Good question- busy, I guess.

I miss blogland and everything about it, but can't afford to visit these days...

Even working from home a lot keeps me busier these days than the "9-5" (or quarter to ten till ten past six, more accurately) ever did.

Apologies to my faitful readers and friends, maybe you've had a chance to trawl through my archives in my absence.

I have much to say and more to write, sometimes I form a complete post in my head with not a chance to write it down, which sucks.

On the other hand, I am out there "having a life" without much time for introspection, giving me a chance to ride the wave of a new long-distance relationship but not much time to reflect on it.

Not sure if that is a good or bad thing?

Staying in with a friend, a bottle of wine and some romantic tat on the box last night didn't prepare me for a surprise at bedtime:

Tall Boy texting to tell me he was in my area and what I was up to? The classic booty text, half an hour to midnight.
I couldn't resist replying though, with a little jab at how inappropriate I thought this type of message was. Was he drunk?

He called me, rambling but not slurring his words, and suggested: "Why don't I just get a cab and come round for a bit, we could have a drink and talk, I won't stay long...".

I was just getting cozy in my nightdress and snuggling under the covers, so I chatted for about ten minutes but told him, quite firmly that I was going to bed and he could always arrange something with a bit more warning. It was 00:15, I should have been asleep and a copy of "Why Men Marry Bitches" http://www.amazon.co.uk/Why-Men-Marry-Bitches-Winning/dp/074327637X/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1207130828&sr=1-1 glared at me from the pillow next to me, reminding me to keep my dignity.

I wished him a good night, hung up and turned my phone on silence.

This morning, two more texts, obviously sent as he was missing me from home.
He had looked forward to be "entertained by me", and wanted to "tell me things".

"What things?" I asked him from my way to work. "I will tell you when we next see each other", he replied.

I guess I am curious, but I won't hold my breath.

According to the Guardian (page 6), Homophobia is rife in Britain.

I beg to differ!

Having been invited to a gay engagement party last week, I went into a card shop and looked around for an appropriate card to get the guys.
"Do you have any gay engagement cards?", I asked the shop assistant, expecting a shrug and a baffled grin.
"We do", she goes, and points me to the right shelf. Indeed, there was a decent selection of cards on offer, and I settled for one that said "Mr&Mr Fabulous", depicting two smiling chaps in colourful 1960s jumpers.

Now all I needed was a suitable pressie. Skulking around the "erotic memoirs" section at Waterstones to check out the latest addition to my favourite genre, "Cutting up Playgirl" by Carrie Jones (fuck, how original! ) I decided a nice sexy book might be just the ticket.

Reluctantly approaching the information desk, I was stopped in my tracks by a cheerful guy bleating "Do you have a question?" across the bookshop before I got close enough for a whisper to carry.
"I was looking for gay male erotica", I replied at the same volume.

Heads turned. "Ah", the helpful chap tells me, "just look over there, next to the diet section".
Diet section!? I wondered, thinking that two meaty sausages in bed every night wouldn't exactly fall into that category.

Crouching on my hunches I examined every book from "Sex for Dummies" (just who buys THAT!?) to various blowjob manuals, but each and every one of them had some woman or other in it as part of the equation.
The guy came over to help. "My colleague just told me", he said, helpfully, "there will be more of a selection in the gay section on the first floor". "Oh thanks", I replied, "I was wondering that everything here looked a bit straight".

Downstairs it was a different story: Gay male sexy photo books, erotic stories, romantic stories, how to have the perfect pink wedding, Time OUT in London, OUT and about, Lesbian romances and sex manuals, etc and so on. Great!

I took the book of the newest and raunchiest stories, paid and went to my party. One of the other guests had bought them a tea set. Now that was truly controversial!

Later that night, one of the two grooms asked about Tall Boy: "Are you still seeing that guy from work, do you remember what you told us abut him?" "No, sadly not", I replied, "and what did I say about him again?" (I had been a bit tipsy, it was at a Christmas party).
"That he had the most perfect cock". "He still does", I admitted sentimentally, feeling my eyes misting over and noticing a clenching fist of guilt when I thought about wanting it to be him in bed with me, inside me, instead of GB.
"What can you do?", I reminisced, "he doesn't want a commitment". "I found MY perfect cock", my friend smiled, "and I will never let him go".
Since when are gay guys overtaking the straight ones when it comes to commitment!? What a mad world.

Just why has it become de rigeur to denounce certain attentive behaviour as stalking, and equate justified feelings of anger at betrayal with an unreasonable desire to boil small defenseless mammals?

I think I have gone into sufficient detail in explaining my own brush with temporary insanity, and subsequent loopy behaviour (albeit without ever experiencing a strong urge to cook something not already dead in the fridge).

However, I dare any female to deny they wouldn't like to experience a certain degree of stalking in their lives.
They used to call it romance. Wooing. Courtship. Expressing an interest.

Just what is so worrying about someone who calls you every day, even when they don't tell you they will? Makes a nice change from the guy who keeps telling you he'll call, but then he always runs out of battery/credit/things to say before he gets a chance to dial your digits.

Just who would object to receiving a large, unexpected bouquet of flowers, especially on Valentine's day? Don't most girls complain they have to drop hints the size of nuclear devices on February 13th and the week of their birthday, only to get fobbed off with a sad and wilting example of their local cornershop's excuse for botanic specimen?
Or, in the usual case, nothing with leaves and petals on at all?

