I am mortified

A text rolls in.

‘Billy Crystal has your bottom. Yours is nicer tho, obv’

I mean… What?

If he’s got my bottom how can mine be nicer? And also…

Precisely which version of ‘When Harry Met Sally’ is Soph watching where she gets to ogle Billy Crystal’s bottom? Because I’ve seen that film and I can’t remember seeing his bottom and thinking ‘That’s mine!’ (in a non I-would-quite-like-to-roger-that-bum kind of way), obv. Is she watching a Director’s Cut (Scandinavian Version) which has previously escaped my notice?

But aside from these vexing points, I’m not naive.

I know when I’m being buttered up. It’s when the butter pools between ones legs and squidges down between ones toes, natch.


Parental advisory; Friday evening

No beds were broken during these events

Another working week dead and buried, I arrived at the yard looking forward to schooling.

Except Vin had just been fed, which put him out of the picture for an hour plus.

So instead I took the lorry down to the petrol station and tanked up with diesel.

It was very thirsty after last weekend’s 200+ mile round-trip!

Back at the yard Soph and I exchanged texts and arranged to meet up at a venue for dinner – so Vin got an unexpected night off and Soph and I had a treat.

During the course of the meal Soph leaned forward and quietly told me that she’d been feeling very naughty during the day.

Aside from the promise of rudeness, the meal was OK – nothing special, you know?

Just OK.

We got home at 20.50.

We were in bed by 20.55.

I was painfully hard, Soph was wet and ready.

I think we fucked for about an hour – short by our standards, but Soph’s orgasm was very enjoyable to watch.

And feel.

It took the urgency out of the situation.

And made her very smiley.

For a while.

But later we fucked again; dirtily, with words and thoughts that spurred us on.

She writhed on my hard-on; breathlessly, as we made each other groan.

Less time, about 45 minutes.

More smiles.

I cuddled up to her while Big Brother played on the TV.

I fell asleep.

Instantly, I think.

And was woken about 01.00.

Being groped to hardness.

Then she sat astride me and we fucked again.

This third time lasted about an hour too.

And now I’m awake.

And she’s not.

So I’m downstairs looking for things to occupy my mind.

While Soph’s upstairs, sleeping, dribbling on the pillow.

I have half a mind to slide in to bed and wake her up with my erection.

Just to see if we can find somewhere tight and moist to put it.

But instead I think I’ll just try for some more sleep.

For what’s left of tonight, at least.


I think I can hear movement upstairs.

Perhaps I’ll go and see what’s what.


Sunday evening 19.47

The time, not the year…

It’s been a day.

We slept clinging to each other, as though we were survivors of a shipwreck, bobbing adrift in the ocean’s waves, not wanting to let go because to let go would mean separation and inevitably… loss.

OK, setting aside the metaphorical imagery for a moment, that’s how we really did sleep.

Clinging to each other.

It’s what we do.

We started with breakfast at Cafe Rouge in Worcester.

Then shopping, Christmas vouchers were finally spent in HMV where my personal haul was:

CD: Iron Maiden – Somewhere Back In Time
CD: Linkin Park – Meteora
CD: Led Zepplin – Four/Symbols
DVD: The Ronin

A little money was spent in Coffee Republic (cake-related things).

Then home to dispose of cake-related things, drink hot chocolate and then to bed.

Later, an episode of House.

Afterwards I threw on clothes and went to the yard, dragged Vin out of the field and spent ages grooming him (he’s still clinging to the remnants of the unclipped portion of his winter coat).

Then schooled – BE Test 102 – in preparation for Llanymynech Horse Trials (where the verdict will inevitably be guilty! – that’s a joke) which is suddenly very close (assuming we survive the ballot).

When I came home we walked to the corner shop, bought a few ingredients for tea, walked back, I prepared (most of) the meal, we scoffed.

Then I backed up the laptop, downloaded outstanding podcasts and synched my iPod while Soph did some ironing.

As soon as I’ve shut the laptop down I’m going upstairs for a shower.

In a few minutes we’re going to bed (shockingly early I know) – where we’re going to treat ourselves with one of the new DVDs.

And sleep.

It’s a very early start for me in the morning.

Tomorrow evening we have a Riding Club 2-phase at Lincomb (show jumping at 18.55, cross country at 20.05).

I’m going to have to leave work early in the afternoon to enable me to get to the yard, get Vin in, groom him, get the lorry out, get it loaded, get him aboard, drive to Lincomb, unload, boot up, tack up, get changed in to show jumping kit and work in prior to 18.55!

Frankly I’m bushed.


Meaning what, precisely?

