Clutter-fucks
I’ve had a new piercing of late that has lead to me watching a lot more porn than usual. I’m not sure yet where I stand on porn on the whole feminist debate, however I do know where I stand on the Californian hillside mansion debate: I am ANTI that shit. Where’s your skirting boards? Where’s all your crap go? I mean granted, those marble floors will be great for skidding around in fluffy socks but leather sofas throughout? Even in jeans I feel they’re giving me thrush so think a while for the poor nude people would you?
I also noticed it’s too slick. I know it’s not meant to be real life, it’s escapism, I mean we wouldn’t watch Hollyoaks if we just wanted our own lives mirrored back to us. However, when I compare these sexcapades to my own, the only comparison I can draw is that something goes into somewhere, and that also happens in snooker. Snooker is closer to how I have sex rather than pornography. I’ll start at the beginning.
The first time I had sex, the curtains went on fire. My boyfriend had lit candles. Not to be romantic, but because the electric had run out and his mom was down Bilston Market so we couldn’t tell her to get any more. It was pre mobile phones. We’d taken the rare opportunity of being home alone to get rid of my pesky virginity but boys 80s bedroom curtains (you know, grey black and red patterns with matching wallpaper and duvet and underwear) billowing in flames around us kinda put us off. Also, with the sight of my boyfriend’s erect penis quivering around as a council condom slithered off the end, while he skittered between the bathroom and the bedroom with mugs of water, it’s a surprise I didn’t go gay. We didn’t finish it. In fact does that mean I didn’t lose my virginity? Am I still a virgin now? AWESOME. *updates CV*
I took a long-time friend back to mine one night while I was dog-sitting for my mom. Everything was going okay (apart from this weird growth thing on his ribs that bothers me to this day) until he put his hand on my face. Before we’d gone to bed, I’d gone into the back garden for a smoke and he’d come with me, sitting on the ground as we chatted. (Hey, we were punk, we didn’t need no chairs man.) I don’t think I did any sexy chat. I don’t have any. I have a ‘sex eye’ but it looks more like Paris Hilton’s lazy eye. So…back to the bedroom, he looked into my eyes, he ran his hand down my cheek tenderly and the most almighty stench eminated from his hand. He had put his hand in dog shit. He had put his hand in dog shit and then put dog shit hand on my face. He married within the year to a girl he met at the gig we’d hooked up at. I like to think I contributed to this romantic tale.
I’m not really the kind of girl to pick guys up, (see the aforementioned Paris Eye) but the next candidate I spotted on the bus and I took a shine to his tattoos so struck up a conversation. Yes I can be that shallow. We had a lovely chat and I invited him to a party my friend was having that night. He seemed little intense but it was going well and when he invited me to a bedroom I thought ‘Meh…free sex’ and followed. He proceeded to start his own style of foreplay on me. He sang me a song. About me. We had met only seven hours previous and he was here singing me a song about my ‘swanlike neck’ and ‘siren’s beck(oning call)’. Free sex or not, this man was going to murder me and wear my vulva as a beret. I had to get out of there. He went off hunting for a condom and I climbed out the window. Luckily, many student houses have ground floor bedrooms so I was safe and wandering the arse end of Wolverhampton with no shoes or coat before he returned. I have no idea how he got hold of my phone number but my mother had learned to pass on the message that I was out/ill/had been sectioned. The last contact we had was when he left a tearful message for me to look down an alley in a particularly salubrious district. I thought he was going to be my death day but nope. It was just a TEN FOOT HIGH GRAFITTI MURAL DEDICATED TO ME. All black swans and pictures of my face.
It wasn’t long after this that I accidentally moved to Leicester and shacked up with a very good pal of mine. We had an amazing time, doing what we wanted, ruining our bodies and basically slagging it about for a bit. (In the name of feminism.) The next character in this comedy of terrors had been procured from Po Na Na. This should have been the first warning light but I get very confused in there. There’s too many mirrors in dark corners and I have no idea where this reality ends and the next begins so I took this boy back to our hovel. It started badly and went from there. I was in the bathroom shaving my legs in the sink (never tempt fate by shaving them before you go out, am I right gals?) as I heard an almighty crash from my room where I’d left Boy. I ran in with a naked bottom half like Winnie The Pooh to find he had managed to knock over my dressing table. I have no idea how. Then in the panic he’d trod on and cracked all my CDs I’d filed carefully on the floor. With blood running down my shins I decided to try and get this over with as quickly as possible. I fell off the bed, he poked me in the eye and at one point he farted milimetres from my face and I still can’t face asparagus soup many years later, due to this. I could hear by this point that my housemate and some other friends had come back and were having what sounded like a great time downstairs. I was so jealous but it was a perfect time for me to earn points in the most emasculating game ever invented by two women. Every time we got a boy back to the house, we had to shout something so the other could hear but deliberately not sexy. For a while I’d been using the delightful roar of “I CAN SEE ‘IS KNOB” in the most broad Black Country accent possible but this called for something new. In a flash of inspiration (delirium?) I demanded “CALL ME BOO BOO KITTY FUCK”. Well the uproarious applause form downstairs was better than any orgasm I was going to get so I did a little acting and rolled over. I pretended to sleep but he kept prodding me in the shoulder telling me he had to go home and that he was locked in. Sighing and huffing I wrapped a sheet round me and proceeded to let him out. As I followed him down the stairs, I slipped on my new sheet dress, kicked him up the arse, he went flying and sprained his ankle. Did I point out he was a semi-pro rugby player and he was out for the rest of the season? As he hobbled into the living room to collect his shoes, to add insult to literal injury, my housemate and friends were dancing around in his shoes.
I never found out his name. We all knew him as Snakeskin Loafers whenever we saw him around town from then on.
There have been many individual sex blips along the way: trousers stuck on a sexy shoe, fanny farts, drool in face, monkeys looking (broke into Dudley Zoo), period starting on his face, being sick off the side of the mattress mid-throes, poppers in the eye, to name but a few. I’ve asked around if people have had similar sorts of comedy sexperiences? One now and again, sometimes someone who’s slept around a lot has had two MAX but nowhere near as many as I have. Am I bad at sex or just unlucky? I don’t know but I do know I’d rather laugh during sex than have shitty poetry read at me. You should all stop taking it so seriously, have you seen how ridiculous you look naked?
So where do I go from here, do I get myself a director to tell me how to do non-disasterous sex or branch out into comedy porn? Would you watch that? I’d never shave my legs but it wouldn’t matter, apparently girls look sexiest when they’re laughing.
Also, great-rack. 