Arab or Zygon?

Coming home from work last night was slightly surreal.

It started off well. On boarding the tube at Whitechapel I spotted a rather splendid little fellow sitting further up the carriage. I'm very into short, dark haired guys right now and he certainly fitted the bill. Vaguely Arabian or Lebanese looking with a lovely dark beard. So I moved to sit opposite. I know, blatant aren't I? He smiled at me and then looked out the window, which I thought was odd as there's not much to see in a tunnel, until I realised he was appraising me via my reflection. I pretended to be too engrossed in my newspaper to notice, although the more observant passengers would have wondered why I was concentrating so much on this season's must-have handbags. Apparently oversized is in, just so you know.

We both disembarked at the same stop and I followed him up the escalator, his ass directly in front of my face, a fact not lost on him judging by the amount of times he clenched his buttocks.

At the ticket barrier he went through. I didn't. Fucking shitty fucking Oyster card wouldn't work. I tried a different gate. Still nothing. Meanwhile, the Arab looked back at me then walked out of the station. Dammit. I finally got through and sauntered out, turning towards home (the opposite direction to the Arab had taken), at which point my phone started to ring. The Boyf was at the other end and he was whispering.

The Boyf: "Where are you?"

OMO: "I'm just coming out the Tube. Why are you whispering?"

The Boyf: "You'll find out in a minute. Just come in normally but try to be quiet"

OMO: "What the...?"

(click)

I turned around to look in the direction the Arab had taken and was very surprised to find him standing 20 feet away, leaning on some railings and staring at me. I smiled, pointed at my phone and made a shrugging motion, then turned and headed in the direction of home. I looked back once, we smiled at each other then he turned and walked away.

On opening my front door I was confronted by The Boyf, holding his finger to his lips. He waved me to follow him into our spare room. I could hear talking in our main room. Our spare room was unusually tidy. The other thing of note was a man I'd never met before, drinking red wine. We were introduced, and it transpired that he is the editor of Dr Who Magazine. The Boyf was positively trembling with excitement.

OMO: "So, what's going on?"

The Boyf: "There's a film crew in our living room. Well, two men and a camera anyway. We've been filming a documentary about Dr Who. They've interviewed Clay and me and now some other guy's being filmed. How cool is that?"

OMO: "A film crew? Damn, I could have bought the Arab back from the station and made a whole different kind of film"

The Boyf: "What Arab?"

OMO: "Oh, never mind"

So there you go. The Boyf is now in a documentary, although apparently it could be a couple of years to get more funding and finish it off. Gives me plenty of time to decide on my red carpet outfit, and of course what I'll be wearing to the Oscars that year. I'm thinking of staying with the Dr Who theme and going as a Cyberman. Either that or this, by Jean Paul Gaultier. Same difference really. Oh, the decisions...

OMO At The Movies: "300"

Your poor little OMO had to go to the cinema on his own on Friday night. The Boyf refuses to watch anything with gore, and even the hot humpies weren't luring him in to watch "300". So I took advantage of him going out for an end-of-term meal with his colleagues to slink off to the cinema. I took along all the necessary provisions that I thought I'd need; pecan ice-cream, popcorn, jumbo Pepsi Max, lube, Nexus prostate stimulator, poppers and a box of tissues. The foodstuffs came in useful. The rest of my wares, not so much.

Here are my thought processes throughout the film (note how monosyllabic I am when I think):

Ooooh, men.

Ooooh, muscles.

Ooooh, more men.

Ooooh, more muscles.

Hmmmmmmmm, Daxos. Yum

(Then there was some fighting, during which time I managed to throw pecan ice-cream down my shirt and trousers, so I missed much of the action whilst trying to ensure it hadn't left any marks, otherwise when the house lights came on it would have looked like I'd spunked everywhere)

Oh! Daxos gone. Others dead. Bugger.

The End.

Improvements to the film are simple, and two-fold. Chest hair and cum. Some acting might have been nice too, but then if I wanted such trivialities I'd have gone to see "Notes On A Scandal", and Dame Judi Dench doesn't look anywhere near as good with her chest out. One supposes.

The remainder of our weekend was spent painting a wall in our main room a deep dried-blood red. Officially it's called "Arabian Red" by 1892 (a paint company who specialises in authentic "period" colours i.e. Victorian). Apparently "Dried Blood" didn't look so good on the tin.

And that's about it really. No sex or dancing or getting trashed. Yikes, this middle-aged business is weird.

An Office Conversation 2

Friday 30th March, 11:18am

Boss: S? Where are you going for your leaving drink at lunchtime?

S: Don't know yet.

Boss: Well can you make up your mind cause I'm going to meet a mate and then bring him to wherever you are.

OMO: Ooooh, are you bringing a date with you at dinner time?

Boss: No! I'm bringing a mate. Don't go saying that to him cause he'll beat you up.

OMO: Having trouble coming to terms with it too huh?

Boss (ignoring my last comment): And anyway, it's not "dinner time" it's "lunch time". Dinner time is at 9pm.

OMO: You're eating too late. No wonder you're putting on so much weight.

Boss: Tosser!

Locked In: Part 2

(Read Part 1 here)

Right, where was I? Oh yeah, some big old ugly guy had just locked me in his house, and I was about to follow him into his bedroom to have sex with him. Normal night out then.

Once in the room he said simply "Undress". I obliged. It would have been rude not to, and my Mum taught me better than that. He left the room and I peeked around the door to see him enter a bathroom and close the door. I should have thrown my clothes back on of course, instead I thought "let's lay down on the bed". D'oh!

When he came back in a few minutes later he was naked. And aroused. The Neanderthal voice in my head said "Oooh, big cock!", and all thoughts of fleeing disappeared. I remember that he smelled very strongly of mint - funny what your mind makes notes on. He started to suck me off and I closed my eyes and thought of England. Or Burt Reynolds. Possibly Tom Selleck. When he suddenly stopped I opened my eyes to find him appraising my chest. "Hmmm, look at those", he said. And then with the most creepy, lascivious face I've ever seen, "Those tits need teasing". I can't tell you how much those words and his face made me shudder, and even today if anyone calls my nipples "tits" it sends a shiver down my spine. He grabbed both nipples and started to pull. Hard. Now, my nipples are very sensitive, Dear Reader. I can almost, but not quite, cum with only nipple play. But going immediately to pulling on them as hard as possible isn't my thing; they're too sensitive to be treated like that off-the-bat. And when he bent down and started to bite them in turn, very hard indeed, it was time to say something. Finally!

"Er... you might want to take it easy with those".

"No. Those tits love it"

*Shudder*

"Yeah, well they're attached to me and I don't"

"Just lay there and take it"

A dead-eyed smile spread across his face and he lent down and bit my left nipple, hard enough to break the skin.

"Ok, that's enough", I said and started to roll away. He grabbed me and pulled me back, then threw himself on top of me and pinned me down. "You're not getting away that easily". With his full weight on top of me he stuck out an impressively long tongue and started to lick my face. "Oooh, big tongue!", the Neanderthal voice cut in once again, before I came to my senses and started to struggle. As I did so he stopped licking my face and neck and started to bite instead. I managed to wriggle upwards on the bed a bit but this only gave him access to my chest and nipples which he bit as I struggled, his hands pinning my arms down on the bed. At the same time he'd forced his legs between mine and was pushing them apart, wide, trying to force them up and around him. It was obvious what his game was; he liked my pain and it wasn't going to stop at pinning me down and biting me. He was going to try to fuck me, bareback and lubeless, and he'd not even bought me dinner.

Now, I've always had (short) thick, hairy, powerful legs, which made me the best sprinter and long-jumper in my school, and these were my saving grace. I bought my knees up on either side of him, making him smile as he thought he was going to get his way, then bought them hard together, gripping him and squeezing as hard as I could. He let out a yelp and arched upwards, momentarily relaxing his grip. So I pushed him upwards and to one side, managing to throw him off the bed and onto the floor. Needless to say I legged it, grabbing my clothes and heading for the door and out into the night air. At my car I stopped to jump into my trousers, grabbed the keys from the pocket and into my car and safety. As I pulled away, at speed, the guy was standing in the doorway, still erect, and looking very angry. Funnily enough his cock didn't look as enticing any more.

A few miles later I pulled over and got out of my car, still only wearing my trousers. I got dressed, noticing the bite marks and the blood running down me from my nipples. And then I cried.

I stayed away from the lay-by for a while after that, but of course the need for cock finally got the better of me and I went back. I never saw him again.

Dangerously Super-Sexy

I looked so suuuper-sexy yesterday The Boyf ended up with a migraine. I blame the rise in blood pressure. And today two people are off work, complaining of bad stomachs. But I know it's because they want to sit at home and masturbate whilst thinking about me all day. They're only human. In fact, I've only just put 2 and 2 together; yesterday afternoon Curious Clive ran off and vomitted in the toilets. It was obviously because he couldn't stomach the thought of never having sex with me. Oh, it all clicks into place now. I tell you, being this sexy is dangerous. I'm cursed, truly.

Meanwhile, my Boss was overheard telling someone "Of course I'm not prejudiced; I've got a black, a gay and a disabled in my team!". When questioned further on who the "disabled" was it transpired he meant Colin, who has asthma. Asthma I tells ya! Admittedly, he's pretty wheezey, but when was the last time you noticed special parking places for people with inhalers? My Boss went on to say "I found out OMO was gay just after I interviewed him, but I still let him work here". I wish he hadn't.

Orgasms All Round

I'm looking utterly humpy today in a new suit. Everyone thinks so. I nearly started an impromptu orgy on the Tube on the way to work, just because I look sooooo do-able. No, seriously, I do. You'd totally cum in your pants if you saw me now. I've given my boss three orgasms already, and he doesn't even like gays.

After the unenjoyment (another word I'm campaigning for) that was last week's Juicy, The Boyf and I decided to have a few weeks away from clubbing. No doubt we'll go out over Easter, but after that it'll be special nights only for a while. So, Friday night we went to BarCodeV to celebrate a friends birthday, then, when everyone was leaving to go to a club, we politely declined and headed off home, much to everyones' shock.

