The jet lag is really getting to me.

I feel like I am in a daze, not knowing whether I am coming or going.

I am exhausted, weak and lacking energy.

And my whole body clock is out of sync: instead of my usual gagging for a shag first thing in the morning, I was, at 5 o'clock this afternoon, absolutely rampantly crazed, and had to struggle through my overly tired demeanour to achieve some release. And very nice it was too, if a little rushed.

I feel fine apart from the jet lag, but I am a little sore.

Not from shagging rampantly whilst I was away
Not from masturbating myself into a frenzy whilst I was away
Not even from wearing a too-tight thong that chafed my private parts

No. Let me explain from whence the soreness came:

I wanted to get waxed whilst I was away, get it all done in one sitting, so I booked myself in for a leg and brazilian bikini wax. All seemed fine on the legs. Painful, but bearable, I told myself as the waxer ripped the top layer of my skin off from my thighs. And when she did my inside leg and it made me bite my lip from the pain, I forced myself to think about how,

'I have liked pain in the past, even enjoyed it occasionally, and even though this isn't the same as having a cute guy tie my hands above my head and spank my arse, surely I can pretend I am enjoying it?'

and I tried to imagine this was some erotic sexual fetish of mine, that actually I was enjoying it, rather than wincing each time she tugged the hairs from my flesh.

I began to overcome the pain (well the three ibruprofen I took before the session begun, had started to kick in), and I felt like what was to come would be a breeze.

How wrong could I be.

Agony.

Excruciating.

Dreadful awful pain.

Any woman that tells you having her labia waxed is painless is LYING. It's fucking painful. Whilst the waxer was tugging at my poor sensitive pussy, I was praying to a god I don't believe in and asking myself,

'Why? Why am I doing this? What possible reason did I have to put myself through this agony?'

and I was on the verge of tears. Especially when she came to shaping the bottom of the 'strip'. In a brazilian wax, the only hair that isn't removed is a small rectangular strip on the front of the vulva, an inch or two above the clitoris. And it is in between here, above the clit, below the 'strip' where removing the hair is the most painful part of the whole waxing procedure. It's only a small bit of hair that needs to come off, but it is AGONY to remove it. My god.

There I was, naked, legs splayed apart, a strange woman pulling my clit to one side with her fingers and with the other hand inducing the most pain I have ever experienced in that area. It was unbearable, felt like my pussy was burning, which, ironically, it turns out it was: the wax the bitch used was too hot and it burned me, leaving red marks all over my labia which is still sore now. But removing the hair was worse, trust me.

Still, looking at (and feeling) my pussy now, I am glad I got it done. It's so smooth I can hardly stop myself from running my fingers along it all the time. I love how silky it feels and when it's hairless and slick with my wetness, well, yum is all I can say. Really though, if men truly realised what women go through to obtain a sleek, sexy beautiful pussy, they would worship it a little more I reckon. Any male volunteers up for having their balls waxed in solidarity? No? I thought not...

You never know when horniness might strike. It could be at work, travelling on a bus, or during a business meeting. And when it does strike, you have three options: ignore the feeling and continue with what you were doing; postpone the feeling until you make it somewhere safe to play; or indulge yourself there and then until your horniness is sated - which is where I found myself a few days ago, in an world famous department store’s lingerie section, attempting to pleasure myself silently.

The horniness came out of the blue. I was trying on bras in the changing room, hoping to find something that would be simultaneously comfortable to wear to work as well as being unbearably sexy to all who looked upon it. (An ambitious wish I know, but I discovered a gorgeous Vanity Fair satin number and ended up buying it in three different colours).

Anyway, there I was, stripped down to my panties, doing the old ‘lift, hook and fasten’ and I became aware of something: my nipples were erect. Pointing out like bullets. Even with the stifling temperature of the changing room. Hmm. Interesting. I pick up another bra, lift my breasts into the cups, fasten the back and arrange the straps. They’re still pert. I can see them sticking out through the material of the bra. I look at my reflection and am struck by how hard my nipples look in the mirror. I look in the mirror and reach my hands up over the bra, cupping both my breasts, grazing my fingers against my nipples and feeling them harden like buttons. It transfixes me. I can feel myself getting turned on. I can see myself getting turned on. And this turns me on even more.

Now I know this can be seen as indulgent narcissism - experiencing pleasure from observing my own reflection – but it wasn’t looking at myself that was getting me horny. It was by looking in the mirror at myself that I could imagine what my lover would see and do to me, and this was what was making me so wet.

When I saw my nipples poking through the silky material of the bra, I imagine him standing behind me, his hands sliding up around my waist, and over my breasts, letting his fingers linger on the nipples, caressing them as he feels them harden under his touch. I run my hands over my breasts cupping them and imagine it is his hands I feel squeezing them. I fantasise about feeling his soft wet kisses on my bare skin. I pretend he is behind me, pressing his body into mine, his hard cock against me. When I graze my fingers against my wet panties, I imagine it is his hand rubbing me between my legs, watching me, pulling down my panties and sliding himself into me. I want him to be here, to know that I am wet because of him, that I want him.

I look at myself in the mirror. My pupils are dilated. My skin feels electric. My breath is heavy. And my pussy is so wet. I begin to rub. I am him. He is touching me. It feels so good, I am getting carried away. I close my eyes, step up the pace, slide a finger inside.

All of a sudden:

“Miss? Do you need any help in there? Did you try them all on yet?”

