Fahckmylife's Blog
Crap adult, OK human.

I often wonder about the phrase ‘over analysing’.  The implication with the word ‘over’ being that it’s too much and negative.  Surely analysis is just that – analysis.  It seems a bit like an oxymoron to say ‘under analyse’ something seeing as the key element here involves depth, critical thinking and an awareness of the world around you.  SO with that in mind having layers to your thoughts and considerations should be a good thing?  Or at least it simply is what it is – analysis?

I am well aware of the fact that this level of thought can stop you from functioning somewhat though.  Sitting around thinking about things of inconsequence, that you try to attach significance to, can be extremely time consuming.  Dealing with a nagging feeling in the pit of your stomach because you cannot reconcile conflicting information can make you stay that extra hour in bed.  Playing things over and over in your head until they overwhelm you probably isn’t great either but whereas plenty of literature would have you believe that you should distract yourself I think you should just give in to it.

Just…give…in…

This sounds ridiculous and almost like I’m saying to stay in bed all day thinking about that person that screwed you over 6 years ago or how you made an ass of yourself that time you pissed yourself at a house party.  I’m not.  But you have to go with these things to a point.  You can’t bottle shit up.  You don’t have to talk about it but you have to explore all the options and work out how to feel about it.  You can fixate all you want on something – I’m not saying it will change – but the more you think about it, the more things become apparent.  Obviously, you can let it take over and that is awfully hard to steer away from, to the point where you think you can predict future outcomes but without ‘over analysis’ you will never, ever be prepared for the worst possible outcome.  So, what I am saying here is that by thinking things through and at a possibly obsessive length you can protect yourself.

Also when being critical it’s good to know that you probably aren’t just directing it towards yourself. Recently I found myself fixated and highly irritated by people who press the buttons continuously at traffic lights or on lifts.  The rant in my head went as follows, staring at a middle aged man:

After you press it once it actually does anything?!……  I guess it serves the same function as praying in way – it makes you feel like you are doing something when you aren’t……  Like you’re busy when you’re not…..  Like it will make the traffic stop sooner or the lift arrive earlier…. Do you feel like you’ve accomplished anything?… Do you know how simple that makes you look?… Where do you have to go that is that important?  

Anyway….

If I wasn’t highly critical of myself and everything around me,  I don’t think I would be as hard on others and then I wouldn’t have these angry thoughts that simultaneously amuse me.  I doubt I’d be as observant.  You should be able to talk to yourself.  It’s as simple as that.

A lot of literature will make you feel like you’re broken if you read up on this.  I say fucking embrace it.  Be a cynical bastard.  Being observant and being sceptical go hand in hand.  And you know what?  There’s nothing wrong with being wary.  Wary people get dicked around way less.  There’s nothing wrong with being frightened.  You know why?  Because they can see dickheads coming a mile off.  You see things for what they are and expect the worst.  Everyone you meet should start off as a ‘zero’ and work their way into your esteem.  That’s not to say that I am an expert on human behaviour – far from it, but I know who I definitely don’t want to be around.  Also if you are as hard on yourself  as you (secretly or not) are on others there is nothing that another person can say to you, in an attempt to piss you off or hurt you, that you don’t already know.

Sometimes, I sit up at night and think about stupid things that have happened and attempt to read other people’s behaviour until I feel ill. Then I wonder what part I played in it and plague myself with ideas of self improvement.   I think of things I shouldn’t have done and dwell on tiny nuances and gestures.  Sometimes I think I can see all the bad things before they happen.  The thing is with over thinking that the literature doesn’t tell you is that this is a defence mechanism because if something good unexpectedly happens (and even then you search for holes in it) it really is just gravy.  Over analysis is just how some people think.  It should be embraced.  I would like to think that it indicates some kind of emotional depth, a way of seeing the world for what it actually is (no point in thinking people are all great) and trying to make yourself better.  Either that or just a way of telling myself that it’s OK to aim low.