Saturday was spent shopping - hence the new suit. As is usually the case I ended up buying the first one I bothered to try on, in the first shop I could be arsed to enter. So it took me all of 10 minutes to find a suit, try it on and pay for it - that's how I like to shop. Unfortunately on the way out I spotted another suit tucked away in a corner. It was a pale beige - not a colour I can get away with at work. Stupidly I stopped for a moment to try the jacket on and the damage was done. The Boyf thought it looked great on me, and a Twink With Beard sales assistant offered a "Oooo, you look faaaaaabulous darling!" as he swished past, but I complained that I didn't have anything to co-ordinate with it, so ended up with 2 new shirts, 3 ties and a new pair of shoes on top. Oops, spend-a-thon!

Saturday night I did my bit for international relations - again - by hosting the Greek God for a night of debauchery. Our neighbours banged on the wall at 2am, so we must have been making alot of noise. I was top for the night so it obviously wasn't me doing all the screaming. For a change.

We kicked the Greek out Sunday lunchtime and had only just found all the condoms and showered when OBM#1 & 2 came round to pick us up for lunch. They offered a "Ew! It totally smells like sex in here, you pigs!" as they walked in. Lord knows what the neighbours must think; one big hairy guy leaving and 5 minutes later another two turning up. Oh well, one neighbour is a drug dealer and another has a string of prostitutes visiting at all hours, so we're just trying to fit in.

After consuming some rather lovely, and reasonably priced, Mexican food (Chicken Enchilada for me, thanks), Sunday afternoon was spent wandering around Greenwich with Our Best Mates, looking at antiques and assorted bric-a-brac, and trying to convince OBM#1 that he looked hot in a kitsch white PVC 60's cap. I mean, all 6 foot, hairy, Glaswegian bodybuilders should wear white PVC.

After being dropped off by the boys The Boyf and I spent Sunday evening cuddled up in front of the tv. We're getting old and we don't care. And that was our weekend; shopping, sex, food and friends. Perfect.

Right, I'm off to give orgasms to everyone in my building. A quick walk up and down and they'll be copulating in the aisles. If you happen to see me today make sure you have a tissue handy. In fact, bring the whole box...

OMO At The Movies: "Premonition"

I forsee... a mediocre film.

Quick review for you, film fans. Last night we went to see "Premonition", on the grounds that there wasn't anything else to see that we agreed on.

So, the plot goes like this (try to read this in an uninterested deadpan voice):

Oh no, my husband is dead.

Oh, actually he's alive.

Oh no, he's dead again.

Nope, alive again.

Whatever.

By the end of the film neither Sandra Bullock as the wife, nor either of the children, seemed to care much whether Julian McMahon was alive or dead. And if they didn't care, how were we to as an audience?

The premise is a good one: what would you do if you had a premonition and knew that your partner would be killed. How could you not interfere to stop it? But what if there were other factors that stayed your hand? Hardly original though, so the film tries to up the ante by giving us a disjointed timeline.

Trouble is that there are a few plot holes, and the film's not quite as clever as it likes to think (it tries for Memento but lands somewhere near Gothika). However, it's nicely shot (muted tones), the score's pretty, and Sandra tries valiantly to revive a comatose script.

At the end of the day, it's an ok film, I just wouldn't run out to see it. But on a wet autumnal Sunday it'll be perfect sit-on-the-sofa-under-a-duvet fair.

Have a good weekend, Dear Reader.

Locked In: Part 1

At the age of 19 I discovered cruising areas, not realising they existed until I passed my driving test and chanced upon one late one night whilst looking for somewhere to pee. After that I started to cruise woodlands and lay-bys (aka truck-stops for you Americans). There was one particular, and very well known, lay-by about 8 miles from where I lived, and in those early days of discovering my sexuality I used to end up there almost every evening. It was a well-used stop for lorry drivers heading for mainland Europe, and I was a tramp. Simple as that.

It was always very, very dark, being lined on both sides by trees which cut out nearly all of the light, and thus it was not normally easy to tell what the guys looked like, so there was always a bit of manouvring to be done to get a clear look at the guy before venturing too far.

Late one night I was sitting in my car with the window down when a guy walked up. I could see from his silhouette that he was tall and wide, which was very much what I liked at the time. He came up to my window and asked the usual question (in a rich, deep voice), which always made me cringe; "What are you into?". Why the fuck can't people come up with anything more original for an opening line? I know we're just there to get down to business but gimme a break! Anyway, I tried to crane my neck up to see what he was like but couldn't really get a good idea, so I said "Oral. Maybe a bit more" (I mean, you don't have to look at their ugly face to suck their cock, right?), to which he flopped out a very impressive looking cock. I set to, as is my way, eliciting much moaning and groaning, but we kept getting disturbed by people cruising and trying to get in on the action, so the guy put his cock away and said "Let's go somewhere quieter. Follow me".

I'd go pretty much anywhere for a nice cock, but after 20 minutes of driving through countryside I started wondering what I was getting myself into, especially when he pulled up outside a cottage, got out of his car and hurried inside, leaving the door open for me to follow. I hesitated for a bit, and then the lure of cock got the better of me. Us gays, we're so easily bought. As soon as I stepped through the door it slammed behind me and I heard the lock turn. He'd been behind it waiting for me to come in. The alarm bells started ringing, but I threw a blanket over them to shut them up. Frankly, I don't know why I always carry them around. I turned around to face him in the light for the first time. He was in his 60's, easily, but he was a big guy alright. And not a pretty one; big, BIG nose and ears. No eyes or mouth, just big nose and ears. Haha. Sorry. So, he walks into another room and shouts through that I should follow him. Stupidly I do so. If this had been a horror film I would have been the busty blond who hears a squelchy thud in the basement whilst baby-sitting and goes to investigate even though the lights have gone out, after having sex with my boyfriend on the sofa and he's mysteriously not come back from the toilet. With lots of violins playing in the background. On Halloween.

(To Be Continued)

Juicy 0 RVT 1

This morning Laura Ashley was making a beautiful job of re-arranging the entire crisps display in the local shop.

OMO: Morning Laura. Thanks for the WD40

Laura: *blink* Moo!

OMO: Er... so... yeah... must dash. Bye!

Laura: *blink blink*

The way she looked at me you'd think I was the weird one. Hmmm.

In unrelated news; yes, I'm very aware that I didn't tell you about my weekend yesterday, Dear Reader. The main reason being that I wasn't feeling quite the ticket. (I'm not entirely sure what that means). I'll shorthand it for you (properly this time).

Saturday - Juicy. Too busy (Angertwinks In Sunglasses and Girls With Handbags). I've pronounced it "so last Tuesday".

Sunday - RVT. What can I say, the place is an institution, and can be relied upon to give us a good time. Oh, and I managed to swap my mojo with a sex peeg I know, so this week's game on.

Tampons Are My Future?

It seems that Laura Ashley, our local crazy lady, has precognitive abilities. You may recall that she's been known to slip things into your basket when you're not looking. Now, as much as I like things slipped into my basket - ahem - when we're talking about WD40 and tampons in the local shop I'm not so keen.

Wednesday night was a very important night for The Boyf, hence that morning his car wouldn't start, as is the way of the world. He phoned me at work in a panic, but I did my best boyfriend-calming thing - "For fuck's sake stop panicking, you drama queen. I'll fix the car when I come home. Breathe dammit, breathe!". I'm so sympathetic.

After work I diligently set to work under the bonnet, and diagnosed a jammed starter motor.

I would like to interject here that ALL of my friends are completely taken by surprise when they find out I'm actually pretty good under the bonnet of a car. Most gay men seem to have trouble just finding out where to put petrol in, but I grew up with a mechanic for a Dad, who used to push me underneath cars because I was small enough to fit. Hence, I know how they work.

So, there I am, doing my manly bit under the bonnet, covered in grease. If the tables had been turned I'd have been totally turned on by the site of a greasy man, but The Boyf prefers guys in suits so instead he was hovering around making nervous clucking noises. The word "late" kept making an appearance too, so I forced him back inside to get himself ready.

I won't bore you with all the technical mumbo-jumbo, but once I'd freed the offending mechanical item I decided to give everything a good spray with a lubricant. Hmmm, what to use, what to use.... Ah, WD40!

So you see, Laura Ashley obviously knew in advance that I was going to need it. The trouble is that I'm now really worried about what I'm going to need the tampons for. I shudder to think.

An Office Conversation

Thursday 15th March 2007, 11:16am.

OMO (to a colleague): Yesterday, whilst you were off, the Boss took me for a romantic walk down by the Tower of London.

Boss: I did nothing of the sort. We just went for a walk to discuss work away from the office.

Colleague (to OMO): Oooh, nice. Did you hold hands?

OMO: No, but he made me do unspeakable things. I felt cheap and used at the end of it.

Boss: No...

OMO (interrupting): But, unlike most old men who want sexual favours, he didn't even bother to buy me an icecream or a bag of sweets.

Boss: You wanker.

The Sling-Thing Occurs

I guess I should tell you about my weekend. Er... well, you may recall that The Boyf and I were supposed to be visiting the Policeman Who Won't Stop Cumming and his boyfriend a couple of weeks ago, but it didn't happen. Well, last Friday it did happen.

Friday evening we drove out to their house, which turned out to be a beautiful cottage in the middle of the countryside. We sat around and chatted for a bit, and I hid behind a tall glass of vodka hoping that they'd forget I was there so I could just stay where I was and watch a DVD of Madonna's last tour whilst they "went upstairs". But no, the Policeman's boyfriend, who we'll call simply R, suddenly said to me "Come upstairs with me for a minute will you? I want to put on something different to wear and you can help me choose". My mind raced. I'd not played "dressing up" since primary school. Was I going upstairs to find a box full of bonnets and puff-sleeved party dresses, high-heeled shoes that were too big and feather boas?

He led me upstairs. The dressing-up box turned out to be a wardrobe full of leather gear. Ah, of course, the other sort of drag. R stipped and put on some chaps, then handed some to me. Unbelievably I'd never worn them before, probably 'cause no-one needs to see my ass hanging out the back of my trousers, but I must admit that they did feel rather nice.

