Spontaneity Rules

So much for plotting and lurking around on internet contact sites, arranging dates with strangers that take weeks and months to materialize and inevitably disappoint. Sometimes what is needed is a little spontaneity and an ex. So it was that Virgil, me, and Beatrix, a sometime lover of his, ended up in bed together on Saturday night and most of Sunday.

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Solo Date

My date with the toy soldiers was disappointing. My suspicions were right: they were pleasant but pedestrian. Our conversation did not lag but it didn't fly either. We never managed to get beyond the tangible and material. Somehow we lacked ideas, poetry, filth or romance. I could hear Virgil scolding me in the back of my head: "Don't talk about normal things! Don't talk about jobs!"

Sex with the toy soldiers might be a good shag but it would not be an erotic adventure. I have to write and thank them but, four days later, they have still not written to me. In a characteristic failure of good manners, saying goodbye at the end of the date I think I hesitated slightly when they said that we should meet up again soon. Oops.
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Bataille Again

Here's a theory: the difference between porn and erotica is that you come while consuming porn but with erotica the kick comes after. I have joined a sexy book club. This month's choice is The Story of the Eye by Georges Bataille. Oh, piss and eyeballs! I found my old copy which has survived countless book culls and several moves.


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Clever Slut

I have been examining my oeuvre. 

What a satisfying word that is to say. Let it elongate and roll off the tongue, with a roll of the eyes that both acknowledges and relishes its pretensions.

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The Ostrich's Dilemma

At the prospect of sexual encounters without Virgil I feel apprehensive, excited and curious. Unfortunately I feel quite shit about Virgil seeing other people in a measure that is out of all proportion and quite unreasonable and unjustifiable. Jealousy, insecurity, avarice and fear are all there.


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Slut-shame

I confess, until last week I did not know it was a word. Then someone sent me this piece by Laurie Penny. It's a thoughtful article about the word 'sexualisation' and how it is being bandied about my proponents of today's moral panic about girl's and young women's sexuality. Slut-shaming comes in in the last paragraph and some newspaper sub has seen fit to make it the subject of the headline: Stop this slut-shaming. I don't know why, but I had expected better journalism from the Guardian (or less prurience at any rate).

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Thinking about children

Virgil is eight years younger than me. His thirties are beginning and mine are ending. Different things make us cry.

Recently he sobbed uncontrollably in Toy Story 3 with its themes of friendship, loyalty and growing away from childhood companions. On Sunday I was made into a watery mess by Little Green, the song Joni Mitchell wrote about giving up her daughter for adoption when she was young.

I'm not broody but the question is there.

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