Never phone someone when you’re drunk, they say. This is because, invariably, you’ll say something you’ll regret.

Like, for example, that the receiver of the call, is your best friend ever and that even though when sober, you could take or leave their acquaintance, at 3am, when inebriated, they’re suddenly the best thing in your life. Or, possibly, you feel compelled to grovel at your exes’ feet, and beg them to take you back, even though you know in your heart of hearts that you could never be with a man who picks his feet whilst watching TV (and leaves his skin-droppings on the couch). Or, worse, because you’ve got the booze-horn, you dial a fuck-buddy and try to convince them that it is in their best interest to give you a good seeing to, even though their breath stinks and their three-inch pubes got stuck in your throat last time you sucked them off (amazingly, such things seem forgivable when the possibility of sex is on the cards).

This is why I absolutely do not, (to the best of my ability), allow myself access to my mobile phone when under the influence of alcohol; I leave my phone in my bag and ignore it. I do not give in to the temptation to pick it up and scroll through its phone book, press ‘dial’ and then proceed to embarrass myself. I can embarrass myself in other, better, ways I think, like, say, having an orgasm in a public place. But I rarely stoop to the shame of a drunken phone call: the outcome of that is never going to be good (and there’s no guarantee of an orgasm either, so clearly not worth my effort).

Not giving in to the drunken-phone-devil is hard, I have to admit, but not impossible to control: it just takes some practice. And a mantra-like chant that you repeat to yourself when inebriated, ‘Don’t fucking call him. Don’t fucking call him’ usually works.

What I do have difficulty with, however, is drunken internet behaviour (DIB©) This, I have very little control over. Many a time I have come home from a night out; having ignored, for hours, the drunken desire to use my phone. But my strength ends there: upon entering my flat, I somehow manage to immediately stagger over to my laptop, and then start typing out some bollocks that, when read the next day, makes me groan with mortified embarrassment.

You know the type of thing: it’s either writing a drunken post on my blog - ‘Oh woe is me, I want a boyfriend/I need a fuck/I wish I had some painkillers for my PMS’ - or, even worse, leaving drunken comments on others’ blogs: ‘I need a shag, hahahahaha!!!’ Pathetic, really; I have had to apologise to some other bloggers for this in the past. Not behaviour I am particularly proud of.

What’s even worse than that though, are drunken emails. Yes, I know, we all do it, but I am particularly susceptible to the practice, being a ‘word-fiend’ who loves to talk. Combine this with certain drunken ideas of grandeur that I am Ms Witty Queen of the Year, and the resulting mix is a cringe-worthy blend of stupidity and desperateness, topped off with a dash of self-deprecating cheesy humour: not funny in the slightest.

Generally, I just try to ban myself from accessing my laptop when stumbling in a bit drunk; it’s the easiest way I’ve found to avoid potential sobered-up regret. Overall, because I am a control freak – I like to know that I can stay on top of events (and men, clearly) – this method works. But it’s not always dependable: only recently I found myself reading something I had sent to a guy the previous night, and then had to hold my hands up to the sky and ask myself ‘Why???’

I reckon the email had started off reasonably well:

‘I am quite a bit pissed.’ I had stated in the opening sentence. ‘This is a disclaimer, should I wish to disown this email at some point in the future.’

Good approach; two points for honesty at least. Then things got a bit worse:

‘I wanted to say thank you, and sorry,’ I offered, feeling the weight of the world on my shoulders. ‘I may seem to be sitting on some moralistic high-and-mighty horse about what happened, but really I’m not.’

Er, actually, yes I am. He behaved like a twat, not me. But evidently, three martinis were now making me think differently. I lowered myself even more:

‘You're a pretty good bloke I reckon,’ I gushed, absentmindedly forgetting how self-centred he was. ‘It seemed like we connected quite well, so if you're up for the occasional beer and chat that would be fine by me. If not, that's fine too’.

I should really be a professional mediator with my optimism; always seeing the positive in people – no matter how much of an arsehole they might be. I grovelled some more and put the icing on the cake:

‘I just wanted to clear the air and make sure that if we ever bump into each other, we'll do so with a smile - and no unease.’

Ah yes, the ‘let’s be friends’ thing: always good in theory, not always in practice. Whilst I am on good relations with the majority of men I have slept with or dated, there are a minority with whom friendship is impossible. Where no matter how much I may have wanted to remain on good terms with them, their attitude, or behaviour, made it impossible for a friendship to occur.