As usual I won't go into the gory details other than to say that I finally got a go in a sling - in fact, as I'd not been in one before the general concensus was to keep me in it. I didn't complain. All four of us finally collapsed in a heap in front of their log fire at 3am, totally spent.

The Boyf and I stayed in their guest bedroom and were awoken at 9am by The Policeman telling us that breakfast was ready. Result! So we sat around eating a full English breakfast and looked at the photos from the night before, which was a tad embarrassing (yes, someone had decided to take photos throughout). Now I know what I look like having sex and it's not pretty. Note to self - never make a porn film.

Then suddenly R said to me: "Good job the nearest neighbour is 1/4 of a mile away".

OMO: "Why?"

The Boyf: "Yeah, he's a bit noisy isn't he?"

OMO: *blink*

R: "I'd say. Very vocal. We liked that"

OMO: *blink blink*

We parted on very good terms and agreed to meet up again soon.

Later that day The Boyf had a call from a friend of his. A friend who, I should add, works with R. There was much giggling on the phone, like two schoolgirls who fancy the same guy on the football team, and then something The Boyf said lept out at me - "Oh, he told you that did he?..... Yes, he does get very vocal..... I know, I like that too".

Great, now I have a reputation for being a screamer.

Out Of Office

The weekend review you are looking for is temporarily unavailable, due to OMO being on an "Absence and Stress Management" course all day today. It's not a great deal of fun, although it has given him some great ideas about how to be off work without it alerting Human Resources.

OMO will return tomorrow with the usual round of sexual shenanigans.

In the meantime here's a little picture to look at...

A View, For You - Willis and Lloyd's

It's a lovely day here in London, and I've just had to wander up to Lloyd's for a meeting. Work on the new Willis building across the road is coming along in leaps and bounds and a couple of sides are now fully glazed. The result is that we now have a rather nice reflection of the Lloyd's building, so I took a quick snap with my phone, for your viewing pleasure.

Laura Ashley, The Madwoman

Laura Ashley, the untethered barrage balloon that is my local madwoman, was wandering around outside the convenience store this morning. She's normally inside the shop rearranging the shelves and slipping things into your basket when you're not looking, like tampons or WD40. I've been wondering if the items are selected purely at random or whether she deliberates over what she feels you need in your life. Hmmm, what about me says tampons and WD40 I wonder?

Anyway, today the shop owner was late, probably hoping that she'd get bored and go back home rather than spending her entire day in his shop again (I've yet to go into the shop and find it less one madwoman). But there she was, hanging around, talking to the paving stones and the tree, in her floral dress and sequined pumps as always.

I offered her a cheery "Morning!" on the way past. Her reply...

"Oh, naaaaah! It's cold when the wind blows. Squark, squark. That's a crow".

I hurried along.

Harumph

I know, you've been expecting the usual Tuesday round-up of my weekend activity all day. You could barely sleep last night I bet. Actually, I did barely sleep last night. Horrible dreams I had, featuring my Id, which was huge and invisible like the monster in The Forbidden Planet. It was trying to rip my home apart to get to me to have sex or something. What's that trying to say I wonder? In the end I took control of it and sent it to terrorise a man, for no good reason that I could fathom. I woke up this morning wondering where my Id had gone.

Anyway, my weekend...

Blah, blah Megawoof... blah, blah snogged someone... blah, blah mojo still not working... blah, blah got annoyed and left.

And there you go.

It's a long story, and one I can't really be bothered to tell. Suffice to say that just when it looked like my mojo was full steam ahead, instead it was dashed against some rocks and sunk with all souls lost.

I'm still sulking. Just a little.

The Monday Morning Blogbite - Twin Peaks

The Boyf and I were rushing around London on the Tube a few days back, obviously late for something or other, when the walls in Green Park station brought us to a halt. Normally we don't make a habit of staring at the walls but they are redecorating the station and have torn down the tiling in the corridors, and it seems that they tiled straight over the top of anything that was already on the walls. How typically cheap of them. The removal of the tiles has revealed posters not seen since the early 90's. In fact, we reckon the posters date back to 1990, judging by which albums were being advertised etc.


The Boyf, being a big Twin Peaks fan, got rather excited by this...





And then we rushed on, even more late for whatever fabulous event we were attending.

Onetwo Fulfill A Dream

Last night I broke a 20-odd year curse and finally got to see Claudia Brucken perform live, as part of her group Onetwo.

Every time I've bought tickets to see her - in Propaganda, Act and as a solo artist - something has gone wrong and I've had to miss it. I'd resigned myself to the fact that it was never going to happen.

But last night I saw Onetwo perform a 6 song mini-gig, and then I got to meet Claudia. I actually got to meet her! I can't tell you how excited, and nervous I was. And she was absolutely enchanting, and oh so friendly.

The Boyf beforehand whispered: "Ok, just act cool. Don't gush all over her. Breathe. Just try to be normal. Don't open with "I love you" even though you know you want to. Just think of something normal to start the conversation off with"

I kept back for a bit, trying to compose myself, then finally approached.

OMO: "H-h-hello Claudia. Oooo, I LOVE your necklace".

I hear The Boyf stifle a giggle and mutter: "You're SO gay"

Claudia: "Er... thank you! That's so sweet"

OMO: "I love you"

The Boyf: "Oh, Christ"

After that I did manage to regain my composure and went on to have a nice little chat with her, and am now the proud owner of a signed CD, a signed 12", and photographic evidence that I actually met her.

Last night a boyhood dream finally came true. Propaganda, you see, were responsible for my obsession with music. Sometime I'll tell you why.

Oh, a quick plug for the Onetwo album, "Instead". It's bloody great. It looks like this...



And you can buy it here.

Go on, you'll love it.

Mojo Update

Damn it! I got home last night to find that someone had come to claim the mojo I had been incorrectly sent. Apparently it was supposed to go to Buck Angel. I did wonder why I was getting a strange tingling sensation where my womb should be.

The upshot is that the South African rugby player cancelled on us - something to do with jet lag - and then The Boyf decided to pull out of the sling-thing this Friday because he wants to get an early night! What the fuck is that all about?!

So there was I, looking forward to feeling utterly used by the end of the week, and instead I'll now just be home in my slippers drinking Horlicks. Harumph. Still, never mind, I have a mini-gig by Onetwo to go to tonight.

Ambassador, You Are Spoiling Us

Never let it be said that I don't do my bit for international relations. We, the English, sometimes have a stuffy attitude towards our cousins on mainland Europe. We just don't always understand them. You know, what with the Germans being all... Germanic and shit. I mean, every German I've met has ended up calling me "Schwanzlutscher", whatever that means. I don't know why they can't just get my name right. Anyway, never let it be said that I don't open my barriers to accommodate international trade.

As you may recall, unless you have a memory as bad as mine, The Boyf and I went to France a couple of weeks back. We wanted to try a "local delicacy" but didn't spot any Frenchmen with Prada skis so came back home with our shirts resolutely unlifted. So it was our good fortune to meet, on Saturday night, a rather fine big, hairy Frenchman who made his country proud. And my bottom sore.

But it wasn't without some manoeuvring. Yet again, just as I'd managed to get his cock out on the middle of the Juicy dancefloor - hey, why wait til you get them home? - his boyfriend turned up. There was a heated exchange, in French, which I pretended I didn't understand a word of, but appeared to be about not knowing where Aunty's pen was, a monkey on a bicycle, and small investments in a wind-generated electricity project in the Scottish Highlands. Or I may have mis-translated. Whatever, to my disappointment the delicious Frenchman was dragged out of the club with only a frantic wave goodbye, never to be seen again, or so we thought.

But the very next evening who should walk into the RVT? No, not Sarah Jessica Parker. That's just silly. Yes, the big, hairy Frenchman, avec le boyfriend. The Boyf and I looked sheepishly at the smaller Frenchman, expecting a tirade of French expletives, but to his credit he came straight over and apologised for being in a bad mood, and gave us his blessing for getting off with his boyfriend. It would have been rude not to, so we dragged him home.

Vive la France!

In other news, we have a South African rugby player already booked in for tonight. And my admission that I've never been in a sling on Saturday night was greeted with glee by the Policeman Who Won't Stop Cumming and his boyfriend. So this Friday we've been invited to their house for a meal, "and then you can try our sling out". I hope it's going to be a light snack. And nothing oniony.

So, whoever posted back my mojo; thanks very much but I don't think this one's mine. It appears to belong to someone younger with alot more stamina. Possibly a Brazilian. You don't mind if I use it until the rightful owner claims it?

Bars/Clubs visited this weekend: 4 (XXL, Juicy, RVT, BarCodeV)
People snogged: 4
Faces sat on: 2
Crabs discovered: None. Yet.

The Boyf's Birthday

Sorry, the normal Tuesday Club/Sex review is closed today for a good scrub down and a check up at the clinic. It'll be back tomorrow once it's had a bit more sleep. The slag.

In the meantime you'll be pleased to know that it was The Boyf's birthday yesterday, and he was 39. As usual he was ridiculously popular and received loads of fun presents (plus a nasty "Bear" plaque made out of etched glass. Vile. The offender does live in Bermondsey so what can you expect?).

To celebrate I let him watch me get fucked by a Frenchman at the weekend, but more about that tomorrow. Trust me, he thought it was a great present. Last night we fancied something quick and made out of meat, but as the Frenchman had gone home we went out for food, cleaning Bodean's out of Burnt Ends, Pulled Pork and Ribs, after which the 10 of us went on to the Absolut IceBar, which is a bar made completely out of ice. Ta-dah! Yup, the walls, the bar itself, the tables and chairs. Even the glasses you drink from are big ice cubes with a hollow centre. But the best bit is the fur-lined cape you're given on the way in. You know how I like anything long that blows out behind me in a breeze. Plus I look totally hot in fur.

So, we got drunk, we licked the walls, we licked the ice sculptures, we licked each other and our friends. And some other random man that I mistook for someone I knew. On purpose. He was cute. He needed to lighten up. It SO wasn't happening. Shame.

