Sienna's Lovers

Every person entering the square is like an actor stepping onto a stage, some boldly, some more hesitantly, charging right ahead or looking around for their cue.

I watch as one by one they step through the hedge and walk on, until I spot a tall, striking woman with a perfect figure and dark skin.

She waves, her red top contrasting with the sun-drenched green leaves surrounding her.

My friend.

Day nearly over, thank the fucking Lord!

Eaten crisps, gone shopping in Habitat, made umpteen cups of tea (various) coffee and hot chocolate, gave colleague advice on manicures, chatted about BBB's dodgy communication style to male PA whilst microwave lunch was cooking, watched stuff on 4od catch-up (about disabled kids), listened a bit to Gaydarradio and updated my facebook profiles...

All in all a very productive day, but now I am BORED!

No email or text from the Blue Blooded Boy, what a big surprise... maybe he has been spontaneously cured by his party, or it has driven him over the edge and he is now on a drip in hospital. Who cares?

.. which one of my friends has a book out also!??

I think I have a crush on my gynaecologist.

Warning: This is not a sexy post, it's a medical one! Everyone with a phobia of "women's problems" please continue reading elsewhere.

It was up to him to deliver the bad news on that fateful, snowy day at the end of January when the second pg test also came back negative.
The blow was somewhat eased by his cute face and genuine concern.

I didn't expect to see him again (as you usually don't in the NHS), or at least not so soon since I assumed he specializes in antenatal care.

Today, after much poking, prodding and copious amounts of lube however (and somewhat less professional musing about my unusual surname and recent birthday) he had to call in an expert to explain the mass visible on the computer screen.

Seldomly have I felt that my vagina has provided such prolonged entertainment to someone examining it from afar and without any movement involved, but I was just as curious to hear what it might be as my sexy doctor.

A senior consultant was called and asked me how long this pain had gone on.
As with most problems which only present themselves once you find yourself back on your bed, naked with a well-endowed young man (and possibly a bit drunk, too) it is hard to say.
Especially as the pain subsides as soon as you are bathed in a post-orgasmic glow. You don't really tend to dwell on it, especially if previous pelvic exams have thrown up nil and to even get to the point of exam requires lengthy, self- centred moaning about a phantom pain which comes and goes.

With GB I hardly felt a thing, mostly to do with the lack of hardness and comparative shortness of his dick, but when I was sleeping with Tall Boy (those half-dozen of times) I often felt an uncomfortable twinge which I couldn't explain.

"It's a fibroid" announced the senior consultant, after much probing into the history of my suspected PID back in 2001 and that mystery pain, and a brief swirl around my insides with the cock-shaped ultrasound wand.

So let me recap:
on top of 1) my ever-present PCOS, 2) the same HPV strain that killed Jade (albeit my last 2 smears were fine), 3) a retroverted womb 4) my advancing age and penchant for cheats and toy boys 5) a past miscarriage I now also have 6) "Fibroids" and also 7) a newly discovered condition which may or may not exist and could cause problems (although which ones are yet to be discovered) called "adenomyosis"!

On the plus side, I probably don't have a blocked tube because the doctor doubts I ever had pelvic inflammatory disease after all. It was probably just a kidney infection brought on by a bout of cystitis.

So my pussy is now completely mapped out, although I will have to decide if the pain during sex and pregnancy which I experienced due to the fibroids warrants an operation.
They tend to grow under the influence of oestrogen, which is raised in heavier women (um, that would be me then) and pregnancy (something to look forward to, then...)

At least it's not "all in my head" and on the other hand nothing to really worry about, apparently.

Now I just have to find out where the sexy gynae goes for after-work drinks...

