Saturday, 28 March 2009

A Flawed Premise

"Still, at least I'll have some shocking stories to tell the other residents in the old folks home when I'm 80."

I encounter this line from time to time, spoken in response to my questioning as to whether the deceit and heartache is worth it all, written as justification for illicit liaisons and multiple duplicities.

The flaw in this reasoning, however, is that when you are old and living in the residential home for the elderly your fellow inmates won't care because:

A. They have done all the same things themselves (yes, other people have had sex too!)
B. They have gone senile
C. They assume you have gone senile
D. You never told them at all because you really have gone senile and can barely remember your own name let alone any sexual conquests and spend your time asking if anyone has seen Dave, drooling and shitting your pyjamas.

That's the thing about sex. It just doesn't last as long as you'd like, not even in retrospect. It is very much an act of the moment, fleeting, transitory. Enjoy it but don't pretend it's something you can impress others with in your twilight years. What will truly cause excited whispers and envious glances in your direction as you sit in your wipe-clean, high-backed chair is the number of people who still come to visit and remember you are alive.

Monday, 23 March 2009


The perfect investment opportunity has arisen for all Barbed Wire Boudoir fans, everywhere.

I have been working tirelessly on my new project - Barbed Wire Boudoir, the Musical - for some weeks now. That's why I have been so unnaturally quiet lately. All my creative juices have been flowing into this particular endeavour.

The production is of a groundbreaking and unique nature, being performed entirely by sock puppets in a cardboard box theatre.

In this manner I hope to keep costs down without sacrificing my artistic vision.

Even so, I find I need at least a further £15.50 to stage Barbed Wire Boudoir, the Musical. I need a bit more felt and some sequins, plus a new bulb for the fairy lights.

If you have more money than sense and want to help finance my dream please contact me at the usual address. In return for your backing you get your name in crayon on the front of the box and a sock puppet of your own.

Wednesday, 18 March 2009


A fingertip tracing the line of my jaw

A soft kiss where my neck meets my shoulder

The weight of a hand firmly placed on my back

An exploratory touch that grows bolder

Lips brushing over the pulse in my throat

Exhaled words fan the spark to a smoulder

Letting go, a surrender, joyously lost

A renaissance as we both grow older

Monday, 16 March 2009


If it's better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all
Is it better to have broken bones
Than never to have climbed the wall?

If it's better to have tried but failed
To struggle even if in vain
Is it better then to just endure
To persist in that which causes pain?

Wednesday, 11 March 2009

Retail Therapy

I went shopping for lingerie. After my experience with the magic knickers I was searching for something flattering, comfortable and unlikely to cause stress fractures. After a while, as I looked for something that would lift me here and pull me in there, I became aware that it was unlikely I would find the ideal garment. I actually tried to put on a body shaping elastane cocoon in Marks and Spencer and had to give up, exhausted. It got as far as my knees and then rolled itself up into a thick sausage of lycra fabric, tightly cinched my legs together and refused to roll up my body any further. It was like trying to put on a wet swimming costume.

Deciding that underwear that gives you an unwanted workout and sheen of sweat while cutting off the circulation in your lower legs wasn't for me and should, in fact, be lobbed forcefully through the changing room curtains in the general direction of the perky sales assistant who recommended it, I returned to the lingerie department, discouraged and dishevelled.

I had originally been thinking along the lines of "if I can only find the right underwear I won't need to lose weight." This is stupid thinking. Even if I managed to wear something so tight it squeezed all the lumps and bumps of my torso into a smooth and shapely form the fat would simply be displaced elsewhere. I would have great big wobbly arms, ankles or a fat neck.

Time for a rethink.

I bought perfectly ordinary underwear, the kind which does not purport to have magical powers. It covers and supports the parts it's supposed to and lets the rest hang free, undulating gently, unrestrained. I also bought exotic oils and lotions to massage into my skin. My thoughts had turned from the delusional retail Utopia I had fondly imagined and were now counselling acceptance of what nature had seen fit to bestow upon me. "If I rub gorgeous smelling creams over my body, leaving my swells and hollows soft and scented," I reasoned, " then I don't really need underwear at all."

Saturday, 7 March 2009

The Thing About Twitter

There has been a lot of media attention given over to Twitter lately. Discussion has ranged from the fascinating fact that famous people have been known to use it (yes, you can join the other 35,483 followers of your favourite celeb and get updates from their glittering lives straight into your drab little laptop - who knows, one day they may even reply to a Tweet of your own and for a brief yet gusset dampening moment you can pretend you are friends) to the chances of it rotting your brain.

I have had my own discussions with non-Twitterers who wonder what the appeal is and perceive it as the ultimate in vanity, this expectation that anyone should be interested in the minutiae of your life.

They have a point. There are a great many Tweets concerning what's for dinner, whether the author is ready for a nap or not, links to boring old shite nobody else gives a stuff about, those fucking annoying "Blip" things which just let you know what music someone else is currently listening to and announcements about cups of tea. Why do we feel the need to share this with the world? Twitter has aged a generation before its time, turning us all into elderly parents endlessly stating the bleeding obvious and alerting us to the trivial: "Ooh, I think I'll have a cup of tea", "it's a nice day" or "I think I'll have haddock for supper tonight".

The rest of the Tweets I read are thinly veiled boasts: "Have just finished writing a novel," "Had lunch with Alan Rickman and now off to photoshoot" or "Amazingly hot sex with 6 of the biggest cocks in Swingerland - fanny on fire, but worth it!"

Still, my argument is that the use of Twitter is no more vain or shallow than blogging. There is nothing you'll read on Twitter that you can't read more wordily on blogs. And that, of course, is where the benefit lies. Many Tweets may well be utterly pointless and/or annoying but they have the great advantage of being short. When time is lacking and I haven't the option of a lengthy writing session I can post an arsey, acerbic comment on Twitter and feel I have done my bit to rebuke the world for failing to meet my exacting standards yet again.

Now I am off to see what everyone had for dinner and who is bragging about the fact that they, you know, do it.

Thursday, 5 March 2009

Luka's Fantasy Fuckfest

I am not sucking that
No. You can suck me
Then go. Don't come back
Unless it's with tea.

Monday, 2 March 2009

Magic Knickers

You know the kind. They are made of super stretchy lycra and are designed to pull your buttocks up, your stomach in and make you look toned and gorgeous (despite the fact that all your fat is now simply hanging over the top of the waistband). As undergarments go they are in the "tight" department. Putting them on is no mean feat.

I mention this because today I horribly injured myself in the mundane act of pulling on my knickers this morning. Seriously. I simply stepped into my magic knickers, pulled them up and - twang! - something gave. It was not the knickers. It was not even, thankfully, my bladder.

No, it was something in my ribcage. Something less elastic than my magic underwear simply snapped and I was left gasping and flopping around like a fish out of water. Whatever it is, it hurts like a bastard.

Bad magic knickers. Black magic knickers! I have the evil sort. I should have opted for white. Not only do they not make me look like the woman on the packet they also gave me some sort of internal rupture.

Am I cursed? Or has anyone else managed to hurt themselves quite badly in a truly trivial way?