The Monday Morning BlogBite - Your Horoscope

Whilst looking on the interweb for an on-line Chinese Fortune Cookie site (I was just bored, ok) I came across this little gem, which I thought I'd share:

Pessimystic Meg

My horoscope for today (I'm a Scorpio, just so you know) was "Always remember; laugh and the whole world laughs with you. Fart, and they run like hell". And my lucky river today is the Mississippi.

Well, it's something to look at when you should be working, isn't it?

All That Juicy And Hear

You must be getting a bit bored with my usual weekend tales of clubbing and sexual shenanigans. Especially recently when the sexual part has been noticably absent. So I'll short-hand this weekend's clubbing for you:

Went to Juicy's 1st birthday. Blagged our way into the VIP party, and free bar, by confusing the doormen with The Drag Queen's breasts. Lots of lovely, lovely men there, including just about all of our usual friends. Eight separate people came up to me and a new found friend to say how much we look alike, and considering he's a sexy fucking beast I was rather flattered. Got really angry in the toilet queue when a group of Angertwinks pushed to the front but managed to bite my tongue. Then on exiting the toilet I was pushed into a wall by another Angertwink wearing oversized white-rimmed sunglasses (I fucking hate people wearing sunglasses in a club) and a stupid assymetrical hair-don't, who apparently didn't believe a chunky, hairy guy in his early 30's - ok, mid 30's. Ok, ok, late 30's. Fuck off - should go up stairs before him. So I grabbed his arm and pulled him back and behind me. He shouted something at me about needing to be somewhere so I turned and growled "We all need to be somewhere, just have some fucking manners". I then walked as slowly up the stairs as I could whilst he repeatedly punched me in the back, jabbering in a high-pitched squeal that I couldn't hear over the top of the music. One word did spring out at me though - "security" - so I turned and said "What the fuck is your problem?". "I'm Security. I work here you fucking stupid arsehole, I've already radioed ahead, and you're just about to get thrown out". I let him pass me, noticing the word "Staff" written on his t-shirt - oops - and then, not wanting to get thrown out of a party I shouldn't be at anyway, I doubled back and took a convoluted route to the heaving main dancefloor where my bald head seemlessly blended in with my surroundings. Ah, urban gay camouflage.

"Most Cringe-Inducing Comment Of The Evening Award" goes to:
A friend of ours has recently discovered steroids and has blown up out of all proportion. I wouldn't do them myself, but I'm pro-choice about just about everything in life. Stuff like that is up to the individual. And he does look pretty great, I have to say. Anyway, whilst dancing next to him I was suddenly elbowed out of the way by what appeared to be a 5 feet 4 version of Arnold Schwarzenegger. He was wider than he was tall. He was closely followed by a 5 feet 8 bodybuilder who this time elbowed The Drag Queen in the stomach, and more closely resembled a rhino than a human. Apart from his colour, which was clearly from the new St. Tropez "Streaky Poo Brown" range. They both appraised my friend's new-found bigness, and then the short one delivered the immortal line: "Welcome to the over-200lb club. You're allowed to talk to us now". I laughed and was rewarded with a glare.

Apart from that nothing happened. Didn't even snog anyone again. I really have lost my mojo this year. If you find it could you return it to the usual address? Thanks.

And apparently that's my idea of short-hand.

The Monday Morning BlogBite - Onetwo

I'm so excited I think I might do a little wee in my pants. Again.

Today is the release of Onetwo's single "Cloud 9".

I know, I know. I'm all over it like a rash. Which reminds me that I need to book up at the clinic again for a check-up.

Anyway, as I was saying, Onetwo's single comes out today.

Their single.

"Cloud 9".

Out today.

Here it is. And here. And here (for those of you not in the UK).



Look...



Why are you looking so puzzled? Please tell me you know who Onetwo are.

*sigh*

Right. Ok. OneTwo are a duo comprising, like, my favourite female singer of all time. Don't tell me you don't know who that is? This is much harder work than I was envisaging you know. It's Claudia Brucken, formerly of Propaganda and Act (plus solo work, and dueting with various people, like Andy Bell on his solo album). The other member of Onetwo is Paul Humphreys, formerly of OMD, but I'm not quite as interested in him, as I was never into OMD. Let's face it, it's all about Claudia and always has been.

So, yeah, they have a single out this week, and wet-pant-inducingly it was written by Martin L Gore (who's, like, my favourite song-writer and shit), who also plays guitar on it.

Frankly, it's almost too much to take. Which isn't something you'd ever hear me say in The Hoist, but let's not talk about that right now.

Right, now you know who Onetwo are I expect you all to buy the single today. Because you love me.

I love you too. But only if you buy the single.

Ski Lessons

France was a ball, even though the weather was largely miserable. Hey, it's the French way! Not only had I not been skiing properly before, I'd also not been to France before. I mean, why would I? I used to almost be able to see France from where I lived, so why would I want to visit? Anyway, I learnt a lot about skiing, the "ski scene" (yawn), and the French, and here are some of my (hardly original) observations:

1. When skiiing you will be carrying alot of awkward equipment, you will be wearing gloves to lessen your grip on said equipment, and you will be in boots that are difficult to walk in. Hence ski resorts are designed to contain as many (concrete) stairs and narrow doorways as possible.

2. French drivers are utterly mental. Old news I know, but they really are complete nutters. Our 1 hour and 15 minute transfer from Geneva (yay, I got to visit Switzerland too, kinda) to our resort took a petrifying 55 minutes of sheer terror, mainly due to overtaking 5 cars at a time round blind bends along mountain roads, with a cliff face on one side and a sheer drop on the other. In the snow. Oh, and the sudden cross-country excusion because "We are not going fast enough, eh?", which resembled a James Bond chase scene albeit without the comedy knocking over of market stalls/chicken coops/men carrying panes of glass. I kept checking behind to see if we were being pursued by a man hanging out a Peugeot 504 with a machine gun.

3. All "extreme sports" fans look alike, be they snowboarders, base jumpers, skaters, surfers etc. They basically consist of teenagers with long hair and behavioural problems, plus the few grown-ups who haven't managed to kill themselves yet but are still clinging to the teenagers' idea of fashion. In fact, they all look like bicycle couriers. Does that classify as an "extreme sport" now? Oh, and they only listen to grungy rock music, although their girlfriends are allowed to listen to old MOR, like Genesis and Toto, which they sing along to in bars.

4. Skiers and snowboarders don't like each other. That's because snowboarders are stupid, arrogant tossers. Although they are very easy to knock over, which is a good thing.

5. If you've only ever skied once before, and that was a year ago, you really shouldn't sit in a bar all morning getting drunk prior to a ski lesson in the afternoon.

6. All French food seems to contain cheese, it all comes accompanied with cured meat, and most of it has an egg on top. I became accustomed to saying "No egg, merci" with every order.

7. The French don't really appreciate you having a go at their language when they can speak perfect English. When I say "having a go", I mean that in the same way that a pack of lions "has a go" at a lone, injured wildebeast i.e. by grabbing it by the throat and mauling it to death, which is precisely what I do to the French language.

8. French nightclubs still play "Loveshack".

9. Ski poles are used solely to injure you in a fall, or get in the way when trying to get on or off a chairlift. Or to trip small unsuspecting children so you can get into the food queue in front of them. Sorry about that whoever you were.

10. You must never say "Oh, this bolt looks a bit loose" when on a cable car with someone who is scared of heights.

11. Small French towns only have three types of shops; those selling meat, those selling cheese, and those trying to squeeze in everything else (mainly tobacco, things made out of wood, and, rather strangely, cuckoo clocks). In a ski resort you can also add in skiing equipment shops, which make up at least 50% of the town. We never found a single shop selling food that wasn't either meat or cheese. This was obviously the reason for Point 6 (above). Lord only knows where all the eggs come from.

12. The French smoke too much. They even smoke when they're working behind the bar. Or serving food, apparently.

13. If you're scared of flying you shouldn't ask the cabin crew whether it's going to be a rough flight if you're not prepared for a "Yes" answer. Cue The Drag Queen gripping both the seat in front and my hand until her knuckles were white for the entire flight, only for it to be completely smooth and uneventful. Women, honestly.

Of course, all of the above is based entirely on one skiing visit to one French town. But what's life unless you're prepared to make sweeping statements with very little to back them up?

Cunning Bilinguist

Bonjour everyone. C'est moi ici pour your delectation.

Yes, I've just come back from France, and I'm now talking in a strange mixture of French and English, and any other foreign word that suddenly springs into my tiny head.

A real example (I'm trying to order a mulled wine and hot chocolate in a mountain bar): "Er... erm... oh, bonjour! Er... une glass of hot vin rouge, er... et une cup of hot chocolat.... por favor. Thank you". Fortunately everyone spoke English.

Look, what can I say, I'm very good with my mouth - you can ask practically any gay man with a beard in London - but my head can only contain one language at a time.

You'd notice, if you could see me, that I still have all my limbs and they're still all pointing in the direction they were before. Some of them are heavily bruised however, but that's got nothing to do with skiing, haha.

I will, no doubt, tell you all about our little foray into rural France, but I just wanted to say "Hi" and let you know I didn't die. In case you were worried.

You were worried, right?

Just a little?

No?

Oh, balls!

Au Revoir For A Bit

Fed up with England's inability to produce snow that lasts more than a day, The Boyf and I, plus The Drag Queen and The Boyf's ex and his current partner, are heading to the French Alps this weekend in search of proper snow, the idea being that we each stand at the top of a mountain and throw ourselves down it attached to a couple of pieces of wood. Ok, I know skis aren't made of wood anymore, but it sounded more romantic that saying "pieces of fibreglass" or whatever it is that skis are made out of these days.

It's only going to be my second time skiing, but I'm of the gung-ho type who believes I have natural ability and don't really need to learn. So I'll just head up to a run and see what happens. It'll make it more interesting for me and for people watching as I career down the slopes.

Anyway, I wanted to say "Goodbye" until this time next week when we return, as I doubt I'll be in a position to post anything. (I mean, we're going to France. Do they even have the internet?). The position I'm hoping for involves my legs in the air and a moustachioed Italian ski instructor, but I'm guessing that any legs-in-the-air activity will be the result of a fall rather than something more porno. So, if you don't hear from me again you'll know that I accidentally broke my head or something.

