The Barreness

Gay promiscuity, bad kissers and a box of Wheaties.

2011-09-16T14:29:00.008+01:00

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.

2011-09-14T09:23:00.004+01:00

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.

2011-06-28T14:33:00.005+01:00

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.

2011-05-26T14:45:00.005+01:00

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.

2011-05-10T18:53:00.009+01:00

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

2011-05-03T18:44:00.020+01:00

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.

2011-04-27T17:21:00.005+01:00

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?

Golden hearts, great asses and an ode to a Rock Goddess.

2011-04-20T14:59:00.009+01:00

Honestly, you just have to love Sister Merry Hellish. And not just for her ass (which, I have on good authority, is SPECTACULAR), but for that big ol' heart of hers...

It appears, kittens, that one of our own is struggling a bit.

One of my very favourite bloggers - she of big brain and bangin' body who shall, for the moment, remain nameless - has made the difficult and gut wrenching decision to return to ~~freedom~~ singlehood, after many long years of ~~shackles~~ wedded bliss.

As you might imagine, I'm absolutely delighted for her.

Err...in the most sensitive of ways, of course.

*cough*

Anyway, Sister Merry wrote to me immediately upon hearing the news and suggested that we might cheer up our beloved Hot Tamale by reminding her of all those reasons why being Single and Salacious so voraciously kicks the @rse of being Taken and Tedious*.

So what's a Barreness to DO when confronted with a task such as this, in honour of such an immeasurably fabulous chica?

Take the "Naughty" List, that's what.

(View the "Nice" one at Sister Merry's place. I guarantee it'll be worth the click.)

But somehow, for this particular blogger, a simple top ten was just not enough.

It had to be something harder. Something edgier. Something that would speak to the inner Rock Goddess who's been long stifled but who 's poised and ready to b*tch slap us all into delighted submission.

Something...from the 80s.

And so, Naughty Ones, I give you my Top Ten Reasons why Singlehood ROCKS, as set to the tune (which I'm absolutely certain she'll know well) of "Kiss Off" - the famous 80's Angst Anthem from the Violent Femmes (embedded below, for those who lived under some kind of immovable object throughout the decade of bad hair and ankle socks).

I hope she'll find it uplifting.

"... I take 1, 1, 1 cuz I'm outie and

2, 2, 2 for new panties and

3, 3, 3 for a spanking and

4, 4, 4 for a SPANIARD and

5, 5, 5 to play tennis and

6, 6, 6 for my blogging and

7, 7 I m-m-m-may try a flogging and

8, 8, ...I drank away what 8 was for, but

9, 9, 9 bits of "strange ass" and

10, 10, 10, 10 is for everything everything everything EVERYTHING..."

Sending strength and resilience to you, my love.

And Spaniards.

Lots of Spaniards.

Cuz, obviously.

*Okay, yes, I KNOW. It's not always tedious. Just usually. ;-)

It's not MY fault your nipples are scabby. ***

2011-04-14T12:35:00.008+01:00

Eleven am on a Thursday morning in central London.

The Barreness - just sitting down to a well deserved coffee break (and Toledo reverie) - is interrupted by the shrill ring of an as-yet-not-re-ring-tone'd new mobile.*

The Barreness: Well hello, chicken. How's tricks?

Let's just call her "F": Tricks would suck far less if you'd check your bloody voicemail just ONCE this millenia you ellusive cock gobbler.

She's one of B's classiest friends, actually. She just has the mouth of a horny sailor on shag leave on the coast of Thailand.

B: Oh mierde. Sorry, babes. Heh. Cock Gobbler.

* Scribbles mental note: Cock Gobbler. Use in sentence. Probably on blog. *

So? How's mummyhood? Nipple scars healed yet?

F: No they haven't and wipe that look off your face.

B: What look?

F: The smug, self satisfied one that I know you're currently sporting. You and your healthy nipples.

B: *vows never to know anyone so well again*

F: Anyway, I'm currently in the midst of a major f*cking meltdown and you're the only one I know who can metaphorically slap me back to reality. Also you're the only person I know who can discuss my nipples in the middle of the work day.

B: *Cursing the decision to start her own business.* Melt down? Nipples? Again?

F: No, nipples are fine. Well, they're not fine. Like, at all. They're actually a rather splendid shade of purple and have gone all kind of crusty.

*B vomits a little in her mouth*

But that's not what this is about.

B: Hokay, hit me.

F: Okay, so I'm chatting with one of the other mummies in my post natal class today and fuckyouverymuch for not commenting on THAT bit.

B: ...((cough))...

F: And she's talking about her first kid and how long it took to get it into the "right" preschool and how some of the waiting lists are, like, up to 5 years long and how, if they don't get into a good private preschool then they'll be cast down with the dope fiends and crack whores of the public school system and that I really ought to have filled out my application years ago.

((I kid you not, lovelies. This is pretty near verbatim.))

F: And I was all, "Well I was only pregnant eleven months ago" and she was all, "yeah, but you knew you wanted kids, right? So you probably should have thought about this" and now I'm kicking myself for not having considered this already, because apparently that's what women DO who don't even have boyfriends, and I'm also totally caught between not wanting to be a pretentious twat who won't let my child associate with 'normal' people whilst still realising that a solid educational foundation is crucial, what with Cambridge to consider in a few years, and obviously the crack whore thing is a bit of a worry.

*pause for breath*

F: So...?

