Perhaps, Perhaps, Perhaps

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CC Image courtesy of Darice on FlickrI make a carrot cake for my colleague’s leaving party. At the end, there’s a quarter remaining. Take it home, someone says to me, give it to your flatmate.

‘No,’ I say, ‘we errr we don’t have that kind of relationship.’

Oh! is the reaction, more bemused than judgmental. I feel mean but can’t offer much by way of explanation.

Flatmate would say it’s because he’s very critical.  He might then describe how, in the early days of our tenancy, he pronounced the chocolate sauce on my profiteroles to be too bitter – which it was, but I’m never going to admit it to his face – and with those words forfeited all future offers of my cooking.
But his critical streak has its uses. The other day we’re talking men, or lack thereof. I’m arguing that a man who adds me on Facebook must have some kind of romantic interest in me: indeed I have empirical evidence that this is the case.

Flatmate looks amused. ‘Are you telling me you fancy all the guys you’ve added on Facebook?’

‘Yeah, pretty much.’

I’m exaggerating slightly, but only slightly.

He frowns. ‘I don’t understand why you never get any of them!’

I shrug. ‘Maybe they’re out of my league?’

I think of Nick, who incidentally isn’t on Facebook.

He shakes his head. ‘That’s not possible – statistically I mean. There are just too many of them!’

I laugh. ‘Sometimes it’s the same ones, recurring!’

Nice Guy, Nick…

He sighs. ‘So you don’t learn your lesson the first time round.’

‘No, it’s not that…’

He thinks a moment. ‘I can only think that you’re always going for the same type, and for whatever reason it’s not working. Does everyone you fancy have a posh accent?’


Yes, well, almost.  But I can’t help the fact that I find it sexy as hell, can I? Whilst I found Joe‘s pony club chat to be very annoying – but everything else about him was sexy as hell.

‘I don’t understand it.  You’re a nice girl….’

I make a mental note to start sharing carrot cake.

‘… you’re intelligent, funny, you’re good-looking…’

‘Aww you’re sweet.  Keep talking.’

‘… the only thing I can see which might be limiting you is that you’re quite tall, so you’d be too tall for some guys, but that doesn’t explain it.’

‘Perhaps I’ve just been unlucky,’ I say, with a shrug.


CC Image courtesy of cbgrfx123 on Flickr

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This Friday perhaps? CC Image courtesy of Ani-Bee on Flickr

I hesitate, about to hit send.  Something’s niggling.  Friday, Friday…  I let it go, the niggle, and the email, out into cyberspace.


Time Out?’


Colleague chucks the magazine across the desk.  I open it to be confronted by a sea of red.

‘What are you doing for Valentine’s Day?’ I say.

Colleague makes a pained sound.

I laugh.  ‘Aside from slowly killing yourself?!’

She’s got a family birthday party.  It sounds like fun.



I pull a face.  ‘I’ve just realized – I suggested doing something on Friday to someone.  But it’s fine, he won’t get the wrong idea.’

I say a little prayer that Editor will overlook my suggestion, and plump instead for a night the following week.  When, over dinner, he will ask how the blog is going (code for ‘how is your barren, featureless desert of a love life?’), before remarking that it can’t be going all that well since I suggested we do this on Valentine’s Day.

CC Image courtesy of juggzy_malone on Flickr

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Sexual Content

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Sex: How to do Everything is open on my lap when I notice my phone flashing red: a new message.  It’s probably Rachel telling me she’s been held up at work, which is annoying, but at least I’ve got something good to read in the meantime.

‘What do you think?’ Editor says.

I tear my eyes away from ‘Flirting’, a.k.a. ‘how to get to the point where sex might actually happen’.

‘Yeah it’s good,’ I say.  ‘And even the pictures are decent – well, you know what I mean…’

His phone rings; I go back to flirting.  Which reminds me: Rachel’s text.

Rachel has to be the most proficient flirt I know.  Many’s the time I’ve been with her in a bar or pub and watched transfixed as she works a circle of men: the kind of men I’d say this, or this to, before wishing a large rock would fall out of the sky and put me out of my misery.  I sometimes think about asking her for a few tips.  I probably will.  And I might, if I’m feeling generous, share them with you.

I reach for the phone, and open the message.  My face breaks into a smile.

It’s not Rachel.  It’s from a guy who also knows a thing or two about flirting.

We met about a year ago, and I liked him immediately.  With friends and interests in common, we continued to see other fairly regularly, though always in company.  Earlier this year I went to a party I knew he’d be at with the express intention of finding out if my feelings were reciprocated – as one does.  And, based on his behaviour, decided that no they were not.

Then the next time we meet, he compliments me, the bastard, and asks me for two dances in a row which even a novice reader of Austen knows is a no-no unless you have serious designs on someone; and so the merry cycle begins again.  And it is merry, in a way, because we’re now at the point in our ‘friendship’ where I’m completely transparent about my feelings for him.  When I see him, my face lights up.  Last time I almost ran over and hugged the guy, but settled instead for grinning from ear to ear and kissing him on both cheeks.

I scan the text.  My smile broadens.  It’s an invitation to see a film, just the two of us.  Finally, time alone with the guy in a darkened room.  Who knows what might happen?

I reply, saying I’d love to come, then turn back to the book.  I skip ‘Conversation’ and ‘Eye Contact’ – limited opportunity for both in a cinema – and jump straight to ‘Physical Contact’.

CC Image courtesy of chrisjohnbeckett on Flickr

BJ Diary

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‘Take his head in your hands…’CC Image courtesy of Bert Werk on Flickr

I’m already feeling sorry for the guy.

‘… and kiss him like he’s never been kissed before…’

I’ve made the mistake of asking my editor for seduction advice.

‘… and see if he kisses you back!’


At this point my editor launches into the story of how, soon after moving to the capital, his attractive American lodger came into the communal room one evening and asked him if he’d like a blow job.

There’s a knock at the office door; it’s his wife, with a pair of shoes for him to try on.

I turn back to the computer with a sigh.  There’s only one kind of job I’ll be doing in the near future.

CC Image courtesy of emdot on Flickr


Sex Fantasy

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CC Image courtesy of Chui-Qing-QiuMy editor and I are enjoying a working lunch.  The conversation turns to Mad Blogs & Englishmen.

‘The problem with the blog…’

Not my favourite opener.

‘…is that it needs more sex.’

Blog and me both, sister; well, editor.

‘You should add some more fictional content.’



(I promise you, there were good reasons for choosing the above image, I just can’t remember what they were…)