Monday, February 27, 2006
Timeout
‘I’m broody too, you know’ the handsome young grip said, and he looked at me mournfully.
I gazed back at him, raising my eyebrows in mock sympathy. ‘Oh of course; and being 24, you’d know all about desiring kids.’ I shook my head in mild exasperation.
‘Actually I’ve wanted kids since I was 19’ he said. ‘So the last five years have been quite frustrating for me, still being single and all’.
I studied his expression for a moment, trying to detect the usual film-set sarcastic banter. His face was serious; too serious. I couldn’t figure out if he was for real.
He continued. ‘Look, I know it’s probably not cool for me to say it, but I do want kids. I want to settle down. I want to meet someone special and share my life with them. I’m not getting any younger’ he added.
Yeah; try being a woman with a ticking biological clock, I wanted to say to him. There’s only a few years left for me before my ovaries go on hiatus from producing fresh eggs; if I don’t get them fertilised soon, they’ll end up useless, like some old battery-farmed hen being killed for cat food.
‘Well’ I responded. ‘You still have plenty of time. You’ve got ages yet before you’ll be an old, incapable dad, who’s too tired to play footy with his kids. So don’t worry about not meeting someone; it’ll happen’.
He smiled at me and I wondered what he would look like naked. Granted he was very young and I would probably tire of his childish ways quite quickly, but perhaps I should be bedding someone like him, rather than the men I have shagged over the years who wanted nothing to do with commitment and children. Admittedly, neither did I - then - but I suspect I have tended to fall for a ‘type’ in the past and that type are generally known as bastards.
He interrupted my train of thought. ‘The girls on this film, they’re a bit young, aren’t they?’ He pointed at the few females on the set, caked in foundation and mascara (make-up department) and tight jeans (costume department). Then he looked at me and I became aware that my trousers were still muddy from filming outdoors and that my t-shirt had stains over the nipple area where I had accidentally managed to drip oil from a smoke machine I was helping carry. I suddenly felt embarrassed and self-conscious with this young man's eyes all over me.
He smiled at me again and I realised that perhaps he was trying to make a point: I’m now a mature, confident woman at ease with who I am; I have no need to prove my sexuality to men, by covering myself in make-up and sexy clothing at work; I now want something more than just a succession of random fucks, lined up in my future. And this was attractive to him.
For a moment, I fantasised about what it might be like, were him and I to be a couple. What would we talk about? What things would we have in common? What would we do with our spare time together? What would sex with him be like? What would our kids turn out as being?
As I watched him grin at me and awkwardly run his hands through his hair, I felt a desire to reach out to him; to touch his face and tell him that everything would work out, given time.
But time is not something I have – at least, that’s how I feel right now. I don’t want kids tomorrow – not even in the next couple of years; there’s still a lot of fun to be had before then and I plan on having it – but alongside a partner.
However I do want kids and I want them with someone I love, someone who wants them too; someone who is old enough to be my peer, not someone who will look back on their twenties and wonder where their youth went.
Fuck around, I wanted to say to him. Enjoy your youth; experiment; discover what it is that you enjoy; who it is that you can be. And when you’ve done that; when you’ve come full-circle and know you’re finally ready, that’s when it will be the right time to meet someone like me.
I looked at him and in his unwrinkled smile, saw my own youth reflected in his face. There was a time when I would have been jealous of that; wanted my unlined face back. Not now. When I saw his young features staring back at me, I saw my past – and I’ve moved on from that. I don’t want to look back anymore; I’m ready for my future.
I gazed back at him, raising my eyebrows in mock sympathy. ‘Oh of course; and being 24, you’d know all about desiring kids.’ I shook my head in mild exasperation.
‘Actually I’ve wanted kids since I was 19’ he said. ‘So the last five years have been quite frustrating for me, still being single and all’.
I studied his expression for a moment, trying to detect the usual film-set sarcastic banter. His face was serious; too serious. I couldn’t figure out if he was for real.
He continued. ‘Look, I know it’s probably not cool for me to say it, but I do want kids. I want to settle down. I want to meet someone special and share my life with them. I’m not getting any younger’ he added.
Yeah; try being a woman with a ticking biological clock, I wanted to say to him. There’s only a few years left for me before my ovaries go on hiatus from producing fresh eggs; if I don’t get them fertilised soon, they’ll end up useless, like some old battery-farmed hen being killed for cat food.
‘Well’ I responded. ‘You still have plenty of time. You’ve got ages yet before you’ll be an old, incapable dad, who’s too tired to play footy with his kids. So don’t worry about not meeting someone; it’ll happen’.