Snap back to reality: I remember where I am. The lingerie sales assistant wants to give me some more bras to try on. She doesn’t know I am standing in front of the mirror with my hand between my legs. This isn’t a good place to have a frig – crazy horny or not. I need her to get off my back, so I make some feeble excuse about having to take a phone call and that I’ll return shortly after to continue the fittings. She leaves me alone.

I know I’m not gonna be able to finish myself off here, but the horn’s got the better of me and I need to fix it – now. So I throw my clothes on, grab my stuff and leave the department. I try to find a toilet to complete the task, but the department store is huge, I end up going up and down the escalators three times before I find a busy ladies toilet. By the time I get there, I am throbbing. But there’s no short guest-list-type line for horny girls, so I have to queue up like everyone else and wait. It almost kills me, having to stand there pussy pulsing away like a fucking motor. But I finally get to go into one of the stalls and I prepare myself for the task at hand:

Remove ipod - check
Remove hat – check
Remove scarf - check
Remove coat – check
Remove jumpers (x2) – check
Pull down jeans – check
Pull down thermal leggings – check
Pull down panties (wet) – check
Slide hand in between legs – check
Notice the 1 inch gap between the door and the wall – check

What? There’s a gap? I forgot about these public toilets. English people won’t know what I am talking about here, Americans will: for some reason, in public toilets, either side of the door is a gap. Large enough to see into. I’ve never figured out if this was some governmental rule to prevent drug usage in public toilets, or whether the people responsible for building these loos were just bad at measuring up. Either way, it makes for a somewhat frustrating experience should you choose to masturbate in one of them.

Which is where I found myself – having to not only silently frig myself into oblivion, but also position my body in such a way that I couldn’t be seen through the gap either. A difficult task, yes. But, I am pleased to report, not impossible. With a queue lining up around the toilet, I played to my hearts content, thinking about the man (and the mirror) and a short while later, all was well in The Girl's world.

And I managed to buy 5 bras too, so all in all, a fun afternoon.

Today I had no patience. I texted her an order: "Send me a picture : your finger in your pussy. Now."

She sent a message saying she was busy, and I replied I didn't care. Finally she responded with a photo taken in a toilet stall. Her skirt was around her waist, tights pulled down, along with the cute red knickers I saw her put on this morning. She wasn't fingering herself.

"I want your finger in your cunt," I texted. She replied: "But I'm not wet."

"Make it wet."

A few minutes later my mobile buzzed. New picture: Tights pulled down out of sight. Legs spread further apart. She's sitting down on the toilet. Hand between her legs, middle finger obviously on its way back out from between the pouty lips. It glistens.

I called her. When she picked up I heard the echo of the ladies' room.

She saw my number and picked up giggling into the phone. "Did you like it?"

"Yes. You deserve a reward when we get home. Get out early."

The reward? I can smell her on my fingers as I type this...

When I was 17 I fell in love with my closest friend.

Three years my senior, H and I had known each other since infancy. We were as close as siblings can be, without any of the rivalry normal between brothers and sisters; we loved each other dearly.

Our closeness was always immediate, no matter how much time or geographical distance was between us: when he came to visit, we would be playing together within seconds, running off to have adventures in the park out of the grasp of our parents. H was the one who taught me how to rollerskate and skateboard: he was this effortlessly cool kid who I looked up to and learned from, and to him, I was the sweet younger sister he never had.

So when I lived with him for some months, during my 17th year, we shared a bed together - as we always had - and slept arm in arm, cuddling each other til we fell asleep and it all seemed normal, until one night changed everything.

I awoke to feel H's hand stroking my back. Nothing unusual: I turned towards him and sleepily draped my arm across his chest. We cuddled for a minute. Even when his hand moved down towards my waist I thought nothing of it. It wasn't until his fingers slid underneath my right breast and began slowly caressing my nipple that I became aware that we were crossing a boundary. I felt H lift my breast gently, squeeze it and trace it's outline with his index finger. I was conscious that my nipple was stiffening under his touch, and when he ran his thumb around it, it felt like electricity running through it.

We moved closer to each other, I ran my hand across his chest. I remember hearing his breath quicken as the back of my hand grazed his nipple. We looked at each other dreamily and began to kiss. It was so passionate, so gentle and so innocent. Our eyes were locked into each other, our lips replacing the words that we didn't need to say. It felt like the most natural thing in the world to be doing this, even when H moved closer and I could feel his hard cock against my thigh. Our bodies were in sync, our feelings expressed through this sexual closeness. We were two friends, hungrily searching and exploring each other, discovering the unknown parts of the other, adding to the love we already had.

So, we made love. He was the second person I shared this with, but the first person I was totally in love with. It was amazingly intense, emotionally and physically. I truly loved him in every possible way and the months I spent with him all those years ago is something I recall with fond memories to this day.

And now I find myself staying with him again, writing this on his very computer. A lot of years have passed since I was in love with H, some of them where we didn't get on, some where we didn't get to see each other, our lives are very seperate now.

But now I remember why I fell for him in the first place.

H knows me almost better than I know myself. He says to me whilst we walk down the street:

"Hey, you only tripped up once today, you're doing good so far!", and grabs me, because as if on cue, I stumble once more and am only prevented from falling flat on my face by him catching me.