Essentially to say ‘over analysis’ is to say ‘over think’ and the bizarre thing is that most people don’t seem to think at all.  So is that saying we shouldn’t think?  Is that what we’re supposed to do?  Because over thinking makes you damaged, instead of people (or sheeple as I like to call them) that don’t contemplate their surrounds and consequences of their smallest actions.  FUCK THAT!  I’d rather have my sleepless nights than lose my ability to apply reason and logic and emotion to things. 

(Heh.  I worked the word ‘anal’ into that many times.)

I don’t know if anyone else feels like this but I really hate change.  Passionately.  Virtually all change. I  know it’s probably not the most popular thing to hate as I’m young enough and  theoretically supposed to embrace adventure and excitement.  It’s not really my thing though.  I like a routine, as boring as that sounds, with very few surprises because anything I don’t expect can completely throw my entire day.  Whether you know me well or not, my productivity CANNOT under any circumstances be disrupted (when I choose to be).  I was wondering if this makes me like Rainman or something?  I mean it’s probably not obvious when I freak out about change but is this a normal thing?  I have been thinking about this for the last few weeks and have come to a few conclusions about why it is that I hate change so much.

I think change is awful because it makes you feel like you have no control over your own life.  This is true.  None of us really do after a point.  Still it doesn’t help the fact that I like definable parameters of expectations.  I don’t like the unknown – be it different packaging on my usual brand of toilet roll or starting a new job.  I like having a fairly accurate idea of what is going to happen.  This is not a joke when I say I am way more comfortable with EVERYTHING when I know what is going to happen (or at least think I do).  When I don’t I feel kind of helpless and whilst I often have no choice but to go with the changes I have a very hard time transitioning.  Unexpected things will always happen but I prefer to think things through and can’t always be spontaneous.  I end up making rash decisions and then second guess myself.  I like to know the score or at least have time to mull things over.

Obviously I have to get over this.  I suppose I have to a point and considering that everything is constantly changing there is nothing that can be done about it.  I mean I don’t have to like it but I’ll still adapt.  I mean I know in the next few months that I will more than likely have to move.  This fills me with dread as it’s about the 20^th time I’ve moved and an undeniably stressful situation.  Who will I live with?  Where will take a cat?  Should I live with strangers when I have a kid?  Let alone moving ALL of my stuff.  It makes me feel ill but I know I’ll do it. I kind of get this weird paralysis when I think about the daunting task of getting ready to move into action.  It seems like procrastination but it’s not.  It’s fear of the unknown. The thing is that I know that moving to somewhere where I pay half the amount of rent that I do now would make sense and benefit me but I really don’t want to deal with the hassle.  I don’t want to meet new people and I definitely don’t want to share a small enclosed space with strangers.  I think I would nearly live in poverty than make this much needed change.  Which really makes no sense.

I suppose being pregnant was unexpected and scary.  Scary because I knew that everything would change instantly and it did.  Nothing was ever the same again.  It worked out fine with no regrets but the fear that it could’ve been completely different, in a negative way, was always a risk.  He could’ve been an asshole when he born.  I could’ve died giving birth.  There could have been other complications involving me acquiring a fourth hole.  The list with such a big life changing event is endless.  It is still scary because I don’t know how he’s going to turn out or what is on the cards for him in the future.  It’s all a gamble but gambling is not something I like to do.  Surrendering control of something as important as the direction of your life is not something that I am easy with.  I would rather play it safe.

One of the other changes, a constant reminder of the temporary nature of EVRYTHING, is the fact that our bodies change all the time.  I’ve put a picture of younger me in this blog because I’m stupidly self indulgent but also because I have obviously physically changed over the years.  Now not only am I developing crows feet but I also have two grey pubic hairs.  Every day you change a little.  So does that mean in 5 years time I will be a completely different person, physically, mentally and emotionally?  Come to think of it, how many of the cells (if any) that were in my body when I was born are still there?  Why is nothing concrete, stable and permanent?  And what should I do about my grey pubes?  CAN WE RELY ON ANYTHING?!

THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION.