But being drunk, and thus in a forgiving mood, I imagined that things could be smoothed out with this guy; that he was worth my effort to work at a friendship. Of course when I sobered up I knew it wouldn’t happen: we couldn't be friends. And whilst it was sent drunkenly, his total lack of response to my email confirms that: friendship, no matter how minor, is a two-way thing.

Where does this leave me now? Well, back to banning myself from accessing the internet when pissed, of course. Thankfully I don’t drink that much, or that often, to risk embarrassing myself on a frequent basis. Still, it now may be a bit more difficult to prevent this behaviour, given that I have recently purchased a new 3G phone with broadband internet access (in order to free me from being tied to my laptop to do email, plus, I love new gadgets, and this is the sexiest thing I have ever owned).

Guess I’ll just have to find a lock to put on my bag, to prevent myself from touching my phone when drunk and avoid succumbing to such twattish communication. Or, instead, perhaps just find something else more fun with which to occupy my hands... I know which I’d enjoy more, and somehow I don’t think the latter would leave me with regrets in the morning. Though maybe a few sore fingers.

Sex injuries recently sustained:

1. A dislocated shoulder (obtained through twisted positioning of our bodies)
2. Grazes on my elbow (from propping myself up on one arm)
3. Bruising on my knees (being clumsy means I knock against everything)
4. Cramp in my calf muscle (enthusiastically pulling his arse in towards me with my feet has its disadvantages)
5. A stiff neck (lack of sleep meant plenty of tossing and turning). (More of the former, naturally)
6. A tired back (taking it from behind can be exhausting)
7. Sore inner thighs (my ‘fuck muscles’ don’t get a work-out as often as they should)
8. A throbbing vulva (rampant grinding against his hand has its drawbacks)
9. A pounding headache (the unfortunate payoff for my frequent, and intense, orgasms)
10. A large ‘love bite’ on my neck -
    

“You’ve marked me!” I yelped, upon seeing the huge bruise.

He kissed my neck gently. “Call it ‘marking my territory’”, he growled.

Quite.

Things I always wanted to do and ended up doing:

1. Have anal sex
2. Sleep with a woman
3. Have a threesome with a man and a woman

Things I have never done but would like to do:

1. Have a threesome with two men
2. Go to a fetish club

Things I never thought I would do but will do soon:

1. Participate in a book signing


Yes, that's right, me, in the flesh, signing copies of my book and finally meeting the people who have been reading my words: a terrifying, but exciting thought.

Put this in your diary if you want to come along:

6.00pm Thursday 19th October 2006
Borders bookstore, Islington
N1 Centre
Parkfield Street
Islington
London
N1 0PS

Feel free to pop by and say hello. Or alternatively to show some moral support: I will be absolutely shitting it.

My phone beeped.

With my landline phone against one ear, I glanced over at my mobile’s screen. When I saw who the text message was from, I froze.

“Mum, I’m going to have to call you back.”

“Why?”

“Something’s come up.”

I put down the handset and looked at my mobile, my heart pounding. Perhaps if I just delete the text, then I can ignore it. I pushed the phone to one side and paused. Then I looked at the screen again. The letters seemed to glare at me, and with butterflies in my stomach, I read it once more.

‘I just heard.’ it stated. ‘Saw the show; you looked great and came across really well. So pleased for your success. Guess I need to read your book now.’

It was inevitable: he would find out sooner or later. For a moment I wondered how he learned about it; who might have told him. Then I gave up – it didn’t matter either way. What mattered was that he knew.

Of all the men I have written about, there were three whose response upon their knowing, I feared. Not because I had necessarily bad-mouthed them, but because they had gotten to me: to my heart, to my vulnerability. They had access to the recesses of my being that few others have had; they had known another, more fragile, part of me, and thus had the ability to hurt me.

Two of these men know everything; they have both read the book – and are fine with it: we are still friends, and are close, and I feel blessed that they have been so supportive and understanding about it all. The third guy though, did not know - until now. I suppose because he has not been in my life for some time, I had hoped that he would never know; never find out that I had divulged intimate details about him - about us. Whilst I was still anonymous, this seemed like a possibility; I could carry on - perhaps naively - believing that that he would live his life, separate to mine, and that the sadness I once felt about him, would be hidden from his discovery. Until now, that is.

I looked at the phone again.

Delete delete delete.

It would be so easy. My lack of response would say so much; that I didn’t want to speak with him; that I didn’t care enough to reply; that what was in the past should stay that way. But as I held the phone in my hand, I physically shook; my nerves were on ice. Why should I feel so worried now, so long after everything? Why was my heart thumping so fast I could barely breathe? How much did he know?