And H knows what a messy person I am, in every respect, from the clutter in my home, to the spillage of wine on my top. He'll say to me,

"You missed a bit",

and point to my bust, another new dark stain having appeared in the centre, or he'll point out the accumulation of crumbs in my cleavage, and comment that,

"Catch any more in there, you could start baking a cake",

and have me lauging in hysterics as I try to empty the crumbs onto the floor. H knows how to make me laugh. Boy does he know. I have actually wet myself from laughing so hard. He has this knack of being able to rip the hell out of me and have me laugh at myself in the process: no time for self-congratulatory smugness with H, trust me, only the freedom to be able to be fucking stupid and not made to feel dumb in the process.

Plus H knows me so well, he always picks up on when I am trying to show off, or appear intelligent by using long words, or the like. And will mock me speaking, or finish my sentence, or prounounce correctly what I am trying to say, and then dig me in the ribs, as if to say:

"You don't need to pretend with me. I know you, and love you just the same."

And he does. He knows I am a neurotic, overly analytical slightly intense woman. He pulls me up on it all the time, tells me to calm down, stop thinking about things so hard and he says,

"Just be yourself, everyone will love you",

and I try: I do my best to rid myself of the prententious bollocks that makes up some of my defensive facade and just present myself as I am, take it, or leave it. And pray that he's right: I hope I do meet someone that sees through that shit and wants me for who I am, clumsy git, cleavage-crumb-catcher and all.

So now I am staying with H yet again, and loving his company. Feeling close to him once more, having missed his friendship for many years. But now of course, we are no longer kids. He is a man. I am a woman. We have both grown up: he has a wife and a child, I have... well, a different life. But I realised the other day that maybe some things haven't changed between us. Not only the emotional and intellectual connection, the physical as well.

Looking at him now, I can see how attractive he is, he has really grown into his mid-thirties self: no longer a cute boy, now a handsome older man - beautiful laughter lines on his face, grey hairs on his head, podgier in his body - and of course he is more relaxed as a man, happier with himself and lacking the ego of the twenty year old that I knew.

But our last foray into the physical realm ruined our friendship for many years; I am in no rush to destroy it again, nor to be the 'other woman' in a man's life (been there, done that, head-fuck all round). Plus of course, there's the matter of the fact that I know his wife and child - not people whose lives I want to mess up.

So, I am just being me. Friendly, slightly flirtatious, and forever clumsy. Reckon that'll do me for the time being. And I get to keep my friend at the end of my stay here, which, lets face it, is more important than any sex in the whole world.

Right. Off to shop now: a girl's gotta have some fun, after all. It's so cold where I am, your eyes get frostbite if they're not covered properly. Which kinda means girls like me, who like to wear a nice pair of heeled boots and a short skirt, are instead having to wear thermal underwear, thick trousers and snow boots. Mmm, sexy...

Anyone worried that our favourite sex fiend and all 'round hottie with the D-cups and skimpy underwear, theGirl, might actually be a guy? Then you might want to stop reading, because I definitely am. But there's good news! In the spirit of blogging transvestism, I squeezed my hairy balls into a cute little pink thong this morning for my debut at theGirl's inner sanctum.

OK, maybe that's not a particularly appealing image. Let me tell you why:

We the hairy-testicled are an underappreciated minority. In sex blogs at least. The girls outstrip us in every way at sex blogging, in popularity, productivity and the sheer number of votes they get in the Best of Blog Awards. It's a sad state of affairs for us guys who like to write pervy stuff. And what do I do about this vast gulf of inequality? Well, I read a lot of sex blogs by women. I link to them. I leave comments on their blogs. Most pitifully, I voted for some of them in the BoB Awards when I could have been beefing up the score for the only solo male blogger among the finalists - myself.

No wonder I got spanked by Mistress Matisse and the rest of the girls - she blasted her way to victory with 646 votes. I landed in 8th place, top of the bottom 3 blogs (yay!). But don't think I'm complaining here - it's just to point out an interesting fact: Men contribute to 3 of the 10 finalist BoB blogs, and those three blogs all congregated around the bottom of the list. The other 7 blogs were all written one-handed by women (OK, single-handed, then). This can mean but one thing, boys: Masculinity is the kiss of death for a sexblog.

Why is this? Now that I get the chance to address directly the readers of one of my own favourite fem-bloggers, I just have to ask: Why do women rule the sexblogs?

The time has come for me to play away from home.

I shall be infrequently blogging as a result.

Fear not, dear readers, for I am leaving you in the more than capable hands of my friend MonMouth of Rentboy Diaries - Girl with a one-track mind's first ever guest blogger.

Hope you enjoy reading him - I certainly do.

And be nice to him.

Speak again soon

xx

It's been a while.

I, um, er, well, how can I put it? I am a little preoccupied.

Yes yes I know, a normal state of affairs for The Girl. But you see, it's different. I am different. It's a new year, I have a fresh outlook, and my world seems filled with new and exciting possibilities, in every field of my life.

It's not that I am not thinking about sex anymore; more that I am thinking about not-sex, if that makes any sense. It's the not doing of it I mean: the heightened senses, the bodily response, the anticipation - everything that leads up to sex, that's what's been on my mind of recent times, rather than fantasising about shagging somebody senseless.

I love it when I have my partner on the edge, to have him not knowing what pleasure he will have next, but simultaneously knowing that he will be experiencing pleasure and being on the point of almost not being able to bear the not-knowing. To make him anticipate my next move. And to suprise him, give him less when he expects more, and more when he imagines less.

