Blissful morning turned to unacquainted mourning. Bright
sunlight peering around the historic bell towers and dreaming spires soon to be quashed by a
blanked of eerie silence; eerie yet respectful, yet voyeuristic, yet nothing.
The silence only punctuated by two sounds; the sound of life exiting from a
height and sirens. The harsh rupture of one seemed to mute the latter. That or
the shock surrounding my bones sought to protect my human mind from the
realisation of reality. Shock comforted me like a mother comforts a child for a
fraction of a second and an eternity all at once. Then shock loosened its
maternal grip; plunging me into the blood-bath surrounding his head that his
forest green jumper attempted to mop up from the previously sun-kissed ground –
It’s like I'm the only person that can see the chalk outline
on the floor. It’s like I'm the only passer-by to feel a ghost in the tower
haunting my every working day. I trace around it with a wide berth and shed a
tear. I stand a meter from the site. I take a view point and sob further.
Crying uncontrollably is saved for buses and other public areas. The foetal
position is reserved for my bed with the light on.
She awoke to his far from flaccid manhood pressed intensely
into her femininely arched back. It was like a burning poker iron against
almost-branded frail flesh. The realisation of this startled her; not even due
to the hot-headed desire that it had riled in the chasm of her loins and her
soul but purely the fact that she had broken her one golden rule – no spending
Her reckless abandon of the rule book, her lace underwear
and her emotional guards had left her naked and exposed on numerous levels. This
thought however had darted from her mind as he wrapped his toned arms around
her svelte waist and his lips pressed heavily onto her collar bone. With one
telling gasp she lowered her guard further and twisted her body to fit the
mould that he had created for her.
Should she open her eyes to meet his gaze? Her one glance
could be all too telling but she could feel his harsh scrutiny challenging her
to bare her soul. She decided against confronting his eyes and buried her face
into his chest taking in the residue of last night’s pleasure with her
rose-blushed lips. If she worked her way down his body she believed that she
could further avoid the taunting curiosity of his stare that mocked her
newly-uncovered emotional weaknesses.
He allowed her to think that she was escaping him. That he
would consent to her using her lips as a weapon as she evasively edged
downwards. Her rigid nipples were one fleeting moment away from grazing the
tops of his thighs and her mouth consuming his body. She paused. Poised. Too
long. He ripped her from her safe-place and up to meet his face. She
instinctively hid herself away again, this time in his kiss. Forcefully she
pushed her body against his. Her breasts beating to the rhythm of her pulse
against his chest. Her hands exploring his hair wildly as she wrapped her legs
around him; engulfing his penis in her desire.
It was too late. She’d fallen. He knew he had her.
The year of the snake. So far, so bad. It's turning out to be anything but snake-like. What I wouldn't give for that late 1990's soda stream of dodgy men with their questionable morals and fashion sense.
Gone are the days when a man was a man and - controversial I know - I blame us women. We've pushed the men into the uniformity of metrosexuality and now I'm starting to wonder if we've pushed them too far. Sometimes it seems that their genitals have been tucked so far between their legs under the pretense of forming the infamous, banterous "mangina" that we may have caused them to evolve into men with inverted ball bag/ vaginas. It may even be a pandemic.
The last thing that I want to be doing when waiting to be fed dinner-date style is to be hanging around for the one - supposedly with the balls in the relationship - to preen themselves to within an inch of their life as my life is slowly passing me by.
If I ever see another male metrosexual sobbing into his popcorn at the latest chick-flick I think I might have to start crying myself. That would obviously be if I had the option given that I had my tear ducts removed years ago. They're now safely stowed in a jam jar on a shelf next to my ice-cold heart and apparently all of the testicles of all of the men in the land (or at least the men in my locale)!
I am actually contemplating a loan service whereby I loan out my big balls. I'm going to pass them around and allow one male at a time to strap them on. I'm then going to individually invite all of these boys to "man up!" Maybe this will be the start of something beautiful... It would certainly be a public service. I wonder if there's Government funding available for this.
***Note to self: work on Dragons Den pitch ASAP***
This little rant all came about for various reasons. One of which being my self-inflicted single self being surrounded by the usual litter of love-sick puppies come Valentine's Day (occupational hazard). All of which were clambering last minute all over each other for something that sparkles so their respective other halves didn't send them to the doghouse later that evening. That and possibly the vain attempt that they would be dry humping more than their bitches' legs if she had enough to drink with the slap up commercial meal or the M&S two can dine in. Who says romance is dead? I DO!
I guess that all of this cynicism wasn't helped by my poorer than usual luck with men at the time. Obviously I'm using the term 'men' in the biological sense and as that was what was registered on their birth certificates as their specified genders. However, I prefer to use this term very loosely or disregard it altogether in the favour of a slightly more accurate replacement...