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Intimate-Adventures-Office-Sienna-Lewis/dp/0091928826/ref=cm_pdp_rev_itm_title_1 :

5.0 out of 5 stars Honest, fun, emotional and just a bit saucy..., 12 Jun 2009
By beanybob - See all my reviews
I've read a number of these kinds of novels now (how would you define the genre - 'Sexploits and the city'?) and many of them seem to consist of page after page of frantic sex sessions and women on power trips getting one over on men, which, to be frank, can get a little tedious, however sexy it may be. However, 'Intimate Adventures of an Office Girl' (based on the author's very real blog) was a refreshing read. It ticks all the saucy boxes (I especially enjoyed the interesting stripclub experience and the frantic flirting and seduction on an office sofa) but the author is particularly honest about how her experiences of dating multiple lovers in the search for a committed relationship affects her. It isn't all fun and games and she shares her heartbreak in a very identifiable way. Men and women are complicated creatures with physical and emotional needs, which Sienna explores intimately, frankly and truthfully, while making me giggle, and making me think.

AND HERE:
http://www.waterstones.com/waterstonesweb/displayProductDetails.do?sku=6367285

Bookseller review
Mark Farley, WATERSTONE'S NOTTING HILL GATE
5 out of 5

A lot of people get really sniffy about these sex memoirs involving promiscuous modern women with the sexual appetite you would more attribute to a man on the dating scene and yes, from first impressions (especially with the questionable cover design), you would be fair to think that this is yet another one of these shagging tomes from someone who is happy to talk frankly but then still hide behind the cosy facade of a psuedonym for fear of being chased in the streets with pitchforks and a basket of rotten fruit. Yes, you would be forgiven for thinking that but I beg you dear charges on this instance to delve deeper, to look further, because this is certainly more than that and I thoroughly enjoyed every minute of it.

You see, whereas the Miss P book or the 'Girl with a One-track Mind' duly failed in that they turned in unreadable versions of their badly written blogs purely for the sake of producing contempuous wank fodder, Sienna Lewis not only has so much more to say but sha also trancends the blog format properly into a readable and enjoyable diary form, something that even Belle de Jour failed at. Mind you the problem tere was that Belle's book just didnt have the deviance that her blog did. And now like Abby Lee, she's a 'meeja dalink' so anyway, what 'Office Girl' achieves is that she brings a lot of people have against monogamy. That forced social istitution of being with one person, and here she presents her own unique theories including that of 'multi-dating', that of being open and honest with those that you meet on a casual basis, to the point where she happily and confidently settles into a number of open relationships and in most cases her experiences work out and when they don't it's not on a scale of the life a single monogamous girl has, which was surprisingly refreshing.

I say good for her. If it works, then head out and have fun.

There are many other reasons that I liked this book but the main one is that the writing is uber filthy and dirty and cocksure in a very inspiring way. Inspiring in that there are women out there who are not ghastly, obsessed Bridget Jones clones, starving on a diet of bitterness, jealousy and Sex and the City marathons. The bitter truth is that women should never be afraid to be open and to be so when meeting someone new. If that is truly where your heart (and loins) are, then you deserve and should expect nothing less. You are all goddesses and should be worshipped and pleasured by all, without shame, shunning or consequence.

God may or may not want to bless her, but I think he should

Being a slut is very much like taking the bus.

If you have ever taken a bus instead of walked or driven, you are and will be forever a Person Who Takes The Bus.
Traditionally defined, if you've ever had sex outside of wedlock, you're a Slut. Why do we focus on numbers so much to try and narrow down that definition?

It doesn't really matter whether you took the bus because your car broke down, your driver was off sick, you were tired of walking or simply fancied a change of scene, you Took The Bus.

Whether it happened just once and you will always treasure the memory, or it was a huge mistake and you will never take the bus again for as long as you live, or whether you are a regular commuter really makes no difference. You are a Person Who Takes the Bus.

If you have ever taken a bus, nobody asks you why and how often? They just accept that you took the bus and leave you to it. No explanation required.