B: *trying not to laugh audibly* So what?

F: So what do I do?? Apply now in the hopes of getting a place at a top tier or maybe second tier preschool or leave the future of my child to chance and the whim of Colombian drug lords and gang rapists?

B: You're not serious.

F: I will cut you.

B: *takes long drag* You know me, honey. I'd go drug lords and gang rapists every time.

F: I'm SERIOUS B. The future of my child and your God daughter (I know, right? HILARIOUS.) is at stake here.

B: Hokay, two things. One, I'm fairly certain that crack whoring in the formative years is rare, even amongst the 'dregs' of publicly educated 2 yr olds. As for gang rapes - does it really count if they lisp as they demand that she suck their pee pee? Or if they don't even know what their pee pee is FOR yet?

F: *snort* Pee pee.

B: Two, this is not an issue, you post natal mental case. Is there, like, some residual afterbirth f*cking with your head or have you forgotten that The Professor has contacts at the *insert name of super posh preschool in uber swanky borough of London here* and that he has already secured pre-approval for My Little Munchkin for the Autumn 2013 term - as was detailed in the gift I gave you LAST WEEKEND AT HER CHRISTENING?

You know - the one where you made me go into a CHURCH? With, like, a HAT ON? And a TWEED JACKET?

F: The event to which you wore bloody electric blue stilettos you mean?

B: They MATCHED! *indignation*

F: ...and then hit on my priest?

B: I merely chatted, F. And you TOTALLY didn't tell me he was South American so it's kind of your fault.

F: He's a man of God. And you have a sickness.

B: No, what I have is a dinner date.

F: *shocked silence*

B: Anyway, I hardly think a woman currently perspiring over the potential for gang rape amongst the under fives is well placed to accuse others of mental instability.

F: ...((cough))...

B: ...

F: ...Um...right. Yea okay, well. I guess I should have read the card...

B: ...

F: ...I may have gone slightly mental...

B: ...

F: ...Pee pee?

B: ...

F: Oh f*ck off, my nipples are killing me.

B: Indeed.

F: Well, err... So. What are you doing anyway?

B: Meh. Just trying to decide between a week in Cannes for the film festival or a week in Pamplona for the Running of the Bulls next summer.

F: ...

B: Both equally fabulous, both equally expensive when done properly, and both likely to be teeming with lovely men and tasty cocktails. Or the other way around works too.

What do you think?

Should I invite El Matador** or just see what the week brings about?

F: ...

B: F?

F: ...

B: Err...hola?

F: You're a cunt. And I have nipples to ice. See you Saturday?

B: But really, which would you do?

F: *click*

Choices, people, choices.

That is all.

* One of the worst parts of living in England? I once had the Jefferson's theme song as my mobile phone ringtone and NO ONE understood the sheer awesomeness of it.

** El Matador was the winning suggestion for a new moniker for The Replacement Spaniard - submitted via email by an anonymous reader. Anonymous? Well done, kitten. Well done.

** I truly cannot WAIT to see what sort of Google searches bring people here now.

Vagina schmagina.

2011-04-11T14:52:00.008+01:00

It's not infrequently that I find myself discussing lady bits.

This may shock some of you.

Be it men asking how best to treat one (this post gets more hits each day than my entire blog combined), girls enquiring after what might be wrong with one ("So, it's kinda red and swollen...") or even my youngest readers emailing asking how (and if) they should groom one, I seem to have become the font of all Lady Flower-related knowledge.

It's really rather flattering.

Recently, however, it has come to my attention that I'm well in debt to the Swear Jar for using terms which disrespect the "magic" we girls are apparently brewing up betwixt our thighs.

Observe this email from a "Strong Female" with waaay too much free time (and way too little personal accountability):

"B, ...Blah blah, you're generally amazing, blah..."but I have to say I'm growing tired of the derogatory terms I've seen used on this site to describe the magical vagina."

Magical?

Um...?

Also? She typed it just like that. All bold and italicised. ((Shiver)).

"Using terms like 'snatch', 'pussy' or 'cunt' is not only disrespectful to women, but contributes to our continued repression and status as second class citizens. If you're really interested in women's empowerment, I suggest you start referencing your own body (and ours) in terms which command the respect and reverence we are all entitled to.

Yours sincerely,

A Strong Female Admirer"

Le sigh.

First, I must say I am disappointed.

Here I was thinking I was in for a proper telling off and then you had to go and ruin it with improper grammar.

"...to which we are all entitled" would have been the correct phrasing of that sentence, SF. If you're going to spew utter tosh, could you at least do it properly? Cheers.

As for the bulk of your ~~asinine complaints~~ points - Whilst I can realise that some people may be offended by my use of foul language (don't say you weren't warned), am I correct in surmising that you actually blame the repression of women on the use of the word 'snatch'?

Not archaic religious/cultural traditions?

Not our patriarchal society?

Not the ever-booming sex trafficking tade or the objectification of young women?

Not the women who allow themselves to become the stereotypes which we "strong females" so ardently rail against?

Not Cosmopolitan or OK! Magazine which presume that a woman's only interests are celebrities, fashion and "How to Make Him Cum Like a Race Horse"?

Side note: That article was RUBBISH. And SO elementary.

No, I'm sure it's words holding us back in the political spectrum. It's terminology paying us 70 cents on every dollar (or pence on every pound). It's verbiage feeding our minds garbage and triviality in the "women's" sections of our local newsagent.