See you all soon. Have fun!

So... Snow!

(Photo taken from the back of our flat this morning. Apparently it snowed)

So, it snowed in the night then. Like, a whole inch and everything.

That would be why out of a team of 16 people I'm the only one actually at work. Just me, sitting here all on my tod. (Does "tod" have two d's? Is it "todd"?). All I've done so far is answer a succession of phone calls from people unable to get to work. Fun day for me then. Damn me for living so close to work.

Update: I've only just noticed the juxtaposition of the photos on this post and the last one (I'm slow like that). T-shirt and jeans at the weekend, hat and gloves in the week. Who said the Earth's climate was fucked up?

The Tuesday Weekend Review

Now that spring has arrived in London, apparently, The Boyf and I decided to go for a walk on Saturday after visiting the gym. I say "visiting" the gym like we go there with a bottle of wine and expect dinner, but we do occasionally lift some weights rather than just hanging around the changing rooms. Anyway, after our work-out we hopped on a tube to Hampstead and had a wander around the town and then up to the infamous Heath (little piccy taken for your pleasure (above) with my phone).

Being Saturday afternoon there wasn't any cruising, or so I thought; there were still some shady characters wandering about in the trees. Unbelievably there were people sunbathing, and we were only in t-shirt and jeans.

We visited the aviary and quacked at the ducks, went to see the alpacas and pulled faces at them, and fell a little in love with a very handsome, majestic looking stag. Oh, and with a dad walking his son. The Boyf commented, "Hmmm, he's sexy. And with a kid; the spunk tastes better when you know it works". I pulled my 'Oh-My-God-I-Can't-Believe-You-Just-Said-That-But-Actually-I-Was-Thinking-It-Too' face that I do so well and we moved on to walk around the Orangery (er... spelling anyone?).

Which brings us neatly up to Saturday evening. Now I'm not really one for crowded dancefloors. I like them busy, but I have a habit of throwing my arms around, and I like to be able to do it without knocking teeth out or spilling beer. Yes, we endured Megawoof. And yes, it was rammed to the point of being very uncomfortable. For a good couple of hours I couldn't actually do anything on the main floor other than move my head from side to side. Arms were either pinned to my side or held straight up in the air, which just looks silly unless S-Club 7's "Reach" comes on, which at Megawoof never happens. I imagine even the RVT might stop playing that song after the Jo O'Meara debacle. I combated the heaving dancefloor by standing at the bar alot, which resulted in me getting very drunk.

We went with OBM#1 and 2, and just about everyone else we knew turned up; The God, Daddy, The Greek, and a few other friends who I've not mentioned yet but will no doubt turn up at some point. There was also an unusually large amount of men we wanted to sleep with, but for some reason it wasn't happening (possibly because it was too much effort to manoeuvre close to anyone), although I do recollect ending up in a toilet cubicle with someone for longer than was probably polite considering the queue.

Yesterday I asked The Boyf whether we'd enjoyed ourselves. I couldn't quite work it out for myself. It seems that all in all we did, although I have to say it was more effort than enjoyment in my book. Still, I bet we end up going back next month.

The Monday Morning Blogbite - American Football

Ok, Ok, I know it's not Monday morning, but "The Monday Afternoon Blogbite" just doesn't sound right. Just stop with the moaning already.

I just wanted to say "Boooo!" because the Chicago Bears didn't win the Super Bowl thingy in America. We in England have absolutely no clue about American Football. It appears to be like rugby but with helmets and not enough legs on show. Anyway, we kinda cheered the Bears on - obviously we weren't watching, we were too busy shopping, but I did send them a little "Good Luck" thought - but they let me down. They're nothing like most of the bears I know, who would simply have eaten the opposing team.

Oh well, so a begrudging "Congratulations!" to whoever the other team was. Oh, I've just looked it up and they appear to be The Colts. Hmmm, thinking about it I'd probably let a Colt grapple me to the ground too. Pete Kuzak or Bo Dixon in particular. Ta-dah! (Sorry, coldn't resist it).

Looking further it appears that this is the 41st Super Bowl "World championship", and every year it's been won by an American team. I'll say no more.

Quotes From The Boss: No.1

I've been absolutely inundated with a single request for something more about my boss. So here's a little snippet of joy that fell from his lips a short while ago...

OMO: I can't work out why my tax code is slightly different to other peoples'. I seem to be getting a miniscule tax break.

Boss: Perhaps it's for the AIDS medication.

OMO (frowning): Er... I don't have AIDS.

Boss: Oh, I figured all your kind had AIDS.


Another deathly silence ensues in the office.

And The Winner Is...

Ah, we had the joy of the Mr Hoist 2007 contest to attend on Saturday, and we went along with The God (sigh!) and Daddy.

Unfortunately it's not an Oscar-style competition where awards are given out for "Best Blow-job" or "Most People Cum Over". Or even "Most Inappropriate Fart". "Most Piss Drunk In One Evening" would be an easy award, it going to the guy that sits under the urinals every week with a funnel. Every week! Doesn't he have a book to read or some hair to wash? Hope he's had his hepatitis jabs... anyway, as I say, it wasn't that kind of competition. I wish someone had told me BEFORE I turned up in a backless vintage Valentino gown. I knew white was a dodgy decision but I'm never going to get some of the stains out.

No, the Mr Hoist (NSFW) competition is a bit like a Butlins Wet T-shirt event. Some "Dolly Birds", or in this case "Leather Clad Men", get up on a podium and are ridiculed by the host, and made to perform pirouettes in their finery, to the whoops and applause of the baying audience. Or in fact, to the behind-the-hands comments like "Had him. Small willy", or "Arse like a ripped out fireplace". Fortunately for The Boyf and I we'd not "had" any of the contestants and therefore refrained from any comment other than "Shouldn't be wearing that", and "Ew! Blue rubber!".

There were two rounds, one of which wasn't "Swimwear". Shame. The only difference I could tell between the two rounds was that the contestants were actually allowed to speak the second time round, but only in answer to questions posed by the incredibly Germanic host. Answers didn't include anything to do with world peace or ending 3rd World famine, but did include "If I win I'll suck every cock in here" (as if he hadn't already), and "This used to be my Mum's wedding dress". Actually the second one is a lie.

Finally we got to vote. Of the nine contestants one was rather lovely and stood head and shoulders over everyone else. Unfortunately he knew it. Minimum effort given and very monosyllablic. That meant The Boyf didn't vote for him after all, as didn't anyone else apparently as he wasn't in the final three. I really rather liked No.2's chest so he got both our votes, and was placed second. The guy that won was the only one in the competition we actually knew, so we were rather pleased, as was he apparently. He was seen later the next day in another bar being fucked by almost everyone in the place as a way of celebrating. Added a new meaning to "Are you going to enter Mr Hoist this year?". (Actually, when we arrived at the Hoist The Boyf was asked by at least six different people whether he'd be entering the competition. Do you know how many people asked me? None. Nadda. Not one. Harumph).

After the competition everyone left. Oh! What happened to the sex? We left too, met up with The Drag Queen, and went to the opening of "Rise Up" at the Colosseum. We've missed the Colosseum since Beyond closed so it was nice to be back in the place after nearly a year, and the "Bear Square" rapidly reappeared (being an area of the dancefloor for the more hirsuite of us, where twinks get growled at, or occassionally eaten, if they accidentally step into it. We mark the boundary by peeing on the floor when we arrive, like real bears. (Kidding)). We rather enjoyed it all and will be going back for more methinks.

After that we walked (ok, stumbled) down the road to Fire for "Later" and had the usual good time, until my back started to ache and then seize up forcing an early exit home to bed. (We'd been out from 10pm Saturday til 2pm Sunday so I think we were due a rest anyway).

Another weekend well spent.

Ooops!

My (homophobic) boss is talking to the team about his birthday next week...

Boss: So, I'm inviting you all down the pub next Friday lunchtime for a drink or two. I've booked a space outside from 12.45.

Employee: Outside? Won't it be a bit cold?

Boss: They have those heater things. Just wrap up warm. I don't want people complaining - either come down for a beer or go home.

OMO (smirking): Go home? Are you telling us we can go home rather than join you at lunchtime?

Boss (annoyed): No! You know perfectly well what I meant; you can either come down the pub or stay at work. As an Associate I would expect you not ask such silly questions.

OMO: Well as a Partner I'd expect you to actually think about what you're saying before you open your mouth for a change.

A deathly silence ensues.

Oops.

No Rest For The Wicked

I had an awful nights sleep last night, Dear Reader.

I said, I HAD AN AWFUL NIGHTS SLEEP LAST NIGHT! Some sympathy wouldn't go amiss.

Oh, please yourselves.

I had one of those nights where I had one nightmare after another. The Boyf said I woke up with a shout on at least six occassions, plus once I woke up sobbing.

It was those bloody wolves again. I kept having these mini nightmares which seemed to comprise of nothing more than flashes of huge teeth and fur and eyes. Then there was one where a wolf was standing over my bed watching me, and then finally another where I was the wolf.

I think I've worked out what these are about since my spate of them some months ago. The wolves seem to be a symbol of my sexual side, and in particular my reluctance to truly let myself go sexually. Now, I know that's quite hard to believe, those of you who have actually been paying attention to my blog, but it's absolutely true. Going to The Hoist is a recent development, and most of the time I go there I'm a little stand-offish and don't participate (like last Saturday). The Boyf calls it being uptight, I call it being picky about who I have sex with.

But not all my dreams were about wolves. The one that made me sob was about my Mum being very old and frail and being in a care home. And her best friend had a major operation in America and came back in a box, with a small tv screen on the front which showed her face. Everyone in the dream apart from me was old and frail - all my friends and family - and I was the only one still young (and pretty. Ahem). And I ended up curling up into a ball and crying because I didn't want to see the people I cared about in this way, and because I was frightened it was going to happen to me.

Then I had a dream where I was a policeman chasing a serial killer who was draining the victims of their blood and making blood-bags. Charming.