Why should it be a crime to find out someone's address who has let you pay for their dinner, and send them a nice card? (In the case of Mr Red, I would have appreciated something slightly less cryptic, as it took me nearly 2 months to work out who it was from, so it can always backfire if you don't sign your name. I suspected everyone from Tall Boy to KB to an ex in Birmingham as the sender, but got nowhere- until I got a magnifying glass and read the front of the card!)

Seriously, girls are more than happy to go home with the stranger who has made creepy eyes at them across the bar all night long and got them drunk, yet they often accuse a nice man showing a reasonable amount of healthy interest as behaving like a stalker.

A stalker is someone who lavishes unwanted attention on someone unwilling and uncomfortable with receiving it, not a guy who woos and pursues a girl who may just be a bit coy.
The difference is that a girl who enjoys receiving flowers, cards and phone calls will usually thank him for them and reward him by spending more time with him, not tell him to fuck off and rip up the items in front of him and throw the bits in his face. If she does that, she ain't interested, pal, and no amount of gifts from Fleurop, Hallmark or Tiffany's will change that.

Isn't it ironic that these days, courtship often involves little more than a few pints (or glasses of bubbly), rather than a drawn-out process of dinners, dates, daffodils and dangly jewels?

The German boy rings every day even if I can only pick up around 50% of his calls: a far cry from Country Boy's big promises of stalking and wooing me, buying me cashmere socks and inviting me for country weekends before booking the Abbey for our nuptials - followed by a total absence of action.

I am also enjoying the fact that Salsa Boy has been so brilliant on the flowers and gifts-from-abroad front, even if he is more than slightly asexual which is still irritating the hell out of me- yet I still haven't managed to break if off with him yet.
Break what off, though, since NOTHING has happened!
He even brought me a nice bar of chocolate called "PASSION" from his recent holiday, aware of my love of passion fruit cocktails. BUT he didn't suggest I join him, despite having the chalet to himself with just one friend for their last weekend. However, as we aren't in a relationship/having sex, I can't say I could reasonably expect him asking me on a holiday.
Thinking back to KB last year though, this would definitely have been on the cards, whilst my "whatever"ship with Salsa seems to operate on a whole different time zone, if not planet. Cashmere even asked me to join him on his skiing trip during our first date, but, then again, it didn't happen in the end.

And here's what I like about Salsa, despite his inability to smell nice or wear anything but brown: He is a nice, honest, stable, attentive man who remembers what he knows about me and expresses his affection for me in gestures such as gifts and conversations, not meaningless flirting and casual sex.
He actually got embarrassed when I joked about the present he mentioned he'd brought me: "It's nothing big", he warned me. "Oh", I replied, "small but hideously expensive?", which made him blush and laugh in a self-conscious way. It turned out to be the chocolate. I wonder if this is likely to become one of those stories men tell each other about women wanting commitment too soon?

And here we have the other big reason apart from the lack of actual passion between us, a total sense-of-humour-incompatibility. I wonder how many relationships fail on that basis. The ones that didn't but should have failed can easily be observed in pubs and popular holiday spots, maybe in your own parents.
So there is no point in dragging it out.

My problem is that I find it incredibly hard to have any kind of in-depth conversation with him, whereby I could bring up the fact that I don't see us working out in an honest conversation.

An interesting example of his difficulty in asserting himself was the story he told me about his stay with an uncle abroad:
In order to get into town, he had to get a lift every morning with his uncle, who went to church every day at ten. Not wanting to appear rude, Salsa Boy joined the uncle at the church, without fail, every day before taking off into town for the day.
Immediately, I didn't get it. "Why couldn't you just thank him for the lift, and make a quick getaway in front of the church?" I asked him, based on the way I communicate with my own family. No, that didn't seem to be an option for him, since he saw the time in church as an activity he could share with his uncle during his stay.
After a week, the priest approached him: "I can see your faith is very important to you, my son", he said. "I feel that you may have a vocation for the priesthood! Why don't you give me your parish priest's address and I can write to him in order for him to support you on your journey?"

"WHAT!?!" I guaffawed so loudly, the milk in every yummy mummy's breasts must have curdled, who had been enjoying their lunch in this little Kensington cafe.

"Well", Salsa Boy continued, "I said: 'that is very kind, father, but there is a shortage of priests in England and I don't know his name, they come and go. Last time it was an African man', and I gave him some made-up church's address in Tooting".

LOL! I could barely stay on my chair, I laughed so hard. "Don't you think it's worse lying to a priest than not going to church at all!?" I wanted to know.

Seriously, I don't want to be around once his mum moves in with him at the end of the month and drags him out to church every Sunday- I wonder if he can use the line with the African priest again to explain his amnesia of the actual priest's name.

As an afterthought, maybe he should join the priesthood after all.

Interviewer: "So, why do you want to work here?"

Me: "I don't know, you pay money and I need a job? To be honest, I don't exactly have time to do in-depth research on your last decade's sales figures and Google every single senior employee whilst I am WORKING at another company!"

"Have you ever had a challenging boss before, with a difficult personality?"

-"Of course, he was an arsehole who treated everyone like crap, but I developed Stockholm syndrome and bought a crystal ball to read his mind, so I learned to cope!"

"With your language skills, why don't you work abroad!?"

-"I am not sure, but with your boobs, maybe you should work in PORN!"

"So, what about your ring, are you getting married soon?"

