A Beginning

There's a certain sense of irony which hasn't been lost on me. Actually, perhaps irony is the wrong word.

Further to my last post I couldn't keep everything to myself any more, and finally plucked up the courage to talk to The Drag Queen about my little issue. In a way it was actually her who steered the conversation round, as she'd engineered us being on our own for 15 minutes whilst The Boyf looked after the dog at her house. Basically, she had obviously sensed something was wrong and was prying. I didn't mind; it allowed me to open up, albeit not entirely and with only a short time-frame to work within. But now she knows the gist of the issue, has told me not to ever worry about being disloyal or of testing her loyalties, and has said that we'll have a good talk soon. Interestingly she did say "Well, The Boyf talks to me about his side of your relationship problems". Hmmmm.

So finally I have someone to talk to about my relationship issues, although I don’t think I'll quite be telling her everything. Some of the details really must be kept to myself.

But then something else happened. Something out of left-field. Something which I don’t feel I can share with anyone at the moment, apart from The Boyf - I need time to think this through - and it's something which is making me re-evaluate certain aspects of my life.

All this has made me think about this blog, and what I wanted to write about and achieve from it. Rather obviously I've not been writing much of late, and although I feel like I may need to write some of my thoughts down, I don't want them to be here. I always wanted this blog to be light and I don’t want it to become something it wasn't intended to be. So perhaps I'll say goodbye now. Yes, actually I will. After 3 years and 261 posts it's time to go. But I think I'm going to reappear somewhere - see if you can find me. It's been fun, truly. Thank you, anyone who took time out to read or to comment.

Goodnight Gracie.

I Need A Friend

Over the past months a few things have happened in my life which I've not been able to tell anyone about, and the sad thing is that I've realised that I don't really have a friend who I trust implicitly.

Just writing that makes me feel really sad.

You see, before I moved into London all of my friends were straight, and most were married with kids. As good as they were at being friends they just didn't get the whole gay thing. Sure, I could talk to them about relationships and they'd give good advice from their experiences, and sometimes it was interesting hearing things from a different viewpoint, but it's not the same as being able to talk to another guy who's really experienced the same things.

Then I moved into London and started making my own friends, but met noone who I felt really close to. It's not that I didn't like anyone - quite the contrary, there are quite a few people who I think are genuinely good guys. I have an innate feeling for people when I meet them, and know almost automatically whether I'll be able to trust them, and rarely am I proved wrong. The fact that I hadn't met anyone who I completely opened up to didn't bother me. There are different levels of friendship, and just because you wouldn't tell someone your innermost secrets doesn't mean that you can't be good friends and enjoy their company.

And then I met The Boyf and his small coterie of loyal friends and found that I rather liked them all, and in particular one of them is someone I trust implicitly. But at the end of the day this person is The Boyf's friend, first and foremost, and their loyalty is therefore to him, which is correct and as it should be. So although I can talk to them about most things I find I still don't have anyone to talk to with regards to my actual relationship. If nothing else I wouldn't want to put our friend in an awkward situation where their loyalties were tested.

So it comes to pass that I need someone to talk to, and don’t know who to turn to. I have so many feelings which I'm desperately trying to bottle up, but it's not easy. The only way I can do it is by shutting down on those around me - if I can't cry then I won't laugh either - so I'm in this odd limbo state where I appear to be entire void of emotion, when in fact I'm screaming inside. And the longer it goes on the worse it gets, rather obviously.

I'm not sure why I'm telling you this. I guess it's because I never realised I needed anyone until now, and I find it rather interesting how alone I suddenly feel.

