During a spontaneous night at Movida, I ended up snogging a hairy-faced American just because he was nice to me (whilst the rest of the crowd was about 15 and too stuck up to even strike up a conversation) and bought me pink champagne and a shot of something.

Having spent the evening dancing and boozing I was barely coherent enough to manage to catch the night bus, and he immediately text me inviting me back to his pad in South Kensington which I declined despite feeling seriously horny all week.

Breaking up will do that to you, the thing you miss most (besides your pride) will always be the regular sex.

When he called me the next day (whilst I struggled with the 24-hour-hangover from hell) and still seemed nice and keen, I invited him out with a group of friends that night and decided to prepare for the best-case scenario by packing my contact lens solution and a spare pair of knickers into my evening bag.

Because of my hangover I vowed to stay off alcohol- and the result was that I really didn't fancy him anymore! I just remembered that whilst he was a decent snog, he also smelt really "old". I am not sure of his exact age, but there was definitely some grey in that designer stubble, and he also had more wrinkles than the average 37-year-old.

His bad attitude about nearly losing to me at pool every single time we played (until I did something really dumb with the 8-ball) did the rest to put me off him.

A very hot South African then caught my attention whilst Mr NYC sat talking to one of my friends... and then they left and he went with them without saying goodbye to me!

In any case, the South African was picked up by one of the women hovering around him like vultures all night, waiting for him to get progressively more drunk until he snogged one of them and the game was up for the rest of us. Nasty.
Remembering my encounter with shit-faced Tall Boy and his snoring face competing with his hard-on, I decided the chick in question was welcome to the hot South African, who would doubtlessly be reduced to a snoring mess as soon as he got horizontal. So I cut my losses and strode (soberly) into the night.

Rollering black fluff off my sofa with one of those sticky H&M clothes rollers, I wondered about the origin of this fluff, as I don't recall Flatmate or the Gay Sofa Surfer wearing anything black and fluffy.

This led me to thinking that maybe, just maybe, the Gay Friend DID entertain a random Gaydar pickup on my sofa!?

He wouldn't be the first one to enjoy a moment of no-strings-attached fun in this very spot- after all, an encounter on the sofa is hardly the "serious" affair as "moving to the bedroom" always appears to be.

On a sofa, you're not serious, you're playing around in a semi-public domain, easy come, easy go (with more effort on the 'come' I think).

Both my first times with Kensington Boy and Fencing Boy happened here and not on my bed, and Outrageous Boy spent half a night kneeling between my legs in front of this very sofa...

When Tall Boy returned back to mine on the night of my birthday however, this was where it ended. I left him to stay on the sofa whilst I went back to my own bed to cuddle up with my sister who was here to stay. In his drunken state, this puzzled him as this important fact had slipped his mind- where did he think I'd put my sister at night, in the bath tub?

(in the morning, they switched places...)

It makes me wonder whether having a sofa has turned me into more of a slut than I would normally be. After all, you're not as selective when it comes to letting someone into your living room as you would be for your bedroom!
When I was lacking a living room, only the select few made it up to my flat (as it would either involve the awkwardness of sitting in the kitchen, or the intimacy of my bedroom)- now, everybody is welcome to visit, since sitting on someone's sofa doesn't have the same connotations as sitting on someone's bed.
In my old flat, Mr Red only ever made it as far as sitting at my kitchen table because he wasn't welcome, whilst Dance Boy got kicked out and his stuff thrown after him because he wouldn't touch me even after lying on my bed to watch the longest film (Giant) until 2am.

Anything can happen when you invite a date in for "coffee", and sitting them on the sofa gives them access to a safe space in which to make their move whilst you feel it's a safe and non-sexual place to invite someone to. Potentially very misleading!

I recently bumped into Ex Flatmate's (who used to share my tiny former flat) ex lover at the cinema, and under the pretence of wanting to check out my new place he ended up sitting on my sofa clutching a cup of tea until I kicked him out. God knows what he was waiting for. I never even expected him to take his coat off after dropping me home!

Indeed, I do wonder about the significance of my sofa/bed encounters with Tall Boy: does this mean our relationship is more significant as we tend to do it in my bed? Or tended, as in the past tense would be a better description since our last encounter was in July (at the office) as I recall. Not very meaningful, over a desk, is it?

