Those hands

My latest sexual encounter (following some messing around with BlackLace) came in the form of an attractive, tall, 21-year-old artist the other evening. We met on a night out where I began talking to him and his friend and I landed up staying at his flat until 6.30 am when I decided I should probably go home.

Although I wasn’t interested from the outset (his friend is smoking hot. As in, seriously gorgeous.) the swing-chair move at their shared studio (the friend had left a while ago) where he spun me round to face him just did it. It just did it. Sexiest move I’ve ever come across.

I was on my period. In his flat he made a move and I told him, explaining that I didn’t want to as a result. He understood and just went along with everything else instead. It was nice. We had several cups of coffee and chats along with other things.

He asked me to meet up with him for a “film” Tuesday night. I knew exactly what that meant and was not at all averse to it. He met me, walked me to the flat where once more we shared a coffee over some Will Ferrell film (well, half of it).

It was good. My first sober shag and yeah, it was good.

I felt safe in his arms, knowing that he wasn’t going to judge me as he was just horny. He didn’t care.

So do I care that he hasn’t made a move since?

Not particularly. I knew the deal. I wasn’t interested to begin with, either.

But he is so attractive. His hands…

Those hands.


A Cracked Family

A strange atmosphere has surrounded our household for a few weeks, if not months, and after speculation it was made clear this evening that I was right: my mother and her partner are splitting up.

I’ve lived with my step-mum for 5 years, from 13 to 18; she’s seen me heartbroken, she’s seen me gleefully happy, she’s been around every exam time and every results day: she’s seen me grow up.

I’m sitting in bed and all around me are glimpses of her. An iTunes voucher lies as yet unused on my stereo, next to the CDs she’s let me have. An A2 poster of Manhattan stands on my opposite wall, the summer holiday of a lifetime, beside a framed copy of three pictures she took of me on our first “family” trip to Turkey. A jewellery box, DVDs, posters, a yoga mat, me. I’m a product of the 6 years she’s been in my life.

I don’t know how to deal with this. It’s different to the break up of my parents’ marriage and yet it’s not. Merely because I’m not her flesh and blood does not mean that I don’t see her as my family, because I do. If anything, she’s been a greater influence in my life than my father has, being there when I need a shoulder to cry on as well as when I wanted to exasperate in sheer joy. My father’s never truly understood me, but she has. She always has.

I remember when I first met her: we went for an IKEA trip to buy things for the first house after my parents’ divorce. We had a pizza at Pizza Hut. A couple of weeks later I had to go to hospital after a hip problem due to sitting in-between boxes on the back seat.

I was playing The Sims when I was introduced formerly to her as my mum’s partner. I was being a moody teenager and refused to talk to her, staring at my creations on the screen instead.

Now, I can’t imagine my life without her.

She’s made it clear that she doesn’t intend to lose our relationship and that I should call in any time after she moves out, and should do the same to her mother, NanaJ, and her grandmother, but it’s going to be strange.

Who’s going to be there to pick me up after an after-school jog in the dark? Who’s going to give us a lift to school after we miss the bus? Who’s going to be here sitting in pyjamas with a cup of coffee when we leave in the morning?

Who’s going to be my step-mother?

Some more boy-induced paranoia.

This week has been hard. Fam’s been at rehearsal every night and the only crumb of contact I’ve had from him since Sunday night was a Snapchat snap on Wednesday asking if I was seeing the show on Friday. That is until last night, when I did indeed see his play.

He was brilliant! Absolutely brilliant! His characterisation was fantastic, creating a lazy, perhaps socially awkward character with the superb comedy timing that one expects from him. He’s a very talented actor and made me long for my theatre days.

I know most of the cast so I, along with Bethlehem and another friend, waited for them to come out from the backstage area to congratulate them and tell them how wonderful they are, etc. Of course, this included Fam.

He came out whilst I was chatting with some cast members so I mouthed a “Well done, you were brilliant,” to him before finding the time to go over and chat with him and two other guys, one of whom is a school friend. It was fine, but of course, he wasn’t the Fam I know. He was back to the emotion-less, rather awkward guy whom I thought I knew before. They left with a “Fam, when’s your dad coming to pick us up?”, “He’s here now. Bye.” and a flick of the hand.