Every time I type "pussy" a feminist loses her Birkenstocks.*

There are lots of places to which you could point the finger of blame, dearest "Strong Female", but the urban dictionary is probably not the most pressing.

And the fact that you've the time to scour my blog for "derogatory terms" leads me to believe that you're not, in fact, out campaigning for awareness of sexual trafficking, genital mutilation or the right of a woman to govern her own body.

Show me a cultural shift which says I no longer have to declare my marital status every time I fill out a legal document (Miss, Mrs or Ms - because in our society a woman's relationship status "says something about her"), or which does not require an army of attorneys to ensure a woman is not getting the financial middle finger by a prospective employer and I'll never use the word cunt again.

(Unless I'm insulting someone, of course, when it's almost like breathing.)

In the meantime, though... Whatever "magic" it is you've got going on in that ax wound/beef pita/pink taco/bearded oyster of yours?

Does it make espresso?

'Cuz THAT would be awesome.

* Before panties twist further, I am not suggesting that all feminists wear Birkenstocks. I'm reasonably certain they do not make a stiletto'ed variety and I have called myself a feminist in the past, so...clearly.

F*ck me, it’s Thursday.

2011-04-07T13:53:00.005+01:00

Alternate title: Spaniards Spaniards everywhere and not a moment to shag.

*Pauses for a moment, lights a ciggie and eyes “client wine” stocks longingly.*

There are times, my darlings, when my work is a real source of pleasure for me. When my morning stroll through the streets of London carries with it the sweet anticipation of raising the window gate on the business I’ve built; a sensation that never fails to delight as I gaze lovingly through our bay window on a creative space slowly waking in the growing sunlight. There are times when making that first cup of tea, switching on the music in the design studio and taking that first phone call gives me the same thrill as the very first morning I did it. My business. My space. It’s beautiful.

Then there are other days.

Days when the bloody ancient gate sticks and you have to use your favourite fountain pen to pry the stupid shagging lock thingy loose, when Starbucks has run out of chai and the horny Italian from the coffee shop next door takes you for someone who responds well to lip licking, and when your lingerie closet is actually gathering dust (I know, right?) when you realise that - despite recent good fortune in the areas of travel and, well, orgasms – this pesky need to “pay bills” and “contribute to society” is really beginning to cramp your social style.

This. Has been one of those days.

I literally looked at the computer screen this morning, after mentally cleansing myself of the leering Italian, cursed the supplier’s strikes that led to my Starbucks shortage and thought, Holy f*ck, is it REALLY Thursday?? I frantically consulted my desk calendar to be absolutely certain and even then I found it shocking. I’m four days into the bloody work week, still buried under piles of “must phone”s and ”really need to see”s and to add insult to seriously unsatisfied libido, the Replacement Spaniard* phoned last night to say he’s in London next weekend and I?

I’m at a project kickoff meeting.

In Liverpool.

A whole...((mentally calculates train route from London))...long way away.

Furthermore, THE Spaniard has also been in touch recently, begging forgiveness (again) and suggesting all manner of exotic short break, but I’m far too busy to even consider such a proposal, even if I hadn’t vowed never again to allow him access to the VIP section of The Barreness’s “Champagne Room”.

And last (and possibly worst) of all? The darling Spanish (or maybe Brazilian?) (But really, does it matter?) bartender on whom I’ve had half an eye these last six months or so has decided to go back to university and to give up the bar gig, as the hours were conflicting with his school work. And even though he did leave me his number scrawled rather charmingly on the back of a photo of he and I from a PR vent I hosted there in the autumn, I just can’t bring myself to ring it, as I’m absolutely certain I’ll prevent all manner of studying if unleashed on the poor lad.

I’m just not sure I can do that to his future.

So... f*ck me.

Or don’t as it were.

*sobs*

I'll pop round and say hello properly this weekend, kittens, and in the meantime? Get your shag on for me, will ya?

Ill make it up to you. Eventually.

*sobs again*

* The Replacement Spaniard really needs a new moniker. What do you think? His Hotness? Captain 'Big O'? Suggestion box is open, Naughty Ones. Go on...fill it.

Turns out you people are really into soft porn. That, or you're just DYING to see me naked.

2011-04-01T12:49:00.008+01:00

So.

Apparently, there's a shortage of nudity available on the interweb.

(I, personally, have never found this to be true.)

(Email me and I'll send you some of my favourite links.)

Perhaps I'm the only one being constantly spammed by "Hot Young Asian Ass" dot com or "sexyMILFmamas" dot co dot uk with offers of "free hardcore porn at low low prices", because holy. crap. my inbox is absolutely RAMMED with emails asking to see the unpublished photos mentioned in my last post.

(Heh. Inbox. Rammed.)

(I'm such a child.)

They range from the sheepish:

"Um...Id really like to see the other pictures, if you would be cool with sending them to me."

to the demanding:

"What the fuck, woman, WHERE are the other pics, damnit?!"

to the downright disturbing:

"Not sure if I've got more giz left in me after spending the last hour with your legs, but I'm pretty sure I could find more if your tits were on display."

I kid you not.

That's copied and pasted DIRECTLY from "rick079"'s email.

*shivers*

*reaches for cigarettes*

*deletes inbox*

Well, my Naughty (and slightly creepy) Ones, what can I say?