He smiled at me and I wondered what he would look like naked. Granted he was very young and I would probably tire of his childish ways quite quickly, but perhaps I should be bedding someone like him, rather than the men I have shagged over the years who wanted nothing to do with commitment and children. Admittedly, neither did I - then - but I suspect I have tended to fall for a ‘type’ in the past and that type are generally known as bastards.
He interrupted my train of thought. ‘The girls on this film, they’re a bit young, aren’t they?’ He pointed at the few females on the set, caked in foundation and mascara (make-up department) and tight jeans (costume department). Then he looked at me and I became aware that my trousers were still muddy from filming outdoors and that my t-shirt had stains over the nipple area where I had accidentally managed to drip oil from a smoke machine I was helping carry. I suddenly felt embarrassed and self-conscious with this young man's eyes all over me.
He smiled at me again and I realised that perhaps he was trying to make a point: I’m now a mature, confident woman at ease with who I am; I have no need to prove my sexuality to men, by covering myself in make-up and sexy clothing at work; I now want something more than just a succession of random fucks, lined up in my future. And this was attractive to him.
For a moment, I fantasised about what it might be like, were him and I to be a couple. What would we talk about? What things would we have in common? What would we do with our spare time together? What would sex with him be like? What would our kids turn out as being?
As I watched him grin at me and awkwardly run his hands through his hair, I felt a desire to reach out to him; to touch his face and tell him that everything would work out, given time.
But time is not something I have – at least, that’s how I feel right now. I don’t want kids tomorrow – not even in the next couple of years; there’s still a lot of fun to be had before then and I plan on having it – but alongside a partner.
However I do want kids and I want them with someone I love, someone who wants them too; someone who is old enough to be my peer, not someone who will look back on their twenties and wonder where their youth went.
Fuck around, I wanted to say to him. Enjoy your youth; experiment; discover what it is that you enjoy; who it is that you can be. And when you’ve done that; when you’ve come full-circle and know you’re finally ready, that’s when it will be the right time to meet someone like me.
I looked at him and in his unwrinkled smile, saw my own youth reflected in his face. There was a time when I would have been jealous of that; wanted my unlined face back. Not now. When I saw his young features staring back at me, I saw my past – and I’ve moved on from that. I don’t want to look back anymore; I’m ready for my future.
Monday, February 20, 2006
Advantage
‘The other advantage to being a man, is the fact that I don’t need to take off my work belt when I go for a piss’ said the cute guy from special effects, as he tugged on his radio holster to emphasise his point.
I couldn’t disagree: our work belts are cumbersome, heavy and especially inconvenient when needing the loo. A well-practiced balancing act is required if you need to sit down on the toilet, in order to not drop your walkie-talkie in it. I nodded at him and shrugged in agreement: it was true – being a woman on set is a disadvantage.
‘And’ he continued, ‘we don’t get periods or childbirth or anything like that, so really, you’ve got the bad end of the stick being a woman’. He looked at me triumphantly and I suppressed my desire to hit him. Hard.
I pondered for a moment. Annoyingly, what he said about being female was valid; not to mention the fact that women are also paid less, treated with disrespect and suffer regular harassment on film sets.
Then it occurred to me: one quality to being female that beats anything men have; one skill that could make men beg and plead to be a woman just for one day, so that they might experience it.
‘Well’, I said, fixing him with a steady gaze, ‘there is one thing where women have the advantage. And nothing you have comes close to that’.
He stared at me, a confused look appearing on his face. ‘What’s that then?’
‘Two words. One of them is multiple’.
‘Multiple what?’
‘If you have to ask, then clearly you are missing out’ I said, flatly.
He got what I was insinuating and then glared at me. ‘Well, I’ve got two words for you too’
‘Oh yeah? Which two?’ I replied, and expected him to say ‘fuck you’.
He looked at me jubilantly. ‘Every time’. He shot me a sarcastic grin.
I burst out laughing.
‘What’s so funny?’ he demanded. ‘You’re the one missing out; at least men come every time’
I couldn’t help but utter, ‘if it’s only the once, then it’s definitely you who’s missing out, my dear’.
I carried on laughing as I walked away, him staring at me even more confused.
For the rest of the day I had a smile on my face, thinking that if he knew just how many times I normally climax during sex, he would be eating his words.
As well as possibly eating something else – but he’s definitely blown his chance for that now.
I couldn’t disagree: our work belts are cumbersome, heavy and especially inconvenient when needing the loo. A well-practiced balancing act is required if you need to sit down on the toilet, in order to not drop your walkie-talkie in it. I nodded at him and shrugged in agreement: it was true – being a woman on set is a disadvantage.
‘And’ he continued, ‘we don’t get periods or childbirth or anything like that, so really, you’ve got the bad end of the stick being a woman’. He looked at me triumphantly and I suppressed my desire to hit him. Hard.