(I'm very aware that I'm not really telling you everything. I'm still thinking about that)

Cosmic Love

A falling star fell from your heart and landed in my eyes
I screamed aloud, as it tore through them, and now it's left me blind

The stars, the moon, they have all been blown out
You left me in the dark
No dawn, no day, I'm always in this twilight
In the shadow of your heart

And in the dark, I can hear your heartbeat
I tried to find the sound
But then it stopped, and I was in the darkness
So darkness I became

The stars, the moon, they have all been blown out
You left me in the dark
No dawn, no day, I'm always in this twilight
In the shadow of your heart

I took the stars from our eyes, and then I made a map
And knew that somehow I could find my way back
Then I heard your heart beating, you were in the darkness too
So I stayed in the darkness with you

The stars, the moon, they have all been blown out
You left me in the dark
No dawn, no day, I'm always in this twilight
In the shadow of your heart

The stars, the moon, they have all been blown out
You left me in the dark
No dawn, no day, I'm always in this twilight
In the shadow of your heart

OMO At The Movies: "Transformers: Revenge Of The Fallen"

I was quite looking forward to this years blockbusters. I decided early on that all of them would be crap, by varying degrees, and that the worst would be Transformers.

When the first Transformers movie came out I really wasn't looking forward to it. I had a friend who was all over it like a rash, I but was all like, meh. But when I saw it I actually rather enjoyed it. It seemed honest, and the action sequences and CGI were pretty good.
At the start of the year I decided that the sequel would be rubbish. More of the same. A lot more, and that would be it. But then the trailers appeared and looked pretty good. It all looked a bit Cloverfield.

And then I went to see it, and my early assumptions were proved correct. This WILL be the worst film of the year, I'm sure of it. Michael Bay obviously gave a checklist to the fanboys of the first film, asking what they did and didn't like, and then simply produced a film with more of what people wanted, regardless of how this affected any narrative.

More Megan Fox in shorts, pouting? Check.

Lots more Transformers, even if their reason for being is unclear? Check.

Bigger explosion (lots more shit getting blown up)? Check.

More of the parents, they were funny dude? Check.

That FBI bloke, but make sure he's even more of a comedy character? Check.

Slo-Mo fight sequences, with the sun reflecting off the Autobots? Check.

Oh, dump the plot, it just gets in the way. Check.

We loved that Terminator that could turn into different people - can we have some of that? That was a different film, but ok, we'll see what we can do.

Did we say more explosions? Yes, but we'll add some more in just in case.

Michael Bay inevitable gives us set-piece after set-piece with minor lulls inbetween. I've never seen so many action sequences in one movie. The film literally goes EXPLOSION - talking - EXPLOSION - talking - EXPLOSION - EXPLOSION - talking - EXPLOSION ad infinitum. No wonder it ended up a bum-worrying two and a half hours long - there are enough action sequences for three God-awful films, let alone one. Someone really needed to tell Michael Bay to step away from the camera and edit this shit down to a sensible length. Either that or not even bother with the lulls. Just cut them out - give the audience a few 5 minute breaks throughout. You know, have an action sequence and then a blank screen with "You now have 5 minutes to pop to the loo or get more chocolate". I mean, it's not like the lulls further the plot.

Speaking of which, we actually get to about two thirds of the way through when some sort of "Plot Alert" alarm obviously went off in Michael Bay's office reminding him to shoe-horn something in. Up until that point there's seriously nothing apart from explosions and people running and shouting, and some comedy with the parents. Oh, and Megan Fox auto-pouting as soon as a camera sweeps past her. Then suddenly an old robot appears, comically with a walking stick, to literally tell us the entire plot of the film in a two minute burst, and then miraculously teleport the cast to the correct spot on the planet for the climax. Handy.

Urgh! Can you tell I didn't enjoy it?

It would have been ok, with some serious editing, and about, oh, six less action sequences. Oh, and a decent script. I know we didn't go along for Shakespeare but jeez, this is embarrassing.

Oh, I forgot to tell you about the good bits.

...

Oh, ok, the effects are pretty good.

So, in summation; I can't stress enough how you're not to go and watch this movie. Seriously, go and see anything other than this. As one review put it "It manages the incredible feat of being the fastest, loudest movie ever but simultaneously ridiculously dull. Like watching paint dry whilst being hit round the head with a frying pan".

The Boyf and I, as is often the way with married couples, managed to sum it up using the same word at the same time. The word was "nadir". It even makes "Terminator: Stagnation" look good. I need say no more than that.