Much as I'm delighted to arouse and occasionally even satisfy the sexual appetites of my readers verbally (it's another site. never mind.), somehow posting (mostly) naked pictures of me on this site seems excessively narcissistic, even for a person such as myself.

I mean, blogging is all about attention whoring, is it not?

And I'm okay with that.

But somehow adding personal nudity would just take it to a level which teeters on the ridiculous. Furthermore, men in my actual life have to work (very) hard for a glimpse of the unwrapped Barreness (or, you know, be Spanish), so why should I just go handing out the goodies on the interweb, where any pleb/weirdo/Republican can check their "giz levels" - a la my good friend Rick079 up there - for free?

There ought to be some kind of tit for tat here, kids.

Am I not entitled to compensation for the "giz fest" (I'm actually beginning to love that word) I am likely to inspire?

You show me yours and then (maybe, if you're very very lucky) I'll show you mine?

You send me Jimmy Choos and I send you a photo of me wearing (only) them?

Could be a fun game...

Then again, I suppose such an arrangement would bring me dangerously close to actual prostitution and, lets be honest, it would be rather difficult to retain the respect of my clients if they ever got wise.

Bad for business, really.

So I guess that's out too.

Shame, though...I could totally use some new shoes.

So I took some naked photos. I was jet lagged. And still mourning my sister's vagina.

2011-03-30T11:30:00.007+01:00

Ah, London.

Grey skies, damp streets and dour expressions.

Your teeth are unbleached, your skin defiantly pale and your language blissfully “like” and “dude” free.

How I’ve missed you.

I’ve returned, Naughty Ones, from the land of eternal (and often fabricated) sunshine, having born witness to ~~the death of another promising sex life~~ my beloved big sister’s long overdue (according to our mother) white wedding.

The day was almost exactly as I’d imagined: Full of country boys (and their music), American flags (Really, kids? We all know what country we’re in, do we not?) and faux bouncing breasts, unencumbered by such trivialities as bras. Or suitable nipple coverage.

No no, it’s logical, apparently.

As one of my sister’s bridesmaids pointed out to me, swinging a heavily frothing glass of Budweiser for emphasis,

“I paid damn good money for these thangs and Imma make sure y’all ALL see ‘em!”

And she most certainly did.

My sister has all manner of classy friend.

The day was largely uneventful, though it must be said that, at the end of it - though weddings in my world are more a reason for mourning than celebration - I am delighted for my sister as she seems very happy indeed. I am also the happy recipient of a new brother (and his exceptionally hot Cuban half sister), and have come away with absolute staples of The Sunshine State - fake fingernails (Yes, people really do still wear acrylic nails. Who knew??) and a bottle tan - as souvenirs of the *joyous* event.

On another note, the trip did afford me the opportunity to catch up with a couple of old high school friends. Some who have retained their old spunk, fewer who have retained some semblance of their old figures and one, in particular, who has gone from nerdy, awkward teenager to nerdy and decidedly NOT awkward adult.

I’m suddenly regretting not getting to know him better in my youth, and intend to make up for it in the very near future.

Thoughts on long distance harem membership, kittens? (I need feedback, people. These decisions are trying and conclusions must be drawn only after due consideration and care.)

What may surprise my readers (and I'll decide later how I feel about your inevitable shock) is that, despite all of my sister's mates espousing their adoration of my newly acquired British accent (It happens after six years!), a proposition by an only slightly greasy redneck for a three way with he and his wife (terrifying), and the aforementioned delicious former high school friend, there was no access granted ‘neath The Barreness's black bridesmaid dress.

Yes, you read it correctly.

No action.

At all.

I’m not sure if it was the nausea induced by country music and flowing Pabst Blue Ribbon, the constant irritation of my mother (a woman who really shouldn’t be allowed outdoors. Ever.), or just the inherent strangeness of returning to your former homeland (and high school), but I just...wasn’t in the mood.

I know.

Needless to say, when I returned from Heathrow, the Brit was instructed to turn up at mine immediately, with fresh ciggies (my mother actually went through my bag and confiscated mine, the horrible old...) and enough champagne to drown a small village.

I had some stress to relieve.

I also had an assignment to complete, as given by my beloved Sister Merry Hellish, to “tie myself up” and send her photographic evidence.

The photographs wound up slightly more...naked...than I think either she or I had imagined, though thankfully she's used the tamest of the options presented (Possibly as hers is not a soft porn blog?).

But honestly?

The frustration was pent up and the alcohol was flowing.

What else could be expected?

Well hello, open bar. I'm The Barreness. I suspect we're about to get very well acquainted.

2011-03-26T09:29:00.006Z

Let's just hope this happens at some point today:

Or I suspect the Sunshine State may just have to up its hard liquor prodction.

Like, a lot.

Greetings from Florida and ~~my sister's really bad decision~~ la jour du wedded bliss.

And yes, before you ask - I will probably cry.

...for her vagina.

Tragic.

It must be something to do with pheromones. That, or his enormous...

2011-03-22T10:19:00.017Z

Honestly, mis queridos. I hardly know where to begin.

I am a broken woman.

I am knackered. I am dehydrated. My neck is sore.

And the limp of which I was so desperately in search during my last trip to Spain?

Located.

And DIVINE.

Hokay, I need a cigarette before I can get into this.

*lights*

*inhales slowly*

*exhales*

*smiles*

Bueno.

We begin.