(And it’s not really filth)

She kept thinking about the people that she’d fucked and whether that had changed her in anyway.  Like whether each individual experience had altered her perception of herself or if she had opened herself up to a layer of numbness that she didn’t know existed before.  She wondered if she’d be the same person if she was still a virgin, more open to newness and hopeful perhaps, or whether she’d still feel dead and empty and suspicious.  Each different encounter was just that – a separate little entity, many of which were hazy and tainted through retrospect. 

She thought about that guy that kept pinching the back of her knee while they were having sex, which was really distracting, and how she couldn’t get him to leave the house the next day.

She thought about the hot guy with dreads that exploded when she decided to clench.

She thought about the time she had sex in the park and saw a youngish man watching but didn’t stop and made direct eye contact with him the entire time instead. 

She thought about the guy that had text her saying that when he was finished with her ‘she wouldn’t be able to walk’ and was correct.

She thought about the time that she had wobbly legs from having five orgasms in the space of a morning with someone who mashed his face into her.

She thought about the guy who held her head so tightly that she couldn’t but make eye contact.

She thought about the guy that told her firmly to get on all fours and the mess left after on her and the couch.

She thought about the person that farted when they came.

She thought about the guy that slapped her ass so much that it was bruised afterwards.

She thought about the time she got jizz in her eye and how it swelled up.

She thought about the time she told a guy to leave straight after and went back to sleep.

She thought about the time she didn’t take off her shoes because it was too much effort and she wanted to leave straight after.

She thought about the role playing.

She thought about every filthy word, picture, secretion and hole.

She thought about handcuffs, toys and porn.

She thought about the toilet cubicles.

She thought about it all and smiled.  She used to feel guilty.  Like she shouldn’t enjoy herself.  Like she couldn’t talk about it without feeling dirty or judged.  She was grand though.  She just never mentioned it.

So as I hopefully smoke the last of my cigarettes I am going to write another self indulgent list of things that I have learned in 2013 in the hopes that 2014 will be better.

1. My parents are cool.  I never thought they were before but they are.  I have grown to respect them and actually enjoy their company now.

2. That I am a pretty decent human being and that I should only surround myself with people that appreciate this.  I should’ve realised this years ago.  Everyone that I care about is important to me and goes through a stringent vetting process.  Obviously everyone isn’t a fixture and things can change but all my closest friends are deadly, caring and appreciative people.  I find it difficult to trust people generally, although I’m quite open, so this takes time.

3. That it’s OK to talk about my feelings.  Unfortunately I am still working on this but at least I know I have the option of not bottling shit up.  

4. That I don’t lack confidence like I thought I did.  I have only come to the realisation in the last year that I am reasonably clever and although not hot interesting enough to maintain someone’s interest.  That could be my tits though, although I never really have them out.

5. That there is no such a thing as an anti-gravity room.  MIND BLOWN.

6. That I like when people surprise me.  When people do things out of the ordinary, or act differently than I expect (obviously in a good way) this pleases me.

7. That whilst I don’t crave validation, a little goes a long way.

8. That I really like buying dresses.

9. That if someone really wants to be in your life they will.  This has become more apparent in the last year than at any other time of my life.

10. That I’m not as sensitive as I thought I was.  I’m way more hardcore and have way less feelings that I try to pretend that I don’t have.

11. That I should trust my instincts more because 95% of the time they are right.

12. I am an internet sleuth/stalker.  I know we probably all are but I just want to acknowledge it.  I can find anyone I need to on the internet – even if they’ve blocked me on Facebook.  I never know what this will accomplish but do any of us?  The stalking thing made me realise that it’s easier to get obsessed with the idea of someone as opposed to the reality. 

13. That I like looking after people.  Well, I kinda knew that anyway but if you’re sad, sick, upset or whatever I like extending my maternal instincts to grown-ups – in a non patronising way of course.  Obviously I’m not your teacher though.  Unless I’m actually teaching you, you can go fuck yourself.

14. Misogyny is alive and well.  Upsetting and unsettling, but true.  Especially when you hear people you thought were clever saying stupid things that they think that they’ve thought through.

15. Luck can go fuck itself.  The only things that work out for me are things that are things that I have a certain element of control in.  I mean obviously I’d like to win the lotto or something but considering that I don’t even play it the odds are stacked against me. 

