Cock tease

I didn't want to tell Matt about Natalee. I didn't want him to think I was a funeral crasher. I thought this blog was a perfect place to vent my frustrations.

But she cancelled me Tuesday night, and this blog was not quite enough. She didn't call me, you know. She didn't give me a reason for cancelling; if she did I might have felt like writing about it. She didn't say whether she ever wanted to meet again.
This is what she texted me, at 3 pm: "I hope you're not counting on having dinner with me tonite. I'm not in town."

My phone buzzed, I read the text and got a horrible nosebleed. I had to lay on the floor for nearly half an hour before it stopped. Matt cleaned my desk for me and was quite worried. Even though I've known him for almost five years now, I've never had such a bad one in front of him before. I didn't tell him what had invoked it. Not then.

But yesterday I blurted it all out, I started telling him about her at 10.30 in our coffee break, and almost spoke non-stop for twenty minutes. I just didn't understand Natalee, and I thought perhaps Matt could tell me what was going on. I guess I expected him to know a tad more about women because he's got Sally.

"By the sounds of it," Matt said when I'd finished, "you've found yourself a cock tease."
"You mean she never wanted to sleep with me in the first place?"
"I dunno why women do what they do, but she's a cock tease, she is. If you care for my advice, mate, steer clear from the likes of her."
I nodded, as if I knew exactly what he meant.
"The only way to get her out of your system is to pull some crumpet."

So I'm going to Fabric with him this Friday. I have to say I'm quite excited about the Japanese Popstars...

Oral lap dance

"George," Natalee asked, "do you have an STD?"
"Not that I know off," I said. "Why?"

She shrugged and took another bite. Green Thai curry is what she cooked me this time. I'm pretty sure she made it herself: I saw the opened packet of curry paste when I went rummaging through her fridge for milk, Wednesday morning.

No, we didn't fuck, in case you were wondering.

When I got to her place again, at first we pretended nothing had happened. We talked as if she hadn't told me what she had told me. Although I'm on new pills again, I was pretty nervous about the spicy food, so I mainly pushed it around on my plate, until she asked me, very straightforwardly, what exactly triggers my nosebleeds.

"Well," I said, "as you witnessed at Simon's funeral, it happens when I get upset. Or when I eat spicy food. And alcohol does the trick too, makes the blood thin, I guess."

"Then eat up," she said, "and let's get you sloshed."

"Sorry?" I said. I must have looked incredibly stupid while she took my glass of fizzy water to the kitchen and returned with a bottle of vodka.

I had no say in the matter. She made me eat the curry, which was the spiciest thing I've tasted for years. The last time I had something so spicy was at Jamie's place, when his brother and his pals tied me up and forced a bottle of hot sauce down my throat to see me bleed without punching me. They called me a girl when I did. It's not like I can help it, but I suppose neither can girls.

Any way, she just sat opposite me and watched me eat. I must say the new medication is great. So great, that it made me worry. At this point my shirt should have been drenched in blood, but nothing happened. Yet. And then she made me drink. Well, that did it: Two swigs and I was mixing a true Bloody Mary.

And then, the most amazing thing happened. Natalee got up without saying a word, leaned over me and started to lick. I sat frozen, didn't know what was going on, while she circled and licked my upper lip, my nostrils, the in and the outside... it was the most sensual thing I've ever experienced - so sexy I couldn't move. Kinda like a lap dance, when you just sit and cannot believe it is real.

And then she offered me her sofa. I don't know why she did that, I could easily have gone home. But how could I decline?

Natalee's Fantasy

What I like most about girls, is their fantasy.

Yes, Natalee has superb tits and a great ass, and she know how to dress.

Yes, she's an excellent cook (or she knows which catering service to call - I don't care, the shrimp ravioli she fed me that first Tuesday was excellent, and when we met again last Tuesday her place smelled strongly of Moussaka, and though I'm not normally a fan of lamb, my mouth is still watering when I think back of it).

She has a sweet character too, very compassionate and understanding, very much like her brother.

But the reason why I'm going back again this Tuesday, is that she told me her fantasy, last time. When I was at the door, about to leave, at 11.30 pm, she took my wrists and brought her face to mine as to kiss me good bye. And then she whispered in my ear.

"When I saw you in the rain, I couldn't stop looking at you. I felt so guilty, it being Simon's funeral and all, but I couldn't help but want you. When you came up to me at the reception, I considered to fake that I was crying, so that I could sneak to the back with you, and that you could do me right there and then. I was afraid you could smell how wet I was. You saved me from myself by having that nosebleed, you know that?"

She let go of my wrists and leaned back. I reached in my right pocket and clenched the packet of tissues.

"Shall I see you again next Tuesday?" I said, and turned to the door so that she couldn't see me lick the blood from my upper lip.

"Same place, same time," she replied. And I walked off without turning round. So cool. I bet she saw me get the tissue out of my pocket before I bled on my shirt.

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.