UPDATE: This movie has had the second highest 5 day opening in history, behind "The Dark Knight". I'm ashamed to have contributed to it's success.

Overheard 2

(Poland Street, Soho, Saturday 16th May 2009, 3.58pm)

Camp Guy On Phone: "Yeah, well, I was like gonna go, but then I realised where it was, and I have a policy of never going further out than Zone 2, darling".

The Boyf and I roll eyes at each other.

Overheard 1

(Soho Market, Saturday 16th May 2009, 3.54pm)

Punter (a tad aggressively): "Oi, mate, where are those oranges from?"

Market Trader: "Spain! You???"

Not Exactly Prolific

Blimey, it's been over a month since my last post. To own the truth I'd kinda forgotten I actually have a blog.

So, what's been going on?

Well, the puppy's coming along nicely. He's 4 months old now and a little terror/angel, dependant on what mood you catch him in. He's very strong-willed, but he's pretty much house-trained now (not been easy as we live in a flat), and I wouldn't change him for anything. He's teething at the moment, which means my hands look like they been attacked by a small shark, and a lot of the furniture is taking a battering. Ah well…

What else? Well, I've just bought a new car, which I'm waiting to collect. It's the first time I've bought brand new, and with the current economic crisis hitting the motor trade I got a really good deal. Ever since I was a little boy it's been one of my ambitions to walk into a car showroom and pick a new car, and now I've finally done it. And I haven't told The Boyf yet - I'll just park it outside our home and surprise him with it.

As for going out - we've not done very much of it since May Bank Holiday, and even then we didn't do a great deal. Even at weekends I'm getting up for the dog at 8-ish, so it's no more getting drunk and falling into bed at 6 anymore for me.

All a bit dull really, isn't it? Makes you wonder why I persevere with this blog, if you call one post a month "persevering"...

On Being Inspired

Last Thursday evening we went to the National Film Theatre to see a talk by Cleve Jones, he of NAMES Project fame, and right hand man to Harvey Milk. It was part of the 23rd Lesbian & Gay Film Festival that's currently being held in London.

The talk took the form of an informal interview in front of a packed house, with Cleve talking through how he came to move to San Francisco and meet Harvey, how he dealt with Harvey's assassination and the repercussions, how the NAMES Project came about, and then how the film biopic "Milk" finally came to fruition.

After a slightly slow start Cleve quickly opened up and became incredibly friendly and eloquent, and by the end of it seemed like he would have happily chatted the night away. He came across as terribly humble, and very, very inspirational. The more this guy talks to young queerlings about their history and their legacy the better.

He likes to describe himself, as well as Milk and others like them, as ordinary men. The point he made was that we're all born the same and die the same but what we do in between is up to us. And we need to make a difference.

When talking about the AIDS Quilt he actually became very upset and broke down when recalling the friends that he lost in the early days, and as a result it was incredibly moving.

He was also actually very humorous, and you can still see the young man that is portrayed in "Milk". And he seemed to describe almost every man he'd met as "hot", including Dustin Lance Black who he escorted to the Oscars, and who's acceptance speech is a modern iconic moment in gay history.

Overall I came away challenged and inspired, and could have listened to him all night long. If ever I get the chance to say thank you in person for everything thing he has done for us then I should not hesitate one jot.

What The London Demo's Were Really Good For

Because of the "trouble" in London practically every company in the City are allowing staff to dress down for a couple of days, even so far as wearing jeans. It's so we can better blend in with the protesters and cause trouble without people realising we work for the institutions we're throwing rocks at.

Luckily my office wasn't in the thick of it yesterday, but feeling left out I cajoled a couple of my staff into wandering down to Bank at lunch-time with me to "get in on the action". As I said to one of the girls, "There might be a little bit of history happening just down the road - when people ask about it do you really want to say you stayed in at lunch with a jacket potato?".

