Vital advice, especially if you’re prone to putting things into your bottom.

Advice is easy. Anybody can give it, and there’s no quality control system in place to filter the life-enhancing gems from the plain stupid Captain Obvious stuff. I, for example, have a broad spectrum of advice of varying usefulness on the tip of my tongue should anyone come asking.
Try me, go on.

  • Don’t buy a dress size down with a view to slimming into it, you won’t. Embrace your beautiful outer insulation and just get something in a size that isn’t going to cut off your circulation from the hips down and strip you of your dignity.
  • Don’t rob banks. It increases your chances of multiple unplanned holes in your body, and most banks these days don’t contain any actual money anyway.
  • Don’t give away your virginity too easily. Religious beliefs aside, it’s a rite of passage that deserves thought… cos Lord knows you’ll think back on it in the future. I know someone who lost her virginity in a car park bent over a shopping trolley. That’s a heart-warming tale for the grandchildren.
  • Don’t stick things up your bottom when there is even the slimmest possibility they won’t come out. I have absolutely nothing against folk who want to anally insert items of their choice per se but I’ve worked in a hospital. 9 times out of 10 when you see a small huddle of doctors around an x-ray screen they’re looking at holiday snaps from someone who’s using their rectum as a storage facility.

And so on.

However, I feel for advice to reach it’s maximum usefulness it has to apply to all, and not everyone is going to “slip in the shower and end up with a bottle of “Head & Shoulders” inserted. Mr or Ms Average need to read it, nod, and realise they might just have dodged a bullet for having done so ( which admittedly would apply in the bank robbing example ). I also strongly feel that advice only reaches it’s full potential when it comes from real personal experience… and I’ll leave you to work out which of the above that applies to in my case. No clues.

So what is it that I’m going to share with you in response to today’s Daily Prompt? Well, it’s common sense really. Sadly, however, common sense often flies out of the window on this one… but I think it bears repeating.

Do not, no matter how tempting, get involved with someone who is married to somebody else.

I’ve been there, and the life lesson it taught me was this “You’re great, but you’re just not that great. If he cheated on her to be with you, you can bet your life savings ( literally, in my case ) that he will cheat on you to be with someone else.
I know it’s tempting. Temptation always comes in the most wonderful of lickable packages, but keep your tongue in your mouth… and your mouth only … and you’ll be fine. There are people who cheat, and there are people who don’t. And really, is that all you’re worth?
People fall in love with the wrong people all the time ( Holy cow, I could write a book on that one ), but if you take a step back and garner some perspective you will see it for what it is.

Is their relationship working ?   Yes : Avoid.     No : Proceed to next question.
Are they separating?               No : Avoid       Yes : Proceed to next question.
Are they separated?                No : Avoid       Yes : Proceed to next question.
Are they a huge festering boil of unresolved issues, and prone to unrelentingly talking about their ex?                                        Yes : Avoid      No : Proceed to next question.
Are you just drawn to that which isn’t yours?      Yes : Avoid       No : Proceed to next question.
Wouldn’t life just be easier to find yourself someone who will be yours alone from day 1, because adulterers have a lack of respect that doesn’t change just because you’re a great guy / girl ? Yes : Yes. Proceed with life.       No : No.

It’s not easy. Sometimes life conspires to screw you over like that. But take heart in the fact that every now and then someone will leave a relationship that isn’t working and tie up their loose ends before moving on. Those sort of people won’t leave you behind the local supermarket with your knickers around your ankles, which is always a bonus when relationships are so dreadfully tricky in the first place.


The Internet. It’s a veritable pornucopia.

What keeps you up at night?

It may well be an over-simplification, but in 2 words : My Brain.
“Spiffy!” you say, “but can’t you , just for the sake of your word count, plump up the description a bit, maybe into double figures?”

Well… if I *must*…

I wish I could say that in the still darkness of the night I’m contemplating the meaning of existence, but in all honesty I could just as easily be lying there musing on the inherent curliness of pubic hairs and wondering why , despite receiving the barest minimum of hair care, they’re always bizarrely shiny and conditioned-looking. Or maybe that’s just mine? I suspect I’m over-sharing again. My apologies.

