That single pill.

Bruce Springsteen’s ‘I’m on Fire’ is James’ song, a handsome, kind and very sexy Australian I met in Barcelona. After nearly a month, I think I’m ready to talk about him now.

James was a one-night stand. The best I’ve had so far, we met sharing views on the monarchy, then our shared love of Bon Iver and The Boss before chatting about our lives over drinks, fags and the offer of a red rose (which, though I refused, he would have bought had he a smaller note than his 50). James was lovely.

He invited me to his room for JD, which I swigged out of the bottle since coke was not to be found (classy). Escalation was foreseen, and enjoyed.

What I didn’t expect was his reaction post-enjoyment.

“No. Please, no.”

With his head in his hands, it was obvious what had happened. I tried not to panic. It was evident that he was.

“It’s ok, we can get it sorted.”

I remember holding each other for a bit whilst we sorted out our emotions. He offered for me to stay, but I couldn’t. I had to go. I needed to cry.

I had completely underestimated the trauma of taking the morning after pill, more so in a foreign country after a one night stand.

I cried in McLovin’s arms for at least half an hour after leaving his hostel room.

“What are you going to do in the morning?”

“Take the morning after pill.”

“And what are you not?”


If it hadn’t been for McLovin, the single person who knew until I told the suspicious Bethlehem two nights later, I don’t know how I would have coped. She figuratively slapped me across the cheeks, raising and reassuring my drunken spirits.

I did not sleep a wink that night, and neither did James. We met as we’d agreed, at 9.30 downstairs, in order to get the drug together. Quizzed by the Spanish pharmacist, it is not an experience that I’d particularly like to repeat. Refusing his invitation to what I perceived to be a guilty offer of coffee (which I regret from the bottom of my heart, looking back), I left him by the lift, running away to my room in order to swallow the single pill, in the comfort of McLovin’s presence.

That was the last time I ever saw James.

That following day was fucking hard. I was an emotional wreck, trying to hide any emotion from the others who I didn’t want to know at that time. I pretended that I was ill, dealing with lectures on how “it was the heat” and that I should eat or drink or lie down or whatever, masking the real reason behind my shaky behaviour.

Nearly a month on, I have learnt much from my experience in Barcelona with James. I have learned how volatile my defensive attitude towards men can be. I have learned that I need to embrace romance rather than shut it down, be it from guilt or not. I have learned that not all men are arseholes that leave you to deal with complications utterly alone: some ask you if you’d like to share their bed for comfort, Google information to aid the process, come with you to get the necessary tools and even ask you to sit down and chat over coffee afterwards. I have learned not to instantly distrust men solely based on my own experiences, to stop being so self-toxic and to boost my confidence. I have learnt that casual sex isn’t always as casual as one may want and I’ve learnt that taking the morning after pill is emotionally draining. Most of all, I’ve discovered an overwhelming compassion for other women that have had to go that step further in aborting; I can only imagine how traumatic such an experience would be. The truth is, if this was so hard for me, how in the world will I be able to cope with an abortion if I’ll ever need to have one?

Let’s hope this is a rhetorical question which will never need to be answered.


An Utterly Beautiful Man

The new plot twist in my pathetic love life came last night through my inviting home of a cute badminton player 5 years my senior.

I wasn’t expecting much. A quick shag, or two, and an awkward leaving at the break of dawn.

How wrong was I.

He is the most wonderful man I’ve ever met. He was attentive, complimentary, sweet, courteous and just plain lovely. I fell asleep entangled in his arms, bathed in his little kisses and woke up to sober desires and laughter. I felt attractive, powerful and wanted by his cheeky smile and the way he wouldn’t let me get up to clean the aftermath of my party (he even rugby tackled me to the floor and lay on my leg so I couldn’t go).

The most genuine guy I’ve ever encountered, this beautiful human being told me that he’d only slept with two girls before, and that they were his girlfriends at the time, in addition to being completely taken aback when I told him that I appreciated him doing things to me, incredulous at my reasoning behind this (concerning the Artist’s preferences). McLovin, who had also stayed at mine with her boyfriend, got on like a house on fire with him, which just shows his brilliant character.

It’s sad that nothing can happen as he lives tens of miles away over the English border, and nowhere near my University locations either. There’s no point pursuing it as we’d only end up getting annoyed and hurt, so I decided not to give him my number or exchange Facebook details.

But oh my goodness, what a lovely night. This gorgeous example of human kind has shown me what the male race can produce. I have a rekindled belief in our male counterparts after being on the receiving end of his caress and compliments. This guy is perfection; some lucky girl will be incredibly happy in his company.

Me, I have seen what it is to be respected, enjoyed and wanted.

It felt so good.

The evolution of an “arrangement”

The Artist is becoming a weekly staple.

