There are drawbacks to being single.

Not having someone to come home to, is one of them; the loneliness of returning from work and entering an empty flat is horrible. As is not being able to cuddle someone and have them make you forget what a shit day you had, as they kiss your forehead and tell you that everything will be ok. And let’s not forget making love; your body intertwined with theirs as you shudder simultaneously in your climaxes and smile at each other – knowing that this moment is about the two of you, the love, the mutual passion.

But the thing I am missing most right now about not having a partner, is this:

Being able to fuck someone without speaking - and still know that they love you.

I long for the brusqueness of a quick, rampant fuck; the furiousness of a horny moment where spontaneity rules, but where there is still intimacy and emotion.

• Where my partner opens the door and pulls me inside, pushing me forcefully against the wall, kicking the door shut with his foot as he kisses me intently.
• Where he turns me around and places my hands on the wall; grabbing my hips so I can feel his erection pressed against my arse.
• Where I hear him unzip himself, and then pull my skirt up.
• Where he tugs my pants to one side and slides his cock between my legs.
• Where he pushes himself into me and grabs my arse with his hands.
• Where he pummels me until I can’t control it any longer and I frantically try to maintain my balance as my orgasms take over.
• Where I hear him groan and feel him throb as he too lets go.
• Where we then turn to face each other, smile and say ‘hello’ as we kiss slowly.
  

There is nothing like the roughness of a hard fuck, blended with the love of a relationship; it is a wonderful and exciting combination. No hard shag with a casual fuckbuddy can ever come close to it. I miss having that intimacy with someone - a lot.

Of course there are other drawbacks to being single, besides being able to have a silent, rampant quickie, but somehow, the fact I haven’t yet been able to model for a partner my new ‘fuck-me’ black leather peep-toe 5-inch stilettos doesn’t really compare.

(Even though they are the sexiest shoes I have ever owned and they have been sitting - unworn - in my cupboard for the last four months).

It was inevitable. We both know the same people. It was only a matter of time before we bumped into each other again. So when I was standing by the edge of set this week, I wasn’t surprised to hear my name being called by a familiar voice – SP’s.

It’s been more than a year since I last saw him. I always thought that when our paths finally crossed once more, that I would find it difficult; that seeing this man – who preferred to sleep with a younger woman, than to commit to me – would be intimidating for me. I was anxious that my emotions would be stoked once more; that I would feel vulnerable in his presence, insecure with the fact that it was him who dumped me.

But most of all, I worried that seeing him again would remind me of the intensity of our passion and that I might succumb to wanting him again. I feared that I would remember how much I used to enjoy him pushing me onto all fours, spanking my arse and then fucking me hard; or my pleasure in his handcuffing me to the bed and forcing repeated orgasms upon me as he licked me for hours; or when I had anal sex for the first time with him and I climaxed so hard I was scared I would bang my head on the wall. I always thought that these things would be at the forefront of my mind were I to see him again and it terrified me that I might weaken through my desire and end up in bed with him.

But I didn’t.

As I turned back to see SP standing there grinning at me, beyond the building-site scaffolding of the set, I was struck by how little I felt; there was no stirring between my legs, my breath didn’t quicken. I looked at SP and barely recognised him: he didn’t look like someone I used to love; I felt nothing for him at all.

Ironically it was SP, not me, who was intimidated by our meeting again: he was visibly nervous - stuttering and fidgeting all the time we were talking. For some reason I felt calm, distanced, indifferent. He looked like he had aged ten years since I last saw him; a haggard, tired, lifeless, middle-aged man. There was no light in his eyes; instead a sense of emptiness and sadness. I looked at him and thought of our last night together.

I could have made you happy. I could have loved you; nurtured the yearning in your heart; stoked the passion in your soul. I could have held you close and helped you lose the pain. I could have made you feel whole once more. I could have fucked you so hard you would have felt young again.

But in a millisecond, these thoughts were gone: they were wishes of the past, not of the present. I don’t want those things any longer – not with him. I have moved on; I am in a better place now than I was then; but he appears to have hit rock bottom. As I looked at this tired old man whom I used to care deeply for, the only emotion I felt for him was pity.

SP commented that life for him wasn’t great – it hadn’t changed: he was doing the same job, lived in the same house, had the same phone number. I said I wished him all the best – and I meant it – but I was thinking to myself that the days of me contacting him were long gone: I deleted his numbers from my phone a year ago.