Whilst I’m naturally prone to excessive and often counter-productive analysis of practically anything, sometimes I just “think about…stuff.”

For example, last night I had a rather lengthy contemplation of porn.

Now, let’s get this straight, I’m not a pornaholic. Having been introduced to it at a relatively young age there’s been a certain amount of desensitization to the whole affair that renders skin flicks less titillation and more tittering really. I can sort of understand why some folk get so embarrassed about it, but it’s not as if they’ve been caught wet-handed watching “Red Hot Butt Monkeys II” ( infinitely superior to “Red Hot Butt Monkeys I”, in my humble opinion. Much saucier banana action.)

Recommended for your post-pleasure-viewing pleasure.

That said, I do find it amusing, and always have, and find a person’s choice of viewing a perfect opportunity for a little analysis. I read once in a book, and I’m paraphrasing here, that conduct during sex is a window into the psyche, as sex isn’t a learned practice ie it’s something that has germinated in your mind over time, and not something shaped by taking notes and watching your parents. Ick. In essence what turns you on says a lot more about you than, for example, your social interaction. As a people-watcher I find this fascinating, not because your confessed goat porn addiction makes me trembly in the gusset, but because it’s another part of the jigsaw of you. OK, I admit, it’s pretty funny too, you pervert.

Naturally, the internet is a pornographer’s playground. There’s a joke that goes “If you took all the web pages that have some sort of porn on them offline the entire internet would consist of a single site – the campaign page for “Bring Back The Porn!” And there’s more than a smidgen of truth in that. On an evening of random surfing over 60% [* totally made up statistic for demonstration purposes only ] will have at the least something sexually provocative in an ad somewhere on the page. Unless you surf scrapbooking sites exclusively, in which case it’s ribbons and fabric-covered buttons that are going to crank up your engine. If these random-core advertisements are to be believed there would be a plethora of young ladies feeling lonely and looking for conversation in my local area RIGHT NOW. Naked conversation usually. I don’t know about your neighbourhood but moderately attractive women between 20-30 years of age with no qualms about getting their nipples out at the drop of a hat are very rarely lonely for long. Or looking for conversation either. But here I go wandering off topic again…

I don’t encourage those who haven’t seen any the watch it, and I don’t condemn those that watch it pretty regularly. Similarly, I have  pretty much the same viewpoint on masturbation, which traditionally goes hand in hand pants with regular and prolonged porn viewings. I just don’t think I’m in any position to judge one way or another. Having an interest in watching folks bumping uglies for a little genital-related stress relief is fine, and not watching it because you find it degrading / sinful / tawdry is ok too. Whatever floats your boat is just fine & dandy by me, and the way I see it is that anything that goes on between 2 consenting adults, or one if you’re flying solo, is nobody else’s damn business. Possibly exploitation within the sex industry is a subject worth returning to in the future, so I’ll save it for another time. If I digress too much I tend to find myself starting out talking about vegetarianism and ending up blathering on about whether or not apes go through the menopause.

Hmm… I have to go look that up now, be right back.


Inconclusive. Pfft.

If there’s one little pearl of wisdom I can offer before I go for tonight though, it’s this:

Blog about it if you want. Chat about it with your best friend. But if you possibly can, keep it out of your relationships. This is because :
a) A lot of porn is about fantasy. Share a fantasy and you run the risk of it losing it’s potency.
b) Sometimes it generates a whole lot of entirely un-necessary performance-related tension and
c) Being known as “Open-minded and Generally Unphased By Things Of A Sexual Nature” will often encourage a partner that would otherwise have remained blissfully silent about their personal quirks to share. That’s how I found out that an (ex)Sweetie was harbouring secret cravings to wear my underwear and make-up. Nothing kills an otherwise relatively stable relationship as fast as an embarrassing secret, and you don’t get much more embarrassing than a 5 o’clock shadow, baby blue eyeshadow and stilettos combo.

