation (some things don’t change)
trying to find something to wear that won’t show bristly legs
trying to find something to wear that won’t show bristly armpits (not shaved them either)
downing a glass of rum and coke at lunchtime
downing a glass of rum and coke at tea time
downing a bottle of rum just generally
watching the news so I have some topics of conversation for the date lined up
switching from the news to Cbeebies after about 2 minutes
inventing a game called ‘Which Cbeebies Presenter Would I Like To Slap/Shag/Shag Some More’ to play later on the date
wrestling Moo into bed
assuring babysitter that Moo is asleep when she blatantly isn’t (‘She’s sleep-TALKING’)
leaving babysitter sobbing quietly on sofa as Moo wreaks havoc upstairs
rushing back to clean teeth
then drinking some more rum
checking Twitter to make sure that EVERYONE knows that I am on a date
seeing intended date is on Twitter tweeting about something non-date related and getting annoyed that he’s not going on about how beautiful/exquisite/what thrilling company I am
seeing that, actually, most of Twitter could not be arsed that I am on a date
crying a bit
getting to restaurant and realising it is quite posh and I am wearing what can only be described as ‘bedraggled’
seeing date is already there, and sitting at the bar, on his phone, tweeting
drinking some more rum
showing my date my bristly legs WITHOUT HIM EVEN ASKING
eating a small amount of food which tastes heinous but costs more than my council tax bill
sitting in silence
playing my ‘Which Cbeebies Presenter…’ game and getting annoyed when he says he wants to shag Katy
sitting in silence
drinking some more rum
saying it’s getting late even though it’s only a quarter to nine
he walks me home (in silence, tweeting)
I don’t drive so we can’t fumble in a car, we try in a bush instead but feel self-conscious just as he undoes my bra and we realise a cat is watching us rather intently
anyway fumbling stops short when his palm encounters my bristly armpit
and I vomit rum and posh food onto his shoes
get indoors and discover babysitter has necked all my liquor (some things don’t change)
and Moo has run off and invaded several Eastern European countries in my absence
date night ends both of us comatose on the sofa watching psychic network TV, just like EVERY OTHER NIGHT
Nah, I’m only kidding. Tonight will be ace.
What does ‘date night’ mean for you? Or are they a thing from a bygone age?
Hello bedfellow. Hi there.
You’re rather wonderful, aren’t ya? Yeah, thought so. In many, many ways – handsome, charming, witty, kind, with the correct amount of limbs – you’re my ideal partner in crime. Innit.
So, sometime mattress companion – here’s the rub – and not ‘rub’ in a GOOD way, like neck rub or, erm, clitoral rub – why oh why oh WHY oh why the fark do you snore?
Hmm? Why? WHY?
What is this snoring that occurs? Is it you? Or is it some malevolent creature that squats beneath your side of the bed and pretends to be you? I cannot believe that such noises would emanate from your gorgeous head. The guttural rasping of nightly beasts! Ack, how it dost haunt me!
I know I am not without nocturnal disadvantages. I have been known to sleep-walk, sleep-talk, and sleep-punch-people-in-the-tits. I do also snore, yea verily, especially if my sinuses are compromised by the creeping and deathly mucous. But not ALL THE FARKING TIME. Not each night. No siree, cap’n.
Now we are voyaging on this ‘special friendship’ cruise, I am anticipating many a night on the deck beneath the stars, if you get my slightly vague meaning. I do not want the moment ruined by an errant narwhal rising to the sea’s surface and bassooning into the ether. What the fark is narwhal anyway? *googles it* Wait – is that what’s beneath my bed? Is that why my bedroom SMELLS OF FISH? I thought that was me. FFS.
Crikey, I digress. Dear bedfellow, darling man o’mine, you exceed expectation in all areas, be assured of that. I cannot stress this enough.
I just can’t farking sleep with a snorer.
Short of spending the darkest hours asunder, what can we do? I want to wake refreshed and in yer arms, not frazzled and churlish after a night listening to your nasal song-singing.
Much love from downstairs on the sofa at almost midnight,
Gawd, sorry, SORRY EVERYONE, here I am! Hello, here, over here. Yeah, that’s me. Sorry I’ve been lacking a bit on the blog front lately but I’ve been, erm, distracted? There’s been all the crap-hooley about my financial situation, then my flying monkeys got nicked and there was the media fallout from THAT, and uh, I’ve had a cold, and, tum-te-tum, y’know, Moo and stuff.
Oh fark it, I’ve been having a swell time with my fella, innit.
All those other things are TRUE anyway but, yeah, having a house guest – and such a handsomely diverting one as well – just fills my evenings up, and that is not a euphemism, or maybe it is, just a really vague one that doesn’t make a lot of sense if you think about it for any length of time.
But now I have une dilemma catastrophique: what the fark do I blog about?
I wrote a blog post t’other evening which I feel I can’t publish without my gentleman consort’s prior approval. This is odd for me. I am not known for my discretion. I just, erm, spaff it all out there. People commend me for my ‘brutal honesty’ – well, great, but I do just have a big mouth. Usually I am not bothered by the giddy levels of personal revelation that I reach on this blog. Obvs I don’t tell y’all EVERYTHING, but hey, you’ve all seen me naked so what else is there to hide?
This is different though, innit. This is someone else. Someone who has become – shall we say – heavily involved in my life. And yeah, even though I guess the majority of you KNOW WHO IT IS ALREADY, are you really prepared for me to blog about stuff that might, erm, be construed as TOO MUCH FARKING INFORMATION…?
Twice this morning – TWICE, already, just THIS morning – I’ve jokingly threatened to tweet some things that my consort would clearly NOT be happy about me tweeting. And if he reads this, yes, I mean the thing about the curry bucket, and yes, also the thing about your thing. Not your THING thing, just the thing thing. Or do I mean the thing THING? Maybe I mean the thing THING thing. Oh my, I guess that’s THREE things now…
My point is: there’s a whole untapped wealth of blog material here. Loads of it. Curry buckets of it. And, frustratingly – somewhat selfishly – a bit sadly – I probably can’t write about it. Not right now, anyway.
I’m now thinking blackmail.
Oh but damn, that works both ways. Damn. *thinks about what he could blog about me**gulps* DAMN.
So, c’mon, how shtum should I keep? What do you want to know, and what should I keep between ourselves? And I should really be talking to him about all this stuff, yeah? Ah, he’ll read this, it’ll be fine.