Roll’n’rock and drugs and sex
Now- my blog has moved home. This is the first time writing directly into it, instead of copying and pasting from the old one. I am free now, unnamed. Not that anyone is reading it, worrying about incrimination. I can talk about sex and drugs and rock n roll. Cos my life is pure full of them......
Rock n roll: I am listening to the new This is the Kit album in the living room. I am never sure if I should give that more capital letters, or not? This is The Kit? This Is The Kit? THIS IS THE KIT! It’s blue vinyl. I think it’s my ONLY blue vinyl. It’s very pleasant. I need to turn it over, though...
Drugs: I’ve been on the Spanish throat sweets (can’t understand the instructions on the side, but I’m pretty sure they’re for throats), the Paracetamol, the Ibuprofen, the Gaviscon. I feel ill, but not ill enough to not work. Just ill enough to eat drugs and mope. Trying to resist bed so early, on my child free night. I don’t want to drink booze but I do want to see people. There are ways around that, of course, but. Well. I feel sick, anyway. I’ve nothing to read and the library shut early. I have to write myself something to read... I must say, I did rather enjoy re-reading this blog, as I transferred it to its new home, last night. I had the other types of drugs recently, too. Fresh from a friend’s doot (they were well wrapped, of course), at an excellent festival. I thought it was on a Hebride, but actually, it was a Small Isle. Saying I was on a Small doesn’t amuse me as much as saying I was on a Hebride did. Hebride in the singular seems silly, like saying genital. Are there any Genital Isles?
Sex: I had sexy fun at the festival. I saw a hot man on the boat on the Thursday. Managed to get off with him on Saturday night. He left first thing Sunday. Should’ve been faster! (He didn’t leave BECAUSE of me. It was preplanned!) Fortunately, another young man seemed keen on me on Sunday night. He was very enthusiastic. The festival was life-changingly beautiful, but also soaking sodden WET. On Sunday night it seemed to get Biblical. A tent pole snapped; the bottom of the tent filled with water. It could’ve been worse, though. My waterproof coat and trousers worked. The mattress kept me up off the wet ground sheet. I had wet feet for days, but sure, who cares? The music was wonderful. The people were fantastic. The sex was fun. The first man left a super-duper blow-torch style lighter behind. We had checked in a bag so I was delightedly able to take it all the way home. (I’ll leave it behind at the next festival I go to, I expect.) The second left me a dripping Calvin Klein sock. I needed a new sock- I had tried to dry mine on the washing machine drum fire, under the watchful eye of a Mammoth Penguin ( a member of the band, not an ACTUAL mammoth penguin- they’re not even a thing! Though they may have been better at minding socks...) one ignited! He did put out the flames before ALL the sock disappeared. I was pissing myself laughing and suggesting I could darn it. The most amusing thing was that despite having been on fire, the sock was still damp! Of course I couldn’t put on the “new” sock as it was sodden, but I did hang it up to dry on Colonel Mustard’s radiator, on the long way home, later. I haven’t had sex since. I seem to be quite good at the single serving sex. I don’t want to be, though. I want a boyfriend to watch Netflix with. I mean, actually watch Netflix. I want to have lots of sex, too, but a telly partner would be sweet. And someone to go visiting with, so I don’t feel like the Only Single Person Left. It’s so much easier going anywhere, with someone else. Maybe I’ll go back on Tinder. Maybe I’ll go back on Facebook. Meh. Maybe not. The second fellow managed to find my missing boots, on the shore, that soaking Sunday night, under the dark damp moonless sky, as we had wandered away from them. I had decided I needed to paddle. Maybe it wasn’t raining so hard before we began. I had to kiss him, for finding my boots. He was so charmingly eager.
It’s June, now, but the weather is still inclement. I put the heating on. It seems shameful, to have the heat on, in June, for one human, rattling around a house on their own. I could’ve worn more clothes, or done 40 star jumps, or got into bed. I haven’t even taken the electric blanket off it, yet. There’s the album over, and it’s now after 9pm, so I shall allow myself to skulk off to bed. Skulk is a good word, up there with baulk, and skelf. The Funniest Man in the World used it, to explain how he didn’t want to hang out with me, last month. “Hang out”. When I say hang out, I mean, of course, have sex. One should mean what one says, hmm? Or it all gets a bit Alice in Wonderlandy. He skulked off to bed, he said, in a text. Then I ruined things by getting terribly drunk & taking yokes and pretty much harrassing him, 2 nights in a row, with a barrage of conflicting text messages that I had no memory of sending. The conciliatory ones, afterwards, that I do remember saying, are probably worse. Delete everything and give up, I thought. Then console yourself with strangers in your tent on a blustery Small a few weeks later. They may even leave you little accidental tokens of their “love”.