-thinking: Wrong hand, Einstein!- "I am so sorry nobody you don't sleep with has ever given you diamonds before!"

"How do you prioritise, and manage to multi-task demands from different people?"

-"Depending on my mood, I have two coping strategies- either deal with the nastiest person first, so you get into the least trouble. Or, deal with the nicest person's request first, because I like them and don't give a shit if the horrible one gets hinself into a frenzy; to be honest it makes me laugh!"

"How are you with booking international travel?"

-"Totally clueless, every time I want to go abroad, I throw myself under a train and wait to be re-incarnated in a different country!"

"You seem like a really enthusiastic person with a lot of energy, but how would you cope if it was a really quiet time, and there wasn't much happening?"

-"I've never had much of a problem keeping myself occupied with blogging, facebook, calling my friends, watching clips on YouTube or getting a good snooze on the office couch!"

"What about your previous career, would you not want to pursue that anymore?"

-"Having come to the realization that most people who work in offices probably have some kind of alternative dream they decided not to pursue for the sake of their mortgage, relationships and sanity, what I WANT isn't as relevant as what I need to get paid in order to survive!"

"Where do you see yourself in five years' time?"

-"In your boss' position. No, make that married with two kids and a dog, living in the country with a handsome, successful husband, writing books."

"We are interviewing a few more people but we also have a temp in that position now who would very much like the job..."

-"So WHY do you waste my time and yours, time we both have to take out of our working day!? At least you get paid whilst you talk to me, and I DON'T!!"

Interviewer: "So, you are applying as a..." proceeds to read my CV for the next fifteen minutes whilst I sit there stirring my tea.

Me: grab the teaspoon and stab them repeatedly, mechanically, manically.

Interviewer, clutching her bleeding throat: "Do you have any questions for us?"

Me: "Yes, could someone please show me the accounts department as there is a vacancy in my life for a tall, mischievous man with sparkling green eyes, whose figures ain't the only thing that's hard..."

I am about to take the first step towards true commitment to the German Boy (G- a visit to the sexual health clinic, to get a check-up.

Putting my head in the sand following the "accidental" loss of the condom during one October encounter with Fencing Boy no longer seems a viable strategy for long-term peace of mind, so it's about time.

Although Tall Boy's reliability with condom use could reassure me of the state of his sexual health, the question whether I was on the Pill didn't.
A girl's got to wonder who else's pregnancy-proof pussy escapes penetration only under the cover of plastic, and then you've got to think who else has had unprotected access to that pussy, and so on...

Plus there is the small matter of a persistent lump just to the inside of my thigh, which no longer seems to be just an ingrown hair (which it is, according to my doctor), so I tentatively wonder if this is the beginning of another invasion of the dormant wart virus.

"I've never had that kind of check-up", GB told me in his usual amused voice, "none of my exes ever have, either. But they've never had anything, I know that".

Pardon me, how exactly would anyone know what they do or don't have if they've never been checked?

So I suggested strongly that he enquires with his doctor about getting booked in before he attempts to come near me again without a raincoat.
If he is astounded at my previously never experienced skill of putting condoms on with my mouth, he goes floppy and doesn't come, is that my problem?

He mentioned thinking of getting the HPV vaccine. I laughed. "Do you honestly think you don't have that yet if 80% of the sexually active adult population do?", I asked him.
"In any case, if your test proves don't have it I strongly recommend you get the jab, as I know that I have it already".
And I told him the story of the man on holiday who'd become infertile as a result of his treatment for anal cancer, also linked to HPV. An increase of mouth cancer in people fond of condom-less blowjobs has also recently been reported in the media, which despite its scary implications for a radiant smile I can't exactly see suddenly increasing people's taste for rubber and spermicide.

GB kept his usual cheerful disposition throughout this exchange, so I guess he appreciated my honesty.
He was equally unfazed when I confessed my continued involvement with Salsa Boy, although I made it clear that we hadn't done anything besides kissing. very occasionally.

I am glad I can talk to him like that. I am beginning to feel that he's my equal in many ways, we see eye to eye on lots of issues from Cosmic Ordering to fridge purchases and quantum physics, and I never get tired of hearing his voice on the phone and talking to him.

I told him of my mad birthday outing to the races two years ago, which climaxed in being driven down the Kings Road in an open double-decker bus, the front adorned by four buck-naked boys who drank beer and champagne out of my pink stilettos.
He told me of his latest car purchase and the theory behind buying a new car rather than a second hand one. Dull as it sounds, I was fascinated and we chatted some more.
I realised suddenly that it was 0:45 again and high time to hit the sheets.

I am travelling to see him the day after tomorrow, and he will have to pass another hurdle: meeting members of my extended family.

Last night once again proved how badly suited Tall Boy and I are as friends.

We met at the cinema, I got the tickets this time because he was late, having worked like an ox since his latest promotion, but he bought us popcorn and a drink to share.

We sat in one of those double love seats, and feeling and smelling him next to me was wonderful.
We shared the popcorn and had a little banter, I know he didn't have a clue what the film was about but he had been there at my suggestion nonetheless, like a shot.

Barely ten minutes into the movie, his hand found mine and my whole body began to tingle into life.
Without the arm rest between us there was no good way to sit without touching, his hand rested on my thigh and my hand on top of his, then my hand stroked his leg and his hand grasped it, I could feel the hairs on the back of his hands and his large, smooth nails as he stroked me and I stroked him.