First, it should be noted that our plans changed at the last minute. For very uninteresting reasons having to do with various work commitments (his and mine), I did not go to Mallorca as planned with the Replacement Spaniard last week. Instead we went to Toledo - a beautiful little city about 40 minutes outside of Madrid.

Observe.

Toledo is an absolutely gorgeous little place - full of tiny, cobbled, labyrinthine streets weaving their way between the former homes of Spanish royalty in twisting paths so distracting in their complexity they have proven insurmountable by foreign armies. A place where the seal of the Nights Templar is still visible on the sides of buildings and where Gothic churches sleep peacefully beside 15th century Arabic mosques and and next to towering stone synagogues.

At least that's what I read on the plane home.

I didn't see a f*cking thing in Toledo.

We arrived at the flat at lunch time on Thursday and didn't emerge again until 2 o'clock Sunday afternoon, at which point I went directly back to the airport in Madrid, trying desperately to wipe the satisfied smile from my lips and to feign the unaffected nonchalance of a woman who has seen it all (and done most of it).

Okay, that's not all entirely true.

We went for dinner once.

It was nice.

In short, Naughty Ones, I have had the kind of sexual experience every woman should have at least once in her life.

***

Author's Note (mostly for the boys):

Sincerest apologies for the next two paragraphs, which are decidedly 'girly' in nature - a tendency to which you know I'm not often prone - but which are also rather necessary to thoroughly set the scene.

Furthermore, chaps, if you'll just bear with me, I promise there will be some note taking opportunities forthcoming.

You'll be afforded the opportunity to ask questions at the end.

***

Bueno, vamos a empezar, si?

First, the man is beautiful.

And I mean every. Single. Inch of him. Stunning.

Black hair, blue eyes, a broad, cheeky smile. He's lean without being skinny, broad without being overbearing, muscular without being bulky. He's tall, his skin is lightly tanned (and alarmingly soft) and he's exceptionally well groomed. (An absolute sexual imperative.)

Seriously, people, even his dick is beautiful.

I wish I had photographs of it.

We arrived in Toledo to a flat which can only be described as breathtaking. Not at all overdone or pretentious, the building was very similar to a Moroccan Riad, all multi-leveled and full of open courtyards, but without the ostentatious carvings and moorish decor of the traditional riad. The flat itself was simple and spacious, with wood floors, open beamed ceilings and 16th century wall decorations, discovered during renovation. Furnished in heavy wood and light cotton, there was an enormous open fire and floor length linen curtains which only lightly veiled a view of both the Alcazar (the huge building with the towers in the photo above) to one side and down to the river on the other.

So.

Beautiful man. Exquisite flat. Gorgeous city.

Are we all on the same page?

Bueno.

Now the sex (which, let's be honest, is what you've all come for).

I've given a great deal of thought to why this man was so absolutely phenomenal in bed, but I confess, I'm struggling. I mean, he did all the right things, of course -

- He was attentive.

- He was gentle when necessary and intense (almost violent) when appropriate.

- He was almost always kissing some part of me (no matter the primary activity).

- Boys, if you're not already taking notes, start.

- He kept whispering to me in Spanish (which sounds revolting but is actually really REALLY hot).

- He was a cradler.*

But I've experienced all of that before, to varying degrees of intensity (and success). It was more than that.

His body was exactly the right size to fit with mine. Our two rhythms were completely in sync. For two (relative) strangers, we just knew what to do to please the other one. Without all the missteps and fumbling typical of a first times with new partners.

We just KNEW.

And I'm not ashamed to admit it, Kittens -

I was utterly blown away.

As we lay, breathless, drenched and sharing a post coital cigarette, even his sweat smelled amazing. I positively dragged myself from the bed that Sunday (partly because I was exhausted and limping, but mostly because I could have very happily DIED there).

Honestly.

I've never experienced this kind of connection - one which I can only assume exists on a hormonal level - with another person before. I've read about it, sure. But I always thought those stories merely the ramblings of an undersexed populace who thought an orgasm equalled ever-lasting love.

Not, of course, that I'm in any danger of falling in love with him. If I'm completely honest, I found him rather inconsequential with his clothes on (average chat, poor knowledge of current affairs and/or economic interdependency and a rather lack-luster sense of humour).

But to actually crave the smell of someone's perspiration**?

It's just wrong.

And also so very.

Very.

Right.

So, my lovelies?

What did YOU get up to last weekend?

*winks naughtily and lights another cigarette*

* A cradler is one who holds the head of a woman as they fall into bed, so as to cradle her landing. It is both thoughtful and incredibly sexy. Write it down. And then practice.

** In actual fact, there was not a single bodily fluid of his which I did not find decidedly appealing.

Yep. Even THAT one.

Brilliant.

Maybe y’all didn’t know, but it turns out I’m hot shit.

2011-03-15T15:02:00.017Z

Oh you all knew it already?

‘Course you did.

But you didn’t like KNOW it, know it.

How could you?

You weren’t there.

You didn’t see it:

Me, uh...some other people, me, a tight black top and stiff grey trilby, my new baby (pictured below because I can't get Blogger to put the fucking picture where I want it), and an entire room positively begging for a nibble from the palm of my hand.

That’s right, naughty ones. Sunday night saw the first live performance of the newly formed jazz/blues band for which I sing lead, in a deliciously seedy jazz club in central London.

You know the kind – dark, brick walled, full of darting eyes, sassy waitresses and clinking whisky tumblers. The kind of place you could lose yourself for a night.