The police at Bank wouldn't let us through into the demonstration area, but we stood just behind the police cordon and were thus only a few feet away from the action. As usual with these things it all looked mainly peaceful, with a minority out to cause trouble. And I doubt the minority really cared about the idea of the demo', they just wanted to cause trouble; it was just an excuse to throw things and make a scene. Apparently some people don't have anything else to do with their lives.

The police seemed to handle things very well, and were quite passive in the face of people screaming at them and calling them all sorts. I feel a strange camaraderie with the police force, and for a long time in my teens I really wanted to join them, but at the time there were height restrictions which I unfortunately didn't pass. A friend of mine joined the force in his mid-30's and loved it, so I guess I could still join, although the pay's awful and I'd have to take a big cut. Perhaps, when I'm feeling more grown-up, I could help out as a Special or something in my spare time. Obviously this is before I retire to help orphaned Orang-utans in Borneo, which is what I've always said I'll do if I win the lottery. I know, you didn't have me as the compassionate type, right?

Anyway, the main reason I wanted to go to the demo' was to see if there were any hot policemen, particularly those in riot gear, but I was sadly disappointed. Perhaps they kept all the good-looking ones back for later, as a surprise weapon. However, the very relaxed dress down at work has provided a little glimpse into what some of the men look like without full business attire. Wandering around our building is quite enlightening, and actually some of the men look kinda cute in normal clothing. In fact, some of the clothing seem to be revealing some of the men to be rather better built than their suits would imply. And it's always nice to see an open collar with some chest hair poking out.

So thank you demonstrators for giving me a couple of days of gratuitous chest hair in the office. All your hard "work" was worth it.

Shouldn't Be Complaining, But...

What is it with people giving me their phone number?

I don't mean guys in bars who I've been chatting to (ironically I'm NEVER given phone numbers by guys in bars). I mean guys on-line, who I've never spoken to before and who suddenly message me with their number. It's happened four times in the last week.

The first one wasn't so bad. We'd had a short mail exchange - just pleasantries - when he suddenly told me his number. Baring in mind that he lives at the other end of the country and told me to phone to arrange a meet, I was rather confused. So I just did a polite "thank you" and said I'd keep it handy in case I was ever in his area (not likely).

The second guy I hadn't even spoken to before. He simply messaged me with his number and told me to call so he could explain where he lived. The expectation seemed to be that I was going to jump straight in a cab, at close to midnight on a Thursday. Did he think I was a prostitute? I certainly wasn't going to be taking off my jim-jams and heading out - what would The Boyf say? - so I actually sent back a slightly sarcastic message saying it was getting rather late and I'd settled in for the night with a cup of cocoa and a Maeve Binchy. So he wrote back saying it was a shame cause he'd had a quick wash in expectation of my arrival!!! I restrained from asking him if he was mental. (Obviously he wasn't hot, otherwise I'd have booked a cab, jumped in the shower and told The Boyf I was popping out for milk).

Today I've been sent phone numbers by two guys. The first one was ok - I'd actually said Hi once in a club a few weeks back and he'd found me on-line to say he liked me. We'd exchanged pleasantries and then he said he was coming back to England (he's from Germany) in a few weeks and would I like a beer "or something" (which I assume doesn't mean knitting). My affirmative response was met with his number. I'm not sure I've ever actually slept with a German - must look in my diary. (I've just checked - there was a German, back in Feb 2007. He creeped me out actually, so hopefully this one will be better. Not sure why I'm giving you this information…)

Anyway, the second guy today, only 5 minutes ago, was someone randomly sending me his number and saying he'd like to hook up. And once again he lives hundreds of miles away. Do these people think a) I don't already have a boyfriend who might wonder why I've suddenly decided to have a night away in some random part of the country, and b) that I can't hook up, should I want to, closer to home? Or do you think they just send out their number to anyone, on the same basis as cold-calling i.e. if you blanket-bomb at some point you're bound to get a hit?

I shouldn't complain - I like the attention no matter what the guys look like (it's all flattery after all), but aren't guys jumping the gun a bit? Generally I like a bit of romance, or at least a "your hair looks nice tonight" before I drop my drawers.