16. I can’t make time for everyone.  I still try to but I’ve come to realisation that this is no longer a priority depending on the situation.

17. That I really love salad.  After Christmas I had a salad and I laughed like all those crazy women eating salads.  Why?  Because I had been eating pure crap and really wanted to eat healthy stuff.

18. The ‘inner sex’ is a real thing.  Physical appearances are kind of irrelevant when compared with people being clever, amusing and fun and make them way more attractive than a simply aesthetically attractive person.  I’m probably just trying to convince myself of that anyway.

19. I need more sleep.

20. That the phrase is ‘intents and purposes’ – not ‘intensive purposes’ like I had always thought.

21. Actions speak louder than words.

22. I really really value 100% honesty in people even if it is at the expense of my feelings or acknowledging an elephant in the room.

23. That although I am a very messy person I am quite organised and can multitask like a crazy person.

24. That I need to get up off my arse and do the things that I know that I can.

25. That 2014 will be a really stressful year for me but that I need to keep my head screwed on.

Maybe it’s the fact that I’ve run out of smokes and have no money until tomorrow (in which case drop up with smokes and I’ll be your best friend) but I’m pretty cranky today.  Maybe it’s the fact that I’ve been up since 7 and running around like a lunatic, like most people, wading the endless pile of shit that you have to do to extend this mediocre existence.  I thought about this for a while and then realised it was because of what I’ve been reading, and become more aware of, because of my PhD.  Once you see this shit, you can’t unsee it.

Sometimes I really hate being a woman.  Most of the time I don’t… I mean in fairness the potential for multiple orgasms and having a safe storage place in your bra alone should sell it BUT I get so frustrated with the entire hypocritical system that I get very wound up and sometimes wish I didn’t have a vagina and a delightful set of funbags.  Now, that’s not to say that if you have a penis you should feel bad.  You should enjoy your penis as you probably have been all along, but there is no point in countering any of these arguments with ‘but men have it bad too.’  Sssshhhh…. You don’t.  Whilst you may have it bad, and I can accept that, the way each gender is viewed and treated is not really comparable.  This is not an attack on you exactly.  It’s an attack on patriarchy.  You might think that you are not participating in it but you probably are.  Even women do.

These are a few examples of why it’s shit to be a woman aside from the fact that our biggest values are set as mothers and whores.  We are supposed to be either self sacrificing martyrs or beautiful sexy womenz where our value comes inherently from our appearance.  And seriously, don’t ever bother telling me that you don’t care what people look like when they’re clever.  I know I’m smart but thanks for the insult.

Slut shaming:

Slept with more than a handful of people?

Apparently men can sleep with as many people as they want and be labelled a ‘stud’ but women are meant to be demure and passive and fuck all else. I didn’t think this attitude still existed but I’ve overheard enough recent conversations to know that it does.  What does it really matter how many people someone has slept with?  Is it because your fragile ego can’t handle the thought that your sex skillz have a basis of comparison?  And if a girl has slept with a fair few people, sure she can always be raped, because promiscuity discounts rape because there’s no purity to steal.  I’ve heard from several dudes as well that they would never consider a relationship with someone who slept with them on the first date/night out or whatever.  Why?  Because they were too easy. 

Got your photo posted on the internet sucking someone’s knob in public? 

Poor Slane girl.  Classy as fuck but whilst she was getting a severe slagging and her life ruined the cocks involved were celebrated as legends.  Not to mention how drunk and young and vulnerable she obviously was.  Scumbags.

Danced semi-naked next to a singer (who essentially sings about rape) and receive a crazy amount of media backlash?

Mylie Cyrus is a fucking idiot.  There can be no denying that.  She thinks what she is doing is in the name of feminism and obviously mocking the mental health of Sinead O’Connor was mean and showed her ignorance BUT for all the negativity directed towards her, I bet 95% of men that slagged her off would still have sex with her.  Dressed up like a ‘slut’, good enough for a ride, still attractive and sexual enough but still a complete sap you can slag off after.

Well look no further than modern western media.  Jesus Christ.  Double standards ahoy there with every single thing there. 