The pity I felt for him soon changed to annoyance as he invaded my personal space, standing too close to me for comfort and letting his eyes graze my curves a few too many times. I tried to move away discreetly as we made idle chit-chat and I wondered how quickly I could leave him, without appearing rude. I explained I was due back on set and we said our goodbyes; his hand on my waist as he reached in to hug me tightly. As I opened the door back to the set, he insisted I walk in front of him and when I walked down the corridor, I caught sight of him staring at my arse.

A year and a half ago, I knew that for him, that sight was enough to warrant a slap on my behind, his hard-on pressed up against my arse cheeks, or a quick hand in between my legs. Now, it would just be an image permanently embedded in his brain: the rear view of a woman he lost, walking away from him into her future.

I stepped back onto set and quickly became immersed with my work. It was only later that day that I remembered SP had been there - I had continued working, unaffected and unaware of his presence: a fitting analogy for the way things have turned out for him and I; and a happy conclusion to what was once a painful time for me.

Whoever nominated me for a Bloggie - ta very much.

I had no idea I was up for best British blog; I just got back from work and was pleasantly suprised to find emails and comments informing me that my blog is up for an award, amongst other quality bloggers like -

Little Red Boat
Gaping Void
Diamond Geezer
Londonist

So thank you, kindly.

Feel free to go click-happy on my button - I guarantee I'll enjoy it being pressed.

There are some advantages to being the only female on the set of a film.

1. No-one forgets my name, even with a shooting crew of 100+ people
2. Many of the crew feel protective toward me and look after me like I was their sister or daughter
3. Guys jump to my help with any favours I need (tasks to be done; heavy things to be carried, etc.)
4. I am frequently offered cups of ‘builder’s’ (very strong) tea
5. Cakes from the afternoon break on set are always saved for me
6. I get a lot of attention from other crew members
7. All the guys flirt with me which helps to relieve the boredom on set
8. I get chatted up by various crew members; given that many of the guys on set are young, fit, and strong, it's quite enjoyable
9. Being surrounded by blokes means I get to ogle bums and crotches all day and fantasise to my heart’s content
10. Whilst the men on set can be graphic and full of innuendo, my sharp sarcasm shuts them up


There are some disadvantages to being the only female on the set of a film.

1. As soon as a pretty actress walks on set, all the blokes ogle her, leaving me ignored – not helpful when I need to issue and follow instructions
2. Many of the crew are threatened by me and undermine me at every opportunity
3. Some guys will obstruct the tasks I need to do just to show that I am less competent than them
4. I get asked ‘make us a cup of tea, love’ every five fucking minutes by any number of random blokes on set
5. I rarely eat cake (or any of the other disgusting, stodgy, high-fat food we get provided with at work), so end up offending the kind-hearted men who are trying to fatten me up
6. Being the focus of attention is not always appreciated: when you look rough from working so many hours, or are feeling down, it’s exhausting having to project happiness all the time – women are expected to look beautiful in my industry, and if you don’t, you get ignored
7. Having to deal with constant flirtation distracts me from my work, plus it makes working relationships on set, less professional
8. I dislike it that middle-aged or married men chat me up; I have no interest in being their ‘bit on the side’ (a frequent occurrence in the industry). Sadly they are in the majority on the film set floor
9. Being surrounded by fit blokes all day can be frustrating because I don’t have time to relieve the tension between my legs
10. Dealing with constant sexual innuendo can be exhausting and I regularly am fending off personal attacks


But really I’d just be happy if

a) I was doing fewer hours
b) I was treated with more respect in general
c) I had a boyfriend who was willing to turn up during the ten minutes I get for lunch and sort me out with a quickie in the toilets

None of these are likely; and with my insane schedule at the moment, neither is regular blogging (or my favourite pleasurable pastime) - sadly.

Counting away the hours and days until I get a ‘normal’ life again…

‘So tell me’ I whispered conspiratorially to my friend F, ‘was there a big change in your sex drive?’

F lifted her glass and took a large gulp of wine. ‘Yes. Massive.’ She grinned at me.

‘Better, worse – what?!’

‘Well, put it this way, we were fucking right up to me being in labour.’

I breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Thank fuck for that; I was worried for a minute that you were going to tell me you were one of those women that lost their sex drive.’

‘Oh god, far from it. I couldn’t get enough actually; I think I exhausted D by jumping on him all the time.’

We both laughed and I refilled our glasses. ‘I’m really relieved you said that; I was worrying that when – well, actually if - I eventually get pregnant it would turn out to mean no sex – a terrifying thought for me.’

F laid her hand gently on mine. ‘Darling, knowing you, that will never happen to you; your problem will be finding a man who will keep up with you, not the other way around.’