On a previous occasion, the move into the bedroom killed the moment- is this what happens to 'old married couples'?
We'd been fooling around very nicely in the taxi and on my sofa after I'd picked him up in a semi-pissed state from a popular Belgian beer house, and I was actually surprised when he interrupted a very naughty makeout-session on the couch to ask me: "shall we go into the bedroom?". I obliged, and he promptly passed out, his dick still hard in my hand.

At the time (and as previously described) I was so wired and frustrated that I couldn't sleep, and went to the bathroom to check his phone instead, like a cat with a half-dead canary.
You know it will hurt, but you can't help playing anyway.
So I found out about this other girl he was seeing, curiosity killed the cat (not the canary)!

Since then, I've not let him sleep in my bed again. I basically wouldn't be able to hack it. "Waking up next to you only reminds me of what I don't have", I told him one morning, and he just ruffled my hair and told me to stop having silly thoughts.

Now, if he were to service me on my sofa however, that would be a different matter!

Following Fencing Boy's clumsy attempt to put the toilet seat up at my flat (it's a girls' flat! Seats aren't meant to stay up- sit the hell DOWN!), the bloody thing broke and had to be returned to Argos.

Gay Friend (who hasn't been put off from camping on my sofa by my increasingly moody attitude towards him) was too embarrassed to come in with me and argue, but my mission was successful and I left with my head held high and my arms weighed down by a replacement seat.

Later that night, at my neighbour's flat where we had gathered to watch Wife Swap, I noticed that her toilet seat was broken too- in exactly the same way that my original one broke before being replaced by the one Fencing Boy ruined.

I ask you: how many people go through two toilet seats in less than a year? In his attempt to spare himself any embarrassment at Argos, Gay Friend told me that were he behind the customer services desk, he'd tell me the seat broke because of my fat arse- oh don't you just love the bluntness of men who have to make no efforts to endear themselves to the fairer sex!?

"Haha", he sniggered, "only joking!". I burst out laughing too because I know he's right about my butt (having put on 2st since coming off Prozac didn't exactly help), however it is nowhere near so colossal as to justify breaking two loo seats in a row.

Unfortunately, buying a new property doesn't guarantee that the developers will have splurged on the quality of fittings such as toilet seats. I pointed this out at the snag inspection, but my neighbour failed to do so (doubtlessly blaming her own behind and trying to save herself the embarrassment). I am sure a man would have no such qualms, and I wonder if in the flats where males live full-time, the loos now feature titanium seats? I need to go and check.

------

Later on, the conversation moved to the cute guy I had spotted dangling a cup of tea and a cigarette over my neighbour's balcony early one morning last weekend. I'd texted her to ask if he was straight and to congratulate her on her acquisition if he was, and she'd replied yes, but just a friend- "he would be too much trouble as a boyfriend".

Now I wanted her to clarify. With two other mates listening to our conversation, she visibly blushed and told us it was a long story and "a bit disgusting". "Does he have a disease?" I asked her, "no penis?"; she laughed and told me no, it was really gross and she wasn't sure how to tell us. Our curiosity awakened, I probed and prompted until she launched into the lengthy explanation.

Apparently, he has a "bit of a fetish for shit". When she said that, we couldn't contain our guaffaws, for whilst everyone has read those ads on Gumtree asking to "let me be your toilet slave", peculiar tastes like that are surely the sort of thing one would try to hide from one's circle of friends!?

She said it was a bit of an "open secret" after his ex flatmate had one day caught the cute guy in question with his trousers down over a plastic bag in the kitchen (the KITCHEN!?), and also followed a nasty smell into the boy's room to find some poo... URGH!

Following these incidents, the friends had wondered amongst themselves if it may be some sort of medical thing, but had reached the conclusion that it must be a sexual quirk. Since then, potential dates had been warned off him, like my neighbour had.

"I would like to ask him more about it, I find it fascinating- but it's such a big taboo", she told us. Quite. "I mean, it's not like he was caught short running to the loo, he was actually in the kitchen trying to shit into a plastic bag, and when his mate walked in he ran out the front door with the bag...".
So, basically no-one knows what was in it (but HOW would you explain that one logically!?)