I am fed up of men telling women that men have higher sex drives than us.  No, I disagree.  Not in every case obviously but there is no point trying to make a sweeping statement about it.  They are different.  There is no denying that but to assume that sex is more important to men, or that women need emotion to go with sex, is the most stupid statement ever. 

Porn:

Whilst I really have no immediate problems with porn there are a few unsettling elements to it.  I mean I see its ‘purpose’, accept it will be around and have ‘studied’ it and its purpose quite a lot.  Then I think about the following which I won’t expand on because I think they are self explanatory and feel uneasy/pissed off:

1: It is mostly boring and the same thing pretty much over and over again. 

OH I LOVE WAITING FOR YOU TO EJACULATE ONTO MY FACE.  I HOPE IT GETS UP MY NOSE AND IN MY EYES.

SURPRISE I CAME ON YOUR FACE! 

OH NO HANG ON I’LL COME ON YOUR TITS. 

2: My kid will probably see porn before he gets to see a naked woman (or man).  When he sees a naked woman he will be surprised.  He will also be surprised as to what really happens during sexy times.

3: There isn’t a whole bunch of decent stuff directed towards women.  I’m not talking about storylines, or soft focus or class.  I’m talking about stuff where the women don’t all look the same, aren’t all getting rode the same way, don’t look sad or where it’s not completely constructed for male viewing pleasure.  Don’t get me wrong – I found good stuff but there’s feck all of it.  And male porn stars for the most part are gross.  Like seriously gross.

4: That it may raise expectations for what is an acceptable level of expectations in the bedroom i.e, deep throating or anal sex. Also no clear indication in the majority of porn that I’ve seen would give anybody any idea as to what would really be pleasurable for a woman or how they actually orgasm (unless they’re squirting of course) Tut tut tut.

Rape culture:

We live in a rape culture. I’m not saying every man is a rapist, but potentially they are.  Girls are blamed for what they wear, how they act and how they choose to get home after a night out.  I have had a conversation with my child already that consent is required.  Nobody really talks to men or boys about the need to get consent.  It’s not drilled into boys the way it is to little girls to ‘stay safe.’ I have already told him that if someone isn’t really awake or sober that that doesn’t count as consent.  I have told him that there should be no doubt in his mind that there is consent involved.  These are things that should be a given but if they are never said they can never be upheld.  Blaming victims by picking one or two examples of when women lied (ruiners) about being raped means that potentially anyone can get away with the responsibility of the crime.  Rape fucks up the victim more than anyone who has not been raped cannot understand and to diminish it as a proper assault is ludicrous.  With so little being reported for women is it any wonder that male rape is nowhere near being taken seriously?

How come it is OK for men to intimidate women with sexual gestures, crude language and we are just expected to laugh it off?  What gives someone the right to come up to me at a bar and start rubbing off me?  Or make me feel uncomfortable in work?  How can I laugh it off when physically they could potentially overpower me at any moment and by making me feel uneasy they are simply trying to assert some dominance.  When you get pissed off then it simply means that you have no sense of humour.  BECAUSE IT’S SO FUNNY!

I just want to say that I do loves the menz.  They’re great.  They even come with their own little coin purses between their legs.  Hahahaha!  Ah no seriously though, I don’t hate men.  This isn’t about hating anybody – it’s about pointing out shit things that we all do and hopefully recognising them and learning.  I have another half to add to this list but I think  I will wait until next time and do a separate one because this could take alllllll night.

A slightly altered version of a bit of an oldie fictiony typey thingy.

This is the part where if this was a film there would be a montage.  You would see me in all my frumpy glory embarking on the hopeless mission of self-beautification.  As I am not used to doing this and because the task at hand is so daunting I have to start really early.  It’s been about two years since I’ve even attempted to put on make-up.  So bottle of wine in hand and fresh from the shower I force myself to sit down in front of the mirror.  As per usual I’m a little shocked my appearance again.  My face seems pudgier than the last time I saw it and my grey eyes are a lot puffier than I remember.  I’m both shocked and appalled by the state of my eyebrows. 

