Agent of Distraction

day 30 - where I go off and get all lady chatterley

I've done my best to not contaminate this blog with the filthier outputs of my mind, and to avoid discourse of my fornicative exploits, but I had some of the most perfect sex of my life last night and that needs to be celebrated. (I think we should all be pleased that I did not shout and sing about it as I walked down the street this morning, no matter how much I have been tempted).

So anyway, yes. Sex. Which I'm going to get onto in a minute. Which was glorious. But if you don't want to read about that, here's a picture of a puppy to look at instead.

Aw, puppy!

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And now, smut.

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The sex I love best is spontaneous. It is initiated by an exchange of glances, the sudden feeling of tension which enters the room. And then the next thing you know you're in each other's arms, and clothes are being shed and cats frightened and furniture knocked all over the place in the hurry to reach the bedroom. To sink into each other, and entwine limbs, to drink at the well of the other, be sundered and lost. A hunger, an aching, the driving need to move close, closer, closer still, until the edges of everything are dissolving and the room is full of pent up breath and sighs and there's only the sensation coiling, ascending higher, taking wing like a bird.

And after two weeks of extreme tiredness, and mostly-celibacy I was getting ready to start throwing things, and after three consecutive nights of Erotic Dreamings I had reached the point of fearing that either a)my head would explode b)I would spontaneously combust c)all of the above, Z and I came home last night to an empty house and it was like God was showing me that he loved me and didn't want me to die of inner torment.

Evidently my husband did not want me to explode either, because clothes were shed as expdiently as the laws of physics allow and our bodies were doing the Magical Tricks That Bodies Do with the passion and the perfection of bodies in romance novels - all alabaster skin, and heaving bosoms and enflamed gazes and powerfully muscled arms and chiselled jawlines and towering column of love seeking secret valley of womanhood.

And the positive side of having endless buildup? By the time that sex actually happens you going off like firecrackers.

In my best sex moments my mind is fully present in my body, in the experience the body is having, but it is blank and open - I am thinking of nothing. Unfolding, reaching up/out towards something, unfurling a hundred secret senses as though the core of me is hidden in a series of boxes, stacked inside each other like Russian dolls, each smaller than the last all opening up like a rose. And the orgasm that comes surges forth slams against me like a wave. I gasp for breath. I crash with it, am broken into a million tiny pieces.

I am falling, flying, freewheeling off the edge of the world. My mind is a garde, a riot of colours - saffron and orange, shimmering green, opulent blues - blooming, shooting, unfurling through me like the bold, fiery sweep of a peacock's tail.

day 29 - talking bout a revolution

Today

Smallest Cutest Colleague: Would you classify our team meeting as unimaginably dull?

Me: Yes. Sometimes I think I can hear the tinny individual shrieks of my brain cells dying. One by one. Diminishing in small increments. Along with my yoof, and beauty and energy. One day I shall be but an empty shell, in whom nothing but the desire for cake shall remain.

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Me, to my mother: I just got a text message from someone who says they are my Russian cousin? Do I know who she is? Do you?

Mother: Sure you do. I was in a car accident with her father.

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Earlier:

WHY I MARRIED INTO A HEALTH AND SAFETY NIGHTMARE, AND WOULD IT BE ETHICALLY WRONG TO KEEP AnYCHILDREN I HAVE WITH THIS MAN TIED UP

Z: Oh this scar? I got it ages ago, when I was playing in the abandoned glass factory with the other children. And I was trying to even the shape of a piece of glass by hitting it with a coke bottle but it broke off in my hand and sliced off the back of my little finger. That kind of freaked me out so I stuck it back on and it healed.

Z: I guess I did scare my parents a few times. Like that time when my sister and I opened the oven door and decided to sit on it like a bench and then the oven overbalanced and fell on top of us and trapped us inside and my grandmother who was alone in the house with us couldn't move it. Or the time when I was a pretending to be a mountain climber and I tied a belt to the wardrobe and was using it to climb up and then it crashed on top of me and we all fell down.

*defensively* It wasn't a completely reckless and dangerous childhood. After all my mother never let me row my kayak down the Danube because she said it was full of whirlpools. Which is kind of hypocritical, considering that she used to entertain herself all the time as a girl by swimming out to where the whirlpools were in the river and swirling round and round and round in them... like a carousel.

day 28 - days and nights of endless pleasure

Some of the things that give me infinite gratification  (such as say absurdly long, hot baths; cake with alcohol in it; that which is shiney, a desire to wreathe myself in plastic jewellery) are socially acceptable and readily understood. Otheres (pierced navel/nose/ears;  walking around with no undershirts; the practice of tarot and astrology) are more problematic for the parental hypertension, but still, they are acceptable.

But there are other things that I enjoy so enormously that they rob me of ability to do anything except burble and sigh, which mystify and frustrate my surroundings until their heads start revolving and pyrotechnics come out of their ears.