And finally I had a dream about a locker room I couldn't find my way out of. It was like a labyrinth. This morning The Boyf said that it sounded more like Heaven than a nightmare, until I added that it was a girls locker room. Shudder!

So, the big question is; do I need counselling?


On an unrelated note, this happens to be my 100th post. Frankly I'm amazed I've made it this far, but I'm glad I have as I enjoy writing this blog. And I thank you, Dear Reader, for stopping by and having a look at my shoddily written ramblings.

The Drag Queen's Birthday Ensues

Ok, so it's The Drag Queen's birthday today, but she decided to start the celebrations last Friday, as is her way. So off we trotted to BarCodeV - myself, The Boyf, The DQ, and a straight male work colleague of theirs who we'll refer to as Mr X - where the Boyf and I found ourselves to be the subject of attention for a rather cute gentleman, who nevertheless refused to actually speak to us. After a couple of bacardi breezers, I mean pints of beer, we moved to Fire for "A:M" where we met up with OBM#1 and OBM#2, plus a handsome French friend of theirs, who everyone but me appeared to already know (he turned out to be one of the faces on the Megawoof poster, along with OBM#2). And much fun was had by all, especially after Mr X went missing for a while and, when we went to look for him, was found to be in the toilet being blown by a young lady. Then the rather cute gentleman from BarCodeV arrived and finally plucked up the courage to speak, in very fractured English, to reveal he was a German tourist. Unfortunately, just as The Boyf and I were about to "get stuck into him" his English boyfriend turned up and spoilt the party. So the only one of us to "cop off" was our straight friend. In a gay club, I ask you! What is the world coming to? We all finally left at around 7am, feeling much worse for wear, and The Boyf and I headed straight to bed and didn't bother getting up again til 7pm on Saturday to watch "Dancing On Ice" - sheesh - and comment on the various outfits/thighs/hair/whatever.

Saturday night was spent in The Hoist (probably NSFW), trying desperately to look interested but failing miserably. There just wasn't anyone around we liked, which is saying something for The Boyf, who isn't normally very fussy, the slut. It didn't help that the music was all wrong. "Funky Town" followed by "Dancing Queen" (I kid you not) does not make for a very sexually charged environment, I'm sure you'll agree. So we bid farewell to a friend of ours, who at the time was being fucked over the balcony railings in time with Madonna's "Jump", and made an early exit, only to come across (not literally, sadly) a very big, muscular and hairy fellow who was arriving as we were leaving. The three of us stopped and looked at each other, but he'd just paid to get in and we were already in possession of our coats, so there was a little stand-off and then The Boyf decided enough was enough and dragged me out. "He was totally up for it", I complained, "and I've wanted him for ages now". The Boyf countered that if he was up for it then we'd get another chance, and sure enough the next day the guy messaged me on-line to say he thought we were "a hot couple", so I have a feeling we'll be seeing him again.

Sunday was spent largely in bed, again, where The Boyf and I took our frustrations out on each other, and then went back out for Round 2 of The DQ's birthday, hosted at The Royal Vauxhall Tavern. As usual we bounced up and down alot, perved lasciviously over a policeman we know (but not well enough, yet), and finally left to go to BarCodeV for a quiet drink before home and bed again.

And that, Dear Readers, was our weekend. How was yours...?

Doris And Hot Men Day

It was "Hot Multi-Racial Mens Lunchtime" at the gym today. I've not done a lunchtime work-out since the summer but, in line with my new years resolutions, this week has been "Back To The Gym Week". And I can't believe how much better for it I feel already. Well, you know, apart from aching all over.

Anyway, in today's gym we have:

1. Short (5ft 4in), very muscular guy in his early 40's, with a nice dusting of chest hair. Cropped fair hair, very English looking, and looked great in a suit when he left.

2. Hispanic looking guy on the running machine next to mine, who apparently could only walk, with a chiselled, brooding face only managed by Latin men, and that 5 o'clock shadow which appears immediately after they shave.

3. A slightly cross-eyed Turkish guy who was strangely wearing combats and what appeared to be a tie-dye t-shirt. With massive arms covered in thick dark hair I could forgive him the fashion faux-pas. After all, most clothes look the same when they're piled on the floor.

4. An Eastern European with the most incredible chest, and very slightly flirty eye contact, in a shy way. I could have died and gone to heaven on that chest, but couldn't quite pluck up the courage for anything other than a faint "Hi", as is usually the case when confronted by a hot guy.

So there was I, surrounded by a veritable cornucopia of beautiful man-flesh, trying my hardest not to get a boner on the cross-trainer, when I looked up to see what was playing on the tv's. It was a Doris Day movie. Apparently I'd arrived in Gay Heaven.

I'm not sure what the movie was, and the sound was off, but it appeared that Doris went to a laboratory wearing a white summer dress with a very bold red print, with matching headband and lots of very pale eye shadow, where she seemed to be shown "before and after" images which seemed to have something to do with surgery. She pulled lots of faces which all come labelled as "aghast". She then left and spied - by looking over the top of her big sunglasses - on a woman getting undressed and swimming in her pool. I could only assume therefore that it was about Doris being a transsexual Female to Male who was awaiting her op', after which she would lure the swimming woman into her bed and shag her senseless with her freshly constructed phallus. I can't seem to find a Doris Day movie on the internet with this synopsis so would be most grateful if anyone could tell me.

Have a good weekend, Dear Readers.

Let Me In-A-Your Window-oh-oh-oh!

Bloody hell. It's Friday already.

So, Jade Goody anyone?

No, I think I'll pass. I really can't be bothered to join the debate. She's not worth the effort, stupid cow.

It's been a quiet week here at OMO Towers, apart from being blown about yesterday. Two of the girls at work were injured in their lunch break by a falling "To Let" sign and ended up in A&E.

Personally I quite like it windy. It makes my big coat blow out behind me like a cape, and I run along feeling very "Heathcliffe". Oh, ok, "Cathy". I did try to get The Boyf to go out and get lost on the moors last night, returning some days later and dying of consumption, but he refused. For one, there aren't alot of moors in central London, and secondly he didn't want to pander to my gothic romanticism. Having me standing outside the bedroom window, banging on it and wailing all night was quite enough for him. It was quite enough for me too; I got quite a chill up my bustle. We've decided to sleep with a Moor this weekend tho, to make up it. If we can find one anyway. They seem quite thin on the ground these days.

Tonight starts the month long celebration that is The Drag Queen's birthday. I won't tell you how old she'll be, not because it's rude to say a lady's age - frankly, she ain't no lady - but simply because I can't remember. Her birthday is next Tuesday, but this weekend we'll be joining her in various bars and clubs, starting with BarCodeV and then A:M at Fire tonight. So if you happen to see a girl covered in glitter, a guy singing "Wuthering Heights" in white chiffon, and two big, hairy tattooed bodybuilders that'll be us. And if you look vaguely Moorish and some guy's trying to hump your leg, that'll be The Boyf. Say hi and we'll buy you a beer. Perhaps you could be Heathcliffe to my Cathy, who knows...

Showing My Age?

Oh shit, it's Tuesday and I'm completely unprepared to tell you about my weekend. I'm actually very busy at work, don'tcha know. It does happen occassionally.

So, my weekend then...

I SO wasn't in the mood for going out on Friday night, so I went straight home after work and crawled into bed for a bit. I'd had a hard week at work, and I deal with stress by sitting in the dark listening to music and drinking wine, or going to sleep. Unfortunately The Boyf deals with stress (he'd had a hard week too) by going out and partying as hard as he can. So I was suddenly beseiged by him, The Drag Queen and a work colleague of theirs who had been out drinking champagne since school kicked out, for no good reason that I could fathom. They'd come back to ours to freshen up before going to another bar and actually managed to cajole me into going with them, if only for a couple of hours. So, come midnight I bid my farewell to BarCodeV (after giggling unnecessarily at the hot doorman, who decided to have a good grope at my nether region) and drove home, leaving The Boyf to make his own way home later (which actually entailed him ringing me at 4.30 in the morning and begging me to come and get him cause he was stuck and didn't want an hours walk home). Harumph!

We took the unusual step of staying in on Saturday night and watching Kylie on tv, mercilessly mocking her outfits (what the fuck was that gold thing she had on?) and strangely wooden dance routines. We did wonder whether she'd simply been nailed to a skatebord and was just being wheeled around the stage, wiggling her hips occassionally. There was an early report of a sign being held in the audience which read "Show Us Your Tit", but we didn't see any evidence of it.

Sunday was a lovely spring day in the city. Which seemed odd, it still being mid-January an' all. So OBM's came over to our place and then the four of us walked along the South Bank, stopping at various Starbucks, Nando's, and anywhere that sold sweet foodstuffs (OBM#2 wasn't feeling well and decided to eat as many cakes as possible. I thought I'd join in so as not to feel left out). After a trawl around The Tate we decided we'd had quite enough culture and went to an amusement arcade to play air hockey and see how long we could last on the electric chair. Unsurprisingly I managed to take full power, eliciting much commenting along the lines of "Ah, now we know what you're into". Ahem.

And that was our weekend. Quiet, and rather lovely. It must be my age that I'd rather go for a walk with my friends than be stuck in a bar getting drunk somewhere. Well, if that's what growing up is all about then bring it on.

The Monday Morning(ish) BlogBite

Is it just me, or does anyone have a little shiver go down their spine whenever they say something very intelligent and professional at work?

Just me then.

It doesn't happen very often.

Try Before You Buy

We were round The Drag Queen's house for dinner. As usual this means that we turn up and the food is still in its raw state. Occassionally it doesn't even look completely dead. It then becomes The Boyf's job to cook it. It's not that The Drag Queen is a bad cook, quite the opposite. It's just that she's always far too busy to actually cook anything, and once we get there she always seems to find other things that need completing urgently. Like reading Cosmopolitan, drinking wine, smoking cigarettes and talking on her phone (all done simultaneously). So there we were on Wednesday evening, 8pm and The Boyf is cooking our dinner again.

