funeral crasher

Yesterday was the funeral.
It was pouring with rain. The day before was like spring in Rome, and today the streets of London are sunbathing again. But the day of Simon's final goodbye, the weather reflected his permanent mood.

It was very crowded, as one might expect with a young person.
I only wished he could see how many people cared. There were lots of my old classmates as well. Some of the girls, even.

We exchanged glances, but didn't know what to say. To them, it could have been me, I kept thinking. I bet they didn't even know for certain which of the skinny friends in the back of the classroom had killed himself, and which one they were gonna see standing next to the grave.

After the funeral, I had a quick chat with Natalee, Simon's sister. I told her how much of a shock it was to me. She stared at me, and at first I thought I had said something wrong or perhaps she didn't remember who I was.

But then she laughed, she actually laughed on her brother's funeral, and she offered me her handkerchief.

"Bugger," I said as I pressed it to my nostrils. "This is what I do, when other people cry," I said helplessly. I immediately realised what a fool I had made out of myself and wished I hadn't said anything.

"Bloody nosey George," she said. "You know, Simon was always so full of you... I used to tease him he was gay. I feel awful about that, now. I'm sorry. I'd just... I'd love to get to know you a bit better. I know it sounds silly, but I feel like I can still get to know Simon a bit better, make it up to him, that way. Can we meet another time?"

I felt a bit like a funeral crasher when I left. But how could I say no to the sister of the deceased?

Tonight I'm having dinner with Natalee. I wonder what Simon would have thought of that.

eulogy for simon d.

He actually did it. Simon D. killed himself. We went to college together. Yesterday I would have said we were friends. Now I don't dare to any more.

We both did our A-levels in English literature. Mind you, neither of us was any good at it; we were in it for the girls. Not that they were interested in us. We would just sit at the back of the classroom and stare at the g-strings escaping from their tight jeans, crawling up their backs, embracing their waists.

We hung out in the breaks and did most of our revising together. We were right miserable, but we were 17 and apparently everyone is miserable when they're 17. We spoke of suicide, all right, but I never thought he'd do it. I assumed some sort of equality between the two of us. I thought we were friends.

I don't mean to say I didn't mean what I said back then, but, you know, I grew out of it. After college, he went to Brighton, and every time when he came back during reading week he would say the same things to me, about how he suffered when other people paid attention to him, or didn't. About how no one knew what he was going through. About how he hated girls. About how he wished he was never born at all. About how he didn't want to be himself and about how every night when he went to sleep he feared and hoped at the same time that he wouldn't wake up the next morning.

I stopped seeing him then because, frankly, I thought the force of habit had reduced our friendship to moaning, and neither of us really needed that. Now that he fell off Brockley bridge, I realise he meant it all along. Every word.

I let him say all that. I was probably the only person who knew about his feelings. And all I did was agree with him. And eventually even I rejected him. I'm sorry to say Simon D. and I were never friends. We were miles apart from the beginning. We might have thought we were similar souls at one point, but we were never on the same wave length. Never. And when this dawned on Simon D., he had to take his life to let it get through to his only friend.

It makes me sad to think of it, and I cried for him when I read the news last night. My sympathy goes out to his bereaved parents and his sister.

No cuppa

Went to Ibiza night at Pacha with Matt yesterday. Great fun. I love a bit of clubbing now and then - it's about the only time people don't freak out when I start pissing blood out of my face and go to the loo to stuff my nostrils with tiny tampons.

Anyway, I'm on these pills again that are supposed make my blood thicker. I've had others before and they don't always help, and you can never use them for too long or you'll get scabs in your heart. But the last couple of days were actually quite good. There was still blood on my pillow every morning, but less, and I've hardly had them during the daytime.

So I was quite optimistic when Matt asked if I wanted to come with him.

I didn't dare to drink, because everything was going so well, and there was this gorgeous Portuguese girl giving me the eye. Matt noticed and when she went to the bar with a friend, he took my arm and dragged me there too.

"Hi," he said, "have you met George?"
"Not yet," she replied, and then Matt walked off. Crazy bugger. But it worked. Her name was Pauline, and by the end of the night she let me take her home.

"Remember what I told you," Matt said, and stuck his tongue out at me.

So I did, when she asked me in for a cuppa.
And in a way Matt was right, you know. When I was going down on her, she pulled my hair and pushed my face against her pelvis with force. I knew this meant trouble, but I thought: what the hell, if she's enjoying it now, she'll have to face it later.

And then she rubbed her clit against my face. Her pubic bone was pressing against my nose bridge, and I felt the hot blood gushing out of my nose again. I nearly chocked, because I had my tongue in her vagina and I my nose was blocked with blood. I coughed, which she seemed to enjoy a lot, and she was rough and I was even rougher.