If you have taken the bus and continue to do so, it is hardly something you need spend any portion of your life reflecting on. Some journeys may be more memorable than others, some drivers are gentler than others, some just want to get you there as fast as they can and some take their sweet old time.
Some of the faces on the bus will stick in your memory, you may have the odd conversation with fellow commuters or you may not, some may smell and some may be funny.
You might be brushing elbows, knees, kids or shopping, but you probably won't keep count of those brushes in your head.

Why is it different with sex?
By merging genitals with just one person you're not married to, you have become and forever will be A Slut. Own it!

By the way, this is hilarious:
http://jezebel.com/382609/is-sex-addict-memoirist-kerry-cohen-even-actually-a-slut

I feel absolutely exhausted.

Crossing the river twice on my bike yesterday from watching a friend perform in a cabaret on the "wrong" side of the river on a day of tube strikes and travel chaos may have played a role, but worrying thoughts about BBB and the current status of our relationship as well as whizzing around London signing copies of my book and picking up cheques also spring to mind.

Nothing to complain about really, but it's all taking its toll on my eye bags.

The stalker has been thankfully inactive for a week but I still haven't let myself relax.

Maintaining two facebook profiles (just who also has time for Twitter!?) is pretty much a full-time job, and I also have a real job to take care of; although, according to a recent book review I "don't do much apart from flirt and apply for other jobs".
Sadly, these two activities are a thing of the past. My current job only employs one straight male (who is happily coupled up, and in any case the busy offices don't lend themselves to any extracurricular activity), and as for applying for other positions I thankfully don't have or want to.

BBB has been suspiciously quiet after our late-night chat after his release from the police station but I still struggle to hit the sheets before midnight. After I have then spent 20 minutes plucking offending hair from my visage and given my PCOS acne a quick glance-over I normally try to read a chapter of "Healing without Freud or Prozac" which usually sends me to sleep despite its interesting content.
Before I slip into dreamland however I normally have to get up again and shut the window, as 0:25 is the preferred time for Horny Italian Couple upstairs to commence noisy lovemaking with grunts and screams for at least half an hour with their window open.

In the morning I am woken before my alarm goes off by my lodger's hair dryer... yawn!!

I pondered this last night, and came up with a whole bunch of reasons why I should be glad I've not tied the knot yet.

I may still be single, but really I'm so relieved I'm not married to
someone with debt issues, someone whithout a dress sense, someone with an annoyingly floppy dick, someone who gets arrested for suspected money laundering, someone with dodgy hygiene, someone who can't see a child fitting into my life, someone who won't call me in hospital, someone who hasn't grasped the concept of presents at a birthday, someone who's cheap at Christmas, someone who makes me cry, someone who doesn't know how to clean a toilet, someone who lies, someone who cheats, someone who chases teenagers, someone who believes they know better than me how to touch my own clit, someone whose mum hates me, someone who never thinks to offer me a drink, someone who can't drive, someone who hates pets, someone with dodgy breath, someone who can't kiss, someone unable to dance, someone with friends who crack onto me, someone with a drink or drug habit, someone still in love with his ex, some skint student, or some guy who hits me.

When you look at it like that, I've done really well for myself! I also LIKE sleeping without a pusy, snoring body next to me, thank you very much.

The necklace I am wearing today has got to be one of the few genuine items of jewelry I own.

The pearls all vary slightly in colour and shape and are heavy and cold to the touch.

It came to me via a kind charity shop volunteer somewhere in North London and the pricing seemed very sensible.

I distintly remember taking it off one night of passion and wrapping it around someone's cock, sliding it up and down... because I read in Cosmo or somewhere that this would be a thrill for the guy.

Which guy? I really cannot remember. And I can't tell by the taste.

http://www.waterstones.com/waterstonesweb/displayProductDetails.do?sku=6367285

It has struck me as peculiar that nearly ALL the sex writers between whose pages I have stuck my dirty-minded nose are constantly dressing up in or getting peeled out of Agent Provocateur undies.

