Gay promiscuity, bad kissers and a box of Wheaties.

Okay, first what needs to happen is this:

Anyone who is not a) at work, b) easily offended (and if you are, WHY are you here??) or c)going to mind receiving a deluge of gay porn in their email box as a result of the following, should immediately click here to observe the latest in awesomeness from our friends, “The Gays”.

The homosexual community has taken internet dating to the next level, friends, and I say more power to them. With Bendr.com, one gay can locate another gay, not just by area of city or preferred sexual position, but by actual meters.

“’Big Tool 4 You’ is a 6’4" blue-eyed hottie and a gentle handed top, with rock hard abs and forearm-sized cock. And he’s only 34 metres from you RIGHT NOW! Quick!! Find a bush! Find a sauna! FInd a toilet!”

Generalise, schmenaralise (yea…try that one ten times fast) I’m not homophobic - I LOVE the gays and am currently living with my dearest gay friend (who is so hot it’s actually painful), Richard, AKA He Who is Responsible for My Recent Gay-ducation.

He's told me of the sex saunas and anonymous blow jobs. He's expressed confusion over my desire to (occasionally) learn the names of my sexual partners. To maybe even have dinner first...

"What I don't get about Straight Land is - why waste time getting to know someone who may well turn out to be lousy in bed?" he's asked on more than one occasion and I must say I've often struggled to respond convincingly - for him or for me.

What I find hilarious is that some people are still shocked by the rampant promiscuity within the gay community.

Really...?

It’s TWO DUDES.

It's nothing to do with being gay. Can you imagine how much shagging would be going on if straight girls wanted to do it as often and as freely and straight guys do?

Actually, wait.

Moving on...

Anyway, onto far more pressing matters.

Following my recent hiatus from…well, everything, I haemorrhaged a harem member or two (By choice, kittens, not to worry.) and am actually giving thought to reducing their numbers in general, as there’s no use going to the smorgasbord if you’re just not that hungry. (F*ck you, cancer.)

I have, however, been in a few dates recently and, reference my delightful gay friend's confusion above, I'm sorry to report that this city is simply overrun with bad kissers. (Never mind the rest.) Take, for example,

The Kiwi – Gorgeous, smart - duck lips. And not in the good way.

The Triathlete – also gorgeous, incredibly sexy - snake kisser.

The Investment Banker (I know) – Stunning, exceptionally well-dressed, FRENCH (you people invented the kiss, damnit!) – attack tongue. Ever seen a prospective kisser’s tongue heading for you, before it even reaches your face??

Terrifying.

There’s also been The Rapid Pecker, Excessive Saliva Guy and – by far the worst of them all – He Who Makes Girl Noises When Kissing.

What. The. Fuck.

And the only recent conquest with enough skill to move round the four bases and was equally competent with both sets of lips?

One round and then asleep.

I mean dead to the world, unconscious, snoring.

I had to shake him awake so he could get the hell out.

I’ve heard of this happening to men as they get older (we’re talking late thirties here, kids, don’t get any crazy ideas) – the sex lasts longer, but you get only ONE shot at it (pun only partially intended). And when I quizzed him (gently, sensitively, of course) (err...) as I escorted him out the door and back to East London, his response was, laughingly (and unapologetically),

”What can I say love. I can go twice in a row. So long as there’s 8 hours of sleep and a box of Wheaties between 'em.”

Um...

Doc?

I may need some more of those drugs.

Fuck you, cancer.

That's pretty much all I have to say about that.


I'm back, kittens.

Well, I was never really gone, I suppose. Just...horizontal.

And not in a good way.

If anyone really wants details about the kind of cancer whose ass I've just kicked or the treatment(s) for it which have recently been kicking mine, then feel free to email me. I'll likely ignore you, of course, as clearly you've got far too little going on in your life and I therefore have no desire to associate with you, however kind your intentions. But, you know...thanks.

The rest of you can simply go back to sleeping at night, calm in the knowledge that I'm once again darkening the streets of London, more determined than ever to enjoy the remaining moments of this ever tenuous mortal coil.

That is, of course, once my business is back on track, my body is back in shape and my hair (which, thankfully has not deserted me) has been thoroughly tended to.

But for today, just a quick hello, I think.

Mostly cuz I've a meeting for most of this afternoon and a date right after work.

BBC cameraman. Triathlete. Hot.

Oh yes, kittens.

I'm back.

Vomit, poison and, well...Spaniards.

Uh...

*coughs*

*shifts gaze*

*shuffles stilettos* (NOT easy, incidentally.)

Yea.

I've been...gone again.

Okay, Naughty Ones. I'm just gonna say it.

I'm gonna tell you.

Not because I want to, but because some of you are getting rather f*cked off with The Barreness and I do hate to make enemies. (And yet, I'm happy to refer to myself in the third person for absolutely no reason whatsoever.) (*ponder*)

So...I'm not well.

Yes, again.

And no, I don't want to talk about it.

