All Posts – Page 296
Sexy lingerie versus casual sleepwear
I’ve never been able to shake the feeling that sexy lingerie is for other people. The kind of people who can smile coquettishly and raise a solitary eyebrow, who sashay through a room rather than stomp across it, and who lounge sexily on a bedspread rather than throw themselves onto it in exhaustion after a long day.
When I smile coquettishly I just look smug, and although I’d love to do the saucy eyebrow-raise, when I attempt it I just look like I’m trying (and failing) to remember pi.
Lace knickers, half-cup bras, suspender belts and thongs and camis and silky, see-through dressing gowns that press against my tits to show the colour contrast of nipples and skin… ah, I’d love to be able to wear this stuff like the ladies in the lingerie catalogues. But even though I can’t pull this stuff off, there’s one kind of outfit that I find even sexier…
14 things that I loved in 2014
Every year I resolve to be better at promoting other people’s stuff, and every year I fail to live up to my own expectations. Absurdly, this is mainly because I get anxious and end up panicking that I’ll miss people off the list, which means I end up missing everyone off the list, because there is no list.
So this year I’m resolving to be better. And I’ll start with a list of 14 things I’ve loved this year. Some made me think, some made me laugh, and some made me horny. It’s not a definitive list, and I’ve almost certainly missed some cracking stuff, so if you want to pimp a particular blog post and go ‘hey, what about me?!’ please do add it in the comments. And if you email me your blog feed, and use the subject heading “Come the fuck on, GOTN, read my blog”, I promise I will add you to my feedly. Let’s make 2015 the year when I get off my arse.
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The tragedy of older women
I suspect this might be a first time this warning’s been put on a sex blog, but the following post contains spoilers for this year’s Doctor Who Christmas Special. I promise you it’s relevant.
My Mum finds it hard to get served at the bar.
I’ve seen it happen: she’ll be there for twice as long as most other people. She waits, purse in hand, trying to catch the eye of the bar staff, and making sure that she’s standing assertively. She’s not shy or nervous, hanging back or offering her place in line to other people – she’s just there, prominent yet invisible. Unnoticed. And people around her – younger people, and older men, nip ahead and throw their orders in.
And she waits.
Almost fucking on Christmas Eve
It’s fucking hectic behind the bar. Every drink comes with a second, because the regulars are feeling generous, and he, I and a bunch of other staff are lining them up. Landlady’s insistence: we’re allowed to drink on shift. And it’s Christmas, so no one thinks about saving the money, we just say ‘ta’ and line them up:
Vodka and cokes: have one yourself. Have six yourself. Slur ‘Cheers’ as you’re pulling the next pint.
When I rush round tables to collect glasses, Steve (a regular – skeezy and greasy and ‘harmless’ depending on who you talk to and how many pints he’s had) sneaks up behind me. He follows me around until I’ve got four, five glasses in each hand. Then as I turn to take them back to the bar he grips me round the waist. Hard hands, insistent squeezes.
The topless snowball fight
Hovering near the top of my ‘missed opportunities’ list, somewhere just behind ‘never getting round to that gangbang dinner party’ is a snowy afternoon in the early noughties.
Remember that time in your life when you were most carefree? Happiest? Most content in your body and intensely, hornily desperate to use it? Well, mine was around about then. Just before I’d started shagging, but long after I’d discovered boys. My weekends and evenings were spent huddled in whispering, weed-smoking, cider-swilling groups, competing with each other to contrive more imaginative ways we could get touched up by our equally-horny peers.
I miss those times.