I giggled at F’s accuracy and felt sad for a moment: would I ever find someone like that – who would want to settle down and have kids with me - as well as regularly fuck me rotten?

F pulled me out of my brief melancholy moment, leaning over to me and whispering so quietly in my ear I had to get her to repeat what she said. ‘Being pregnant makes you wet’ she cooed softly, with a triumphant tone.

‘What?’ I was a little confused. Was she talking about some kind of extra sanitary-towel daily usage? I frowned at her, mystified.

F grinned at me. ‘You get fucking wet’ she repeated, ‘my pussy was like a river!’ We both burst out laughing. ‘Seriously,’ she continued, ‘I was continuously dripping ‘cause I was horny all the time. Thank god D loved it, otherwise I’d have been bashing my vibrator something rotten.’

We both laughed again and I took a swig of wine, which I proceeded to spit out all over my top as I giggled. ‘So, that’s good, right? I mean, the sex is still good?’

‘The wetness made it great for him, but in all honesty, I would have preferred to be a bit drier’ F said. ‘No friction, see; he may as well have been sticking a finger in there for all I could feel during the last trimester.’

‘So what did you do; how did you manage to climax?’

‘Oh I just got him to fuck me spoon-style from behind or sideways on, and I used my magic wand at the same time. Don’t worry: I always ensured I came!’

‘Damn right. So what about after the birth – did you lose your sex drive completely?’

‘Well, what with the stitches and a huge fucking thing the size of a watermelon coming out of you, it’s kind of hard to feel anything down there – besides immense pain – for around a week.’

‘And then?’ I asked, getting slightly worried.

‘Well, I wasn’t really in the mood for penetration’.

My heart sank. So, it was true: if you became a mother, then you would lose your sex drive. Great; may as well sign my death sentence now.

F took another swig of wine. ‘But gentle hands down there were fine’.

I breathed out audibly. Thank god for that. ‘So how long was it before you fucked – if you don’t mind my asking?’

‘About three weeks I guess. Although that doesn’t include all the blow jobs I gave him during that time.’

I laughed again. ‘You do realise, you are a girl after my own heart, don’t you?’ I suddenly felt a surge of emotion for F; we had bonded more deeply than ever. Out of all my friends, she is still the person I can talk about sex most openly with and I love her for it.

We carried on chatting for a while longer, until her partner came to pick her up. I watched her greet her sleepy baby in delight and I waved goodbye, feeling a small pang of sadness in my heart as I watched her new family drive off together into the night.

This blog is two years old today. Happy Birthday to me.

It’s been weird for me writing this blog. I truly never thought that two years on, with over three hundred and fifty posts written and more than a million visitors later, I would still be here, putting my thoughts out there for the world to read.

You see, this little blog was just supposed to help me express myself freely in a way I didn’t feel possible in my offline life. It was to give me a forum to understand the sexual obsessions and neuroses that I had and not worry about what people might think about me.

So I had no expectations; I just wanted to write about all the stuff in my head. If people read it and enjoyed it too, then great.

And for some reason, people did; they came back to read more. I still can’t get my head around the fact that thousands of people visit here every single day. I am both complimented and grateful to everyone that has visited over the past two years – I appreciate your support.

I am also thankful for the hundreds of emails I have received. I never mention them on here because I respect people’s privacy, but I think it is safe for me to say that I am still shocked by the sheer amount of you wishing me well or asking for advice on sex or relationships.

I don’t often get a chance to respond to emails, so I would like to take this opportunity now to say thank you for them – I am touched that people who don’t know me and have never met me, want to tell me I have inspired them, or given them confidence; or made them feel like what they were experiencing was ok. I am honoured that people have said this to me; it makes me proud that a regular, normal girl like me, might make someone feel good about themselves – it's the best compliment I could ever have.

So I want to say thank you. To the people who’ve been regular readers since the start; to the people that proudly put me on their blogroll amongst other established non-sex writers; to the linkers, the lurkers, the commenters as well as the new people who’ve just visited for the first time and stayed to peruse the archives: your support has given me confidence I never knew I had.

By way of showing my appreciation, here are ten of my favourite moments of 2005:

My addiction to vibrators

Outdoor fun

Watching a sex scene in the cinema with my parents

Morning fun

A dab hand on my laptop

Bloody revenge

Seduced by a stewardess

Talking about cock sucking with my mother

Discovering my skill in bartering (and climaxing in public)

Why I'll never fuck an actor

And as an additional bonus, here are my opening and closing entries for the Big Blogger 2005 competition in which I was a runner-up.

On being an oily wet she-cat

On trying to be witty