The last time I was in their shop with the tight-fisted Frankfurter he had a percursury glance around, sporting his trademark gormless grin but my dress and his walled stayed firmly closed.

Maybe, as a newly published author I will attract enough of a fan base that someone sends a set to my publisher!? (Hope they leave the tags on in case they get my size wrong)

Or maybe, as a newly minted (?) writer I shall be able to afford them myself?

So far, it's Primark and H&M all the way. But hey, who cares... it's not as if they have to support huge knockers anyway and they usually come off swiftly once I decide it's bed or play time!

Lying on the beach in my sequinned bikini all day really takes it out of me... I shall have a nap before heading out for cocktails later!

"I don't want to have to potty train a puppy" I told my friends the other weekend when I was still seething from what I had perceived as a booty call of the worst sort.

BBB had text me at midnight saying "where are you?" and proceeded to explain that he really wanted to see me but he was at a club with a friend at that precise moment.

Um- huh?! What happened to giving me some warning about his evening's plans? To calling me straight after work? Calling, rather than texting me? And - after midnight!? What am I, 22 and desperate!??

The way he just seems to have fast forwarded six to twelve months into our relationship never fails to irritate the fuck out of me.

So we didn't speak for the rest of that night, or Sunday for that matter.
Monday was a bank holiday and just at the second I'd fired off a reconsiliatory text to him I received one in return, he must have thought of me at exactly the same moment which seemed like a sign.
So we made up and spent the afternoon in the park, consuming a picnic I'd provided followed by dinner at my house because he was so skint.

My special day arrives and I try not to have too many expectations.
Already I have woken up on my own because of his work schedule the night before, but I think I prefer this to last year with lying, unfaithful GB or the year before with unreliable, caddish Tall Boy.

At least I got cards from neighbours who are good friends and my lodger/flatmate.

In any case, I go out drinking with friends from work, expecting BBB to join me at the bar and then take me out for dinner.
He told me the table's booked for 8:30 pm - a bit late for me and the demands of my PCOS, but I thought "better than to have to rush" as it was all the way in the City.

Anyhoo, we start drinking at 5;30 pm and around 7:30 people start to drift off. I've had three cocktails and a lot of laughs and fun conversations and the hunger has mercifully worn off somewhere between the mint of my first cocktail and the black berry of the third...

I am worried - am I going to be stuck on my own at my birthday!? Should I have made alternative plans??

Finally a figure at the door, it's him, my last guest says goodbye to see her new bloke and we go on to another bar with half-price champagne.
I really am pretty sloshed.

He notices.
"Hm, what did you expect?" I ask him, "you know I've been drinking for two hours and waiting for my dinner..." but I realise I am making pretty off-the-wall remarks and my high heels keep slipping on the pavement.
"I'd kind of expected some flowers to arrive in the day" I tell him.
His reply is instant: "Well I thought about it... I really did, but then I figured you'd get some from work, and then we'd be juggling two bouquets..." Nice and practical thinking I admit, Mister- but firstly we are directly OPPOSITE my work (so I could drop off any surplus flowers there or not bother bringing out the HUGE bunch I "received from work") and secondly, I mean isn't this MY problem and also - better two than NONE!??

We discuss this back and forth for a little. Me dripping with sarcasm, but in a nice and fluffy way, bubbled up by the half-price pink champagne, him slightly defensive and puzzled.
Do I have time for this? Surely I am not being too demanding to expect something blooming and fragrant from the only man I am sleeping with, ON MY BIRTHDAY!?
"Did you think I'd get some from my other lover?" I ask "maybe I am making a huge mistake in limiting my expectations to you, after all I'm not married..." my standard defense for my various dates' shortcomings.
"Haha" he replies and drains his glass in a valiant effort to catch up with me.

Why should I put up with this?
I decide to let it drop. Hardly his fault that work is a nightmare but I think he did have time to send a text warning me of his late arrival. Also there are a million card shops and florists on the way, so why say he "thought about it" and yet he doesn't DO it??