I subtly looked around her flat for an obvious glass table, but it can be safe to assume that he didn't indulge in his fetish whilst staying over at hers- but who knows?

In any case, I'd probably have a nice chat with him but otherwise keep a wide berth.

On the upside, there would be no risk of him breaking my new loo seat...D

Tired of sitting on a heap of loose ends, I text YachtBoy today to find out if I should interpret his silence this past month as a sign that he doesn't want to be in touch, and to let me know either way.

He rang back immediately. "I've been very rude", he said in his correct, English boy tones, "and I apologize".

"I realize", I told him, "that I am quite unique in being able to keep in touch with lots of people at the same time, and that others may not have that skill, but I really didn't know what to make of you not calling me back".

He said he also had a mate who was so unreliable in returning his calls or texts that he hadn't actually spoken to him in over 6 months. When he asked this mate why he'd never replied, he told him he'd been "busy".

Well, I suppose I'm busy- but if I want to speak to or text someone I'll find the time.

In any case, I tried not to take it too personally- after all he'd not been in touch between April and August either, only to treat me to that wonderful weekend on his yacht, and everything seemed hunky-dory.
I can't say I haven't known how to occupy myself with FencingBoy's horizontal talents, the consequential break-up, dancing with and snogging StJames'Boy, nearly getting raped in a hedge by the Lawyer and hanging out with ChelseaBoy and his mates as well as playing host to my Gay Friend all week...

It does make me rather wary though as far as our potential for a future goes. Would I still be happy to wait a month for him to call him back if I were his girlfriend/in love with him/pregnant/lonely/his wife? Would he be more reliable if these scenarios came true?

Heaven knows!

In any case, I am glad this isn't another notch on my rejection belt.

For the first time, I discovered my musings in the "featured blogs" section- wow! I am very happy about that, as I've never seen it in there before. Is this to do with visitor numbers being up?
Are people expecting my upcoming TV appearance, or is there just an increased appetite for smut and heartbreak?

On a recent outing to WHSmiths I discovered four dirty books in the Bestseller's (or buy one, get one half price... is that the same?) section and decided to buy the only one I hadn't read: Catherine Townsend's "Sleeping Around". Seeing as I shared a cab with her after our interviews, I thought it's only fair (and I am curious).

On the job front, I am having to juggle and negotiate two rival offers- a good feeling to be in demand, but a bit unsettling that they think I'd consider a lot less money than initially offered to me, for a lot more hassle.

Ah well, it takes one's mind off the old boy front!

Why is it that each time we break up with someone (or someone breaks up with us), general advice tells us to "make sure we are happy being single, THEN find a new love"?

To put this nifty little piece of advice into a different context: would you tell someone who's just got the sack to make sure they are happy being unemployed before looking for a new job?

If someone loses a leg in an accident, is it a good idea to be happily legless before trying to walk again using prosthetics?

If we lose a friend, should we try being truly happy as Billy-no-mates before attempting to find new friends? And if we fall off a horse, isn't the general advice to get back on again as soon as possible?

So, if we realize that generally, people aren't very happy being on the dole, living with just one leg, having no friends or walking next to the horse, why does everyone assume one can be "happy being single"!?

People have jobs, legs, friends and partners for a reason!

No doubt, there will be the odd individual who manages to live a decent life sans jobs, legs and friends, being too scared to ride a horse,- but isn't life so much more fun WITH all of those things?

I refuse to be "happy single", as I would be far happier sharing nice and sad times with another person I truly love, and who truly loves and appreciates me.

However, there is always the small matter of the "grieving period" to worry about, but this can stretch out tediously long. After all, rather than sitting around moping after being made redundant it is far more constructive to go out to a few job interviews.

I can't help but think that every single guy I have been out with has been a mistake, and that there must have been a way to avoid getting hurt.

Yacht Boy texted a few days ago, apologizing for not getting back to me: he's had "nightmares", which he explains with having been out at work dos, and having his bathroom re-done. Great! Just the type of "nightmares" I would kill for!

Fencing Boy dumping me was the last straw. I hated him ignoring me all week (to the point of inviting me out to a drinks thing, only to watch me leave with another guy when I was fed up with waiting for him), and he finally dumped me online yesterday. Charming!