Or perhaps find yourself - the next morning - in the bed of a dark stranger?

His name was Javier.

He had fantastic lips.

We're keeping in touch.

And apart from my induction into Rock Goddess-dom, it was a fairly quiet weekend. That and the threesome, of course.

Story for another time.

In the meantime, I'm once again in a mad scramble to leave the business in some semblance of manageable form so that I can fully enjoy my weekend with the Replacement Spaniard here:

(This is, apparently, the hotel he's booked for the weekend.)

(It is ON, kittens.)

Worse still - I managed to get reasonably well caught up with all of you last week and now I'm hideously behind again. Damned prolific writers whom I adore...

So as a result, I'm afraid it's only a quickie for today, my beloveds.

But, you know...I'm sure you enjoyed it anyway.

*UPDATE* Just had a quick peek at my stats and found this search phrase from the Google Gods directed someone here:

"hot side boob seen on muy bueno dias"

You're welcome, Googler. You're welcome.

Volver.

2011-03-11T12:17:00.006Z

Sweat trails down her glass.

A memory.

The lustful glance of a stranger.

Fingertips down her spine.

She is back again.

In this city, in this place.

Whose cobbled streets were theirs for a while.

Back to the scent of him.

Can she.

Can she?

Can she drink, can she fuck, can she smoke

away the memory?

Love laughed off

As a useless pass time.

They were right.

...Right?

Back again.

And praying now.

Pleading cries from a mask of nonchalance.

To a Work of Fiction.

For release.

Relief.

From the streets that groan with the gravel of his voice.

From the taste of him in her wine glass.

A silent heartache

Spinning slowly in the trail of a cigarette.

.

Adoration, sore knees and Flo' Rida.

2011-03-10T12:44:00.015Z

Bloody hell, Naughty Ones, I am swamped.

I'm swimming in client meetings and projects which need my attention, I have evenings full of needy Harem members, I'm desperate for a hair appointment, and my knees are STILL aching from the fecking ~~snowboard~~ Ice Blade of Death/chalet of bruises.

I hardly have time to think straight, much less make my waxing appointment.

Helga, you're about to have quite the job on your hands. Sorry, luv.

And to add insult to serious double bookings, I have to go back to bloody Florida at the end of the month.

Flo' Rida -

Home of concrete, neon and women made of less natural fiber than my neighbour's super stylish patio furnishings - circa 1974 . How thoroughly I've ~~enjoyed these last five years free from your heat, bad fashion and "lower Alabama" accents~~ missed you.

Furthermore, I'm off to Spain again next week (Mallorca + Replacement Spaniard = a long f*cking time before these bruises heal), which is going to treble my already heinous workload (and ideally send me back home with the limp I was hoping for a few months ago).

Yet, sadly, the journey back to the Homeland is a necessary one, despite its decided inconvenience, as my very silly sister has gone and agreed to become legally bound to some bloke whom I've never met, but from whose photographs I can deduce is a fan of both country music and goatees.

Really, you don't want to know.

And despite my strong disapproval of both her aesthetic preferences and her choice of Saturday afternoon activities, I am strapped with the unhappy weight of attendance.

And of flower carrying.

Oh yea, I'm in the wedding.

Stop laughing.

...

*pointed look*

...

*resigned sigh*

Whatever.

At least she had the good sense to chose an appropriate dress for me: black, strapless and figure hugging.

Sadly, I have been too busy with ski instructors and Spaniards to order the dress in time, so all they had left was a size 2 which, although it zips just fine, leaves very little to the imagination.

Also? my skin hasn't seen the sun since I left Miami five years ago (I do not believe in sun beds and I live in ENGLAND, for f*ck's sake), so off the the fake bakery I go...

Good times. (And mocha coloured bed sheets.)

Maybe it'll all be worth it and he'll have some cute, country music loving goatee'd mates?

Okay, now I'M laughing.

One bright spot, however, in the relative gloom of my particluar bit o' London? It turns out that while I was away, Her Hotness, The Demented Duchess decided I was versatile (You have no idea, Duchess).

And Lady Oh La La thinks me in posession of 7 Facts which the rest of the world will find scintillating:

(Really, Lady? Only SEVEN?? ;-))

Both of these honours demand that I post 7 facts about myself and then pass it along to, 10 - 15 other bloggers. But - though I'd never wish to sound ungrateful (I'm DELIGHTED when my readers worship me from afar. Muchas gracias to both deliciously naughty ladies) - I'm just not that into rules.

Unless I've set them. Obv.

What I AM into, however, is blog lovin. But to chose 5 or 10 or even 15 from my list of blog crushes would seem somehow disloyal to the remaining blogroll listees, so I instead I shall just say this:

I do NOT blogroll lightly.

I can personally attest to the fabulousness of each and every link on the left side of this page, so if you're in search of a good read, click away.

Because each of them make me want to do dirty things to them, in their own special ways.

Lucky little chickens.

It was actually a little like a porn movie.

2011-03-08T11:16:00.005Z

First, it must be said that I met him on the slopes.

On the chair lift, to be exact.

Also, I should point out that it wasn’t my most elegant pull; our brief conversation punctuated by not one, but TWO decidedly ungraceful tumbles as I attempted to slide coolly and sexily from the lift. (As if snowboarding wasn’t a bad enough idea in the first bloody place, they then put you on these horrid contraptions from which it is physically IMPOSSIBLE to slide with any level of skill or grace.)