I had to reply: better he heard it from me, than believe any of the gossip or lies that have surfaced. I began to type back; polite, friendly. He replied straight away and we began a brief text dialogue; each message getting closer to the inevitable question. Finally it came:

‘I must ask: if I am I in the book, were you discreet?’


Delete delete delete.

Too late to delete. Too far gone, to alter what I’d written. Too much said, to deny it now. I cannot delete the past.

I imagined him with his phone in his hand, waiting for my reply; aware that with each passing silent moment, it spoke truths that no words could express. How could I deny I had written about him? It would be like saying he had had no impact on my life – but he had. He had awoken in me something I hadn’t felt for a long time; he had made me realise that I wasn’t strange or unusual because I loved sex; he had helped me embrace my being a strong, self-assured person, alongside being fragile too.

Delete.

Memories flashed through my mind as I sat there, phone in hand, and debated what to do. Our waltzing together in his living room; him laughing at my clumsy feet. My wrists handcuffed above my head as he teased me, making me beg for his cock. Watching him shave, as we bathed together; me tickling him with my toes. Him kissing my ankles as he entered me; my feet wrapped around his neck. Eating face-to-face in candlelight; me dropping crumbs in my cleavage. My straddling him, watching him smile at me whilst whispering my name, over and over, as we climaxed together. Glimpses of another time; of other people. We are not who we were. And we weren’t meant to be.

I typed a message back, telling him I had written about him (though heavily disguising his identity), and that I was sorry he was finding out this way. Live by your word, I told myself; live by your honesty. Until this point, I’ve had the protection of anonymity to shield me. He may not like what I have said, but the truth is, what it is. Whatever will be, will be. He didn’t reply to my text – nor did I expect him to. He knows, and that is all.

Of course, I worry what he might think if he reads it; how he might feel. I have no wish to hurt him - we had closure a long time ago, I’m not interested in stirring up the past. But my words, my thoughts, my feelings, live and breathe beyond me; I cannot delete what’s happened as if it were some text on my computer screen. Perhaps, more importantly, now I realise: nor do I want to.

Just over a month ago, I was outed by the press. No longer anonymous, my real identity was thrust – unwanted – into the limelight; I felt completely exposed and so, hid myself away, both figuratively and literally, to protect my privacy.

Fast forward to now. Whilst I’m emotionally still trying to get to grips with this whole experience, I’m also feeling stronger; I have more resolve; I have rediscovered my ‘fuck you’ attitude. I’ve always been someone who stands by her word and her beliefs; this is no different: I feel determined not to allow what’s happened to silence me – it’s just not in my nature to stay quiet.

Whilst I’ve been turning down media opportunities left, right and centre over the last few weeks, I have now decided that it’s about time I pulled my head out of the sand, put my brave face on (with three inches of make-up of course) and continued to use my voice, like I always have done, to make some noise - outside of the blog. Because, if I don’t speak up, my silence will insinuate that I am ashamed about what I have done, and what I have written about - and whilst nothing could be further from the truth, by staying quiet it’ll mean the scumfucks who outed me will have won.

So tomorrow I’ll be appearing on television for the first time, talking about the blog and book with Sharon Osbourne on her show. It was taped (as live) yesterday and screens on ITV1 at 5.00pm GMT Thursday 14/9.

I was utterly nervous: given that I always wanted to remain anonymous, it was terrifying to walk out - as myself - in front of a huge studio audience, surrounded by five cameras, and be interviewed by Sharon. Not that she wasn’t nice – she was lovely – but I never thought that it would be me sitting on the couch with her: I’ve always been behind the scenes when something’s being filmed, and suddenly being the focus of attention was completely nerve-racking for me.

I suppose it didn’t help that as I was about to walk onto the set, two male crew members chatted about me:

“That must be Abby”, the older bloke said, gesturing towards me.

“Who’s that?”, the younger guy asked.

“That’s the girl who’s shagged loads of blokes and written about it”, the older one replied.

The younger man nodded in recognition and they both stared at me as I made final adjustments to my bra (wanting to limit the cleavage in shot - not an easy task) before I walked on. Really helped my anxiety levels that did… Anyway, it was my first TV appearance so do cut me some slack if I look a nervous twat, cheers.

I have a huge favour to ask: could someone please record the segment, upload it to You Tube and post the link in the comment box here - I’d be forever grateful, thank you.

UPDATE:

With massive thanks to Swatfox and Stefan, you can now watch my interview here, and here.