It's not that they think those things are wrong as such, in the way that they would if I was say amusing myself by snorting crack cocaine - but they just don't understand the appeal. Or indeed how someone whom they believe to be very bright could possible, ever, on earth enjoy those things. And I, no matter how hard I try can never quite communicate to them my viewpoint, the reasons for my joy. Fundamentally, it's like the stuff I say just doesn't make sense.  As though we're figures in a dream, and instead of words I'm blowing air bubbles or talking Scientology.

Some of my controversial favourites:

• Rubbish telly. (But it's rubbish! I know. That's the source of delight)
• The sofa. (We go way back, and at times have been inseparable)
• Eating pizza while reading a book/watching rubbish telly/maybe both at the same time. (Junk food is but a delicate sauce to enhance the junk of the mind and coax forth all its inherent gastronomic glory)
• This and this and definately this.
• Bollywood. (I am stunned that more people aren't in love with this actually, and I'm shocked and apalled that anybody could spurn it. As far as I'm concerned it has everything which the heart could possibly ever dream of. Outlandish, convoluted plots! Fabulous dance routines complete with many set/costume changes right mid-sequence! Handsome heroes! Villanous uncles! Strange bits of English dialogue scattered throughout! Sequins! Just think of the sequins!)
• And now I've landed on the Segment of Joy which is the Jordan/Peter Andre duet/raising-moneys-for-charity-thing. Obviously, as far as I'm concerned it would have been enhanced had they done it Bollywood-style (especially if they had a mirrored disco ball come out of nowhere and a troupe of dancers 80's disco boogie-ing in the background mid song while it fake glitter-snowed and then maybe everyone inexplicably ended up in Venice in the next shot jumping around on gondolas) - BUT it is still sublime. So do your soul and favour and go here and watch it forthwith. I challenge your day not to feel just that little bit better.

day 27 - leg voyeurism

Looking at girls legs has been my obsession  interest hobby for years now. I suppose that because despite their guest appearances on the internets my legs are the part of my anatomy I am least pleased with, so I happily bask in the glory of others. Truly spectacular legs can brighten my day significantly, and be forgiven for such misdemanours against womankind as the skinny jean.

I prefer long legs, with slender thighs, although I am fully prepared to appreciate other kinds also. The short, muscular thigh has a certain appeal. As does the deliciously rounded, plump thigh - especially when paired with a curvy booty.

It's not a sexual thing, it stems more from a platonic musing. Like reading well-crafted writing. Like hearing a lovely piece of music, like watching horses run, like seeing a piece of art.

Like so many things, bittersweet. A mixture of 'why can't I?' and the purr of witnessing beauty.

day 26- now with 50% more extra free randomness!

Here is a picture of my living room, the computer that Wasn't and Then Was Again, and The Best Slippers In the World - available cheaply, from Barratt's! (Altough they kind of terrify the Small Cat, actually. In a sort of Bluebeardish way, I imagine.)

day 26 - more happiness-inducing than a bowlful of cake

So, remember yesterday, when I no longer had a computer and I was all sad? And when I woke up today it was still the same and I was still sad, only more so? And when I went to my seminar (and what a waste of I-could-have-been-in-bed-watching-telly hours that was!) the lecturer was doing her presentation from a laptop WHICH WAS EXACTLY LIKE MINE ONLY ALIVE, and it was like the Universe was laughing at me? Mocking me. Tormenting me. Stamping on my shins with high heeled boots as I lay there whimpering.

And so when Z called me to say that Using Magical Powers and All the Bloody Luck That God Gives Sagittarians he had brought my computer back to life, as far as I was concerned he could have set up an altar to himself and I would have been on my knees, worshipping. Suddenly, it was like the world made sense again! There was hope! And my marriage wasn't going to fail because I confiscated my husband's computer (because NaBloPoMo is more important than gaming, duh!) while he gnashed his teeth and rolled his eyes and snorted fire and sulfur.

As a small token of my appreciation, I immediately decided to collect all the plates and cups I like to scatter along the surfaces of our house and transfer them back to the kitchen. And when he  informed me that he had rescued all my documents, I even did the washing up (train your spouse to have low expectations, there's a key to a good marriage!). And then we fell into each other's arms all dewy-eyed with mutual appreciation, and the love, it was resurrected. And  at once the air about us burst into song, and birds twittered, and fluffy bunnies ran about frolicking in meadows and my heart became a garden of exotic creepers and bright orange flowers.

day 25 - tragedy! universe 1, nina 0=

My God, it's like I've got my own personal Mercury Retrograde hanging over the household long after everyone else's has moved on. Will there be no end to the sorrow?