And shouldn't people be more careful giving their numbers out? I could be anyone. Even if I'm not a perverted stalker (the jury's still out on that one) I could be the sort who passes their numbers to all sorts. When I was a wee lad I was incredibly careful who my number went to, and that was before Gaydar and the like made it easier to contact people. Do people not realise there are some complete nut-cases about? And I don't know about giving numbers to strangers - I even have some friends who I'd rather not have my number...

UPDATE: I've just been sent another phone number, although this one is welcome. Even so, we'd only swapped a couple of mesages when he sent his number and told me to call him. Why did I never get this amount of attention when I was single?

Wrong

I was born with the wrong sign
In the wrong house
With the wrong ascendancy
I took the wrong road
That led to the wrong tendencies
I was in the wrong place at the wrong time
For the wrong reason and the wrong rhyme
On the wrong day of the wrong week
I used the wrong method with the wrong technique

Wrong

There's something wrong with me chemically
Something wrong with me inherently
The wrong mix in the wrong genes
I reached the wrong ends by the wrong means
It puts the wrong plan in the wrong hands
With the wrong theory for the wrong man
The wrong lies, on the wrong vibes
The wrong questions with the wrong replies

Wrong

I was marching to the wrong drum
With the wrong scum
Pissing out the wrong energy
Using all the wrong lines
And the wrong signs
With the wrong intensity
I was on the wrong page of the wrong book
With the wrong rendition of the wrong hook
Made the wrong move, every wrong night
With the wrong tune played till it sounded right

Wrong

A Night Out... Straight Clubbing

I've not been to a straight club in AGES! When I was a teenager, back in the late… er… 90's… ok, ok… back in the late 80's, I only did straight clubbing. Coming from a reasonably small town meant that I only had straight friends and thus did all the usual things a straight guy does - goes out for a few pints and a curry on a Friday night, and then down to the Ritzy to pull a bird on Saturday. Except that I never actually pulled a bird - all my mates knew I was gay (they were the first people I came out to), and for some reason this meant that I was some kind of group chaperone/driver, as I was the only one who wasn't going to wake up in some bird's bed in a strange town on Sunday morning. I thus saw myself as being above such things and far more adult than everyone else and there purely to look after my mates, like I'd sacrificed my own life to make sure my mates got ferried around and picked up. That was until I found truck-stops, but that's a whole other story…

Anyway, on the way back from our little sojourn in Wales last week our little group (2 gay couples and The Drag Queen) found ourselves out on the tiles in Royal Leamington Spa on a Saturday night. There's not much for the gays to do in RLS, so we "went straight" for the evening. Thus we decided to go for something to eat early and then move on to a bar/club.

The straights start their evening out so much earlier than the gays. We don't leave the house 'til 10pm on Fridays or Saturdays, and expect to be home from 4am onwards. The straights are in the bars at 7:30 and completely pissed up by 9, a fact not wasted on us as we walked into the first bar at 9:30 to find it full of inebriated youngsters, music blaring, drinks spilling, hips grinding, drunken leering.

We forced our way to the bar past the Sharons and Tracys, or more likely the Imogens and Jemimas - this is Royal Leamington Spa after all - all non-existent shirts, big belts and off-the-shoulder 80's tops. Long, red nails clutching tall glasses and taller straw. The men were in de rigeur untucked shirts, trouser and shoes, except for those going down the dishevelled route with scruffy jeans and trainers, but all had the same odd, asymmetrical hair, like Edward Scissorhands had been at them after suffering a stroke.

My feet were immediately run over by a guy in a wheelchair, drunk, who seemed to think it his right to get served before us but obviously couldn't be bothered with an "excuse me". Fortunately a girl caught his eye and he sped off, not without running over The Boyf's feet, to grapple her into his lap, kicking and giggling and spilling her drink all over her.

We got drinks (surprisingly expensive even after London prices) and stood by the area which seemed to serve as a dance-floor. Lads and Ladettes careered about, grabbing each other and generally upping the decibel level by shouting a lot (I got the impression they'd probably shout at each other even if the music was muted). Dancing seemed to be a way to grope other people rather than an outward manifestation of the joy of the rhythm. At least apart from those groups of girls who simply shuffled from side to side, clutching their drinks.