A rather epic failure of sexy, my loves.

Anyway,

Thankfully, he appeared to find failed sexiness appealing, and extended - post ski/board/poles/dignity disentanglement - an offer of an apres-slopes glass of vino.

Well I simply had no choice but to accept (and to marvel momentarily at my own fabulousness for still managing to pull him despite nearly breaking him 'neath the weight of my ~~snowboard~~ Wooden Plank of Death) - particularly as he stuck with me through my next three runs, at the end of which, I actually looked less like an utter and complete ass on the mountain.

This was quite the accomplishment, I assure you.

In actual fact, to NOT reward his chivalry, patience and EXCRUCIATINGLY well-formed upper thighs would have been wrong on a number of levels.

So reward I did.

For the next twelve hours.

**applause**

By the time we got back down the mountain for my last run, he had already ordered the champagne and room service, and I don’t think we spoke until well into the wee hours of Thursday.

Delightful.

The whole experience was only mildly dampened by the layers upon layers of bruising on my knees, thighs, hips rib cage and elbows – most of which I’m fairly certain we added to in that chalet.

He was terribly athletic.

Thankfully, by the time I bid Austria (and Johann) a fond 'lebewohl' (that's 'adios' in German), I was actually starting to show some promise on the ~~snowboard~~ Frozen Mountain Torture Device. So, all things considered, a week well spent.

I dare say I may even be persuaded to take another ski break at some point in the future.

Depending on the quality of ski instructor available.

Naturally.

Remind me, please. WHY am I not on the beach?

2011-03-02T11:05:00.016Z

Hallo leiblinge.

(That's hello darlings in German.)

(I think.)

That's also the extent of my German knowledge (apart from 'ein glas wein, bitte' - a glass of wine, please', and 'autsch' - ouch, which has proved very useful knowledge indeed.). Impressive. I know.

At present, I'm ensconced in a charming little coffee house, next to a floor to ceiling window, which looks out onto the snow-covered Austrian Alps (in a village where the men outnumber the women by a factor of, like seven or something ridiculous).

Sounds heavenly, yes?

Well, it isn't.

(Except the men - women part.) (That's actually awesome.)

(Ladies: the only place better than Starbucks for meeting men? Ski resorts. I kid you not.)

I wish I could sing the praises of this particular holiday choice, but alas, there are several reasons why I should not be here at this lovely coffee shop, in this charming village, on this enormous snowy mountainside today:

1. I hate the cold. A Miami girl by birth, I am just not designed for the EIGHTEEN layers required for effective weather protection atop a glacier.

Not to mention the time and effort required to get all that kit OFF again...

Story for another time.

2. The Austrians have a whole relationship to mayonnaise which I just don't understand.

3. I have come here with a group of SIX male friends. Ever been the lone female on a lads holiday before? I do not recommend.

I have played more drinking games than I care to ever play again in MY LIFE, and been witness to some absolutely appalling pulling techniques, which would actually be pretty funny if they weren't so tragic. And if the pickins weren't so slim.

Boys, you really must up your game when the competition is this stiff. Seriously.

Don't worry, yall. I'm working with them.

4. I am, ~~quite possibly~~ for absolute certain , the worst snowboarder in the history of the world. Really. It's shocking.

5. I'm a very stupid, and very very stubborn b*tch.

Instead of sticking to the bunny slopes or, I dunno, having a go at snow shoeing or some similarly innocuous activity available on the resort, I'm determined to go to the top of the fucking Austrian Alps and launch myself down at the speed of light with only a wooden plank strapped to my feet and the inevitability of death looming above me.

Not for the thrill of it and not because I'm some kind of adrenaline junkie, but for no other reason than the boys are doing it and I will be damned if I'm going to be the one who spends her snowboarding holiday in the spa or some similarly 'girly' place.

Nevermind that I'm actually writing this whilst awaiting my massage appointment at the spa.

You should see the masseuse.

It was practically impossible NOT to book a session with him.

Reference point number 4, I've spent more time launching myself down a mountainside on my ass/neck/face/knees than actually upright on the bloody stupid snowboard. It's shocking how bad I am at this and yet, I have persevered (and cried out) (not in the good way) for four days in a row.

I should really see someone about this very serious character flaw before I break something useful.

It was so bad that this morning, when I awoke to my mates pounding on my door at SIX FUCKING FORTY FIVE and tried to move from my bed, I very nearly cried from the agony. There is not a single solitary muscle group in my body which does not ache, my friends. Even my FINGERS ACHE.

Hence, I am now NOT atop the Alps, but in a coffee shop sending this brief (and probably very disjointed) (I blame the painkillers) update to my beloved blog mates, all of whom have been missing me terribly, I'm sure.

Ahem.

Anyway. All of the above being true, I must say that the Austrians are lovely, the ski instructors stunning (and very eager to help a wounded Yank), and the scenery spectacular.

My iPhone won't do it justice at all, but here are a couple of requisite mountain shots, for your viewing pleasure:

So in short?

I really out to be here right now:

With this:

Instead of here:

With this:

But, then again...

Have I mentioned the male-female ratio?

All is not completely lost, kittens.

Back with you on Monday, with deets on the aforementioned statistic.

(I hope.)

I'm far too busy for titles.

2011-02-22T14:40:00.012Z

Hello my darlings.

So sorry to get you all fired up last week and then just leave you with nothing.