Nice dinner follows.
Really, I am impressed. Great restaurant, Michelin-starred chef, good atmosphere and a set dinner that starts with a glass of bubbly.
"Do you mind me asking..." I cant' help myself asking before we descend the stairs "but do you have a card for me?"
"No, sorry" he responds, launching into some kind of explanation how on the Continent people don't buy as many cards as in the UK. Well I know this, back in 1995 I was as surprised as the next European to discover a washing line of cards snake across Nasty Ex' parents' ceiling, and they were all that year's cards and not (like I had first assumed) cards collected over the years. So? BBB has been in the UK on and off for a number of years now, so he should be aware of etiquette or a nice gesture like buying your girlfriend a card by now. One should think.
"You'll get your card and present on the nigth of your party" he tells me, but isn't my birthday TONIGHT!? And I have chosen to spend it with him and not a gaggle of friends and rounds of cocktails, dancing and flirting.

Anyhow I decide to drop it and instead we eat, drink and analyze his dad's involvement with the Russian mafia.

Dessert manages to stuff me to the gills, I am in a pleasant mood and finish my last drop of Sauvignon Blanc.

We walk to the tube arm in arm, I kiss him and thank him for a lovely night and great dinner, and he suggests he drops me home.
I let him take me to the platform I have to change onto, and hug him as the train pulls in.

"Thank you, great to see you. Good night" I tell him as a goodbye.

"Can't I drop you home?" he asks, visibly perplexed.

"I thought about it", I tell him, in the same manner he told me he'd thought about getting me flowers (I need to add this wasn't the first time he 'thought about it' - on our very first date he managed to show up without the plant we'd talked about as a way for me to recognise him).
The reference is lost on him.
"Yes" I continue "I figured that probably you already had about two to three orgasms today so I wouldn't need to also take you home". The penny still fails to drop: "Why? You mean you don't want me to come back with you?"

"I thought about it", I repeat "a number of times. And I will continue to THINK about it. It is a nice thought. But I am going home alone" He gets the message and kisses me and walks off whilst I jump on the train.

I enjoyed the satisfaction this gave me, but I am not sure I actually possess the patience to train this particular puppy. I spent over three years exhausting myself in training up Nice Ex. Now I want to buy a fully grown, house-trained dog, pre-owned but not loyal to its former master.
Not a clumsy puppy who "thinks about" buying me flowers but then, sensibly (?) decides against it.

My publicist forwarded me the flyer for my book's party this week, however it said THURSDAY rather than FRIDAY.

Now a good read as it might be, I'd rather not compete for attention with the European elections!

Not sure who I'll be voting for though...most people probably would indeed prefer a book party to a choice between a number of political parties on second thought.

Mercifully, recent long bike rides have left my body surprisingly painless.

One trip saw me and BBB reach Richmond Park with a rain stop along the Thames for lunch, and I felt fine the next day. Even rustled up the energy to go salsa dancing!

The other more recent one took me and a friend all the way to Thames Barrier for a barbecue and some frolicking in the park.

Again, my muscles didn't complain and I went out to meet some friends in South Ken after for an energetic boogy.

Yesterday, however I nearly couldn't move for my aching thighs.
Was it the gym? The swim? The car trip that took me there, squeezed in between Sam's son and all the sand pit paraphernalia?

No, I managed to trace it back to a sustained, wet love-making session standing up in my shower.

"Have you ever done it in a waterfall?" I asked BBB, water streaming down our faces, his hand in my wet hair and mine clenching his butt cheek.
"No", he smiled, surprised.

Well that shall be something to look forward to in our upcoming holidays!

His dick manages to stay inside me even when facing each other. He's a grower as well as a shower (to quote my gay mates) with boundless energy to match. I thank my lucky stars for my fit, generously endowed boy in his twenties who is utterly in love with me.