Such an innocent gesture, yet not so innocent at all. Whilst Salsa Boy's hands feel lifeless and reluctant, drip-feeding molecules of his insecurity right into my heart, Tall Boy's hands are alive with passion, they feel like they are mine, yet not, but should be.
Familiar and newly exciting, all at once.

Still, I was shy and polite, I didn't slide my hand into his jeans although I could feel the hardness of an erection stiffening his magnificent cock just beyond the reach of my fingers and heard his breath speed up, but I held back.

I love him, and I want to be his friend, or his wife, not the infuriating half-breed I seem to have stayed for the past year.

Our one-year anniversary of our first night together is coming up in exactly a month's time, and nothing is clearer, nothing resolved and I am not satisfied.

After the film neither of us suggested a drink, but on the way to the tube station he mentioned the drunken, horny and despearate texts I had sent him a couple of times in recent weeks. He wore the biggest grin and seemed to expect to be in for a night of passionate abandon.

I am not sure what happened, in idiotic "preparation" I had put on new and more seductive underwear, cleared my bed of clothes and magazines, wore his favourite perfume and wanted him so badly, but I couldn't go through with it.

When I was drunk and getting carried away by the music at a Hoxton club a few weeks earlier, the thought of Tall Boy turning up and taking me loudly in the disabled toilet had really appealed, but now I didn't feel like taking him home to my bed after all.

I felt like talking to him over cocktails in a dark bar, or fast-forwarding to being in an uncomplicated relationship with him to enjoy a night of cuddling up on the sofa, flirting, him sitting on my feet to keep them warm, me massaging his hands... but not this, yet another night next to him hiding my tears after our orgasm, wishing he'd come inside me, willing him to love me.

On the platform, still holding my hand he bent his head as if to kiss me, so close I inhaled his breath and could feel his stubble on my lips but I pulled back. "We are really bad at being friends", I told him, once again, "you can barely keep your hands off me".

He smiled, too, and didn't deny it, yet he was obviously on his way home because he hadn't suggested a drink. Or he was really sure about what would happen and that I would succumb to his charms, despite my continued restraint all summer, and since our last tryst past Novemer. Or he just really didn't want to talk to me, and didn't really care what happened.

"Where do you plan to get off?", I asked him when he followed me onto the train, drinking in his eyes. He opened his mouth to show me his teeth and asked if there was any popcorn stuck in them. "Why, do you want me to lick it our?", I asked, loud enough for the whole carriage to hear. We laughed. I love laughing with him, and offending people. He bent down to my ear and said: "I don't have to go home, you know...". "Yes, you do", I replied, pushing him out onto the platform when the train stopped. He leant in and kissed me warmly on the cheek so I could feel his familiar stubble, and didn't let go of my arm until the door shut on us.

... was great!

The German boy came and stayed at mine, paid for everything, fucked me under the shower, brought me a DVD, was up for meeting my friends and having a laugh, we chatted and flirted, and he kept looking at me like a love-sick puppy dog with some grinning virus.

He wouldn't stop kissing me, even in public, until I shoved him away- but really it was lovely having that kind of attention, adoration and affection after awkward and reluctant Salsa Boy.

Unfortunately, he also got up and made my bed creak all night long, waking me up about five times (just how small IS his bladder?), insisted on walking around the flat naked until I reminded him to put a robe on for my lodgers' sanity's sake, and left a condom wrapper in the bath.

I had removed the condom which he'd flung into a corner of the bath tub, and asked him to please be considerate and throw these items away, but he was rather nonchalant about it. The next day I discovered that my flatmate had found the foil wrapper and put it neatly into the soap dish for me to remove. How embarrassing!

The main thing that bothered me was all this faux and, I felt, premature intimacy combined with his seriously pongy armpits as he got cozy in the evening, and first thing in the morning, which is where all that water play came in.
After my first hint, and the shower that followed, my poor nose was assaulted by an identical smell the very next morning. I wondered how to address it without making him think I just didn't want to sleep with him. "Do this", I instructed him, lifting my own arm and giving it a good sniff. He did, but instead of fainting briefly and trolling off to the shower like I'd expected him to, he didn't appear to notice anything unusual. Nonetheless he didn't object to me marching him to the shower and climbing in together.

Barely solved by soap and prolonged hot jets whilst he pounded me from behind, the problem of his smelly pits prevailed for most of the weekend and I asked my neighbour for advice.

"Make sure he shaves", she advised me, "that should take care of it".

Oh, and here was me thinking that by shaving my own armpits and toes I was doing enough for my country's international reputation!

This brings me on to the main thing men do wrong when trying to bed a woman. Basically, if you're not getting any action, this problem is easily addressed by a very simple, four-letter word: WASH!!!

And not just your body, although that should be a basic routine for anyone reaching puberty and beyond.
Nice Ex was as clean as they come, the thoughtfully washed his pits and willy every night before coming to lie next to me, and I never found any reason to hold my breath whilst in his arms, or any excuses not to suck his beautiful penis.
The only area that remained a no-go zone was his chest: I licked it, only to find my tongue coated by a rankness that is impossible to explain in someone who lives in a house with running water. I told him a few times, because I loved licking his chest and nipples and would have loved to have done it more, but I learned not to. His chest wasn't smelly, but the taste was nonetheless inexplicably disgusting, so I steered clear.