She came.
"Oh my god," she said when I came up to fuck her. "I'm so sorry!"
"Don't worry," I said, trying to kiss her.
"No it's not," she said. Matt's a bloody liar. "I didn't realise I was in my period."

I tried to explain, but she was too embarrassed to let me finish.
She put on some clothing and ripped the sheets of the bed almost immediately. And then she kicked me out.

Not even a cuppa.

straight sorrow

Like every healthy straight guy, I sometimes find myself thinking life would be easier if I were gay.

After we were finished at the office, my friend Matt and I went to have a drink at his place. Since he’s got a girlfriend, we were soon talking about sex. He says if you’re doing it right, you can get away with anything.
“No really,” he said when I shrugged in disbelief. “If she’s enjoying it, no girl will complain when you get a nosebleed. Sure, if you’ll get all fussy over it, she’ll want you to stop too. But if you just go on fucking her like it’s part of the show, she won’t give a hoot.”

“Of course,” I said. “So, when was the last time you bled on a girl, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Actually,” he said, and winked at Sally, who came in with three cans of Kronenbourg, “the day before yesterday. She punched me when I told her to be rough with me.”

Sally put the cans down and gave me a meaningful look before disappearing to the kitchen again. I grabbed the remote controll and turned up the volume of the tv, so that Sally wouldn’t hear us.

“Tell me, Matt,” I wispered, “how do you make a lady enjoy sex so much that she doesn’t mind any more?”
He laughed. “It’s easy! You just have to lick her for ages.”
“Is that it?” I asked.
“Yeah, tease her. Make her go crazy until she begs you to poke her, and then go on for a bit more before you give her what she wants. And when you stop licking, don’t wipe away the drool. It’s like lube.”

Sally came back in with a three packets of crisps. I grabbed a Real McCoy’s salt and vinegar, my favourites.
“I was just telling George how you like it when I lick you, baby,” Matt explained.
“Do I?” she asked. And then: “Oh yes, I remember now. It’s a shame you don’t do it more often.”
“What are you talking about?” he said indignantly. “I licked you so much last week I had a bruise on my tongue!”

When I had finished my Kronenbourg and crisps they where still arguing about the frequency of Matt giving connulingus.
“Sorry guys,” I said and grabbed my coat. “I’ve got to feed my cat.”
“I can’t believe you don’t remember!” Matt exclaimed. “I’ll give you a good seeing to right now! Bye George, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

But what’s the point in pleasing her now, I wondered, when she won’t even remember you did it as soon as your tongue is healed? It would all be so much easier if I were gay. At least a bloke woulndn’t notice if I had a nosebleed all over his back, until he’s in the shower.

the blood of a virgin

I was fourteen when I lost my virginity. Emma was sixteen, and she said she was a virgin too.

It was a Friday afternoon, and she was supposed to help me with my French, so my mum paid her for it. Come to think of it, after a first time like that, it's no surprise I had to pay for almost every sexual encounter after that.

We went to the same school and she told me not to tell anyone. I didn't have to. That Monday disgrace awaited me, not her. I didn't put it in the wrong hole; I didn't go floppy; I didn't come too early; like normal boys. When I lost my virginity, I bled like a girl.

She had told all her friends how one moment I was fucking her in missionary position, and the next I had covered her firm pale titties in dark red mucus.

"I'm so sorry," I muttered, trying to wipe it off her, and thus covering her in blood completely.
She started to cry while I was still hard in her. Oh God.
"It happens sometimes," I tried to explain. But I didn't have to. She knew about my nosebleeds.
"Get off me, you freak!" she screamed. And than she slapped me. As if I wasn't bleeding already.

Her friends told their boyfriends, who told their little sisters not to sleep with me, who told their friends who told their siblings. Monday morning even my teachers knew I had lost my virginity and sprayed blood all over my tutor's tits.

"I expect you'll get an A for this test," said Mrs. La Vie, my French teacher, "considering you've had some help with your homework last Friday."

I remember everyone laughed.

don't blush, bleed

When I was a kid, I used to get smacked in the face. A lot. I've been hit so often, that I'm still suffering from chronic nosebleeds.

Who smacked me?
Everyone. Bullies at school, pikies in the neighbourhood, shop owners, my sister, my dad... I've even been hit by the mum of one of my friends.

Why?
Because I got on their nerves. I still do. But nowadays, it's because they can't even look at me or my upperlip is drenched in fresh blood again. Basically, when other people blush, I bleed. I hate it when that happens. I hate them for judging me, and I hate myself for making it worse.

When I'm angry or excited, my bloodpressure rises, which will lead to the inevitable nosebleed. I can't have spicy food without bleeding all over my plate. And if you're up for some real horror, try and get me drunk.

This blog is to let you in on the misery of living with epistaxis. Enjoy!