Today, my beautiful, my beloved laptop has switched on its last and at the moment appears to be dead as a rock (I have tried pleading, begging, rending garments, promising firstborn child but The Blue Screen Of Doom is merciless and unrelenting like a Romanian customs official). The horror and loss are intense and immediate. If I had some ash to hand, I would be smearing my face with it right now.

Why did it have to die at all? And particularly why did it have to die just a few days away from the completion of NaBloPoMo? Is it all a conspiracy, too much coincidence? Did it die or was it MUREDERED?

It's really not like I need the  extra aggro considering:

• Period- imminent.
• Number of headaches I've had since presence of mother (three - coincidentally that's a lot more than I can say for the amount of sex I've had since the start of her visit)
• Number of boxes of her things I've helped shift from her old flat into ours (threee bajillion). I am ready to start burning books like Goebels.
• This leads me to think - did Christ choose to give away his belongings or did he just not want to move house?

Please tell me something happy.

day 24 - something blue

A year ago, dawn in Belgrade

Day 23 - a day that sucked donkey testicles

Today I had a long, hard day at work during the course of which I wanted to hex a number of infants, and I came home full of Sadness and Rage and had a fight with everybody* and First Cat had a fight and came home with his mouth full of Ennemy Fur and it was all very meh, except for when it was more like aaargh, aaaaaargh, aaaargh.

I unsettled my neighbours by invading their swing set in order to be able to have a nice cry, and I unsettled the cats who congregated around my legs and studied me with worried eyes, and Small Cat sat in my lap while First Cat put his hind legs in my lap and his front on my shoulders and didn't seem to mind when I sobbed into his neck.

And when the upset hit at my stomach and my stomach hit back and I spent a ridiculous amount of time communing with the toilet, Small Cat showed her support by keeping me company and sat by my feet so long that she fell asleep.

The animals may be worth their vet bills after all.

*Everyone is okay with one another now, just a bit winded and bruised** in the wake of all the drah-mah! emo! etc.

**On the other hand I'm looking forward to some extra hot make-peace-not-misunderstandings sex.

And in Gratuity News, here's a shot of my tighted, booted legs.

day 22 - internets say, i obey

For my lovely commenter:

On Books:

I've just finished reading Ten Thousand Lovers by Edeet Ravel and enjoyed it very much. The style is lovely and understated, and the Jewish-Palestinian conflict in Israel is described without rhetoric or dramatics. The story is simple but hard-hitting, and it contains bonus discussions of words and origins of words.

Currently reading  Little Children by Tom Perrotta, which is all kinds of sad and grotesque and sublime and gripping. Since I've been leaning towards the slightly mocking and grotesque in my own tastes I've appreciated Perrotta's flawed, hopeful characters. He writes like a man in the midst of a Saturn transit, beautifully, but ultimately about facing up to the consequences of one's actions and growing the hell up.

Tried reading Until I Find You by John Irving, but never really got into it and ultimately abandoned it on the bedside table to be perused at those times when I've read everything else in the house. At the best of times I struggle with Irving (exception - The Cider House Rules); his characters and his style really wind me up (e.g. I kept wanting to punch Owen Meany in the mouth; similarly to how the only redeamable feature of Ana Karenina for me was when she chucks herslef under the train) perhaps because it is too grotesque somehow, too raw, the wrong sort of bizzarre (as opposed to the right sort of bizzarre of magical realism).

About to start The Kite Runner which everyone and their grandmother has reccomended.

On Cats:

I try not to talk too much about my cats so as not to quite reveal the degree of my obsession, but I've been dying to do it, so now I can pretend to do it because the internets want to know and not because I'm sick with love and devotion.

Sliding Slope to Being That Old Lady Presents A Hypnosis in Three Acts starring First Cat (Three thousand priors for solicitation)  and Small Cat (12% Fluff, 88% Maniac, 60% RDA of cute)

ACT 1 [Lights up; Scene Left A Young Male is about to expose his privates in search of sensual gratification)

First Cat: Yo , stroke my belly! Stroke my belly I said! For I expose myself to you, because I'm A Big Whore.

ACT 2  [Lights Up; From Stage Right Small Cat trots up In The Mood For Love]

Small Cat: I am Little. And Fluffy. Admit it, my tail is the fluffiest thing you have ever seen. I could be a duster to the Queen. Do not resist me. Touch the Fluffy, Stroke the Fluffy. That Thing You Were Doing On the Computer is Uninmportant. Look into my eyes. Succumb to the Love. Don't struggle. Because dude, seriously, I.Am.That.Soft. I am soft as midnight whispers, I am fluffy like the featheriest dream of God.

Run your fingers underneath my chin, across my silky little ears. Touch my tail. Just. Touch. It.

Let us fall into one another's arms and drink Baileys.

 

ACT 3 - All three lie in bed watching television. The shadow in the corner of Nina's mouth suggests ice cream.