The Violent Ex had a similar issue with his armpits, which left the top of the duvet smelly and sported a hairstyle not unlike tiny blonde dreadlock. This would have made anyone with half a nose break up with him right there and then, but my nineteen-year-old patient self was far too loved up to really find offence. I think I made a few half-hearted attempts to scrub him, but it would never have crossed my mind to follow him into the shower wielding a razor. I had barely begun shaving my own pits and legs at that time, having faffed about with depilatory creams and nail scissors for a few years.

As for the German boy though, his hairs' days are numbered!

I feel like a diva for saying this, but the issue is serious enough for me to consider never seeing him again if it won't improve. Heed this, lads: here is a tall, handsome, intelligent, caring, interesting, wealthy and very generous guy who is running the risk of getting dumped over something as trivial as an offensive smell... Well, make this an overwhelming cloud of pong, and think of the difficulties in having sex without breathing, and you will get my drift- and as I said, it's not due to him not washing, it must have just taken up residence there quite unnoticed.

Salsa Boy doesn't smell of daisies either. I discovered he was wearing the same shirt two salsa lessons in a row, and I asked him (quite cheekily, I admit, but I wouldn't have done it if I hadn't thought it needed addressing) whether he'd washed the shirt since the previous week. He admitted that he hadn't. "But I don't wear it next to my skin", he added, "you only have to wash things you wear on your skin, this is fine", he insisted.

My look said it all. "So", I enquired, peeling the sticky collar from his neck, "you don't think you are sweating into it through the other shirt you have on?", referring to the long-sleeved t-shirt he was unbelievably not too hot to wear underneath, "you must be boiling!".

He didn't seem to think so, but let me take off the button-down shirt which improved the situation slightly.
Still, I have noticed on almost every occasion that he tends to smell like a brick: basic, brown, and somewhat stale.
He takes his jacket off and an aroma like an Oxfam shop hits me, and I could only once detect a hint of aftershave on him, which I complimented him on immediately.
He didn't appear to take the hint.
Even worse, on our last dinner date he mentioned that his shirt was "freshly laundered, just for you". Just for me? What a moron, who'd want to wear a stinky shirt to a date? If this is the state of his wardrobe, no woman would even want to consider the horrors that may lie beneath!
That date last Friday, the day before German boy arrived, was supposed to clear the air and give me some sort of explanation for his shyness, but he never picked up that particular thread of conversation. So I left it. I will need to address it when he returns to the UK, and give him the whole "I don't think we quite click" speech.
I can only hope he didn't buy me something hideously expensive on holiday...

Dolphinboy nearly came down tonight, instead he was almost back in Scotland again by the time we spoke.

Boring. I think I will need to tell him at some stage just how much I was hoping he would study in London 3 years ago...then he didn't, and I have only seen him about 3x times since then.

Anyhoo.

I invited Salsa Boy to this party instead tonight, and, surprise, Mr Married was there. Being unable to stand this situation for long, we left after some free canapees and the arrival of yet another Russian ex model in furs, to go to the New York guy's party instead (he was the guy whose face I snogged off in Movida last year, only to realise I didn't fancy him enough to go home with him in the end).

Great flat, I almost regretted not being his whore for one night to wake up in these luxury surroundings...
Also so much champagne we swiftly hid our cheap bottles of wine in the bottom of the fridge.

A guy in a dinner jacket poured my glass, I admired his outfit and thoughtfulness until I realised he worked there... argh! A paid washer-upper-champagne-pourer, how decadent!

Salsaboy kept his distance, letting me shmooze and network, flirt, drink and make new friends whilst he stared into space.

He had some chats too, I suppose, and some canapees and more drink, but the physical distance between us seemed to suggest to people we weren't actually together- to the extent that another guy offered me his jacket when he realised I was cold on the terrace.

He then saw me kiss Salsa on the cheek (well a girl's gotta claim her territory! Or pronounce the fact she isn't as sad and single as some of the candidates...) and suggested I meet him in the hallway in 10 minutes.

One thing let to aother,a kiss on the cheek on the stairs led to a grope in the lift, a kiss on the roof led to him going down on me whilst I sat on the banister, legs akimbo and skirt round my thighs, wind in my hair and his fingers in my pussy whilst he licked me.

The wind was making the neighbour's door bang, and we sat on the stairs at the top of the house, his corkscrew dick in my hand, my mouth, I sat astride him, wet and horny and took him into myself, he then pulled out and into my mouth again but at the first taste of his cum I let him soil his thigh and the stairs, squirting sperm into my hair and onto his crisp shirt.

Very jewish, we got dressed again immediately, he took my number (but I altered the last digit) we kissed an re-joined the party.

Mad.

Has anyone else noticed how much new relationships resemble a tub of Philadelphia? The slightest contamination, and the whole lot goes mouldy within two days!

I can't help but think that this is what is happening with Salsa Boy.

He never phoned all weekend, whilst the German guy kept ringing every five hours or so from his holiday in Africa, making me feel warm and fuzzy inside with his easy, genuine charm and friendly, attentive voice.

I mean, anyone apart from a hard-core Catholic would be frustrated at the lack of physical contact since I met him before Christmas, and whilst I am a very confident and outgoing person, I am also extremely approcheable and affectionate.