Our relationship is also evolving; from our tense and overtly sexual start, we’re now becoming warmer, sharing things about ourselves and I can sense his rising respect towards me as I gain power in the relationship. Little mannerisms are changing too, with new experiences such as his pulling me towards him whilst I was laughing at him for being vain, his joining my perch on the window sill and the fact that we cuddled and chatted for more than an hour (that was a first) proving that our arrangement is becoming natural, easy and carefree.

I didn’t expect this at the start. In all fairness I thought that he would annoy the fuck out of me and that I’d spend enough time with him to get what I want and then leave. I think that’s what he thought too. I didn’t even think that we’d last this long. I know that by now he finds me as intriguing as I have come find him, in addition to starting to see me as his equal, despite the slight age gap, and I like that. Not many people intrigue me, and I think less intrigue him.

It’s funny because I still don’t want a monogamous relationship with him: I like him a lot, find him fascinating and extremely attractive but I don’t think subjecting ourselves completely to one another will ever work. What I can see happening is us becoming closer and having more than just a sexual relationship, but to what extent I don’t know nor mind.

I’m happy with our situation. I enjoy our Tuesday nights together and always feel good afterwards.

I’ll leave with what he left me:

“Until the next time.”

Poly-amorous jealousy

The artist and I have spun a vicious web around ourselves.

From my perspective we have entered an arrangement of poly-amorous casual sex and in that arrangement the polyamory was clearly stated. The last time I was at his I ended up sleeping with his room-mate after sleeping with him, for goodness’ sake. I knew and know exactly what it was and is, which is why last night is messing with me.

I saw him kissing another girl whilst out with my friends last night and I got jealous.

I swore at him and it affected me for the rest of the night, even though it shouldn’t as I knew that I wasn’t, nor am, the only girl.

I have come to three possibilities:

1) I was drunk. Drunk. I didn’t have my senses and so I couldn’t rationalise the situation effectively. Nothing has changed.

2) It was seeing it that made me crumble. I don’t care if I don’t know with whom, but last night I did know and it’s that that hit me.

3) I’m starting to develop feelings for him. I’ve told myself time after time that I can’t and that I wouldn’t, but my drunken emotions show that this is untrue and that really I just want a monogamous relationship after all.

Please don’t let it be the latter. I don’t think it is as the second seems about right, but there is a possibility and it actually scares the fuck out of me.

Yet, in reality, jealousy is normal and to have not felt jealous probably would have been stranger than actually doing so.

I guess I’ll have to sit this one out.

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.

“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.)

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.

A True Teenage Rollercoaster …

Until yesterday, I was on the highest point of happiness that I’ve ever reached in my relatively short life. Everything was going my way: I’d just come back from a family

Half Pipe -water slide in water park Serena.

Image via Wikipedia

break in Devon and felt at peace; I felt my friends’ presence in my life, which is something I hadn’t really felt for a long time; my relationship with, I’ll call him BalaBoy (even though he doesn’t come from Bala), was flourishing; I was losing a tiny bit of weight; everything was going my way.

Until yesterday.

BalaBoy, after a long and funny conversation, dropped the bombshell of his antics with his previous girlfriend (I won’t tell you just how it came up – mostly because I can’t remember). Yup, you guessed it – he’s had sex. Immediately my smile faded. To be totally honest I was a bit disgusted – there’s a reason why there’s a law stating how old you need to be! He said, following my obvious disgust: “I don’t care what anyone says because it’s the most amazing thing two people in love can do.” Probably true, but he’s only 15! I expressed my opinion of us being too young, and that we have 60 years (I actually said this) to have sex, but we only get one childhood, and we need to live it to the max, but he seemed to disagree. I just think, what’s the point of being a kid if you can’t live like one? I definitely don’t feel old enough to commit myself to a boy like that, and I don’t want to. I want to live freely and enjoy what I’ve got. I made myself a promise, after many friends of mine have lost their virginity to boys they don’t have a relationship with, that I would not have sex until I’m mentally ready, and when I feel ready to do so. And I’m going to stick to that promise, even if I’ll have to sacrifice a couple of things in order to keep to it.

One sacrifice might be BalaBoy.

Yet, I can’t seem to let go.

He’s made me feel so incredibly happy, I don’t want to lose him. But, I might have to let him go – I’m not, under any circumstances, going to have sex with him until I’m ready. It might be a couple of months or a couple of years before I feel that way, but I’m making no exceptions.

He lives really far so it might not be possible to have any sort of relationship anyway.

You might now think: what the hell is this girl doing with this boy? Well, what I’ve written makes him look as some sort of a criminal – but he’s lovely. He’s kind, funny and doesn’t take anything to heart. He’s had a tough time with his family therefore he’s immensely strong-minded. He makes me feel like I’m on top of the world, as you say, and I miss him a LOT when we haven’t spoken for a while.

I’d nearly die if I had to give him up.

So now, I feel awful. A severe up followed by a severe down in a matter of a day is agony!! A definite adventure park water slide of extreme height.

I hope that the spirits of tomorrow advise me to do the right thing.

I shall have to trust them.