For example:

To kiss him all over his naked body and let my hair graze his chest, slowly letting it flick over his groin as I make my way down his body. Kiss his hips and see his cock twitch as he feels my cool breath over him. Slide my hands down his thighs and nibble his inside leg, slowly making my way back up his body. Looking at him as I lick his belly button, whilst my breasts softly press against his cock. Smiling at him as I lower my mouth, his eyes focussed on my every move.

His thought: what will her mouth feel like wrapped around my cock?
His anticipation: when will she finally suck me?

Watching his eyes watching me, as I gently slide my wet lips over his cock, licking the underside with my tongue. Hearing him groan and feeling his cock throb as I lower my mouth all the way down. Looking up at him to see him watching me.

He expects me to suck him deep again: he awaits this moment.

I smile, but lick the tip instead, nibbling along the shaft, my fingers stroking the base of his cock and caressing his balls. I open my mouth wider, let it slip in slightly, swirl my tongue around and around. He closes his eyes, forgets about my deepthroating, and focusses on the softness, the wetness, the tongue massage, his cock bouncing back and forth inside my mouth.

And just when he feels that he could get used to this pace, that his cock is so fucking sensitive that it could explode any minute, I grip him tightly and thrust my mouth all the way down sucking as hard as I can. He groans, suprised, his cock stiffens even more. He opens his eyes, moves my hair away from my face, he wants to watch now, wants to see what will come next.

But there's no set method: I just want to increase his anticipation and pleasure, and that's all that matters. I'd prefer to keep him on edge til he feels like the only way off the cliff is down and he wants to fall, now. And of course, that's the time to stop teasing and then (my preference) climb over him, slide him into me and fuck him til he explodes. Or continue sucking, licking, kissing and stroking until he can't take it any more. Either way, pleasure all round, all the better for the sensual anticipation I think.

Etc...

I love it. Getting someone to a state of heightened sensitivity, by increasing their anticipation, and resulting in them having immense pleasure - well, I cannot think of a more enjoyable thing to do for someone, (except perhaps letting them do the same for you in return).

2005: a time for giving I think...

In conversation with a woman at work the other day, the subject of sex came up - as it does. This woman told me that she found it hard to climax during sex. She admitted to me that orgasm during masturbation wasn't a problem for her; it was just when she was with a partner that climaxing was a problem.

We talked some more and it turned out that for her, sex was only about the expression of love for someone; if she wasn't in love with the person she was having sex with, or was worried that they weren't in love with her, then she wasn't able to come. Thus, sex was solely about a personal loving interaction, nothing else. There seemed to be a simple equation with her: no love = no orgasm.

Well of course I disagreed with her. I mean, sex having to be connected with love? Not always. And it got me thinking: what is sex?


For me, sex falls into 3 categories:

1. Making love: Sharing something totally intimate, caring and loving with someone you love; expressing how you feel about them through tender physical intimacy. It is emotionally and physically intense, full of meaning, powerful, and only possible to experience with a partner that you have feelings for. A way of connecting to another person. The equivilent of finishing the end of someone's sentences.

2. Having sex: Fun, laid back physical expression of desire. A good release of pent up frustration, both mental and physical. Not necessarily tied with emotions. Can be with a long-term partner, or with a fuck buddy. Like a game of tennis, but with fewer balls and less clothes.

3. Fucking: Expressing carnal desires through rampant shagging. This is hot, wet, licking, sucking, biting, gripping, slapping, fucking. This is where you've had the horn all day, not played with yourself, and rushed home to your partner to push them against the wall, rip their clothes off and fuck them hard. Or where you meet someone new, realise the animal attraction between you is so intense that you throw all caution to the winds, forget about your inhibitions, and devour their body hungrily. A purely physical expression.


And with regards to the above, I seem diametrically opposed to the aforementioned woman's experience in terms of climaxing. I certainly have no problem orgasming - if anything, it's the opposite with me - finding it a little too easy when I have sex or fuck someone, (something I have been embarassed about occasionally, feeling like I have premature female orgasm (if there is such a thing)).

It's all too easy to disconnect emotionally from sex and fucking - probably what makes it such fun - and so easy to climax. But making love, well, it's all about connecting to your feelings and translating them into a physical interaction with the other person. It would be fair to say I find this appealing and intimidating simultaneously: I find it a lot harder to let go, when feelings are involved, thus making it a little more difficult to climax.

Still, I'd choose to make love with someone over a meaningless shag any day. These easy climaxes may be appealing, but they can end up feeling empty and pointless because there's no feelings involved. I suppose if this Girl with a one-track mind has learned anything over the past year, it's that even orgasms can be unfulfilling sometimes and that there is more to life than sex. Not profound, I know, but a little learning curve for me, all the same...

After spending the majority of the last week with a variety of different male friends, it has got me thinking a lot about friendship and gender; I realised that most of my close friends are male and it's got me wondering why.

Not that this is a recent thing: I remember being 10 years old, begging my brother to be allowed to play with him and his friends and then when he caved in, being the only girl in their group. [Not that my brother liked my hanging out with him: he thumped me on a regular basis, especially when I stole his Action Men (to 'introduce' to my Sindy dolls)]. But I suppose that even at this young age it was clear that I had a connection with males.

And not much has changed: I can count my female friends on one hand. For my male friends however, I'd need a spare set of hands. Some of them are just 'aquaintances' - we only meet up every now and then, but a few I see and speak to regularly and would count them within my 'inner circle' - meeting up with them every week or so (depending on my shooting schedule).