We had a tentative text exchange about what actually happened on the weekend, and he kept throwing the "blame" back at me... not a good start! His "defense" for not being more offensive with his affections is that I had stretched out on the sofa, leaving him no space to sit, so he had to sit on the other one. Pur-lease! I ask you, does the man have no mouth to ask me to shift over? No bum, to sit next to me or hands to move my legs or head onto his lap?
Should I draw him a map? I suppose in this case I should include a very obvious arrow to my clitoris, for future reference!

I am getting exhausted just thinking about it, so bringing it up with him wasn't easy, and won't be any easier in person.

How hard could it have been for him to ask me on Sunday if I wanted him to come over in the evening, or to basically just phone to see if I was alright?

German Boy may live abroad, but at least it feels like he is there for me. And I don't feel awkward making sexual references, which Salsa appears to be able to do via text (albeit fairly harmless, along the lines of: "next time you won't escape...") but not in person, preferring to chat about friends, pets and politics, and other neutral subjects.

I don't just want to dump Salsa Boy on his arse, but give him a chance to explain properly- without appearing to criticise or ridicule him. It is quite possible that his actual experience with women is rather limited, especially since I established now that he used to go to a convent school followed by an all-boys grammar school which left little exposure to female company.

On the other hand, it is quite possible that in the long run my 40-plus lovers won't go down well with his confidence, even if the actual number never actually emerges. I refer to "boys I once dated" fairly frequently if some related subject comes up, and it is usually a totally different person from the one I mentioned before.

I don't know how I'd feel about getting intimate with someone whose penis possibly hasn't felt a stranger's hand for ten years, and I have begun to wonder whether he grooms his pubes any better than his eyebrows...

If I can feel myself pining for Tall Boy's passionate aggression in bed with someone as offensively affectionate as the German boy, how would I manage to stay awake with someone inside me who is even too shy to hold my hand properly!?

All in all, I can almost smell the fuzzy green film approaching...

I've had a weird pain in my left breast for a few days, and in a slight panic I have begun to examine it for lumps every so often all day long, whilst watching TV, under the shower, in bed.

It definitely felt more painful than the right one, especially when pushing and prodding it, and I worried about all sorts. Namely breast cancer. People in my family have had it rather young, and you've just got to worry. Or rather, you don't have to, but your brain does it without your consent.

However, no lumps were forthcoming. Fortunately, one should think, but the pain was still there, more pronounced when running and I noticed it more after the gym, but there didn't seem to be an explanation. Until I remembered my fall from Friday.
Whilst I am glad there was a suspicious absence of blood or grazed hands, not even my jeans were torn and the shoe box I was carrying in one of my bags only sustained a slight dent, I suppose the mighty impact onto uneven concrete at full tilt must have been absorbed by something- I suspect my left boob!

That goes some way to explaining the pain, but doesn't make me feel a whole lot better about myself.

Why does having sex once a week set you up for creamy knickers for the rest of the week, wishing the object of your affection could shift as easily as the fingers of your latest encounter slipped your gusset aside to enter your involuntary wetness?

Whilst I don't yearn for an anonymous, shallow encounter I can't help but wonder what might entice Tall Boy back into my life, my bed, my cunt.

I will slip that condom off him like I now know how to do, slip my finger into his arse and fuck the consequences.

I will cry again as I come, wish my tears away as he spunks into me, and rub my wet face on his broad shoulders.

I would hear him moan and snore, then sneak off with a beating heart to check his phone again, stalk him on facebook, and ignore that little packet on my bedside table for the rest of the month.

I would despair at his personality, the state of his house and the amount of weekends he spends away, nursing my growing stomach and resentment. Waking up next to his sparkling eyes would take the edge off, and his sperm would become my breakfast.

Lvoe is bliss.

...Salsa Boy?

He and I spent a wonderfully sunny Sunday in Oxford, taking the fast bus up and walking through beautiful winter fields until we hit the university gardens.

We had a nice pub lunch in the sun, which was so warm I sat in my t-shirt, and then he rowed me around the canals just before sunset.
We swapped, and sat next to each other in the rocking row-boat briefly, but he didn't touch or kiss me, which was a pattern that repeated all day.

Didn't he think that after all the things he had done for me, and got so right, he wasn't entitled to take even a tiny little liberty, maybe just once? Especially as I'd kissed him at the tube station following the lovely dinner he'd cooked for me and some friends, and backed up the fact I wasn't entirely disgusted by him by sending him two Valentines cards: one real one with a dancing couple, and an e-card which referred to kissing...

To be frank, I was getting confused. After lunch, I had taken his arm which he appeared to feel comfortable with, but he didn't reciprocate by putting his arm around me later or anything, and when I held his hand as we walked across Christchurch college's courtyard, he appeared happy with that but didn't take it again after we broke the connection.

"We can go inside the cathedral if we pretend to be there to attend Evensong", he told me with a wink, so we ended up in a full-blown high CoE service that involved kneeling, praying, repenting and listening to a very talented choir with faces straight out of Ugly's casting books. Beautiful voices apparently come in strange packages it is easy to underestimate, and I lost myself in the strangely relaxing limbo of a church service.

A beautiful boy in a pew opposite kept catching my eye, but he wouldn't be distracted from prayer by looking at me, so I guess that Christchurch Cathedral isn't a prime location to scout for local talent.

Bad girl, I was there on a date! Albeit with one who seemed less interested and interesting by the hour, so no wonder I was glancing around. He could, however, have been there to pick up one of the choir boys, although I doubt it was the skinny one with the pudding-bowl haircut and glasses, or any one of the fatties.