I waited for his wife to get up to use the bathroom and finally asked him the question that had been burning at the forefront of my mind for the last hour.

“Was she OK with it all?”

He nodded. “Yeah, she’s fine.”

“Seriously?”

“She thought it was sweet actually…”

“She read it?”

“She read it before I did.”

With unintentional dramatic flourish, I put my head in my hands. After a brief moment of silent groaning, I cautiously raised my head. “Oh God, really?”

“Yeah, she read it, then passed it to me, saying, ‘It’s lovely, but it might make you cry.’”

“You’re kidding.”

He shook his head. “No. And she wasn’t wrong: it was lovely, really touching.”

My heart stopped pounding for a moment. “Thank God. I was so worried…”

“Worried?”

I bit my lip. “Well, yeah. I thought… I was nervous… I just worried that… you know, that it might affect things, and I was so scared that it might… that I might cause some problems between you… I never wanted that to happen; I had no control over all this…”

He interrupted me. “We’re fine; everything’s fine. You have no need to worry: it was a long time ago – and she thinks the things you said were really sweet… And we’re both very proud of you: this is a massive accomplishment.”

I blushed, recalling the explicitness of what I had written, but feeling a surge of pride too. To have him say that; to know how they both felt, was a massive relief, but it also made me feel their love and support for me – something that I really needed, because I was worried that through everything that had happened, that I might have lost that.

He leaned in and took a sip from his coffee. I followed suit, and in my inimitable clumsy way, I proceeded to knock the table with my knee, spilling my coffee everywhere as I did so. He laughed and as I looked up at him sheepishly and shrugged – it’s in my nature to be a klutz – we shared a smile, and I knew that everything was going to be OK.

I often wonder how I might be able to get to experience the things I love most – sex, film and politics - simultaneously. Last night I managed to, and the combination was some of the best 102 minutes I have ever had (bar my ex using a vibrator inside me whilst fucking me up the arse).

I went to a preview of a new movie, Shortbus. If there is one film that ideologically is the moving-image-version of my blog, this was it: challenging stereotypes about sex, sexuality and relationships, with warmth, hilarity and melancholic introspection. It’s just brilliant: I was completely stunned by its originality (and it made me want to jump on a plane straightaway and emigrate to New York: my kind of people, clearly).

Now, I’m no movie reviewer and have no interest in plugging something for the hell of it, but this film is so good, I want to see it again immediately. And not because of the graphic, real, (and penetrative) sex (passed uncut by the censors – hurrah!) but the multi-dimensional story is superb; the juxtaposition of humour and sadness of the various characters and their loves, desires, and wants, is entrancing. Plus, it’s well written, the direction is sharp as hell, and the acting is phenomenal. Add on a wonderful score, beautiful production design, and fantastic animation, and you have one amazing movie – it is the most refreshing, boundary pushing, transgressive thing I have seen in years: I love it. (And the scene involving the American National Anthem being sung whilst giving anilingus almost made me wet my pants laughing).

If you don’t believe me about how good this film is, watch the trailer:



It’s out in the US 6th October and in the UK 1st December. I highly recommend seeing it.



UPDATE:

See, I'm not the only one who thinks this film is fantastic. And if you're quick off the mark to buy tickets, you can now see it earlier than everyone else, at the London Film Festival on 24th October. (No, I'm not getting paid to plug this movie; I just happen to think it is fucking great, that it is revolutionary in its vision of sexuality, and that it is definitely worth watching due to the great story and superb acting.)

I tightened the belt around my waist, and turned so I could see my pencil skirt-wrapped arse in the mirror. I was pleased by how tightly the material clung to my bum, whilst accentuating my hips. I shifted my weight and undid the top buttons of the blouse, admiring my cleavage. Then my brief moment of narcissism was interrupted by the sales assistant reappearing at the curtain.

‘Any good?’ she asked.

I shrugged. ‘It’s a nice combo – and it looks great - but it’s not really what I’m looking for right now.’

‘What’s wrong with it?’

‘Think ‘‘Slutty Secretary’’ and you’ve got it.’

She laughed. ‘You don’t like that?’

‘I’m looking for something a little more sophisticated, yet still sexy; not something that will scream, “bend me over the desk and take me hard” – that’s not the image I want to project.’

‘I see’, she replied, and waited for me to hand her the skirt, blouse and belt, before she wandered off.