"I would like the friendship you are offering", he emailed, "but without the physical thing. Hope that's OK for you" he went on.

No, it's NOT ok for me! I liked going to bed with him, and regular sex is always nice... But feeling like he's avoiding me, isn't.

Last time we did it, we were in a posh hotel with some friends, I beckoned him upstairs and we did it in the corridor against someone's door. Very naughty! I am only glad the guest in question didn't pick that time to exit his room for a cup of tea or something.
I braced myself agains the door frame whilst he lifted my skirt up, and banged away from behind.
I came, he didn't...
Probably best, considering the condom/pill situation.

After that, and meeting some good working contacts of mine, he was just rubbish for the rest of the week. He stayed over. We were both totally drunk and there was no more intimacy that night. The next morning, he was like a bear with a sore head, not even able to talk after I supplied him with coffee and a towel. The coffee he drank, but he declined my offer of a shower- preferring to head home instead.
I raced to the office and didn't speak to him for the rest of the day.

Still, it would have been nice to know what went wrong.

A text last night seemed to explain it a bit better:
"It's important to me you understand that I really want you in my life, I like you very, very much. I want you as a friend, but I don't do fb's [fuckbuddies] and I don't waste my friends' time, so I hope it's enough for you."

This from a guy who "doesn't like labels"- nice.

I forgave him a bit after that, still - what a coward to not even slot me in for coffee face-to-face in order to break it to me.

This will be a man moan, so please stop reading now if you're a man, or allergic to moaning.

Fencing Boy asked me if I wanted to come watch him at his club this week, but then he changed his mind and told me to come to a free-drinks networking thing in the West End instead.

So I did, after I had a jacuzzi bath to freshen up at Gay Friend's current Mayfair pad, and washed and dried my (cute but smelly) polyester blouse which was reeking like a tramp's socks after an hour's grilling by the UK's largest broadcaster that afternoon.

Who ever said that working in the media is fun and relaxing!?

In any case, I turned up in the posh club smelling of roses (thank God for gay men's tastes in cosmetics!) and with Gay friend in tow, as Fencing Boy also had a mate over that night.

I bought a round of drinks in appreciation of FB shelling out for my Pill and the taxi last weekend, and then proceeded to be ignored by him for the next 2 hours.

Instead, I had a chat with his (bi) mate and a lawyer by the bar, which turned more and more risqué and got me quite annoyed after a while. I was also getting progressively more drunk on the self-inflicted liquid dinner of vodka and champagne.

The mate was really offensive and I wish I (or he) could have just kept it zipped- but the lawyer was nice and interesting, although his breath smelt like a bag of onion Hoola Hoops (which was what he'd had for dinner).

In any case, I was eager to get out of the realm of FB's mate, and I was running late for a friend's concert, so I went over to FB who was animatedly networking with some Bulgarian girl, but he refused to come.
So I left with the lawyer instead, although the concert was merely one tube stop away from FB's house.

Once in the depths of South London, the concert was over and my friend had left, leaving me drunk and on my own with the random lawyer, and a Dutch mate of my friend's, who showed up and promised to "look after" me as he'd promised her. No thanks. I barely escaped a panic attack when I rang her, but she was already too far away from the venue to return and pick me up, so I stayed a while: sipping Cranberry juice and listening to some truly awful music with the bewildered lawyer.

After a few dirty looks from assorted girls who were obviously really into the awful guitarist, Lawyer and I went downstairs where we sat down for more drinks (and a much improved guitarist), when he suddenly leant over the table and kissed me.

I didn't really know how to stop him, and he wasn't even a very good kisser! Damn Fencing Boy, his networking efforts and that dratted bisexual mate of his!
Lawyer's tongue was like a wet wash cloth, thin and unexciting.

I looked at my watch and decided it was time to leave- with the lawyer in hot pursuit under the pretense of walking me to the tube.

He tugged at my arm when we approached the taxi rank, and was all set to push me into a car and make off with me if I hadn't stopped him. More kissing ensued and I thought I was going to end up falling into a hedge, so eagerly was he pressing himself into me.

My final decision was made when he admitted he has to be in the office between 7 and 8am! "I get up at 8:30!", I laughed at him.