(Mushy sh*t makes my teeth itch.)

Suffice it to say they've been pumping poison into me for several weeks now and I'm struggling to keep up with much of anything, not to mention my dearest dirty corner of the interweb.

In short - I may be gone again for a few more weeks, but hope to be back with you all soon.

Really.

And to my loyal followers/regular commenters/fellow bad asses with soft sides: Thanks in advance for the well wishes but, in lieu of flowers, please send naked photos of Javier Bardem.

Or...you know...the real thing would also be nice.

Hanging with Ai Weiwei.

The possibility exists of course, that none of you have noticed my sudden and complete disappearance from the interweb.

It's conceivable that you've been utterly oblivious to the lack of sex, nicotine and general debauchery in your weekly reading life.

I suppose it's not unthinkable that you haven't missed me at all.

But let's not get crazy, kittens -

You've all seen my legs.

Furthermore, I've seen my inbox, which has been recently runneth over with emails enquiring after everything from my health to my business to my girl parts and - though slllightly terrified by the last one - I'm actually a little touched.

So stop it.

Emotion makes me uncomfortable.

As for my whereabouts these last couple of weeks, well... it would be infinitely easier to tell you what I haven't been doing.

I haven't been engaged in any acts of corporate espionage.

I haven't been indulging in any torrid affairs with high profile poiticos.

I haven't been kidnapped and held in secret by Middle Eastern or East Asian countries, despite flagrant public displays of cleavage and one or two rather pointed artistic exhibitions.

I haven't been regularly attending any church, synagogue or mosque. (Because...right.)

I haven't been to any recent Republican rallies. Not even just to throw things at Sarah Palin.

And I absolutely haven't been spending entirely too much time with this guy.

Uh...

*cough*

*defiant hair toss*

*lighting of cigarette*

WHAT??

No, for reasons far too uninteresting to encumber you with here, I've been largely ensconced in a major new business push at work; frantically scouring the Corporate Crazies for new clients, developing new commercial channels and attending an unending string of business networking events in the city.

By far the least interesting and most infuriating way to spend a few hours, I assure you.

But at last there have been signs of success on that particular front, which has enabled a fleeting return of attention to my deliciously darkened corner of the world wide web.

I'm thinking of buying new restraints, I'm so pleased to be back.

So now.

Tell me all the dirt that I've missed.

Or alternatively you may simply queue up for a few swats with the old red riding crop.

It's been a while and my wrist has weakened, but I'm sure I can still put some sting on it.

Incidentally, there was a winner of the hideous gossip rags, but I'm having technical difficulties which are keeping me from posting the best story.

By technical difficulties I mean it was submitted anonymously. And it's so delicious that I need to know who wrote it. Need. To know. Stay tuned.

Tokens for tales.

Well hello there.

Me again.

Been a while.

I KNOW...

I'll not bore you with details, but it's manic 'round here, Naughty Ones. Manic. Clients, Spaniards (I *may* have slipped a little in my resolve never to see THE Spaniard again.) (I know but in my defence there was a LOT of sangria involved.), house hunting, bartenders and, of course, summer holiday planning. I'm thinking Greece...

What?? This is what happens when you're me.

But today something happened that made me laugh.

And gave me an idea.

I was given a gift (by someone who clearly does NOT know me), with which I haven't had the slightest idea what to do for DAYS.

It was given with genuine, wide-eyed worship by a very sweet little intern of mine (who, I suppose, figured that being American I must have been as obsessed with the royal wedding as was everyone else), and I accepted with a grateful smile and expertly feigned enthusiasm.

You really ought to have seen it. Oscar-worthy performance, kids.

Anywho, I've stared at this token for days now, wondering what the bloody hell to do to get it off of my desk without just binning it right in front of her, when it occurred to me that some of my readers (that's the non Brits among you) (probably) may have actually given a hoot about the wedding, and may also quite fancy a genuine piece of pop culture from Old Blighty.

Also?

I got an email recently asking if I'd give away a pair of my panties.

Sorry, Geoff, but no.

But I will give away these:




















Seriously?? I'm not sure I've ever even opened a gossip rag. Like, ever.

I assure you, they're both in pristine order, as I've more sort of stared at them in amusement (and slight horror) for a few days, and as such they've not left the corner of my desk on which they were first placed.

They will be mailed to you in a super sexy (manilla, probably) (ooo) envelope, and I may even enclose a little hand-written note, from me to you.

(Which you should keep, of course, for it's potential future value.)

(Naturally.)

(...what?)

BUT. In order to win this highly valuable prize (ignore the £2 price tags, mmmkay?), you'll need to tell me, via email (in 500 words or less), what you got up to whilst everyone else was watching Kate and Will vow-swapping at Westminster Abbey.

Where were you? Who were you with? What was playing on the radio?

Was there chocolate sauce or other condiment involved?

Dish the details and I'll post the rags.

And if your RW adventure wasn't that exciting (or if you actually got up a 3am to watch the bloody thing)...

make some sh*t up.