Gosh I am so mean, they really were singing quite beautifully!

When we left the church, the sun had gone down and we began a mini pub crawl, had dinner and finally caught the bus back to London.

During one of the drinks we shared, Salsa Boy confessed that he does like me, and said something along the lines of me being "the best thing ever, the most beautiful lady..." etc, however without the deep and meaningful glances climaxing in a kiss which I am more used to than this rather puzzling restraint from a guy rapidly approaching forty.

I don't quite recall when he made the statement that it was "nice to hold your hand, but then you dropped mine", but I was really stuck for a response. I mean, truly, what does one reply to something like that!? Apart from: "Well, you twit, you should have just taken it again", which can only lead to an argument.

On the bus- it was very late by now and we were both tired- I suggested putting my head in his lap on the back seat, and he didn't object.

I got the feeling he wasn't used to such level of intimacy, but I wanted to be comfortable, and, frankly, hoped he might kiss me again so I could ascertain his suitability as a serious contender, but I was disappointed.

Instead, and ever so sweetly, he began stroking my hair until he fell asleep.
At first, I took the sustained pulling on my hair as a sign of a slightly kinky side he had thus far managed to conceal, which would not be entirely unwelcome.
I wondered if he was actually trying to hurt me, or if it was accidental, enjoying the sensation and the uncertainty- until I looked up and saw his sleeping face, his hand entangled in my hair and pulling down with the weight of it, not by any attempt to turn me on.

His haplessness in getting physically closer (because, surely, he must want to- having splashed out on that enormous bouquet and displayed all manner of signs that he fancies me beyond friendship) began to remind me of the budgie I used to own: He would approach and retreat from his little wife I'd got him from an animal shelter, nodding his head in typical courtship display, and she would be sitting there with her tail up in the air, back arched and looking expectantly up at the top of the cage.
He would approach and kiss her, retreat again, nod his head a bit more, singing all the while, then he would return to her and place one foot on her waiting back, pull it back and start all over again. He never got any further than that single foot, being unable to complete the mating act despite the little wooden nesting box I'd provided for them.

Maybe he lacked example or confidence, two reasons which seem more and more likely when I watch Salsaboy making his approaches, only to retreat again.

Can this ever be a subject I could bring up with him? If yes, how would I start?
"I noticed you seem to be quite shy...", "What can I do to make you feel more comfortable around me...", "Would you say your're an affectionate person..?" or, more to the point: "Whilst you were faffing about, someone else got in there before you..."!?

I don't want to discourage him, but I can't be the only one that makes all the moves, the main reason he plucked up the courage to kiss me at the tube was, I think, the fact that he'd had a bit of Dutch courage, and that I kept looking at him and basically blocking his way until he couldn't help but plant his lips on mine.

The main reason that our date tonight won't amount to a sleepover, is the huge lovebite the German boy mysteriously left me with since I don't recall him kissing my neck at all.

In preparation to our night watching DVDs at his (is this a euphemism, I did wonder) I am wearing a rollneck jumper and brought my new Hermes scarf, just in case I get hot and have to take the jumper off. A sore throat, I suppose, may also work as a convenient repellant.

I am deeply annoyed about my apparent inability to stick to a new year's resolution as simple as: "no more casual sex".
Or maybe this is sticking the marks too wide, and should merely read: "No more sex without love and commitment", which, in all honesty, this last encounter is by all accounts most likely to fall into- unless I manage to screw up again. It is no doubt still a far cry from staying celibate until married, but I can honestly say that the other party involved is not only utterly besotted with me, I can virtually see our unborn children skipping around his head through his permanently enlarged pupils in their bright-blue setting.

Nope, and it's not Salsa Boy, either. Confused? Me too!

This one was a rather coincidental result of the one mad night out I had with my friend in Cologne, which saw me and him literally swinging off the rafters of the night club in question and cumulated in my telling him that I don't usually kiss boys unless they have bought me a bottle of champagne first. Well, a girl can at least try to emulate a smidgen of class with fancy-dress makeup dripping down her sweaty face.

Of course, at this stage I had already kissed him! And seen his ID card, which he produced with a flourish after I told him I am not interested in guys under 35. "In that case, I am really lucky", he grinned, pulling out the necessary proof that would grant his tongue access to my mouth because it stated that he was born in 1972. Since in my world having a young face has never got potential suitors barred from close contact, seeing legal evidence that he was, in fact, not another child of the Eighties made it difficult to resist his sustained attempts to kiss me for long.
Well, I suppose I had tried to put him off, and failed miserably. Despite subsequent shenanigans with Bavarian Boy and the surprise airport pick-up, dinner and Valentine's surprise from Salsa Boy, this one refused to go away and fade into a distant memory of succulent lips on my own.

I received regular phone calls from him as I continued my trip through Europe, and his laughing, sympathetic voice oozing with youthful enthusiasm never failed to brighten a dull moment.

As soon as I was back in London, he began planning an opportunity to see me again. During a long chat in the night leading up to February 15th, I told him about Salsa Boy's existence and the enormous bunch of flowers I'd received from him, but he seemed to take the news well. "I don't have expectations", he told me, "so that way, I can never be disappointed". Maybe that's where I go wrong!

To his enquiry on my opinion on a visit from him I told him that I can't exactly forbid him to sit on a plane or visit a popular European capital, and that of course I would be happy to meet him whenever he decided to come to London.