Girls nowadays (I'm very aware that makes me sound old) don't seem to know how to dress themselves. Inevitably they wear whatever is fashionable regardless of whether it suits their shape. So we had plump (trying to be polite) girls in pencil skirts, skinny girls in rib-cage revealing tops, and apparently very pretty, voluptuous girls in baggy jumpers, completely hiding their shape.

A girl near us seemed obsessed with looking at her reflection in the windows as she twirled around the floor. Perhaps she was trying to work out if her asymmetrical page-boy hair looked as ridiculous as we thought it did, considering she was rather fuller of the face than would suit such hair. Basically it looked like a cheap boy's bowl-cut wig had shrunk in the wash and then been put on at a wonky angle. Her eye make-up was also a joy to behold - she had quite big eyes and had decided to make them look even bigger with judicious use of black eye-liner and blue shadow, such that they seemed to be taking over her face. In effect she looked like a blue-tinged panda. A blue-tinged panda in an ill-fitting wig.

Anyway, Panda-Girl twirled about the floor, seemingly able to swivel her neck in any direction to allow her to look at her reflection, which was all going very well until she careened face-first into a wall. She looked slightly dazed for a second before carrying on with her dancing. I'd have run off and hid in shame but I guess if you're going to go out looking like a wig-wearing panda from the 80's then you're obviously pretty thick-skinned. I'd like to report that she left a panda-face mark on the wall, but sadly her make-up was obviously very well applied.

An older couple came in (in their 60's I'd say) and, seeing us, decided to stand next to us. Er, cheers! We're not THAT old. Admittedly we were probably twice the age of some of the people in the place but we're not bloody OAP's. Now it just looked like all the older people were huddling together!

Meanwhile Wheelchair Guy was careering about the place at dangerous velocities, clearly very drunk and being incredibly aggressive. Grabbing girls or just mowing them down so they ended up in his lap where he'd grope them. The bouncers looked on, passively.

We'd just decided we'd had enough for the night when there was an almighty crash. A (large) girl had slipped and decided to grab the nearest person, which was unfortunately a very skinny guy. In turn he'd grabbed another girl and then whole lot had collapsed to the floor, knocking over a large number of people around them. It looked like that scene in "King Kong" where the Brontosaurus' stampede and the one at the front falls over, with the following herd tripping and falling in a huge pile. The noise was similar too.

That was quite enough for us so we left, although The Drag Queen stayed behind as somehow (and completely off our radar) she'd managed to pull a guy. I don't know how she does it. Well, I do know how she does it - she walks up, bold as brass, gives them a big smile and, with a flick of the hair, tells them to buy her a drink, all the while ensuring her top is conveniently showing her ample bosom. Sometimes I wish I had her bosom, as it seems to work on gay men too. They're fascinated in an entirely different way, but fascinated nonetheless.

So off we trotted, past groups of girls holding each other's hair back as they took turns being sick, and past lairy groups of guys outside the Kebab house trying to chat up girls whilst simultaneously dripping chilli sauce down their now rather dishevelled "best going out" shirts. Ah, I miss being straight...

Wigs n Tings

We're two weeks away from Puppy D-Day, so at the weekend we decided to go out and get everything that we'd need, at least for the first few weeks, and prepare the house. Or, as our friends have put it, we've "prepared the nursery for baby's homecoming". Our kitchen now looks like some canine adventure playground, and you can barely move without standing on a squeaky toy. Trying to get up in the night is now even more of an assault course, with random squeaking added to my usual walking into doors. So we have one more week of quiet at home, and then we have a week away with friends before returning home and picking up the puppy. And then all hell breaks loose as we contend with random pooing and peeing on the floor. Even more so than normal. Er...