Of course I have been intimate with a few of them many years ago, (no surprise there), and I suppose back then they could have been defined as a relationship in terms of the Shag Bingo rules (5 shags or it lasting more than a week with them). But most of them are just pals I have met over the years: at college, work, through friends of friends etc, and we have only ever had a platonic relationship.

The advantage of having male mates is of course, seeing life from the 'other' side. I regularly get to hear their woes and worries, and it's reassurring that they're so similiar to mine: their lack of a partner (or problems with their partner), their jobs, their families, being in debt, trying to get on the housing ladder, basically your average 30-something anxiety. And of course we talk about sex (and the lack of it). I can talk more openly with a couple of my male mates than I can with my female friends, something I regret and appreciate simultaneously. They seem to judge me less, or maybe it's just because they are less embarrassed covering this topic in conversation, unlike (a lot of?) women.

Anyhow, there's one topic I haven't dared approach my male friends with for fear of insulting them or damaging their egos, and I am anxious to know about it, feeling somewhat ignorant in this department. And this is where YOU men come in: you can be as anonymous as you like in my comment box and answer truthfully, that way this issue can be brought out into the open and debated honestly.

So, please do comment, I want to know your thoughts on the following:

1. Have you ever faked an orgasm?
2. If so, why?
3. If so, how often?

Look forward to reading all your thoughts.

Life as a freelancer in the film industry ain’t always as glamorous as it might sound.

For starters there’s the ‘downtime’: a period spent out of work. This can range from just a few days to many months. All the earnings we make when we do work have to last during this period, which can be very hard. We get used to living life on an extreme budget – never knowing when the next job will come in to pay our bills – having to always be careful to make sure that we do have enough to cover ourselves.

Finding work in the industry is bloody hard. Our jobs are never ‘advertised’, you won’t find them in the pages of a national newspaper or included in a web-based-job-search-site. Every job I have ever had has been either through word-of-mouth, or through recommendation. Nepotism is alive and well on the film set floor. There hasn’t been one single job I have done where I didn’t know at least one person on it, in some department or another. It’s a very small community, our work environment.

Not that it’s all a holiday when we are working. Sure we get paid far more than most people in ‘normal’ jobs, but we work far longer hours, get far less sleep, work in unpleasant and dangerous conditions and develop injuries and illnesses that shorten our lives, so I guess it’s ‘danger money’. And, this has to cover us for the off-work periods, so it’s not like we can all afford to buy Mercedes SLK’s (though many Sparks do, I admit, but then they are all wide-boys from Essex, so that figures).

And of course we suffer the consequences of long hours - away from home, family, and friends - our social lives become non-existent: we are either too busy to go out (70-100 hour weeks mean zero dinners/cinema/gigs), or when we do get a day off, we are too bloody knackered to do anything and just use the time to sleep/do laundry/go shopping/pay bills.

So a lot of downsides as you can see.

When I tell people what I do for a living, most get excited and eagerly ask me,

“Ooh! Do you meet lots of famous people then? Who’s the most famous actor you have worked with?”

and I just wearily reply that I am much too professional to gossip (untrue, just ply me with 7 whisky and sodas and I’ll tell all); or I just tell them that actors are people like you and me, just that they earn more than us for working far less harder (though I also have respect for some actors – the ones who are talented and nice people anyway).

But people don’t see us lot behind the camera.

How we have to be at work at 5am.

How we get home after 11pm.

And have to be back at work again at 5am.

No. They see the glitz and the glamour and think it’s piss-easy. It ain’t.

Not only is working hard, but not working is hard too, as I have already said. We can’t just laze around waiting for a job to turn up. As well as constantly being on the search for work and having to arse-kiss any industry person we meet, in case they can offer us a job, we also have to be ready to go at all times – with no preparation - just in case a job comes to you at the last minute.

Which is where I found myself at 6am this morning.

After last night’s gig, and drunken stumblings, I found myself finally dragging my sorry arse to bed around 2am, still fucking bollocksed, my head spinning.

So when my phone rang at 6am and woke me up, I ignored it, thinking,

“What cock-sucking-bastard-wanker is phoning me at this fucking hour?”

and tried to recall: did I give my number out last night?

The call went to voicemail, and for a couple of minutes I lay there, thinking.

And that little nagging doubt went off in the back of my little freelance mind and I dialled into my voicemail to listen, just in case.

It was an emergency plea. Us film freelancers get a lot of these. Invariably they need you NOW because their regular person is ill/hungover/has been sacked/died/gone onto another (better) project, and they’ve got work for you but can you be there in an hour, sort of thing.

And in all honesty I had to think about it. I mean, I felt rotten. 4 hours sleep, my head like a fucking vice, and the knowledge that I would have to work a 12+ hour day ahead of me.

So I called them back and said I’d be there in a hour.