So Adele’s off out chasing pavements, eh?

And people are walking around, digging her song, singing the words, eh?

I wonder if they still would if they knew that “Chasing Pavements” is (and I quote):

Slang term used for the act of specifically searching for a partner with whom to engage in either rimming, frosting or other scat related activities. The term ‘pavements’ is used as a euphemism for buttocks.




Chav eavesdropping

Parental advisory warning: obfuscated rude words ahead

Lunchtime today, yours truly standing in line to pay for a few trinkets bought at a branch of Woolies in a small town on the edge of the Cotswolds.

Behind me are three chavs college students, two girls and a boy.

One of the girls will be 18-years-old next week (happy birthday girlie chav, btw!).

The conversation centred on what presents she would be getting from various folk and how much each person would have spent on her.

Playstation 3 and various other TechiToys(tm) figured largely until girlie chav no. 2 asked what birthday girlie chav had asked her mum for.

For a split second I wondered precisely what a 17-year-old, soon to be 18-year-old girl would ask her mother for as a birthday present.

Birthday girlie chav broke through my concentration with her answer.

“Well, I’ve asked for a course of laser hair removal treatment.”

She then went on to make it abundantly clear which part of her body she wanted the laser hair removal beams pointed at.

And I wondered how that conversation would have run in soon-to-be-birthday-chav’s house:

Chav’s mum: What do you want for your 18th dear?

Chav: Well mum, what I’d really like is a course of laser hair removal treatment.

Chav’s mum: That would be nice dear, but it might be expensive to get both legs done.

Chav: Well actually mum, it’s not my legs I want done, it’s my cnut.

Chav’s mum: Oh I see! Well, because it’s a much smaller area than both legs I think I can afford that.

Chav: Thanks mum. It’s just such a hassle having to shave it all the time (she actually said this in the queue at Woolies!).

Well, maybe my imagined conversation is completely wrong, but just how does a soon-to-be-18-year-old girl have a conversation with her mother about having her pubic hair removed?

Would the mother ask why? And would she be told that it makes cunnilingus so much more enjoyable for her boyfriend (or girlfriend!)?

Or would the mother smile, say ‘That’s lovely dear, would you like a cake as well?’ and reach for her chequebook?

And is it only me who finds it bizarre on three levels:

1. That an almost 18-year-old girl has identified she (or someone!) prefers her cnut to be smooth

2. That the girl has made this known to her mother, and

3. That the mother is providing a course of pubic hair laser removal treatment for her daughter

Sorry – four things:

4. And that birthday-girlie-chav is discussing the removal of her pubic hair in a not quiet voice whilst standing in a queue for the cash desk in Woolies.


Just me then.

But for the record, as someone who loves delivering cunni…


Not here?

Fair enough.


Sex – getting an education

This post comes to you courtesy of this post over at my friend Genevieve’s place. So if you don’t like it, go blame her. Not me. LOL!

I’m all in favour of children getting a decent – and as graphically detailed as they can cope with – sex education. I think if we human beings can get through the hormonal stages of puberty knowing what our bodies (and brains) are going through and – if we give in to those urges – know what to do and how not to get anyone pregnant then that’s fcuking brilliant (excuse the pun).

Knowing about everything from masturbation through to vaginal, anal and oral sex, and knowing about contraception, hetero- homo- and bi-sexuality – these are all Good Things.

Sweeping this kind of knowledge under someone’s mental carpet isn’t the way forward – and all but a few religious nutcases agree.

Sadly though, I didn’t get a ‘proper’ sex education at school (all kinds of jokes about getting an improper one aren’t appropriate – as will become clear) and didn’t get any kind of sex education at home. My mother was obviously far too busy putting her practical knowledge of the subject in to practice to spare the time to talk to her No 2 son (and as far as I know, No’s 1 and 3 sons too) about the theoretical side of things.

But that was probably because she was a bitch.

Anyway, moving on.

We didn’t do sex at prep school – not in any kind of curricular exercise anyway.

There were occasional stories of boys from the lower houses getting buggered by older boarders, but without evidence – and boys being boys in the story-telling department – who could say whether these tales were true or just thrown around to scare us?

When I got expelled and sent to a grammar school I missed out on Sex Ed. because they’d all ‘done’ the topic the year before.

So although they weren’t older or particularly wiser, at least they knew what they knew , whilst all that I knew was that there were a couple of boys from middle school who would do one a sexual favour quite freely and there were other boys it would be good to stay away from in the shower.


Is it any wonder I stayed away from girls for so long in to my adulthood?

Which makes me wonder why I’m such a relatively well-balanced person really, sexually speaking.