The montage would start with me trying to pluck my eyebrows.  I guess it would be more entertaining to watch if I had someone here to coach me and encourage me perhaps by rubbing my back and drawing me diagrams of how to put on eye shadow.  You would see me blowing dust off my make-up box. Queue the close ups of me putting on foundation and attempting to blend it, putting on rosy blusher and blow drying my knotty brown hair.   There would probably be another shot of me gulping down more red wine, spilling some and banging my head on the dressing table in desperation.  All the while with some cheesy eighties music playing in the background and I’m getting frustrated.  I’d have to start again several times and you’d see a shot of a waste paper basket filling up with wads of cotton wool just so you’d recognise how much effort this is.  I’d probably stop to have a smoke before I even attempt to pick clothing and maybe at some stage I fall asleep.  Finally after numerous shots of the various outfits that I could wear (which aren’t all that I assure you as I dress like a boy) you would see me smile a little at my reflection and toast myself. 

This isn’t even half the work that I have to put in to look in anyway presentable.  Last night.  I took a load of laxatives to crap out as much as possible to try to make my tummy a bit flatter.  It took an hour of trips to and from the bathroom to fully empty my bowels. I guess I look OK.  To touch on another cliché the kinda smart quirky ugly girl is suddenly transformed.  However, I’m not in a stunner in a ball gown, everyone shocked and in awe when I walk down the stairs – I’m just slightly less ugly and alone in my bedsit.  I’m wearing less clothing than normal though; a brown strappy top nonetheless.  To cover over my up arms I’m wearing a little wine cardigan which I’m leaving open. I’m still in my good old reliable jeans though – that would be too much change for me to take.   As I study myself in the mirror I wonder if it’s obvious how much of an effort I’ve made.  I don’t want anyone thinking that this is about them.  I mean it’s so obviously not – right?!  I look at myself again and realise that it definitely does look like I have some kind of intent.  If I can just get over the denial I’ll be able to move along with the whole thing and get over it before anything bad even happens.

But I can’t.  I’ve promised to go out.  I said I would.  My word is my bond.  I can’t even line my belly with food.  It won’t accept food.  A massive pulsing feeling in my head despite the fact that I’ve downed most of a bottle of wine.  I don’t have to leave for an hour.  Why am I ready?  I don’t even want to go.

This is old.  It could be reworked but whether I am ever motivated enough to do it is another story completely.

I stagger along the side of the studio on a gravel path and intermittently bang into the wall.  I feel so heavy and being to feel the stinging of hot tears on my cheeks.  I stand swaying in the darkness and attempt to focus on the bushes in front of me.  I can’t see the party lights anymore from here.   I can make out what’s ahead of me in a dim navy light.  My back rests against the wall and I notice that there is a window open in the studio.  I can hear a TV and I creep over and take a look inside.  Jack is slumped on the sofa, basked in the white light of the television, vacantly looking at the screen.  As if nothing happened…As if I didn’t even cross his mind.  I know his mind is completely blank and I get upset that he doesn’t think about it as much as me.  I’m sad that it doesn’t make any apparent difference to him at all, yet it was a pretty big thing for me.

And this is when the vomiting starts.  It’s violent and my whole body contorts. I wretch once and immediately dart away from the window to avoid the even further shame of being caught puking.  In one never ending (yet surprisingly quiet) stream I empty the acidic contents of my stomach into a bush.  Steam rises off the sick and disperses into the inky light.  My eyes strain behind the darkness of my eyelids –

I’m such a fool.  So socially inept –

– as I cough and splutter the remains onto the gravel at my feet.  It’s just as I’m taking out a tissue and chewing gum from my bag that I hear my name being shouted.  I look up and just ahead of me is Dan standing in the television light pouring out from the window.

‘So you’re the one throwing up out here?’ he asks smiling.  ‘You OK?’

I nod and throw a chewing gum into my mouth.

‘Why you here?’   I ask kicking my left foot around aimlessly on the ground.  I focus on this.  ‘Lorraines’ asleep and I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to see each other.’

‘I know – I just wanted to explain some stuff to you.’

I have to look up for to see his face for this.  He looks completely calm – not remorseful or stern but reassuring.  He extends a hand towards me and reluctantly I walk towards him. 