I put my ‘‘Not Really Giving A Shit Because All My Clothes Are In The Washing Machine’’ trousers back on and slipped my shirt above my head. As I was looping the buttons over my bust, the sales assistant returned, poking her head around the curtain once again.

‘Um, that book you’ve done, does it have tips in it and stuff?’

‘Tips?’

‘You know, sex tips…’

‘Well,’ I replied, carefully, ‘I’m no expert, and it’s mostly about my own personal sex life, but yeah, I suppose there are a few pointers in it. They are very graphic though…’

She blushed. ‘I’m a grown up: I can cope with graphic. Would you give me some advice?’

‘That depends: what do you want to know?’

She blushed an even deeper shade of red. ‘Well… um… it’s just… my boyfriend, he likes to talk dirty an’ that, and I’m not really into it; I feel embarrassed.’

‘I know what you mean’ I reassured her, whilst thinking that when in bed, I regularly whisper to a lover just how much I want their ‘‘hard cock inside me’’, and how I need them to, ‘‘fuck me now, please, oh god please, I need it.’’ Somehow I didn’t think she was of the same mindset, so I changed my tack:

‘Well, what do you like to do?’ I asked her, gently.

Her face remained crimson. ‘I like the loving stuff: cuddling, kissing, him stroking me. I don’t like doing “doggy”: god I hate that!’

‘Why’s that?’ I said, soft as I could.

‘It’s so impersonal, ugh!’ she exclaimed.

I nodded and tried to connect with her discomfort. ‘Yes, it’s difficult when they’re behind you and you don’t get to see their face as you have sex’.

‘Exactly!’ She smiled at me, relaxing a little.

I smiled back at her and remembered how at her age – early twenties – I disliked “doggy” too: it made me feel so distanced from a lover, so remote from what was going on. It took me years to realise how I could enjoy the position: that instead of disconnecting, it could actually make the bond with a lover stronger; that with his fingers between my legs and a firm grip on my hips, penetration would be the link that joined us. Plus of course, upon discovering that my g-spot would get continually rubbed by a guy fucking me from behind, it was then only natural that I would come (quite literally) to enjoy the position.

I looked at her and wondered how much detail I should go into, and, also, whether I wanted to divulge to a complete stranger – face to face – the sexual awakenings I had in my twenties. I decided to be as subtle as I could:

‘It can be hard getting the balance right between what one person, and another, prefers in sex’ I stated, trying to sound like I knew what I was talking about. ‘Personally I have always found that to get what I want in bed, timing is everything.’

‘Timing?’

‘Yes. One tip I could recommend is that if you want to make suggestions about sex to your lover, you do it at the same time as you’re pleasuring him.’ I lowered my voice a touch. ‘Do you mind if I am explicit here?’

She nodded. ‘Go ahead.’

‘You could, for example, be sucking his cock. Whilst he’s in the throes of pleasure, look up at him and then tell him that there’s something you really want to do, and that doing it would really turn you on.’

‘Like?’

‘Well, like the intimate stuff you said you prefer. When you’ve got his cock in your mouth and he’s enjoying it, he’s going to be far more receptive to trying out other things – even if he doesn’t normally enjoy them. This is because he’ll associate the idea you’re putting forwards, with the pleasure he’s receiving, and with that connection, he’ll then be more willing to try it out.’

‘Really?’

‘Yup. And, in return, you could suggest to him that if there’s something he would really like to do, you’d be willing to try that out too. If you take the initiative and talk to him about what you want in bed, whilst you’re in bed, I’ll bet that he’ll respond positively.‘

She grinned at me. ‘So I should ask him to do more sensual things, like massaging me and stuff, whilst I am giving him a blow-job…’

I smiled back at her. ‘Exactly. It’s always worked for me. Go for it.’

‘I will! That’s a really good idea, thank you.’

I picked up my handbag and we made our way to the front of the shop. As I approached the exit, she called out to me:

‘I want to buy your book! What’s it called?’

It was my turn to blush. ‘Um, Girl With A One-Track Mind’. I felt self-conscious suddenly and tried to leave the shop.

‘Hey!’ she hollered, preventing my escape. ‘Don’t forget to come back!’

I turned to face her. ‘Oh, I don’t think I’ll be buying that outfit, but thank you.’

‘No, I didn’t mean that! I want you to come back so that you can sign my book!’

‘Oh, of course… Um, OK then.’

She waved at me as I stepped out the door and I disappeared into the throng of shoppers filling the high street, pondering as I did so, how surreal my life has become: I never thought I’d be suggesting sex tips to complete strangers - especially face-to-face.

The result of a drunken night out...