And like a doctor grabbing their medical bag, I did some last minute checks with my (always standing by) work items to make sure I had everything:

1. Comfortable work boots – check. [Must be waterproof, warm and capable of not giving you blisters after wearing them for 17+ hours]
2. Comfortable trousers with many pockets – check. [You can never have too many pockets on set]
3. Coolmax socks – check. [To wick away from your feet the inevitably large amounts of sweat during the day that you’ll produce]
4. Non-cotton t-shirt - check [Ditto on the sweat. Plus, having an ironic slogan there, always brightens people’s days and prevents boredom for the ignorant and ill-educated, who take their time to read it (and are unable to understand it)]
5. Super-douper fleece – check. [It is a prerequisite that all crew members wear a fleece with the insignia of not only the last film they worked on, but of one that is a ‘big’ movie. That way, people know you are in demand, and not some small fry who only works in TV]
6. Thermal leggings + vest – check. [Just in case. You never know when you’ll be standing outside for 15 hours freezing your tits off]
7. Second pair of socks – check. [In case of leakage, or just some damn cold toes]
8. Waterproof trousers – check. [Nothing like working in wet jeans, yuck]
9. Waterproof jacket/coat – check. [Must be water-proof, not water-repellent. There IS a difference].
10. Scarf + gloves– check.
11. Warm hat – check. [If it’s waterproof too, even better]
12. Work-belt – check. [Must be able to withstand heavy duty items on it]
13. Work-bag for the belt – check. [For all your worldly items]
14. Radio-holster – check. [For the annoyingly heavy walkie-talkies]
15. Ear-piece – check. [So we can receive/give instructions quietly on set]
16. Pink see-thru lacy thong with a sequinned heart on the front panel – check. [Ok, not a necessity, but after all the ‘manly’ heavy work-wear I have to don, I like to feel sexy and feminine underneath it all]
    

Anyway, it went fine. A short day since we were on a ‘continuous’: usually working a ‘straight’ 10 hour day with no breaks (you eat your lunch on set, standing up). Of course you still have to prep and de-rig which usually adds another 2 – 6 hours (unpaid) onto the working day, but let’s not mention that.

But in spite of it all, I still love it. There is nothing on earth I would rather be doing than working on a movie set. People say ‘hello’ all day, everyone's friendly and scratches each others backs, trying to help each other out. Like how things are in a village I imagine, not like being in London. It’s lovely. And I still feel the thrill of seeing the magic being created, each time I walk onto set. It is truly wonderful. I will never sicken of it. I look forward to working and when I am, I never think:

“I wish I was loafing around at home”,

like so many of my office-bound friends. Instead I think:

“I can’t believe I am so fucking lucky to be seeing this movie being made”.

So I guess you could say I enjoy it.

Though there is one thing, one major thing that I do dislike about it. This should come as no surprise to readers of this blog: the lack of playtime. Being knackered all the time is not conducive to having regular fiddles. Trust me on this. For all my fiendishness, when faced with 4 hours sleep or 3 hours 45 minutes sleep after having only had 20 hours sleep over the last five days, I have chosen the sleep almost every time. Sometimes a girl is just too tired to have a rub - even this Girl. That isn't to say I haven't had the occasional frig at work (noted more than a few times in this blog's archives), but generally a shooting week is a sexless week and this is probably the biggest sacrifice I have had to make (and are still making), being in this career I love so much.

Ah well. I'm not working tomorrow. Here's to a pearl that'll soon be thoroughly polished...

G'night x

I promised myself I wouldn't blog when I was drunk, but tonight I have decided to ignore the rule. Because you see, tonight is special. A one-off event. Something to remember in years to come. Only 20 minutes ago I was standing less than 5 feet away from a man who literally rocked my world. That is to say: Mr Graham Coxon.

Yes folks. He gets mentioned twice in one week - an accomplishment I know. But he deserves it.

With thanks to a perceptive reader of my blog (cheers Anakalia), I discovered that Graham was playing a benefit gig for the tsunami victims tonight in a cosy little venue in Camden.

So I spruced myself up (purple and black bra, matching black see-thru mesh thong with purple trim, black hold-up stockings - not that I was expecting any action, but a girl can never be too careful). and I made my way down to the gig.

The support acts were brilliant: The Rifles blasted their way through a storming set; I am Kloot got the audience on a melancholic vibe with their acoustic session.

And then the headliner: Graham. Damn. What a set. What a guitarist. I daren't try to describe his performance - it wouldn't do it any justice. All I can say is he rocked the house. Amazing.

And during the night I got chatted up by two different blokes. Which was nice.

But I was more interested in the music. And when he played Freakin' Out, the audience did just that, including me, normally a reserved young lass, I was surrounded in the mosh pit, jumping up and down, fully enjoying myself.

And Graham? Well, I had an opportunity to talk to him, after his set. He walked past me in the packed out venue, so close that my breasts were pushed up against him as he made his way upstairs. I told him:

"Great set mate. Thanks. It was fab"

and he blushed red and looked down at his feet and mumbled softly:

"Cheers"

and that was it. Some rock star he is. Some groupie I am (not). At least I talked to him - however brief and irrelevant it might have been - I can lay my drunken head on my pillow tonight and know I have no regrets.

And maybe if I see this lanky, geeky (sexy) bespectacled guy around again, I'll have the courage to talk to him properly and hopefully find an excuse to buy him a beer and get to know him a little. Hopefully...

The First

Sometimes you see someone who sparks off a memory and you can’t quite place who or what part of your past they remind you of.

This happened to me tonight: this boy at my gym, working up a sweat on the cross-trainer. A pretty young man, dark hair, bright eyes. There was something about him that made me feel nostalgic, and then it hit me.

He looked like my First One.

You never forget.

And looking into this boy’s deep green eyes as he focussed on training reminded me of how I used to gaze into my First One’s green eyes for hours on end, getting lost in the depth and being enticed by the constant spark that shone there.

I was 16, young and naïve. He was tall, dark and handsome, with intense green eyes and a gruff voice. We were in English class together. The first day I saw him I knew. I said to my friend:

“This is the guy I am going to lose my virginity with”

And I just knew I would. And that he would be mine. It wasn’t that I was particularly confident in obtaining hot men, no, it was just a gut feeling I had in my solar plexus, that this boy and I were meant for each other.

