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Monday, June 27, 2005


Dear God,

I know we don’t have a close relationship; that would have something to do with the fact that I am atheist and I don’t believe in you. But putting that fact aside for a moment, I’d like to have a little chat.

You see, I have a bone to pick with you. It’s not about the tsunami that devastated so many lives six months ago. Nor is it about how millions of people are afflicted by HIV and AIDS as a result of following the Vatican’s mindless preaching. It is not even about how huge parts of this planet are dying due to needless waste and selfishness on the part of its participants. No, it is about a much more important issue: the problem of my being a sex fiend.

Whilst I do not hold you directly responsible for the issues that arise as a result of my condition, it is, I think, fair to say, that some of these things are not necessarily of my own doing, and that I have no control over them. Since it appears that you ‘move in mysterious ways’, I can only assume that you have some connection with my own uncontrolled cycle of events.

An example:

It is well known (amongst my friends, and long-time readers of this blog) that I am not a fan of the police force. This might be because I once spent 11 hours in casualty after getting my head cracked open by a particularly sadistic copper after presenting myself as a ‘threat’ when I sat down in the middle of a street on a peaceful march. Plus, I have handed out flowers to riot police as a peace offering, and still been hit by their truncheons and riot shields: put a riot uniform on any copper and you get someone hungry for power and prone to violent outbursts. Added to which, most (yes, most) policemen tend not to be the most progressive ‘new’ men - racism, sexism, conservatism are all endemic within the force - I don’t believe in the ‘It’s only one bad apple in the barrel’ view: in my opinion, they’re all representative of a pretty bad bunch in society.

So, dear God, it came as rather a surprise to me last week, when I found myself lusting after a copper, and, in all honesty I am rather annoyed by it all and want a full explanation from the responsible parties (you, that is).

There I was, minding my own business, buying a paper in the local shop, looking forward to returning to the hectic day ahead involving sunbathing, coffee and reading about current events. I didn’t expect to get involved in a violent dispute between my neighbours. And I certainly didn’t expect to be checking out a policeman’s arse and wondering what he would look like naked.

It began innocuously enough: a group of police arrived, separated the brawling parties, and began to take statements from everyone. My interviewer just happened to be a rather handsome thirty-ish well-built man, with sparkling blue eyes and dirty-blonde hair. (Not that I was paying attention to his looks or anything, just an observation – I am perceptive about such things). He asked me lots of mundane questions, and apologised for the dullness of them, trying to crack some jokes to liven them up. I found myself answering him sarcastically, and he laughed as I took the piss out of his not being able to write them down fast enough.

Whilst we chatted about the sequence of events, and joked about my dumb neighbours, I suddenly realised I was twirling my hair in my hand and stroking the back of my neck, laughing out loud at his jokes. God, I was flirting with him.

And when he walked over to his colleagues to check some details, I noticed that I was scoping out the wonderful curvature of his delightful bottom. Whilst he conferred with them, I realised how erect my nipples were as well; their bullet-likeness protruded clearly through the flimsy t-shirt I had quickly thrown on over my bikini top. Shit, I was turned on too.

He came back over to me, and we continued chatting, whilst I attempted to will my nipples into a state of relaxed submission. (I don’t think it worked, since his eyes darted over them more than a few times). I then noticed his chest: the hair poking out the top of his shirt filled me with a desire to undo the buttons and run my fingers through the mass that lay within, discovering his own protruding nipples beneath the material, and caress them gently with my fingertips and tongue. I tried not to think about what he would look like without his uniform on, but it was to no avail: as he stood there and flirted with me, I was imagining him naked before me, his cock as hard as the truncheon on his belt.

Dammit. He was a copper. A fascist in uniform. A power-hungry Servant Of The State. Why was I attracted to him? Why was I wondering what it would be like to kiss him? Why was I imagining ripping off his trousers and sliding my hands around his cock?

Something was wrong – very wrong in my world.

All I could think God, was that, in your mysterious way of doing things, this must be part of some larger Plan I am unaware of. That you have a Reason for this to happen: that your Will manifested itself into this insane attraction. It certainly can’t be explained any other way: I may be a sex fiend, but I can categorically state that dating or shagging a member of an organisation that has physically wounded me is never going to happen. Ever.

Even if he is devilishly handsome, with a cute smile and a fantastic arse.

So, with this in mind, I would like an explanation. Some kind of sign to give me an insight into these events. You don’t need to do anything flash like a thunderbolt or storm, but sending me a winning million-pound lottery ticket, or a three-book publishing offer, or even a new gorgeous boyfriend would certainly help me understand things a little better and put all the disturbing recent events into context and regain my rational perspective on the world.

Waiting to hear from you, on my knees as always,

Girl xx

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