Come on people, posting overseas is DIFFICULT.

(Not really.)

It's EXPENSIVE.

(No, it isn't.)

I guarantee I won't FEEL LIKE IT.

(...)

I'll give you till this time next week and I'll post the best story* on here, full of link love.



* Based on what criteria and judged my whom? I'll give you three guesses.

Royal Weddings and Dildo Weaponry

Yea so...okay.

I went.

To the WEDDING, of course.

Kind of.

That is to say I was in Trafalgar Square - a lovely bit of central London which, on an ordinary Friday afternoon, looks like this:
















But which, last Friday, looked more like this:














And finally, like this:














I remember thinking that morning, as I smugly sipped my latte and watched the jubilant Londoners stream past - Union Jacks flying and champagne bottles already bursting forth at half past nine in the morning - what prats they all looked like.

And then, slowly, as I realised I was in fact ALONE at the coffee shop, and that I am actually an American (for now), who may or may not ever again get the chance to be in London for an occasion such as this, I decided to stop being such an unbelievable TIT and get my Yankee arse out to the party.


And honestly? I'm DELIGHTED that I did it.

The atmosphere was...euphoric. Contagious.

Joyful, even.

And, though it pains me to admit it, I too couldn't help but discuss Kate's dress for at LEAST the next two days.

Utterly stunning.

As was Pippa.

And Miriam Clegg, apart from the rather unfortunate panty line.

*...and The Barreness kicks her own ass.*

I did, however, feel the need to strike a balance between the oh-so-wholesome church wedding I'd spent all in morning drooling over and my...usual choice of activity for a free Friday afternoon.

So naturally, as the rest of the crowds scoured the horizon for the royal couple and their shiny Aston Martin, I headed to soho to scour the sex shops for a shiny new vibrator.

As you do.

And let me tell you, Naughty Ones, it's been some time since I've broadened my array of battery operated devices (because she who never goes thirsty rarely fetches water, that's why) and I found the experience utterly delightful, both in comedic value and in satisfaction of outcome.

Seriously.

There truly are variations on every imaginable theme available.

Small, large, straight, curving, coloured, clear, plastic, "faux skinned", with and without clitoral stimulation - the possibilities (and mental images) are endless.

How MARVELOUS.

So too are the many varied uses - as discovered by the young man who attempted to grab my FAVOURITE leather hobo bag as I traipsed merrily back toward my corner of London.

Almost instinctively, as I felt the pull on my left shoulder (which held my bag), I swung my right arm (which held my shiny new vibrator) (I call him Rafael), and managed to actually knock the criminal out for a few seconds - just enough time to scurry into the next taxi.

You should have heard the driver, who witnessed the whole thing, in absolute hysterics when I revealed my weapon of choice for fending off muggers in The Smoke.

And yes, of course I saw the comedy.

But mostly what I see is potential.

Imagine...

Gone could be the sheepish blushing of young women as they purchase their first battery operated "best friend".

Yesterday could be the disapproving looks of husbands/boyfriends when said young woman returns from Sex-O-Rama with her shiny new "Rafael" in hand.

"But honey, its for protection as much as anything."

"Didn't you say you were WORRIED about me??"

Seriously, dildo manufacturers?

Call me.

We'll talk features and benefits.

And wall socket attachments.

Frankly, Your Majesty, I just don't give a cr@p.

Ugh, London has gone Royal Wedding crazy.

CRAZY, people.

Street parties are planned, celebratory hats are being purchased (Oh how I love the English), British flags hang from every building along Portobello Road, and you cannot pick up a SINGLE publication without being inundated with wedding info/gossip/fashion predictions (UGH) and general foolishness.

I'd love it if I didn't hate it so much.

And before you say it, I know. I KNOW. I'm a cynical b*tch.

But really?

They're not curing cancer here, kittens.

There's no third world country about to benefit from Friday morning festivities. Neither economic prosperity nor a return to "traditional family values" (whatever those are) will result from the nuptials of Master Will and Madame Kate.

I have on good authority that there will be few (if any) Spaniards in attendance.

So, what's all the fuss about?

I suppose it is the one chance my beloved Britons have to be patriotic without being "overt" or "boorish" or, you know, "American", so I suppose I get that bit.

I just wish they'd pick a less cringe worthy event to celebrate.

Or at least lay off Kate's family.

Anyway, same old story in this corner of The Big Smoke, my Naughty Ones - Work, work, this shit, Spaniards*, work.

I know I've been a stranger of late (again), but I will try to make like a good blogger and visit you all soon.

Just probably not tonight.

The Painter is due and...so...clearly.

So in the meantime, I'll leave you with something that never EVER fails to make me laugh.



Muchas gracias to aforementioned super cute amigo for the intro.



* So I may have "accidentally" run into The Bartender earlier this week.

And I may have to "definitely on purpose" climb on run into him again this week.

Honestly, how does Spain DO IT?

And...how can I ever thank them?