Then the Drag Queen's flat mate came home from work (she's a nurse) and started telling us about her new boyfriend, who's just booked up a flight and hotel and is whisking her off to Italy for a romantic weekend. The conversation proceeds thus:

Nursey: I can't believe he's taking me to Italy already.

The Boyf: Why not?

Nursey: We've only seen each other a couple of times.

The Boyf: Must be keen on you then. What's he like?

Nursey: Welsh.

The Boyf: Oh. Pity.

Nursey: Yeah, but he's very sexy, and apparently loaded and generous. And I've not even snogged him yet. He's taking me to Italy and I've not kissed him properly!

(There is silence for a moment)

OMO: But you have fucked him, right?

(Nursey looks shocked)

The Drag Queen: Welcome to OMO's World, where you wouldn't have snogged your new boyfriend but would have screwed him almost immediately.

Much laughter ensues.

Talking Bout A Resolution

Here at OMO Towers I've been desperately trying to think of some new year's resolutions which I can make and then break. I mean, that's the point, isn't it? So here, for your delectation, are things I'd like to do this year but probably won't.

1. Write a blog.

Er... (blink)

What I mean is, I want to write a blog where I'm not anonymous and can actually tell you EVERYTHING! Yeah, you should look worried. I'm trying to get The Boyf to come in with me on it, as he's far better at writing than me and I think it'll do him good to use his hands for something other than masturbating all evening. As long as it means he doesn't stop making my dinner everything should work out rather well.

2. Actually have a holiday that involves getting on a plane. 2005 was a good year; New York and San Fransisco. But last year fell a bit flat. We already have ski-ing in France booked for next month, but I want at least two other foreign holidays this year.

3. Swim with dolphins.

4. Learn to swim. Should help with No. 3.

5. Sleep with Bill Goldberg.

6. Get a new job.

7. Jump out of a plane. Preferably with a parachute.

8. Go to the gym properly and take it seriously, rather than the half-arsed work-outs I've been doing for the last year.

9. Sleep with my boss. He's homophobic. It'd be funny.

10. Learn a language. I'm thinking Spanish cause I did it at school for a bit and rather liked it.

11. Make my blog 20% funnier.

I do actually intend to keep most of these. Sleeping with both Bill Goldberg and my boss might prove tricky, but there's no harm in aiming high.

Bits And Bobs

Certain small things either happened or came to my attention over Christmas/New Year that don't demand their own subjects, but are nevertheless noteworthy.

1. One of the presents I bought for The Boyf turned up after Boxing Day, even though I ordered it a week before Christmas AND paid for rapid delivery. I gave the parcel straight to him to open, with a cheery "Merry Belated Christmas", only to watch his face change to a look of puzzlement. Inside the parcel was a Spongebob Squarepants alarm clock, which was definitely not what I'd ordered. Thanks very much, Forbidden Planet.

2. The Greek God won't stop texting me, and has taken to emailing me photos of himself in compromising positions. Mainly with other guys' cocks up his ass. Apparently he can't stop thinking about me fucking him, and I'm rather flattered.

3. The Boyf appears to have turned into a bottom.

4. A friend of ours kept a guy in a box in his hallway for Christmas. His only sustenance was his own urine. The friend commented that he didn't really understand it, but that's what the guy wanted as a present. Odd.

5. I appear to look good wearing fur. Faux fur, obviously. Don't ask how I know this.

6. My favourite drink now appears to be sherry. A sure sign I'm getting old.

7. I'm starting to reminisce about dance music from the late 80's and early 90's, and keep suggesting to people that we start a club night playing old rave anthems. Another sure sign I'm getting old.

8. Twinks dancing freak me out. They're way too bendy and resemble rubber chickens having epileptic fits. And why do they wear sunglasses in nightclubs? What's that all about?

9. The trippiest thing I've ever seen was "The Polar Express" in 3D on the giant IMAX screen just before Christmas. And is it me or are the elves REALLY unnerving?

10. All tasks, no matter how trivial, become hysterically funny if you're wearing a Cyberman helmet.

The Bedtime Express

It's Friday and I've just left work for the week. I'm catching the District Line east at Tower Hill, and it's busy as usual. Standing room only, 9 times out of 10 anyway. I step in my usual door. It's the one that puts me closest to the steps down to the platform I need when I disembark this train two stops later to change to another line.

I stand in the doorway towards the front of my carriage and I survey the crowd, looking for anything of interest to occupy my mind, perhaps even someone to flirtatiously make eye contact with. As is my way.

Of the four seats taken on one side, three are occupied by a woman in her 30's with a very severe haircut and angular face, and either side of her a small child; a boy of about 5 and a girl of 6 or 7. All other seats are taken by the usual commuter crowd. Mrs Severity has a book in her lap and is reading aloud to her children, in a clear, almost musical voice. It's a tale of high seas and pirates, but I can't see the cover to find out exactly what book it is. Both children appear absorbed with other things though, and don't seem to be paying alot of attention.

I notice the man next to the family is asleep. I look across to the people sitting opposite the family. A middle-aged businessman appears completely wrapped up in the story. He's obviously paying attention, but he keeps closing his eyes and then blinking them open again. He's having to make a conscious effort to stay awake. The other three passengers are asleep. Mrs Severity has managed to lull the entire end of the carriage to sleep, except for her actual children.

I close my eyes and lean back on a handrail, listening to the story. I nearly miss my stop. We adults don't have enough stories read to us.

New Years Resolution No.1, Now Defunct

On our local TV news yesterday evening (being London Tonight, or something), there was an in-depth 2 minute article (!) on the rising house prices in London, and how people cannot afford to get on the property ladder in London. Sorry, have they only just noticed that houses are seriously over-priced in London?

Anyway, they interviewed an estate agent. He was basically a jumped-up, pin-stripe suited, Essex boy, with a mockney accent and too much hair gel. Normal estate agent round these parts. He rounded off the interview with (cue crap accent), "Well, at the end of the day people will always wanna live 'ere, won't they? I mean, there's only one London, ain't there?".

I lost my usual reserve and shouted at the TV, "No, there fucking isn't, you idiot. There's a London in Ontario, Canada, and one in Arkansas, USA for a start".

Nice to know my New Years Resolution of remaining calm when faced with morons didn't last long.

Merry This, Happy That. Plus Cake.

I know it's a bit late but Happy New Year from OMO Towers, Dear Reader(s)! This is pretty much the first time since Christmas Eve that I can actually keep my hands still long enough to type sensibly. No, not Parkinson's, just too much alcohol and stuff (cake, mainly).

Anyway, did you have a nice Christmas and New Year? Really? Well, that's all very interesting but let's talk about me for a bit shall we?

I have to say that our Christmas was wonderful. We spent 48 hours in the company of OBM#1 and #2, and what a great two days it was. Lots of lovely food (turkey, ham, all the trimmings) and drink, and plenty of giggling. It turns out that OBM#2 (he with the lovely grey beard and blue eyes, and the same first name as me) and I have exactly the same taste buds, i.e. we like sweet stuff, whilst The Boyf and OBM#1 (who also share the same first name) go for savouries. Imagine our reluctance to share an enormous Christmas cake between only the two of us! And then start on the chocolates, mince pies, etc.

Christmas actually started early for us aswell, in the shape of a Greek who found his way into our bed on the Friday night before Christmas. We'd met him on the Thursday, but due to some reason involving a dog and a rubbish bin we couldn't have our fill of him until the next night. And as hot as he was dressed in a t-shirt and jeans it was still a shock to find out just how incredible he was unclothed. My tongue had to be reeled back into my mouth. Christianity hasn't managed to destroy all the Greek Gods, apparently.

Anyway, we finally left OBM's late on Boxing night so that we could wake up in our own bed together and have a lovely day to ourselves.

Two evenings later we staged the return leg of Christmas at our house for OBM's and The Drag Queen, which involved all of us eating another huge turkey and ham, more cake, chocolate, mince pies etc, and then talking complete rubbish til 4am. Needless to say I phoned in work sick the next morning.

The next evening (now Friday before New Year), The Boyf and I, plus The Drag Queen, headed north for another Christmas meal with The Boyf's ex and his partner, which involved eating another turkey, more ham, cake, chocolates, mince pies etc. Can you see a pattern emerging?

Saturday afternoon it was back to London and then drinks at BarCodeV, followed by The Hoist for the Recon party, to work off some of the Christmas excesses. And work it off I did, with a rather dishy policeman and his truncheon, who seemed to be able to cum every few minutes without having to take a breath inbetween. Kinda humbling, but I wasn't complaining.

New Years Eve involved the dreaded XXL with OBM's, which was as bad as we'd feared. I mean, a danced-up version of Billie Jean, in this day and age. What were they thinking? So we showed our faces and then headed to Fire for the 23 hour "Juicy" marathon. With a new room freshly opened (we didn't need poppers, the stink of paint kept us high as kites) with LED lights across the ceiling and two walls it really has to be seen to be believed. We christened it the "Justin Timberlake Room" as it looked like one of his videos, and every time we set foot in there we ended up acting like we were indeed in a JT video, complete with odd robotic dance moves. We were drunk and high on fumes, remember. The God put in a rather lovely appearance, and we all went home on Monday afternoon with smiles on our faces, even though we were shaking so much our vision was blurred.

So, there you go. Much food, lots of drink, gorgeous men, great presents, and most of all the best friends I could possibly ask for. I've never had a better Christmas and New Year.

Happy Holidays!

Well, I guess this will be the last chance I get to wish you all a very Merry Christmas.

This afternoon we will start the mad dash to visit both mine and The Boyf's families. Who live in opposite directions from each other. So it's south first, then back past London and up north. Hopefully we'll be back sometime Christmas Eve and will finally be able to relax.

So Happy Holidays Dear Readers. I hope Santa brings you everything you want. I am assuming that you've all been well-behaved of course. I know I have...

Shhh! Let's Pretend It's Tuesday

Can we just pretend it's still Tuesday? That way I can tell you about my weekend without going "weird" on you because I'm a day late.

So yeah, lovely Tuesday isn't it? I've just made a record-breaking run to Oxford Street and back in my lunch hour to get The Boyf's main present. So that's pretty much all my shopping done. I just need to stop somewhere and buy him a pineapple and I'm finished. What, sorry? Oh, the pineapple. Long story and not very interesting. Perhaps some other time, eh.