And within two months, we were together.

We used to bunk off class with each other, hang out in the park, me smoking, him watching. And we would kiss these innocent kisses; not where you get all hot and bothered and have to adjust your clothes, but the ones where you look at each other and as your lips touch, you can taste a sweetness and feel a spark that is intoxicating and rejuvenating at the same time.

And we would fumble. He fumbled. I fumbled. We were fumblers. Inexperienced. But in love: whatever he did, I enjoyed. I adored him. He…worshipped me. And when ‘the time’ came, he was the sweetest most gentle person on the planet, making sure everything was planned:

Him: Do you have some towels?

Me: Towels?

Him: Yes, preferably dark ones.

Me: Um, dark? Towels?

Him (whispering conspiratorially): You know, in case there’s blood…

Me: BLOOD???

Him: Um, yeah, you might bleed a little…

Me: I might bleed? What? No-one said there’d be blood!!!

Him (trying to calm me down): No, no no. Just in case though, we don’t want to mess your sheets up. I’ll be careful, you probably won’t bleed anyway…

And I recall him trying to convince me it would all be ok. I trusted him, so I went and got some towels, some condoms and we got everything ready.

Him: Now are you sure you want to do this? We don’t have to you know…

Me (as ever, eager to please): It’s now or never. Let’s do it…

And we did. And of course there was no blood, which, after that build up, disappointed me somewhat, me feeling that maybe it should have been more dramatic or something.

Anyway, it was, um, ok. Not bad. Not terrible. I think we both enjoyed it, mostly. But neither of us was experienced. He had only had sex once before and at this point, I had no idea what an orgasm was, so the experience was enjoyable but nothing to write home about.

Not that we hadn’t tried to make me climax. Boy we had. We’d gone in search of my clitoris countless times, occasionally with me shouting:

“Yes! Yes! That’s it!”

And him (coming up for air) saying:

“Sorry, where was that again?”

And of course then we couldn’t find it. But since I didn’t even know how to bring myself off at that point, there was no point expecting him to be able to.

And it wasn’t until a few months after we broke up, that I finally discovered the pleasure of self-pleasure:

I was 6 hours into a Purple Om trip, listening to Up From The Skies and feeling very delicious indeed. As anyone who has tripped before knows, your whole body feels electric, all senses heightened beyond belief, any stimuli sparking off the most fantastic sensations.

And it was with this all-over-body-excitability that I soon became aware of this incredible throbbing sensation between my legs. Now, of course I had had this before (even as a young girl) but up to this point I didn’t know what to do to relieve the pressure. I usually just let it die down. (Wish I could do that today). But that night, it was more intense than I ever remember it and I knew I had to do something: I had to touch myself.

I excused myself from the group of people I was hanging out with and went into my room, locked the door and sat on my armchair. And, my head spinning, the world floating cartoon-image-like in front of my eyes, I slowly slid my hand between my legs and began to rub.

It was amazing. With each movement my body became more and more electric. Every time my fingers slid close to (what I would later discover was) my clit, I felt a jolt through my body that sent shivers down my spine and made my head rush. And every rub made it more intense. So I didn’t stop rubbing. I couldn’t. I have no idea how long my fingers were grinding against my pussy for – it felt like ages – but on LSD, seconds are hours long, hours like minutes. I had no sense of time; just of the urgency of the throbbing between my legs and an acute awareness that I needed to continue rubbing – no matter what, even if there had been a fire and I had to leave the house – I couldn’t stop what I had started.

And at some point I felt a well of energy building up inside me, incredibly strong, so intense it scared me. I worried that maybe I was going to do myself damage, that perhaps the trip was too strong for me, but I managed to talk myself out of any negative thoughts and concentrated instead on continuing to feel the pressure building. And when it came, it was like a flood of energy, emanating from my pussy all the way up my head and filling me up al the way down to my feet. I cried with pleasure. It was so incredibly intense, not only physically and mentally, but emotionally. All this build up for so long, and finally I was getting the release I had craved and needed. And it was beautiful.

I haven’t looked back since.

And my First One? Well, he hated my doing drugs and threatened to leave me if I continued taking them. And being an ignorant and somewhat stupid teenager, I of course chose a life of partying over a damn good relationship: we split up and I broke his heart, something I regret to this day. But in some way, if I hadn’t have chosen the path I did, perhaps I wouldn’t have discovered how to self-pleasure myself – I credit LSD entirely for that – which would have meant perhaps years of having unsatisfying sex – a horrible thought.

So, I lost him, but I gained knowledge and insight into myself. And where has this got me? Some great sex, some fantastic orgasms, and a compulsive addiction to playing with myself. Hmm. Maybe I should have stuck with him after all…

2004: A year in review

It’s a little late, but I figured I should compile one of those end-of-year-thingys to sum up 2004.

It'll be a way of showing - at a glance - what I have learned, experienced and discovered over this past year.

It'll also save you the trouble of having to trawl through my archives looking for posts that 'interest' you...