You know when you have one of those simple yet amazingly perfect ideas? One where the plan just comes together and falls into place? One where you get all your nearest, dearest and crudest all into one room? Well do that; add wine and food but also throw in the old chestnut of ‘absences making the heart grow fonder’. That was the cocktail of choice for my last Friday night.
I thought I’d name this blog entry as above for two reasons:
1. The reminiscent sentiment of it all…the hours of fun spent in the Netherthorpe Common Room with these girls and…
2. You’ll see for yourselves later (oh dear).
I thought I’d put on my best Oxford pretence and invite the Northerners around for an evening of culture and fine dining. As they all know me well, they also knew that sentiment was a load of crap! I like food and I love wine but the only way that this evening would have the word “fine” attached to it would be in the form of the sentence, “Day-um, he’s fine” ***insert dodgy ghetto accent here***.
Before the gaggle of girlies had arrived I’d set the table (twice), planned a starter of Italian nibbles and began to sweat the onions for the risotto di pesce. The girl with the scarf longer than her skirt was providing the tiramisu dessert (in keeping with the Italian theme that was more of an accident than an actual set theme – story of my faux Italian life). Then they arrived.
The use of the letter ‘H’ and the word ‘the’ was left at t’door. My accent was back and I was not afraid to use it!
For some reason we had two bottles of non-alcoholic beverages (Shloer) on the table, I think this is some sort of northern humour although I'm not sure; it has been five years since I became southern.
Some of these girls I had not seen for months yet we still slipped into our comfort zone of gossiping and bitching as if it was second nature (it may even be first nature for a few of us). By the second bottle of wine we had all certainly forgotten that we were in our twenties. We been cast back a decade luckily minus the skin issues and social awkwardness. It felt like ‘ome ***Southern translation - home***. And let's face it if you can't be yourself at 'ome then where can you be?
This then meant that we almost instantly went on to discuss 13 lbs babies, vaginas ripped to shreds for all the wrong reason and any other topic of conversation that would have gotten your standard come dine with me session marked down for ruining the "ambience". Luckily for these girls, nothing could kill the mood other than their respective boyfriends (but that's another story).
I was fully caught up on any northern dealings that had failed to make local Oxford news or even a simple Facebook status. The common room-ers were also caught up on any rumours involving Oxford folk too and we had been debriefed on each girl's current relationship statuses. Even the ones left off of Facebook because no-one wants to admit "it's [really that] complicated" to 500+ so called friends and random people. My personal issue with Facebook is that they only allow you to have one other name linked to yours and there isn't the option -'Such-and-such is "just friends" with...' I mean what do the Mormons do? Maybe I should feed this back to Mark Zuckerberg...
Unfortunately for all of the gang - bar myself - whilst we had been so engrossed in certain peoples' lives, their latest city breaks, ugly babies and doomed marriages it had been snowing -a lot! Sian's stinking pumps were - needless to say - the least practical piece of footwear on offer for what was about to follow.
We all said our goodbyes. I may have shed a tear (obviously a delayed reaction to the earlier onion sweating) and managed to blag myself one third of slutty-skirt's outfit (no, not her skirt or scarf, just a lovely little ring piece). It was at this stage that I went upstairs to bed; emotionally exhausted, throat killing from the gossip and sides hurting from the giggles.
Meanwhile in Hollingwood....Muhahahahaha!
This little lot were pushing a little car up a big hill in tiny, smelly shoes.
The moral of this story is:
If you're going to be bitches then karma will bite you in the ass later that evening. Unless you're bitching in your own home. Then you just get a free item of jewellery!
of you may or may not know, my Grandmother recently passed away. It was prior
to this and during that I took leave of my writing, my senses and my capability
to function within society without breaking down or making inappropriate jokes.
the hardest things any human will ever have to do is lose a loved one and I am
no exception to this rule. The fact that this has been ten years in the making
still doesn't mean that I was prepared in any sense of the word. I may even go
so far as to say it took me totally by surprise.
someone can fight tooth and nail like my Grandma did then one can be forgiven
for assuming that this person is invincible. Cancer, countless infections, a
second hip in need of replacing, a fall, bleeds on the brain and a brain
tumour…this was all throughout the last decade and then as a cumulative in her
only hope that I have an ounce of the strength and courage that she showed.
This pivotal and character defining moment has brought clarity to certain
aspects of my life which is ironic in this foggy patch. Life is precious and I
have probably superficially existed for far too long now. It is time to start
living a little more, taking a few risks (maybe just calculated ones for now)
and jumping in with both feet!
I've decided to compile a bucket list. The curious adventures of the travelling
suitcase need to get curiouser and curiouser…