I pondered for a moment. Annoyingly, what he said about being female was valid; not to mention the fact that women are also paid less, treated with disrespect and suffer regular harassment on film sets.
Then it occurred to me: one quality to being female that beats anything men have; one skill that could make men beg and plead to be a woman just for one day, so that they might experience it.
‘Well’, I said, fixing him with a steady gaze, ‘there is one thing where women have the advantage. And nothing you have comes close to that’.
He stared at me, a confused look appearing on his face. ‘What’s that then?’
‘Two words. One of them is multiple’.
‘Multiple what?’
‘If you have to ask, then clearly you are missing out’ I said, flatly.
He got what I was insinuating and then glared at me. ‘Well, I’ve got two words for you too’
‘Oh yeah? Which two?’ I replied, and expected him to say ‘fuck you’.
He looked at me jubilantly. ‘Every time’. He shot me a sarcastic grin.
I burst out laughing.
‘What’s so funny?’ he demanded. ‘You’re the one missing out; at least men come every time’
I couldn’t help but utter, ‘if it’s only the once, then it’s definitely you who’s missing out, my dear’.
I carried on laughing as I walked away, him staring at me even more confused.
For the rest of the day I had a smile on my face, thinking that if he knew just how many times I normally climax during sex, he would be eating his words.
As well as possibly eating something else – but he’s definitely blown his chance for that now.
Sunday, February 12, 2006
VD
I've always been cynical about Valentine's day; why emphasise your love for someone over just one day, when it's your actions over the other 364 days in the year that matter?
Not that I am against being romantic: if a guy wants to cook me dinner, gently massage my body with lavender oil and then fuck me slowly all night long, I wouldn't complain. I just don't see why it should only occur once a year. (Fortnightly is fine) (For the meal and massage anyway; if he's not prepared to fuck me at least daily, it'd never work).
Anyway, I have (via the wonderful and gorgeous Anna) discovered this fine site: somewhere you can express your true love for another. Or just laugh so much it hurts (if you're not busy shagging, at least you can have some fun reading and sending these cards).
Though in preference, I'd rather have a good seeing too - and soon.
UPDATE: It appears that quite a few of you are checking out the above site and sending their brilliant e-cards - they really are fabulous, I'm sure you agree.
When you're visiting there, please consider bunging the card designers some dosh via a small paypal donation - after all, they're doing it for free and we're fucking with their bandwidth costs a bit.
(And no, I don't know the creators of the site: I just don't like buggering people). (Although if asked nicely and with plenty of lube provided, I'd be more than happy to oblige).
Monday, February 06, 2006
Hard date
‘So, let me get this straight’ I said, taking a large gulp of my whisky sour. ‘If your cock is hard when you’re with a woman on the first date, then that means you will ask to see her again?’
JN nodded. ‘Yes: if something’s there, then I’ll want to follow it up’.
I pondered this for a minute. ‘So if you don’t get an erection, you don’t bother calling her?’
‘Well, yes, I suppose you could say that’ JN agreed.
‘What if she’s really funny or you have loads to talk about; doesn’t that matter? Surely that should be taken into account, aside from you getting the horn for her?’
‘You’re not getting it’ JN said, exasperated, and took a long swig from his pint of beer. ‘Having a hard-on isn’t just about thinking she’s physically attractive and wanting to fuck her’.
I was confused. I was certain that of all the times I have been faced with a man whose cock is hard, it was because he wanted to fuck me; what other reason would he be erect (bar a medical disorder)?
I questioned JN further. ‘So if it’s not about wanting to fuck her, why should a second date depend on you having an erection during the first one?’
‘It’s about chemistry’ JN replied. ‘I know it’s good because I’ll get a hard-on with a woman; if we’re connecting – mentally – then I’m going to be attracted to her. Hence the erection; it’s a good judge of the spark between us – if my cock gets hard, I know I like her and want to see her again.’
I thought about this for a moment and suddenly an image of the BBC’s Peter Snow entered my head. I giggled out loud as I imagined him pointing out the increase in male attraction via an Erection Swingometer.
‘What are you laughing at?’ JN interrupted.
Not wanting to tell him about my Cockometer© (I’ve found it’s best not to joke about men’s genitalia except when with solely female friends), I was instead, liberal with the truth: ‘It just seems funny that you would be sitting there with a woman on a first date with a hard cock in your trousers and not be tempted to ask her to touch it’.
‘Well it’s not like I’d be at full mast; it’d be a secret semi – just there for me to feel, not for her to see. Anyway, sometimes it’s nice not to act on an erection – builds it up for next time.’
‘Seems like a perfectly good waste of a hard cock to me’ I said, thinking about how frustrated I would feel, not being able to touch my date’s hard-on, if I knew it was nestling between his legs, on account of me.