‘I can’t believe what happened tonight’ he mumbles with a hand behind his head.  ‘I know we haven’t always seen eye to eye on a lot of things but I never meant to hurt her.  I know now is a pretty bad situation but I’d just like to tell you how much I’ve always  respected you.’

Who the fuck talks like that?

It starts to rain gently as we begin to walk together further away from any light.

2.30am

It’s like I suddenly snap out of sleepwalking.  I realise my head is pushing up against a wall at irregular intervals.  A hand moves up roughly under my bra.  I look down at the ground – I have one leg out of my knickers and jeans.   On some level I was aware of what was happening with Dan until this point of stark realisation – I just didn’t actually think that I was doing it.  Just like in those dreams where you are running down a long corridor to get to the toilet.  Eventually you get there and pee and it’s the best feeling ever.  When you wake up you hope that it’s sweat that you’re soaked with…

As I have stated before that I am a classy lady I notice that I’m still wearing both my socks.  I’m very slightly bent over and now he starts to pull my hips towards himself vigorously.  With each thrust my head bangs against the wall a little harder and I wince.  I don’t think I’m really making any noise but he makes little grunts.  One of his hands slides down slightly from my hips into my pubes and fiddles around aimlessly. He isn’t that rough but I expect him to snag some hair or my bits – it doesn’t happen.

People definitely look better with clothes on so I thank my lucky stars that I’m only partially naked in the darkness.  I can’t really see much of him either.  At least there is some level of dignity involved.  Dignity?  A laughable concept considering the present situation.  I mean my face is being grated against a wall for fuck’s sake!  I guess I started it…Well it is temporarily distracting me from the dull pain of rejection or whatever the hell that was supposed to be.  I just don’t really know why I’m doing this …  and I know that I’ll probably regret this at some stage.  I just figure at this stage that it would be just as difficult to stop as to keep going so I again try to make the best of this bizarre situation.  At least he isn’t hurting me I reason.

At this point I start a conversation with myself. 

‘Well how are you Eve?’  a chirpy voice asks.

‘I’m OK’ a less enthusiastic voice says. ‘I guess I’m in the process of having sex with Dan though.   That’s a bit weird.’

‘Oh my!’ the other voice says disapprovingly but still chirpy.  ‘How ever did you get yourself into such a predicament!’

His fingers suddenly just find the right place and I sigh with relief.  Then he loses it again.  I don’t correct him because I decide I just want this over with.  He leans in more and forces my knees to bend as I have to lean forward to keep my balance.  There is little concern for my comfort here.  Now he uses one arm to prop himself up against the wall over my head. I can feel him breathing on the nape of my neck.   It seems to go in time with what I imagine you could waltz to. 

SLOW SLOW QUICK QUICK 

‘You know what?  I’m not really sure’ the quiet voice says thinking.  ‘But I think I might know why…’

I’m now starting to realise why I’m doing this.  I close my eyes and think it.   This seems a lot safer in that respect and makes the whole situation a bit better – actually, in fairness, a lot better.  So  this works pretty well for me for passing uncomfortable time.  The beauty of not seeing someone’s face during sex is that they could be anyone (as well as not seeing their undignified sex faces).  I’m sure Dan is doing the same – maybe to him I’m Veronica.  Maybe it’s her face he’s mashing against the wall in the rain.  No – I expect they would have sex on a bed of flowers in a white bedroom and when they were finished a million doves would be released into the sky.  That’s not the way things go for me – not that I’d want them to.

‘You are such a silly drunken sausage!’ the happy voice coos. 

His thrusts then change to what only could be cringingly described as urgent pounding as he grunts just overhead.  The grunts then change to some sort of stifled sound and he finishes on three or four vicious jerks. To top it off he utters a sudden and slightly frightening string of filthy obscenities.   He sighs and pulls away from me and fixes his fly.  Meanwhile I feel like a bath that the plug has been let out of.  Nasty hot dripping mess.  I feel that it was pretty anti-climatic and scramble for my clothes on the damp ground.  The injustice of it all!