So, here’s 30 posts that stand out for me over the last year:



Discovering how a man can get a great blowjob from a vacuum cleaner

Having a non-shag date

How I really spend my time

20 things I have in common with men

On Zipless fucks: having no-strings-attached sex

My experience as a woman in film

Mutually masturbating while driving

A little submission

Having trouble with selfish men

Playing at work

Another groundhog day

Finally giving it a try with a new guy

But he’s still fucking someone else

The end of my anal virginity

Making the choice: breaking up

On fisting myself

Fucking with fruit

How to have a Fuck Buddy

At home alone: twice the pleasure

Learning that you can’t always trust flirty women

How much I procrastinate

Having 20+ orgasms in one night

On Bully Wanks

Having closure: saying goodbye (and getting one last shag)

Cyber sex with a copper

Assessing whether I could ever be like Belle de Jour

Cock size doesn’t matter

Not fucking my friends

Shopping for sex toys

The art of silent wanking


If you haven't read them before, I hope you like 'em, and if you have read them, I hope they're still interesting the second time round.

Enjoy!

Near hit

I missed yet another opportunity.

He was only yards away from me.

It was New Years Eve - the perfect time to request a no-strings-attached snog from a cute guy - and of all the places in the world he could have been, he was where I was.

But I didn't know he was there.

It was only when settling down to read the paper a couple of days later, that I found out that Graham Coxon was having a bevvie with some journalists only moments down the road from me that night.

There I was, wiggling my hips to some old funk, whilst the ex-Blur-man with magic hands (arguably one of the best guitarists of our time) was supping beer somewhere else. If only I had known, I might have seen in the New Year with this rather dashing, intelligent, sexy spectacled man; (rather than alongside my mate JN who actually turned down a girl that I chatted up on his behalf - picky fucker).

Not that I would have known what to say however, had I actually come face to face with Mr Coxon. Should I have taken:

The sycophantic route?

"Hi Graham, I think you're amazingly talented, you are a true spokesman for our time"

The empathy route?

"Hi Graham, I truly feel your angst. You lyrics have really touched me "

The name dropping route?

"Hi Graham, I'm Girl, used to work with so and so at blah blah blah, you know them?"

The blagging route?

"Hi Graham, I work in film. Ever thought of acting?"

The ego route?

"Hi Graham, I think you're great. I'd love to shoot your next video. Here's my card."

The chat up route?

"Hi there. I just had to come over and say hi - you have lovely eyes you know. Can I buy you a beer?"

The totally unrealistic, yet I can always dream route?

"Hi Graham. I think you're a superb guitarist. But I'm not sure who would win out of a contest between yourself and Justin Hawkins. Perhaps you should bring him over to my place and then I'll be able to decide who is the most skilled guitarist of the two of you. Of course it's not obligatory that you are naked whilst you play, but it will give you extra points and assist me with my decision. The winner of the contest gets to shag me. The runner up, a blow job. If it's a tie, you'll just have to simultaneously share me, I'm afraid. Best of luck!"

Ah well. A girl can only live in hope. Back to listening to my ipod I guess...

Speaking of sex blogs...

The original inspiration for my becoming a blogger - Belle de Jour - has updated her blog.

She also has an interview with The Guardian today, in which she is elegantly poignant:

"...if I wasn't writing the truth I wouldn't be bothered with anonymity..."

Couldn't have said it better myself....

Best sex blog

All I can say is: vote for Rentboy.

I have...

And if you haven't read him yet, do. Now.

You won't regret it, I promise.

The girl next door

I am her
She is me
I can be
beautiful
I can be
plain
I turn
heads
I turn
around to see no-one looking
I am
the girl walking tall
I am
the girl lowering her head
I can
catch your eye
I can
be ignored
I want to
be all that you desire
I want to
be not just your fantasy
I am
different to the other girls
I am
the girl next door
I feel
all alone
I feel
surrounded
I am
the girl in the bar you want to get to know
I am
the girl you don’t talk to
You
think about me when you stroke yourself
You
forget about me and make love to your wife
I think about
putting my hands between my legs
I think about
trying to make a difference in the world
I can be
passionate
I can be
cold
You can see
me showing you my stockings as I slowly cross my legs
You can see
me pulling my skirt down to cover myself
I wonder
what you’d look like naked
I wonder
what to make for dinner
I am
the girl on the train smiling at you
I am
the girl hiding facelessly behind her blog
I am
real in the flesh
I am
transparent
My heart beats
when I rub myself thinking of you
My heart beats
because I’m too scared to talk to you
You wonder
if I like sex more than you
I wonder
if you like sex more than me
I play with
my pussy
I want to play with
your cock
I need
your smile
your laugh
your lips against mine
and your touch.

I am the girl next door.

Happy Birthday...

to me...

And Happy New Year to you...


It is the early morning and I am drunk.

Out bar hopping.

A good night out.

Good conversation.

Good wine.

Good music.

Good company.

And for the 37th time, a total random stranger approached me to tell me I look like Sarah Jessica Parker. I am beginning to think that maybe they have a point; perhaps I do (a little)...

I am happy to now be back in my flat alone, with only my ipod and a 2 litre bottle of water to keep me company. Peace, tranquility and drunken stumbling about. Lovely.

It's my birthday today. Girl with a one-track mind is now one year old.

Happy Birthday to me.

When I started writing all those months ago, I never thought that a year later I would still be blogging. I also had no idea that anyone would ever read my thoughts. It's a constant source of wonder and amazement to me that people do. And I am ever appreciative of my readers.

So, celebratory spirit fired up, let me wish you all a happy, peaceful and fun 2005. May all your dreams be fulfilled. And if I were to impart any wisdom here, I suppose it would only be to say: be true to yourselves and never be afraid to ask for what you want in life - you only have one chance to get it...

Thank you all very much for reading me over the last year.

Girl xx