In other news we're still not talking to OBM's. It's been over 5 weeks since we last spoke and I'm as annoyed now as I was back then. Actually, I'm probably even more annoyed. I have to say that from what we've heard (or haven't heard) they've been unusually quiet about the whole thing and haven't spoken about it with anyone, which is rather unlike them. (They have previous form of falling out with people, and every time have been extremely vocal in public about their grievances).

It's got to the point where I'm not interested in having them as friends again, should they decide to get in contact, although of course I'd talk to them and be civil. The argument was so petty, and their reaction so out of proportion, that I can't be bothered to even try to talk to them about it. It's just not worth the effort, and I don't need people in my life who can blow up like this.

The one friend I've spoken to about it thinks I should be grown-up about it and just call them, but actually I think I am being grown-up about it. When I was younger I would have tried to placate and find a resolution; now I'm too old for bothering with people who would do this sort of thing. Like I say, they have previous form for this sort of thing anyway, and I don't want to patch things up only for it to happen again further down the line. We had a fun friendship for a while, but it had it's day. I've recognised that and I'm moving on. What's not grown-up about that?

If this all sounds a bit bitter then I can assure you it isn't. As with all things in life I'm very philosophical about it, if a little annoyed.

Elsewhere, we headed to XXL (again!) on Saturday night and had a gay old time with the beautiful Iraqi and his lovely husbear. For reasons known only to them (which I think involves the fact that they like bears) two drag queens turned up in the most mahoossive wigs I've ever seen. And of course I ended up drunk enough to ask one if I could try their wig on. Cue hilarious photos of each of us in the wigs, which weighed a ton! Lord only knows how the poor things walk about in such huge heels and with such a weight bearing down on them. I tells ya, being that fabulous is all, like, hard!

And They Called It...

I never wanted to be one of those people who just talked about their cat all the time. Luckily there are two things which stop this happening.

1. You may have noticed that over the last 12 months my posting has become haphazard at best, so it's unlikely that I'd talk about anything a lot, no matter how "exciting".

2. Most helpfully I don't actually have a cat.

These two have combined to mean that I never have to be one of those cat posters.

Recently I've been trying to steer The Boyf towards us becoming a thruple. When I say "steer" I mean I've been saying things like "Can we keep him? We have the room and he's quite small" or "Don't you think a third person would be useful when we need to carry something with three sides?". I think The Boyf thinks I'm just joking, but in actual fact I'm being semi-serious. I just like the idea of there being more of us. I can see a time when there will be a large group of us, but perhaps that's just me being greedy.

The main reason I know this doesn't have any legs though is because The Boyf has previous form. He had a long-term relationship before ours in which a third person joined for a couple of years in the middle (quite literally most of the time, apparently). We've chatted about it a lot - I bring it up randomly over cocktails or in polite society, so he can see the idea interests me - and although nothing particularly went wrong with his last experience, The Boyf just doesn't want to re-visit.

To be truthful we don't really have the room for a third person to be knocking about. I need a reasonable amount of my own space as it is without someone else getting in the way. But at some point, when we've moved into something larger, if the right person comes along I think I'm going to be promoting this whole idea.

Where's this going, you may well be asking, rather pertinently?

The Boyf and I have just bought a dog. Rather obviously in my case it's a surrogate 'cause I can't have what I really want. I'm not sure of The Boyf's reasons. Perhaps he just wanted a dog. Hmmm.

Obviously, the temptation now is for me to tell you how utterly adorable it is, and then post random photos of it doing mundane things. Here's the puppy sitting down staring at the carpet. And here's the puppy sitting down and staring at the wall. You get the idea.

In actual fact we don't have him yet cause he's too young, so you have another month of me occasionally blogging about sex with strangers (chance would be a fine thing!) before the puppy photos kick in.

If I were you I'd make the most of the next month. I'm certainly going to.

Online Messaging Etiquette - The Sequel

Further to a previous post, last night I was chatting on line to a friend of mine - the lovely Italian I met last week in fact - when a message popped into my box. Now, one of my resolutions this year (more on those later, possibly) is to be polite and answer every message I get, rather than just deleting the weird or random ones I receive, and it's too early in the year to break that resolution so I decided to answer. As he wasn't particularly attractive (and that's being polite) I didn't want to encourage him. Here's how the conversation went...