I know it’s probably (it is) because his friends were there, and so were mine, and so he couldn’t show himself up and neither could I, but since I hadn’t seen him for weeks and hadn’t spoken to him for one, I just wanted to cuddle up on the sofa and watch a sad movie following that encounter.

My paranoia is killing me.

I haven’t felt like this since WelshNash, and I completely fell for him in the end; it scares me. He makes me so nervous and fuzzy, he annoys me like hell (which only makes me like him more) and I can see myself with him; it all scares me. I want him so much and yet can’t figure out what’s going on most of the time. It’s frustrating and I’m paranoid that I’m going to throw it away and lose him.

I’ve lost every guy I’ve ever liked, but this one won’t get away. I can’t let him.

I need him. I think I really do.

Telepathic Anxieties.

After chatting about Fam with Runner and McLovin, I found myself anxious.

Let me explain: obviously we’ve been talking regularly, every day, more or less, with Saturday night being particularly lovely, but when I approached the “shall we meet again” area, over text it seemed as if he was being evasive and trying to avoid the matter (either that or his school work really is taking over his life). I asked about Tuesday, the same night as before, but he said that he’ll try to find a day later in the week when we could meet “until 5”; I mentioned that I’m working today and Thursday and he took that as an opportunity to change the subject.

Yeah, I’m probably getting ahead of myself and worrying over nothing, but something smells off.

I console myself with the fact that he’s still talking to me after last week, which shows potential, and that he told our mutual friend that he’s been talking to me and that I’m “cool”, but our “relationship” has become somewhat of a gossip piece and has spread around (a lot being my fault for telling rather too many people of our recent conversations), reaching students at his school in addition to mine, which worries me. This, combined with the lack of a second date and the looming week ahead where conversation will be impossible due to theatre commitments (the show opens on the Thursday) is depressing me.

And guess what? I haven’t heard from him all night.

Again, I’m probably being silly and clingy and God knows what else, but the one night when I wanted to tell him that I need to see him as I’ll miss him throughout the next week; the one night when I felt a bit crap about it all after weeks of happiness; the one night when I just needed a reply, he hasn’t been here. The one night where I’ve questioned everything.

Am I telepathic or plain annoying? Alternatively, I’m fed up of waiting and just want to see his stupid face again.

Perhaps all three.

It’s a Date.

Today I went on my first real date (if you discount the time I went to a café with WelshNash that is…) with Fam.

Walking into the café and climbing the stairs to the top floor where he told me he’d be, after walking slowly to be sure that he’d be there before me, my heart was leaping like a greyhound on race day.

Initial awkwardness and inability to pronounce any words I had lodged in my brain was brief; once we got going, we spent an hour and a half chatting, laughing and comparing stories and opinions over hot chocolate and two coffees as he’d forgotten to tell me he’d ordered for me when I myself went to order another one.

That hour and a half was the most natural and lovely 90 minutes of my life. I found out that we’re incredibly similar, with our interest in literature, linguistics and our vegetarian beliefs, as well as a shared dark sense of humour.

When he walked me to my bus on the way to a night class, arguing over a silly concept of being hot or cold, we continued our laughter and peeking over at his face, his smile was warmer than I’d even anticipated.

The catch? By my bus, a friend of his saw him and as we passed he called him back, meaning that a decent goodbye was impossible (PDA and all that), being a tad awkward and rather cold instead.

If I regret anything it’s that small moment; those few seconds which could have been gorgeous and a fitting end to a nice afternoon.

Yet I don’t mind too much.

I just hope he feels the same way as I do.

This could actually be something.

18 and Crushing

I turned 18 last Saturday, which for you Americans is the British equivalent of 21.

The night itself was an eventful one with snogging a 40-year-old French guy who might or might not be actually from Swansea, throwing abuse at BlackLace who was at the same bar and a friend being taken to hospital for having trouble with his heart after 3/4 of a vodka bottle.

Yet out of this wreckage came a somewhat surprising find: a new romantic interest.