We got on so well on the phone, and the conversation flowed and went beyond the surface in a way I have never experienced with Salsa Boy (or, as a matter of fact, with most representatives of the opposite sex in possession of a British passport), that I found it very hard to finally put the phone down two hours later. It was, however, 2am by then and I was tired.

He came, saw and conquered on Wednesday, leaving again for a trip to North Africa early the Thursday morning.

At what stage I decided to fuck him I don't quite recall, but it was somewhere between him kissing my bare back whilst lying on top of me (whilst I naively expected a nice massage), reaching his hand around my hip and beginning to vigorously massage my pussy through my suit trousers, and me getting up to fetch a condom.

It annoyed me that I got naked with him, and he with me, when he lifted his arm at one point the stench nearly took my breath away (not to be confused with the sweet smell of sweat acquired during a recent strenuous activity, to me it represented a day spent in the same clothes without deodorant, the olfactory equivalent to petrol fumes), and the soppy look on his face made me feel like I was being covered in treacle.

However the less rational part of my brain told a different story. Starting from the point I could have gone to my own bed and didn't, to the moment I decided to brush my teeth and return to his bed, continuing with the minute he took my top off and I didn't protest and leading to the slight tilting of my hips which allowed him access to remove my trousers.

I can't say I didn't want his fingers inside me, and I didn't stop rocking against him when the sensations begin to build up, covering his hand in my juice.

Of course, he had said we'd only be cuddling, and I enjoyed the feel of his arms around me, the look of lust in his eyes and the liquid bubbles. We'd had a fantastic night out together and were happy to relax, as we were both so tired- BUT I still can't put my finger on why I didn't just say NO. After all, I have walked away and told the tale before, frequently at the stage where I was wet and knickerless, and could taste myself on his lips.

In this case, it seemed almost inevitable, and I curse my flimsy chastity belt and lack of resolve and reserve.

"Are you on the pill?", he whispered into my ear, pushing my legs apart with his knee.
"Yes", I replied, wondering if he'd just go ahead and try to enter me without a rubber? He did, and I stopped him before he got too close. "I'd better get a condom", I told him, and, although slightly surprised (why? Does he not worry about diseases?), he concurred this could be an option too.

He couldn't find any condoms in his own pockets, which made me suspicious of whether or not he had even brought any along, so I delved into my own stash.

At this point (or, if I am honest, even earlier), Tall Boy entered my head with a force not unlike his passion in the bedroom, and wouldn't leave.
I wanted him in bed with me, I wanted it to be his hands, his mouth, his passion, and above all, his smell that overpowered me, his dick to penetrate me and his come to gush into me, preferably without hesitation, rubber barrier or worry about consequence.

In this case, it was nice. Yes, nice, but- only- nice. Especially nice for him, as he came -almost noiselessly- almost immediately. I could tell by the way his dick swelled, as, of course, I had my hand down there bringing myself off by sustaining pressure on my clit.

No gasp, no squeeze, no sigh or moan as Tall Boy tends to let out. So you know he's come, and you don't have to feel guilty if you mount that hill in 30 seconds flat.

I waited til I came myself to ask him, but as it happened I already knew the answer anyway.

By the time he snored for the third time, I was out of his arms and tiptoed quietly along the hall to my own bedroom, stopping for the obligatory, cystitis-preventing pee on the way. I had about two hours of sleep to enjoy until his taxi came and woke me up.

When I knocked on the bathroom door, he was frantically using the flatmate's towel to dry himself off- although I had left him a nice stash of fresh, clean towels to himself. Men!

...as opposed to a hot date!

The reason I am still happy as Larry or cheerful as Cheryl, is the insanely large bunch of greenery I was assaulted with by a woman I have never met before as soon as I stepped through my front door.

Turns out she had been waiting for me to get back all day and managed to catch me at just the right moment, rather than 7:30am this morning!

She probably lacks the degree in electronics needed to push the doorbell correctly, so failed to wake me up.

Instead, she stood there with the largest bouquet of flowers I have ever received in my life whilst I juggled with my bike and helmet.

"It's been sitting in the shop all day", she told me, "and everyone has been admiring it!". I bet. I am surprised any customers managed to fit in the shop at all, next to this thing!

"Oh my God", I managed to gasp, "what do you think he is trying to say!?". "Do you know who it's from?", the flower lady asked, and I admitted I'd had a tip-off earlier today.

Amazingly, Salsa Boy is turning from a still water into a seriously dark horse.
Arriving back just before midnight at one of London's minor airports in the sticks a few days ago, I never expected to receive a text message informing me that his driver would be waiting to collect me in arrivals.

"Salsa, what have you done!?" I yelled into my phone a bit louder than strictly necessary, shaking with giggles of surprise and disbelief. "Yes", he confirmed, "my driver is standig outside with a name board".
The best response I could think of was: "If this is a joke, I will be soo annoyed...", before diving over to the luggage carousel to retrieve my suitcase.

Chelsea Boy, who had been on the same plane but without a chance to sit next to me in the completely booked aircraft, hoisted my bag onto the trolley alongside his own, and I skipped ahead through customs to search for the driver, or whoever.

Indeed, it was Salsa himself who had come to meet me, sheepishly holding up a piece of paper with a different spelling of my name on either side. Sweet!

I threw my arms around his neck and gave him a hug and a kiss before he could get too confused about Chelsea Boy's presence, which he only noticed once