Punter: Fuck?

OMO: No thanks, I've just eaten.

Punter: I can help you digest

OMO: Excellent! Do you have anything for heart-burn?

Punter: My cum

OMO: Oh, I've had enough of that already - that's why I have heart-burn

Punter: Don't swallow your own, have mine

OMO: It wasn't my own - there's loads of guys here.

Punter: I come round, fuck all

OMO: I think they're a bit tired - we've been at it all day - but I love your concise message.

Punter: My unlucky day. Sauna?

OMO: Well, not for me but I hope you have fun. Good luck.

Punter: Arsehole.

OMO: I'm sure I could say something funny but I think I'll just say "Goodnight".

Punter: Why don't you go and fuck yourself you arrogant, ignorant wanker.

OMO: Bit late to be eloquent, isn't it?

Punter: You c**t. I hope you get AIDS from all that fucking today.

OMO: I take it you don't want to come round and join in after all?

Punter: Yes, where do you live? I come round

OMO: Are you bi-polar?

Punter: Fuck off.

OMO: Goodnight.

I think I might be breaking that resolution in future.

Update: When I got home from work last night I logged on to get my messages. Within a couple of minutes a message poppped up. "Fuck?". Yup, he was back. I ignored it. Then a couple of minutes later The Boyf said to me "Some guy's just messaged me with "Fuck?". He's persistent, I'll give him that.

Happy New Year! (Finally!)

Happy New Year!

What do you mean, I'm a week late? Some of us are busy you know. Yeah, yeah, so I've been sitting around a lot moping. It's that time of year.

So, shall I tell you about the Christmas/New Year shenanigans, or go for something completely unrelated and "left field"? I could do both of course, but that would involve me writing two posts in a short period of time, and we both know that's not going to happen.

Ok, I'll bullet-point some salient information.

1. On Christmas Eve The Boyf surprised me with matinee tickets for The Phantom Of The Opera, which got us very much into the swing of things. Unfortunately The Boyf does have a habit of creating ad-hoc show-tunes around rather mundane things (much like Andrew Lloyd-Webber in fact) and this hasn't helped matters.

2. We had an odd Christmas Day. The Boyf wasn't feeling very well and then managed to put his back out in the middle of the night. Then he had to cook the dinner in agony whilst I had a two hours drive to fetch my Mum, who, after eating the smallest amount of food imaginable, decided she'd like to go back home again. Thus I had another 2 hour drive before finally relaxing.

3. I got lots of great presents, including another iPod, books on marine biology and car design, and tickets to see Girls Aloud in concert, right at the front too. Nothing gay about that at all!

4. New Year's Eve was a bit of a let-down. We went to Juicy at The Astoria, and it was to be the final fling for that venue before it's pulled down to make way for Crossrail. The actual build-up to midnight was brilliant, but there was an odd anti-climax afterwards so I decided to leave everyone to it. I had a three mile walk through the centre of London, which, with all roads shut off, looked like a scene from 28 Days Later but with more zombies. And by 2:30am I was home in bed (alone).

5. I finally met an Italian internet friend of mine, who I've been speaking to on-line very regularly for two years. And he's totally gorgeous, and is a thoroughly lovely guy, just as I knew he would be. Needless to say we ended up probing each other with various parts of our anatomy, and now I'm a little sad to see him return home.

6. We've fallen out with OBM's, and it's rather obviously over the most stupid of things. Actually, The Boyf has fallen out with them and I'm being very loyal and taking his side of the argument even though I secretly agree with part of their side of the grievance. No-one knows this so keep it to yourself.

7. And now I'm back at work, and bored out of my tiny mind. Still, it stops me sitting at home in front of the tv watching endless re-runs of The Golden Girls and eating my own body weight in chocolate biscuits, which was pretty much all I did over Christmas.

8. I couldn't end on an odd, and 8's my lucky number.