So, about last weekend. Hmmm, well XXL was good fun. Loads of lovely men there for me to dribble all over but I restrained myself and didn't paw anyone for a change. Shame really. Apart from that everything was pretty quiet to be honest. We're trying to savour every quiet moment we get, as from now on in we're out every night until Christmas Day. Still, the actual day is going to be lovely. For the first time ever I won't be spending it with my family. Instead we're off round OBM#1 and #2's house for two days where we can all sit around and eat and not care about having to be on our best behaviour. I hope they realise that means I'll be laying about in just a pair of pants. Utter bliss and I can't wait.

The Monday Morning BlogBite - Now Fashionably Late

Frost!

Yes, Frost!

This morning!

Frost, I tells ya!

In London!


For the first time this winter (is it winter yet or still autumn?) we had to scrape frost off the car this morning.

Hurrah!

Question Number 2

Why do bike couriers always have odd facial hair?

The Office Christmas, er, "Party"

Last night's Office Christmas Party reminded me exactly why after last year's party I said I wouldn't go to another one. Unfortunately in the intervening 12 months I softened and allowed myself to be talked into going. That won't be happening again.

The reasons:

1. Drunk 20-year old straight guys talking about "flange" did not help me eat my starter, which was paté, which I abhor. Now, I'm no prude, but not in a posh restaurant over dinner guys, please!

2. A girl shouting "Oi! Garcon! Over here, NOW!" I consider to be rude behaviour, especially as she's one of the team leaders where we work. You know what they say about people who are rude to waiters. People who are rude to waiters who haven't done anything wrong deserve utmost contempt in my book.

3. A guy repeatedly standing up and shouting "I want my fucking dessert, and I'd better get it fucking soon you c**ts!" (I kid you not. In a very well-to-do restaurant!). Again, I don't count this as particularly decent behaviour. I think we'd all agree on that.

4. The girl sitting next to me - who just has a new boss; me! - vomited everywhere because she'd managed to drink, in the space of under 2 hours, at least 2 bottles of red wine (because it was free). This didn't make my dessert any more appetising.

5. The girl behind me really needed to keep her voice down when she was talking about which married man's cock she'd managed to fiddle with recently in the office.

These are all people who work within 20 feet of my desk and who I deal with on a day-to-day basis.

Maybe I'm getting old, but it wasn't my idea of a good night out. I don't understand people who feel the need to be abusive, and I don't understand people who feel the need to drink as much as possible in the shortest possible time, just because the booze is free. Don't get me wrong, I'm not getting all high-and-mighty, and I like to get squiffy as much as the next guy, but there are times and places for such behaviour.

So anyway, I left straight after the dessert course, jumped on the tube, and went home to The Boyf, where we cuddled up on the sofa and watched TV together. All's well that ends well.

Please remind me in 12 months not to go to next year's "do".

The Dash and The Rash

It's that time of the week where I tell you all about what a fab weekend I hadn't, isn't it? Also known as "Tuesday". Never let it be said that, as a high-functioning Asperger's Syndrome gay male, I don't like to form a habit and then go strangely quiet and sit in my room staring at the wall when that habit is broken somehow. That would just be weird.

(starts to frown)

So, my weekend then.

(smile reappears)

Well, we didn't get to see my Mum. We also didn't get to see Gary Numan in concert, or go to XXL on Saturday night, all of which were planned. We did however get to see my repeated dashes to the toilet for the duration of Saturday afternoon and much of the evening. Yes, Dear Readers, I had a stomach upset. And very upset it was too. I couldn't console it no matter how hard I tried.

I woke up Sunday morning to find everything had, well, dried up, which was a result. So The Boyf and I went to get this year's Christmas Tree and spent the afternoon decorating it, accompanied with a Doris Day Christmas CD and copious glasses of sherry. We like to let our hair down. In a gay way.

Now The Boyf tends to go a bit quiet and stare at a wall if his plans go wrong. That would be Asperger's Syndrome again then. So, because he'd not been out on Saturday by Sunday evening he was starting to go stir-crazy, hence we headed out to the RVT to meet some friends, including The Drag Queen (who's part of the furniture in that establishment). We had a dance and a beer, and then moved to BarCode to finish the night off. Unfortunately I kept getting in the way of the mirrors in the bar, which stopped a short well-built guy constantly checking himself out. (For the record anyone under my height, 5ft 8, is classed as short). Such was his annoyance that he actually came over and pushed a gap between The Boyf and I, looked himself up and down in the mirror, did a "Hmmm, you look good" face (a kind of pout accompanied with a nodding head), gave me the evils, and wandered back to where his friends were standing, hoping of course that the gap would remain for him keep checking himself out. So we left the gap just long enough until, mid-conversation with his friends, he actually turned slightly to check out his bum, at which point The Boyf and I quickly moved back together, eliciting a scowl from the pint-sized narcissist. How we laughed. Ah, good times!

At 2am I finally managed to drag The Boyf and The Drag Queen out of the bar and home (The DQ was sleeping on our couch), where The Drag Queen started demanding that we cook her something to eat. Oh, and examine a rash that she'd gained on her bum, which she then decided was a stab wound. Not that she revels in the drama or anything. Nothing like a rash and a bacon sandwich at 3am on a Monday morning knowing that you've got to be up for work at 7. The festive silly season begins!

The Monday Morning(ish) BlogBite - Santa's Here

I have just been chosen to be this year's Santa at the office Christmas lunch, this Friday. Which means that it's my job to have each member of staff on my knee so that I can give them a present. My mind is racing with the possibilities. In fact, I've already had to splash myself with cold water to calm myself down. One thing's for certain - I'll be popping a Viagra that morning.

Ho - Ho - Hehehehehehehehehehehe

(cue manic dirty laugh)

Just So You Know

The rather delicious Spanish tourist that ended up in my bed last night did indeed snore.

Hurrah!

Why My Friends Think I'm Weird: Pt.3

I have a funny fixation with vacuum cleaners. Now, before you jump to conclusions, only once did I ever try to see what would happen if I put my, er.... well, you know the rest. Oh, come on, we've all tried it. Haven't we? Oh. Anyway, my fixation is slightly different. I'll explain...

When I was a wee ickle OMO I always fell asleep on the stairs when my Mum was hoovering the house. For some reason the sound of a hoover relaxed me, ultimately sending me to sleep. And it still does, as does anything that makes a loud whirring sound (i.e. hair-dryers).

When I split up with my last boyfriend (we'd been together nearly 7 years), I couldn't sleep properly. I missed the sound of his snoring, his breathing. That was pretty much the only thing I did miss. I tried everything to help me, but in the end only one thing would do. So, Dear Reader, believe it or not I took to balancing a hair-dryer in a boot on my bedside table, turning it on, and falling asleep each night. At some point in the night I'd wake up enough to turn it off and drop straight back off to sleep.

I'll just let you think about that for a moment...



Now, purely from a electricity bill point of view, and the heat build up in the summer, this action seems a little, well, stupid. However, I then woke up one night to the smell of burning plastic and black smoke and realised that I was just about to have a very nasty accident.

So, instead of the hair-dryer I took to turning on the hoover every night.

Hmmmm.

And then finally I found another boyfriend. Who snores and, er, breathes. Personally I always prefer boyfriends who are actually alive. They're better at cooking, although I don't always get to watch the TV I want, so it's all swings and round-a-bouts.

So nowadays having the hoover on is strictly limited to when I'm doing the housework (although I struggle to stay awake whilst doing it), or when The Boyf is away for the night. Yup, when he's not there I still turn the thing on! For fuck's sake don't tell him; I've been blaming the high electricity bill on his internet porn habit.

I've also found that if I'm getting a bit stressed at work the hand-dryers in the toilet calm me down.

So there you go. Should you ever find yourself unlucky enough to be invited back to sleep with me make sure you snore. Or bring a hoover.

Saunas And Sore Knees

So, how was your weekend then? No, it's ok, you don't really have to tell me. I was just trying to be polite.

Let me tell you about mine.

The Boyf's Mum is currently ill and pretty much bed-ridden, so on Friday evening we battled the traffic - quite literally; I used a long broom to poke cars out of our way - and drove up to the Midlands to visit her.

Saturday was actually spent in a, ahem, Gentleman's Health Club, trying not to look like I'd fallen completely in love with a big hairy bodybuilder that - surprise! - I found myself next to in the jacuzzi. Apparently he was in the minority and had actually gone to the sauna to relax and not just have mindless sex, as he spurned the furtive glances I gave him from behind my fan, and "accidental" touching of his very thick hairy leg. At least, that's what I've told myself.

Late Saturday afternoon was spent in the company of The Boyf's Mother, who I must admit did seem to be really ill, rather than just being dramatic, and genuinely pleased to see us. As long as we didn't show any affection towards each other of course. Saturday evening meant a trip to a pub in Birmingham, and that's about all I can say about that really. Oh, some guy came over and asked if we were "stuck up Londoners", so with annoyance we said "Yes" and turned our backs on him.

On Sunday we got up early and drove back to London, and what followed was a whirlwind of drink, drugs, dancing and sex. BarCodeV gave way to the RVT, which in turn gave way to The Hoist. The final thing to give way were my knees at around 2 in the morning. However, I have to say that I was thwarted in every attempt to blag the men I really liked. It was just one of those evenings where everyone I wanted was unavailable in some way. Not that I was flirting of course. Oh no, I was far more brazen than that. Oh well, it seemed I sent two men home with smiles on their faces, and that meant a weekend well spent in my book, if you'll pardon the pun.

The Monday Morning BlogBite - It's Me!

Ta-dah! Yes, it's a photo of your very own OMO. Ok, I know it's not very clear but then I do write this anonymously, for reasons I'm actually not too sure about. I have a funny feeling that as time goes by my anonymity may well slip, but for the time being this is all you're getting.

Did Anyone Notice...

... whether the sun actually rose today? We seem to have been plunged into perpetual darkness, Finland-style. Makes me want to hibernate.