JN laughed. ‘Don’t worry, I still bash one out when I get home; no wastage there.’
‘I should think not.’
‘Anyway, it’s not as if it’s not the same for you – surely you get a little wet if you like a guy?’
‘Well of course I do, but I don’t really think I am the best example of female sexual response to be compared with; I am after all a sex fiend – I’m sure most women don’t sit there on a first date imagining what the guy looks like naked’.
‘You know Girl, you’d be surprised: I bet lots of women are like you – most in fact. You’re not alone in your desires’.
‘Well, maybe. I hope you’re right anyway, for your sake as much as mine’.
‘I know I am; I’ve slept with enough women to know. And on the other side, I know I’m definitely not the only bloke who gets a boner when he meets a girl he likes: all men get a semi if they’re attracted to the girl they’re on a date with’.
‘All men? All men get a stiffy with a girl they like?’
‘Yup. And those that deny it are lying, I guarantee it.’
I thought about this for a moment and wondered about all the dates I have had over the years. If JN was right, there must have been at least a few erections that occurred, which I never saw (not including the ones I had spent the evening trying to imagine of course, of which there were many).
What a shame I never knew about them; I could have had much more fun on those first dates had I been aware of the guy's predicament - even if it meant just verbally teasing him.
Clearly I enjoy using my tongue for other things too, but I do try to wait until at least the second date before sharing those particular skills.
JN nodded. ‘Yes: if something’s there, then I’ll want to follow it up’.
I pondered this for a minute. ‘So if you don’t get an erection, you don’t bother calling her?’
‘Well, yes, I suppose you could say that’ JN agreed.
‘What if she’s really funny or you have loads to talk about; doesn’t that matter? Surely that should be taken into account, aside from you getting the horn for her?’
‘You’re not getting it’ JN said, exasperated, and took a long swig from his pint of beer. ‘Having a hard-on isn’t just about thinking she’s physically attractive and wanting to fuck her’.
I was confused. I was certain that of all the times I have been faced with a man whose cock is hard, it was because he wanted to fuck me; what other reason would he be erect (bar a medical disorder)?
I questioned JN further. ‘So if it’s not about wanting to fuck her, why should a second date depend on you having an erection during the first one?’
‘It’s about chemistry’ JN replied. ‘I know it’s good because I’ll get a hard-on with a woman; if we’re connecting – mentally – then I’m going to be attracted to her. Hence the erection; it’s a good judge of the spark between us – if my cock gets hard, I know I like her and want to see her again.’
I thought about this for a moment and suddenly an image of the BBC’s Peter Snow entered my head. I giggled out loud as I imagined him pointing out the increase in male attraction via an Erection Swingometer.
‘What are you laughing at?’ JN interrupted.
Not wanting to tell him about my Cockometer© (I’ve found it’s best not to joke about men’s genitalia except when with solely female friends), I was instead, liberal with the truth: ‘It just seems funny that you would be sitting there with a woman on a first date with a hard cock in your trousers and not be tempted to ask her to touch it’.
‘Well it’s not like I’d be at full mast; it’d be a secret semi – just there for me to feel, not for her to see. Anyway, sometimes it’s nice not to act on an erection – builds it up for next time.’
‘Seems like a perfectly good waste of a hard cock to me’ I said, thinking about how frustrated I would feel, not being able to touch my date’s hard-on, if I knew it was nestling between his legs, on account of me.
JN laughed. ‘Don’t worry, I still bash one out when I get home; no wastage there.’
‘I should think not.’
‘Anyway, it’s not as if it’s not the same for you – surely you get a little wet if you like a guy?’
‘Well of course I do, but I don’t really think I am the best example of female sexual response to be compared with; I am after all a sex fiend – I’m sure most women don’t sit there on a first date imagining what the guy looks like naked’.
‘You know Girl, you’d be surprised: I bet lots of women are like you – most in fact. You’re not alone in your desires’.
‘Well, maybe. I hope you’re right anyway, for your sake as much as mine’.
‘I know I am; I’ve slept with enough women to know. And on the other side, I know I’m definitely not the only bloke who gets a boner when he meets a girl he likes: all men get a semi if they’re attracted to the girl they’re on a date with’.
‘All men? All men get a stiffy with a girl they like?’
‘Yup. And those that deny it are lying, I guarantee it.’
I thought about this for a moment and wondered about all the dates I have had over the years. If JN was right, there must have been at least a few erections that occurred, which I never saw (not including the ones I had spent the evening trying to imagine of course, of which there were many).
What a shame I never knew about them; I could have had much more fun on those first dates had I been aware of the guy's predicament - even if it meant just verbally teasing him.
Clearly I enjoy using my tongue for other things too, but I do try to wait until at least the second date before sharing those particular skills.