I don’t have a clue how he found me attractive that night, being a drunken mess, swearing non stop, violent and kissing a paeodophilic French guy, but somehow he did. He helped rescue me from the middle-aged man, and held my ground against BlackLace before walking and chatting with me around town, when we were taking a breath of fresh air and trying to find the rest of our group.

Once we’d found the rest, we decided we’d leave as it was now verging towards 2.30. 8 of our original group came back to mine, with him and his 2 mates in tow. We chatted in the kitchen, raided our fridge and the 3 eventually set off for the next village, which was where they were staying.

Sunday night, I received a Facebook message. We corresponded for a bit before falling asleep.

In school my friends told me that he was trying it on with me that night. I laughed, thinking that if I was less drunk and knew what was going on, I’d have probably gone with it.

Monday night, we chatted for a few hours. Tuesday followed suit. And Wednesday, and last night.

I like this guy. I really do. For once, I’ve found a nice guy, who is funny and weird but above all he’s lovely. He’s actually lovely. And he lives in the same country, bonus!

I’ve never had such luck. I can’t believe it. What have I done to deserve this?

The thing is, I’m quite scared; I don’t want to screw this one up. Not this time. I can’t.

He’s seen me at my worst yet it hasn’t repelled him.

I feel so vulnerable and yet so content.


Ugh, God, if only it was easy.


“Thanks for the s**g.”

Amongst talk of universities, summers and getting wasted, I lost my virginity.

I don’t feel any different. It came (accidental pun) and went and I carried on with my night. I then carried on with my week.

It’s not that it wasn’t nice – it was – and it’s not that it meant nothing – it did – it just seems like there’s a massive media build up towards “Yeah, that’s good. Thanks.” I’ve got to say though, having a person I sort of trust to have the honour of being my first (achievement.) was lovely as I didn’t care about how the fuck my body looked, how the hell I “performed” or if I was being seductive enough. I was so preoccupied with someone wanting me, and that person being a decent human being, that everything else (nearly) didn’t matter.

I bet it falls into the obvious teenage losing-your-virginity process: festival, too much booze, tent, mates banging on the walls when you’re putting your clothes back on, sneaking out the other side of the tent, lack of pure remembrance… Honestly, I don’t care about the cliché, I’m just happy that it’s over and done with.

Am I interested in the guy? No. Do I feel an emotional attachment? Not particularly. Do I mind it being a one-night-stand? Not at all. If anything, I’d rather it that way. It’s less messy and those stupid ‘feelings’ don’t need to have another ride, which is always a bonus. I’m glad I’m not living in the 1700s – I’d have been a shit 18-year-old loved-up housewife.

Strangely, things that made me rather anxious before also don’t affect me as much. I’m much more at ease with my body, even though I’m not at my ideal weight, and I don’t care as much about my appearance. I feel older, without reason, and feel like I can conquer anything. Untrue, but I rather enjoy having a relatively positive way of thinking for a change…

On that positive note, I have to re-sit a whole year of English Literature due to my exam results…

There are worse than T. S. Eliot and Yeats.


(And no, he wasn’t the Irish dude.)

Teenage Cupid’s harsh.

I don’t know what it is with me, but the easy, kissing in the bowling alley, cycling over at 9 o’clock on Friday night teenage romance isn’t panning out as it should.

I have a new potential romantic interest and he’s perfect. He’s intelligent, he’s fascinating, he’s cute, funny and Irish.

Although the Irish bit means that his sexiness naturally quadruples, it also means that any sort of relationship, be it a friendship, a bit more or a romantic relationship is just impossible. A huge f***ing sea divides us. It’s not just a border, it’s a f***ing sea.

Oh, I’ve also forgotten to mention that I’ve never actually met the guy (don’t worry, I will, in 5 weeks, when we’ll be going on the same Oxford course – an episode of Catfish won’t be necessary). We’ve been talking every day for the last month, with the conversations this week being moved from the online course forum to Facebook, which has meant that we’ve been having in-depth 3 hour conversations without really realising it.

It scares me how comfortable I feel telling him things. It scares me how much we know about each other already. It scares me how much he makes me nearly piss myself laughing constantly. It scares me how much I already trust him. It scares me how much talking to him lightens up my evenings.