Another good excuse why I wasn't about to spend the night with him was that I didn't even know his age or surname. Once he'd told me the latter, he insisted- in true "legal" fashion- that divulging this information now entitled him to sleep with me!

I declined, turned around and went to the tube station. The cheek!

He never even asked for my number or anything. Good riddance.

Today I learned that Fencing Boy and the bisexual wonder had gone and crashed at Gay Friend's pad, totally plastered. Nice.

Every night I come home drunk
and I watch your failed love pour out of me in angry chunks of decayed passion.
Like a breathless, warm red animal
discarded after four days in my womb.

Is pain relief, or relief painful?

You are relieved, I am in pain- a just split of responsibilities.

As brought home by The Country Wife, which flatmate and I had free tickets for the other week, there used to be different rules for horny men back in the 17th century:

If you were a young bachelor, but emotionally or financially unprepared for marriage, you could "play" with two types of women- the married ones, including the wives of your friends and relations, or the ones for sale, including "playhouse creatures", street walkers and other wenches.

Single women of society were only ever approached by marriage-minded men, or total rascals who'd then end up having to marry them anyway if their liaison bore fruit (as was to be expected in times before Mr Durex).

This leaves me somewhat angry: How come that every single Western woman these days (unless she is a radical Christian) has replaced these prostitutes and promiscuous married women of old?
Do we want men without the desire to commit to just play with our hearts and our bits?
Why can't the poor or commitment-phobic cads stick to willing play mates who are married already or offer themselves up for hire on an hourly basis, whilst we get on with our needlework or education?

Maybe this is largely due to modern women having developed libidos of their own!?

Theatre with Tall Boy tonight.

Comfort, cozyness, familiarity. His finger stroking mine, my arm behind him, his touch, my hand in his.

What is this?

I think I need to talk to him. Fuck the consequences.

Since we may soon no longer be working together, who cares, really. Let him know I love him, and what he plans to do about it. Probably nothing, but he just feels so right- I can't help it.

And I'll never get over him unless I bring it to a head.

"Shame I couldn't take you home tonight" he text me afterwards. He knows I'm such a sure thing and I hate myself for it.
Lying in bed with him and feeling the emptiness between us would be a real killer!

I am so stupid.

My insides are churning up, all through my own fault and stupidity.
I never intended to trick anyone, but drunk, horny and reckless I found my hand sneaking between my legs during an abandoned night with Fencing Boy, and the condom rolled down and came off.

He noticed afterwards, and although I had suspected it, I was shocked it had actually collected on me, and not caught anything of his.

This really killed the mood. He had definitely come, albeit quietly or I may have stopped him. Seriously, it was like that cartoon angel/devil combo arguing in my head about what to do, until it was too late.
The evidence trickled out of me when I went to the bathroom.

He buried his head in the pillow, then said: "This has never happened to me before... how did it happen?... We're not even that drunk... (maybe he wasn't)... You can get a...thing,um, can't you?"

And of course, straight-thinking, panicked and more honest than I give myself credit for, I decided I would - despite my conviction that I wouldn't ever, again, following the debacle with KB.

I know he's too young (29), too poor (no family to support him and his own business to run, from the smallest house in England), and he has no obligation towards me, having known me all of 3 months or so... plus, I still date other people, we've barely had any kind of in-depth conversation to really get to know one another, and it was just our third night of passion...

I tried to reassure him by telling him it was the wrong time of the month: "I am sure I've ovulated already"- "What, you've just had your period?" - "Oh dear, get a book!"

How come guys of that age (or any age, really) are THAT ignorant!? Is this total ignorance the only thing that keeps the species alive!?

In any case, he told me he'd pay for it (I really didn't fancy a trip to the doctor's in my current, precarious job situation), and -surprisingly unemotional- I went to buy it at the Chemist's on our way to an evening out.

I popped the expensive little pill out of its innocent-looking packet and placed it on my tongue, sitting opposite him on the train. Then I asked for some of his water, washed it down and carried on the merry conversation.

My flatmate didn't even notice anything. Afterwards, I slipped the package into his suit pocket so he'd know what it was.

"You're wonderful", he whispered in my ear.