Blarney

He was only supposed to be a Gaydar shag. But, for some reason, we went out for drinks. And got on rather well.

That night, he took me to heaven. The following morning, he took me to Next.

I'm baffled. Maybe it's cos he's the first human being I've talked to for a week apart from my parents. Perhaps it's cos he's Irish, and therefore irresistibly charming. Maybe it's cos he's really rather handsome. Or perhaps it's cos he's quite startlingly flexible.

*shrugs*

Frankly, I'm amazed he ever leaves his room.

A new sound entirely...

The Slave is at home with his folks for Christmas.

Last night I got to listen to him licking boots really quietly.

The Runaway Bride

I had a really good friend. Unfortunately, I can't stand his wife. Maybe it's because she didn't want me at the wedding due to my gayness.

Or, maybe it's because she's a bit odd.

She sends round an email:

"Hey everyone! I'm throwing a joint birthday/New Year's Party for my husband. I know it's short notice, and I know he's really difficult to buy for, so why not just send me some money towards a present? Even if you've got other plans, you can still send some money!"

Holiday Reading

A pile of adorable Perry Mason books (this year's discovery, thanks to Rick). The Case Of The Caretaker's Cat was the best yet. I'd never have suspected to check the caretaker's hollow crutch for the legendary Koltsdorf diamonds for a second. Blimey.

Wonderfully, I also found The Tangled Skein, a Sherlock Holmes vs Dracula pastiche. It all rattles along rather merrily until Sherlock Holmes meets the Count, at which point the dialogue genuinely reaches this level:

"Damn you, Sherlock Holmes!" seethed the Count.

I picked this up on a shopping trip to a place called Trago Mills. As my parents explained, "You'll adore it - it's run by the backer of the UK Independence Party."

Imagine a shopping centre, merged with a theme park, with the theme being Anti-Euro-Legislation, and "BE WARNED: Some of these goods are imported".

Had a merry afternoon, wandering amongst the twinkling fairy tale towers, stuffed with fleeces, agricultural equipment and DVDs of darts championships. Every now and then, you'd pass a sign saying "We've caught 20 shoplifters this month. And we'll catch you!"

Christmas

Best thing about Christmas? Oh, the food poisoning, undoubtedly.

How brilliant. Weight loss over Christmas. Even better - loss of appetite. Christmas lunch was some tomato soup.

My parents, bless 'em, had worked really very hard to make the house habitable. In a "oh my god, how do you live here?" way.

They'd put some carpet down in two rooms. They'd even lit a fire in one.
Most of the house was roofed. And some of the roof didn't leak.

They still hadn't unpacked the television. Or found any DVDs.

But delightfully, they'd made a bedroom for me in the garden shed/conservatory. In place of any heating, they'd left a bottle of whisky by my bed. They know me, and I love them for it.

Christmas Packing

You know how it is when you're frantically packing for the train home at Christmas. Have I got the presents, enough books, tranquilisers and nicotine patches? Is there anything I've forgotten?

It turns out I'd forgotten I'd ordered an estate agent off Gaydar. And very welcome he was too. There's some puns here about "there are some presents you can open before the 25th", and "unwrapping underneath the tree", but you know what? I can't be bothered.

Lovely Mark [actually, cannot remember his name, but he looked like a Mark] was a great distraction, and quite took my mind off the train journey. My hatred of families travelling with young children in the quiet carriage has reached whole new heights of middle-aged outrage.

I'd just like to thank the Earth Mother, with the self-cut hair, stinking child, and flea-raddled dog for making the journey so memorable. For god's sake lady, soap is organic, surely.

Best Christmas Present?

Porn. And some glitter pens.

The porn is rivetting. Using the Robin Ince approach of opening at a random page, we get:

"Please, please I need more," she moaned.

With no warning whatsoever, Mark opened his mouth on her, licking deeply into her wet folds, and Noelle let out a tiny scream.

That was when sanity deserted her completely. [p105]

I can also recommend p201, which opens with the pithy:

"So, I d-definitiely don't need this tonight," she stammered, about to toss the dildo away.

I adore the Office Secret Santa.

Let's play...

One thing I didn't expect for Christmas was a slave. He wasn't on my Xmas list but nevertheless, I have a slave.

He's helpfully called James, and is terribly keen to do anything I ask him to do.

Lee finds it hilarious. "You apologise when people ask you for the correct change."

The situation is very puzzling. He's the seemingly shy young student I met at Central Station. It all started with a text message, "What are you into?"

I just didn't seem to be able to give him the answer he wanted. And then, all of a sudden, he cracked and said, "I want to be treated really badly by you. I'm a slave. I just don't think it's your thing, though."

This was a challenge. I can be aggressive. And nasty. And really quite strong-willed. Surely. I can be a master. Oh yes. Grr.

I mean, I own a whip (admittedly, I brought it simply cos it was in a sale, and I thought it was hilarious to say "Can I buy this whip on switch?"). I'd never dreamt of using it for anything other than dusting, but perhaps its time has come.

Hey-ho. It's all good fun, I suppose. The thing I was worried about was exactly what to do with him, but luckily he has lots of suggestions. Although, I really must stop saying "Goodness, are you sure?"

The phone calls are the oddest. He'll ring and announce some incredibly painful new thing he's doing and ask my opinion. "Oh... yeah... well do it some more, and quite a bit harder," seems to be the safest thing to say (I'm working at lowering my voice for this).

And some of the stuff I've managed to deflect, for the moment. I mean, really, why would I when I have a perfectly functioning lavatory?

So far, the only foot I've really put wrong is to say, "But really, wouldn't you rather just kiss?"

Free entry with a cigar

We didn't mean to go to a sex club. We honestly just went to Central Station because it was convenient for a drink.

And then, at some point, we nipped downstairs "just to see what the theme was".

It was "Free Entry With A Cigar". There were men. In leather. And a lot of drapes. And some cigars (they do smell exactly like burning dogs. Why is this?).

There was a curious moment right out of a Pet Shop Boys concert. The TV on the wall was showing a porn version of The Empty Child, in which a young man was menaced with a cigar by a man in a gas mask.

"I bet the guy in the mask is really hot," said my friend.

"I bet not."

Then we noticed that not only had the video been filmed in the bar, but several of the cast were there. In costume. Eep.

It was at this point that we got foolishly drunk. And then took a tour around the room.

We're drawing a veil over what happened between me and a young student from Epping Forest. He seemed quite the wrong sort for that kind of place, but took my phone number, which was sweet.

It is, by the way, quite amazing how the English talent for Small Talk is almost indestuctible. Throughout the evening, two men in elaborate leather suits kept up a constant genteel chatter about red wine, Strictly Come Dancing, and whether or not they should go and pee on that nice punk again.

Later, I find myself talking happily to my friend while he flew athletically around in a sling. "Would you like another drink?"

"Ooh, go on. Let's be devils - but make it a half."