It scares me how much I want to meet him. It scares me how much I want to see if our connection is true, face to face.

It scares me that when I do meet him, maybe I’ll want to be with him.

It scares me that I’ll probably get hurt.

It’s scary.

I’m scared.


Fuck you, Cupid.

Sexualised Youth


I’m 17. Probably 3/4, if not more, of boys my age in school watch porn. It’s a given that they probably have some fun watching it a few times a week. Girls, though? I don’t actually know.

For a seventeen-year-old, I’m pretty behind on everything sex wise. I’ve never had a serious boyfriend, I’ve only really ever liked three guys (each one being a bit of an idiot), co-incidentally only kissed as many and my first remotely sexual experience was that evening with BlackLace. You can guess, therefore, that I’ve never watched porn.

Until I recently watched a documentary by Tyger Drew Honey on young people and porn, I hadn’t really thought about girls and porn. Many girls on the programme said that they’d watched porn since they were 14, 13 or as young as 11. Then how come I’ve never even batted an eyelid? I think I was naïve in thinking that porn was just something boys did.

Something that they discussed in the programme was the effect porn is having on idealizing sex, and idealizing the female body. Women seen in porn, even in tv shows, are perfect, perhaps with huge boobs and a tiny waist and an immaculately waxed downstairs, with spot-less make-up on their faces. Of course, this isn’t how most of us look, especially me. I’ve always been unhappy with the way I look, and this makes me even more uneasy; I don’t like messing around too much down there as my skin doesn’t like it, so you can imagine how I feel about guys on the programme saying that they “wouldn’t even touch a bush”.

We see these amazing bodies everyday and fancy them, the ideal, over-sexualised gorgeousness that they are (I can’t say that I don’t have an imaginary list of sex gods myself – Pio Marmai anyone?) and it’s hard when you know you don’t look like that, never mind when someone else makes it obvious that you don’t look like that, but we all do it. We all fantasize about them, these ideals. Maybe this sexualised youth that my generation is living is destroying reality, I don’t know.

All in all, this stuff is messing with me. Should I try some porn? Should I try getting off to it? Should I conform to the ideal in order to be attractive? Would not conforming to the ideal repulse guys? I have no clue.

In truth, I’m rather anxious about it.

Yet, the more I think about it, the more I feel that it all doesn’t matter, as even if I don’t find anyone, I can still be successful in my chosen path. I can still be a pretty cool lady with steel wings and good wits.

One hopes.

Melodrama. About school, mostly.

I have a week and a half until my exams start, and less than two weeks until they end.

I know, jammy right? 😉 I have three exams, 2 – 2 1/2 hours each, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday. I then get to prance around like a happy lamb on a sunny spring afternoon. Woop-dy-doo.

I can’t remember what having a social life and free time was like. From looking after the children for many evenings and constant schoolwork (mostly Textiles) I haven’t had time to myself for months!

In less than two weeks, I’ll be free of everything. I’ll be able to read. I’ll be able to watch TV. I’ll be able to dance around to Dolly Parton in my bedroom until three in the morning. Oh, and I’ll also be able to party.

With two parties being already set, Runner and I are also planning trips to places and camping nights and a whole lot of everything else with everyone we know (nearly); it’s going to be a blast of a summer!

The thing is, I have a month of so-called “study-leave” which of course I won’t be using and so is a holiday, but after that, guess what? WE HAVE TO GO BACK TO SCHOOL. For six whole fucking weeks of the Welsh Baccalaureate (which is a pointless compulsory course in Wales where we have to write a mountain of pointless essays on working with others and whether Wales is better than another country in something – which it is, for creating pointless courses).

BUT (I know I shouldn’t start a sentence with a but, but) we have work experience for one week and I’ll be going to Oxford University for a summer UNIQ course for another, so a month isn’t too bad…

In total, five weeks of school (counting this week) left until the summer holidays.

And five weeks left of school until our last year there technically begins.

Oh such a joyous occasion.

(Which reminds me – BlackLace’s ‘other girl’ now has her own ‘other boy’. How about that? 😉 )