Somewhere, someplace, this guy thinks I'm his ideal woman.

Let The Beast Run Free…

I thought that today I would write about one of my favourite films, The Company Of Wolves. I’m the only person I know who’s actually seen this film, let alone loved it, so it’s nice to be able to share my enthusiasm for this rich little gem.

Why do I love this film? Well, let’s start at the very beginning. I adore it when a movie’s title is open to interpretation and could be taken in any number of differing ways. Is this about wolves in various guises as companions, whether literal or metaphorical, or are they merely playing a role in some elaborate scenario in our personal fabrication of reality? As it turns out, both. This flick is BIG on the symbolism and the worst wolves are, to quote, “hairy on the inside.”

Secondly, and let’s not beat about the bush ( pun entirely intentional ) the movie is positively dripping dark gothic sexuality. Not that is has any sex scenes per se ( though there is the least erotic lovemaking scene between the heroine, Rosaleen’s, parents at one point ), but it’s a Freudian orgy. Sensuality swamps practically every scene, and though it has been known for me to over-analyse a tad 😉 it’s hard to resist the urge to intermittently shout out “ooh, lipstick as a labia metaphor!” or “That tree has a phallus!” ( which is why I stopped watching films with my parents decades ago… I think I was embarrassing them.)

"Oh come ON Mum !!!! The tree quite obviously has a penis!!" "I think I'll go make a pot of tea now..."

Like the much later “Ginger Snaps” lycanthropy is pretty much a metaphor for sexual awakening, however, here the nature of the beast is firmly rooted in seduction. Even the walks in the mist-shrouded forests bring a quickening of the pulse that can’t always be attributed to unease.

Possibly my fascination for this collection of stories within a story comes from seeing it for the first time when sexuality was foremost in my own mind. That said, it is classified as a horror movie and has a couple of impressive wolf transformations that haven’t aged too badly, though they distracted me from my preferred focus of the gothic ambience. In my world Beauty and the Beast wouldn’t have been totally ruined by the Beast becoming yet another bland Prince, and the happy couple would have embraced their attraction and maybe popped out a few puppies or something. But then I would have preferred Beauty to have not been put off by her beau having a bit of extra fur on him. Likewise, when the wronged ‘witch’ in one of the tales exposes the vile aristocracy for the savage beasts they truly are, and thereby commanding the respect she deserved, then I, for one, cheered her on.

If I were to have one criticism it would be this : the movie is often interpreted as having a feminist bias, with the men all being portrayed as beasts in disguise, cruel brutes, or seducers. Whilst I can see why a confused and blossoming pubescent girl may see things this way it’s only balanced by a quote from Rosaleen’s mother that goes, “It there’s a beast in men it meets it’s match in women too.”

His eyebrows meet in the middle and he speaks with an accent. Yup, he wants in her pants.

"My, what big teeth......." I think we all know where this is heading.

...Annnnd... all his clothes fell off. What a surprise.

Have a dig round and have a watch if you like your films with more than just a thin veneer of quirky 🙂

Go ahead, bite me.

It possibly wouldn’t entirely surprise you to learn that I wasn’t a conventional child. Whether that’s because of quirky genetics or being raised under a “children should be seen and not heard” regime , I’m not sure. But I was quiet, thoughtful and reflective – more loner than lonely – and to be honest that suited me just fine and dandy. I wasn’t withdrawn or antisocial either – I just liked my own company and my peculiar little interests.

One of which was death. Not “Goodness, why are all the neighbourhood cats ending up skinned lately, doesn’t that strike you as a bit odd?” psychopathically unhinged, but it didn’t scare me. Obviously though, the process of dying itself was a different matter, and something I didn’t want to dwell on. I wasn’t stupid – I knew the chances of dying by chocolate ice cream overdose were pretty slim, but I was willing to commit to giving it my best shot.

I can’t remember when I read my first piece of vampire fiction, or saw my first undead movie, but I’d put good money on it being roundabout when puberty kicked in. You can talk all you like about the neck being an erogenous zone, about domination and submission, about biting being a penetration metaphor, but bottom line … vampires are hot. They combine the beauty of eternal youth with the seductive lure of experience, and traditionally they’re raw merciless predators who are hell-bound on being sinfully hedonistic. Yum.

Om nom nom, yes please.

Erm... I'll skip on this one though, cheers.

Casting aside the all-night orgies down the blood bank, what exactly does the (un)life of a vampire consist of though? Not dying, and attempting to not die over an extended period. Hell, I’m doing that already ! Give or take 40 years or so and I’ll probably be happy to call it quits… so the thought of trudging on, albeit in a spritely and spiky-toothed incarnation, doesn’t really appeal.

Don’t I want to live forever ? Immortality is a curse, not a gift. To watch the slow decay of age in those nearest to you, to watch them wither and die and to still go on? I think I’ll pass, thanks. I imagine losing a child is devastating whether they’re 9 or 90. I believe in the natural order of things. When it’s my time and I hear the tinny jingle of the frozen dessert truck being parked outside by the grim reaper I won’t resist. I will throw open the door and serenely offer my 5 litre bucket to be filled, and yes, I would like extra nuts and a flake please.

Sex, lies, and unusually entertaining train journeys.

There are two schools of thought on the “hour to live” issue, the Hedonist and the Romantic. The romantic would spend that time with their loved ones, the Hedonist in a short sudden orgy of excess.

I once dated a guy whom I’d hoped and suspected was the romantic type and asked him what he’d do if the clock was ticking in the vague hope he would say something along the lines of,
“I’d rush to your side to take one last look into your beautiful eyes, and though I respect your intellect and razor-sharp wit, I’d really love to cop a feel of your frankly magnificent breasts, if that’s ok with you?”
But instead he said, “I’d spend time with the people I like most”, in a suspiciously non-committal way.
Still clinging on for at least a mention I pushed, “But what if you’re more than an hour’s travel away?”
He tossed back “Then it looks like I’d spend the last 60 minutes of my life on a train on the way there masturbating furiously out of sheer frustration.”
Romantic – 0, Hedonist – 1

I’d fall into the Romantic category. I’d want to spend those last moments with those I’d already chosen to spend my life with. That said, I’d like to go with a clear conscience. It’s not as if I leave a huge trail of deceit behind me ( I’ve actually tried it, but I lack the necessary memory to keep track of the lies, and I have very poor fibbing skills) but there are things that I would like to say before my tearful , and slightly panicked I suspect, demise. That’s assuming, of course, that it’s just me going. If it’s the entire planet that’s due to be pushing up the proverbial daisies last-second confessions are pretty much pointless and you might as well skip to the sex and tequila.
This is where Topic 2 comes in, because I think I would need to ‘fess-up to an offshoot of this little-known fact :
“I never truly loved my husband, not even on the day I married him”.
It’s kinda sad really, more so when you find out that I was aware that he didn’t love me either, and that when we used to joke with friends that we only got married for tax reasons it was to hide the fact that we really did only get married for tax reasons.
When it all came to a crashing end I was relieved. I could stop smiling and making “Oh, these sprouts are delicious!” pleasantries with my Mother-In-Law about her Sunday roasts that had the consistency of charcoal-broiled snot. I no longer had to pretend that excessive sweating and poor personal hygiene didn’t make me gag just a little bit. And no, he wasn’t funny, and yes, I had noticed.

My deathbed secret is this:
“When I found out about his affair I didn’t actually care.”
Sure, I cried a bit, but mostly I was just monumentally pissed off that he’d been dipping his noodle for months and ALL our friends knew and they all covered for him.
So, I admit it, I milked it for the sympathy. Yeah, I genuinely felt crappy, just not for the reason that everyone thinks I did. Serves me right for marrying him, though I suspect I probably wouldn’t have fared any better with Mr Intercity Impromptu Hand Job or any of the other staggeringly bad relationship choices I’ve made in the past.

Luckily I’ve now found that Holy Grail of Couples… The Good Man. And I make sure I’m wearing my best undies and he’s never more than 10 minutes travel away, just in case.