Actually, who am I kidding?

No I'm not.

I f*cking LOVE doing that.

What I don't love is simply not having even a moment to write a proper post, as I'm absolutely swamped with work and holiday preparations.

This time next week I'll be sipping my tinto con limonade (my new favourite drink) atop an Austrian glacier, whilst having my aching thighs massaged by a desperately cute ski instructor named Sven.

Oh wait, that's Swedish, isn't it?

Okay, Jens then.

Johann?

Yes, Johann I think.

He sounds tall.

Really I couldn't give a toss what his name is, so long as there's someone to keep me from killing myself (or breaking anything useful) on a snowboard for 7 days. Boarding holiday in Austria with five of my best boy friends?

Potentially disasterous.

So instead of devoting to you all the time and attention you deserve, I have to do things like "attend meetings" and "grow my business".

Pfft.

*snore*

Anyway.

In haste, I must away, my little naughty ones. I hope to come up for air again on Thursday and will try to make the visiting rounds then.

In the meantime - lest you think me an unkind mistress - I've left a few goodies for your visual and audio enjoyment...

For the girls:

(This actually hurts me a little.)

For the boys:

(Is it me or is this woman just walking sex?)

And for Brandy (and all my other feisty b*tches):

Go on. Play it LOUD.

When you care enough to say "F*CK YOU"

2011-02-18T14:37:00.008Z

Oh sweet, delicious controversy, how I love your polarising little heart.

*lights a cigarette and takes a long, satisfied drag*

It seems I hit something of a hot button with a few of you yesterday.

*wicked smile*

How MARVELOUS.

And how perplexing...

It does appear as though neither of the readers who vocally took offense to my open letter actually fell into the category of vapid or opinion less (as was made glaringly evident by the length and/or aggression of their comments), so I'm not entirely sure what the fuss was all about.

But the experience of receiving my first hate comments (As opposed to the usual "Jesus hates you" emails. Why do Christian fundamentalists always email? Honestly, it just clogs up my inbox and, newsflash, Bible Beaters: I don't give a shit.) has been an interesting one for two reasons:

First, it seems I have somehow given entirely the wrong impression of myself.

Apparently, I've been unclear and, as a result, a few of you have come away from this wee corner of the interweb with a horribly inaccurate picture of me.

You've been led astray by some mysterious force and well, I feel it my duty to bring you back to the path of the decidedly UNrighteous.

BRT22N seems to be of the opinion that, despite protestations to the contrary, I am, in actual fact, a "judgemental asshat" (What a delightful word.).

*ponder*

So okay. I'm not sure about the asshat portion (What would such a hat look like anyway? I think I'll picture it as a super cool, blues style trilby, a la Smooth Criminal. In charcoal grey with a peacock blue feather in the side. Niiice.), but judgemental? You betcha.

I don't recall suggesting that I wasn't.

I'm also narcissistic, self absorbed, sexually liberated, financially independent, politically informed, in possession of a mind-bogglingly impressive pair of (natural) breasts and generally a complete and unapologetic b*tch.

Lovely to meet you, I'm The Barreness.

I do think that women should support one another. Unless of course said women are vapid, stupid, brainwashed, utterly dependent, manipulative or judging ME - at which point I think they should be thrashed with switches and shouted at (electronically or otherwise) until they pull their collective fingers out of their lazy asses and realise what they could be.

As my newest girl crush, the unbearably hot Nikki said, oh so eloquently:

"Saying these things is not anti woman. It's pro woman. It's shit or get off the pot. It's I love women so much I want them, all of them, to reach their full potential."

I couldn't have said it better myself, Nikki.

And, let's be honest - when does THAT happen?

Anyway, now that we've got that cleared up, onto what I found most interesting about yesterday's experience:

Actually? I loved their comments.

Loved. Them.

Not because I enjoy being virtually shouted at (despite asshat-related giggles), but because they felt the need to post them.

Neither BRT22N nor Lily (her reluctant team member) has ever commented here before (that I know of), which makes both of them members of the ever elusive "lurker" crowd - a group of people that bloggers everywhere are DESPERATE to draw out of the shadows. Furthermore, they appear to be regular lurkers (as opposed to just casual passers by) and also, if I may say so, pretty feisty bitches themselves.*

*This does beg the question why my last post was so offensive, as I doubt either of them actually fits the description I set forth, but I'll have to let that go for now...

The beauty of receiving your first hate comments is the realisation that something you've written has evoked strong enough emotion for a usually shy "lurker type" to come out of the shadows and shout FUCK YOU. It means they're interested. They're engaged. They care enough to shout at you when they think you're being an asshat. (Hee hee.) (Sorry, I can't help it.)

And once you've finished giggling over their choice of insult (and mentally correcting their grammar errors), you're left with either feeling terrible for having offended, or just pleased that you've struck a chord.

I chose option B.

Call me an egomaniac if you must (I'll not disagree), but I've chosen to be grateful that both of them cared enough to shout and do hope they'll stick around to shout some more when I - inevitably - piss them off again.

Just one favour, BRT22N?

Don't offer ass smacks unless you mean it. You got me all excited there for a minute.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm feeling like expelling a little more aggression myself.

*stubs out cigarette and rings the Russian*

An open letter to vapid, stupid women.

2011-02-17T08:43:00.034Z

Warning: Excessive use of "fuck" to follow.

(Because sometimes "fucking" is necessary.)

(Also, the title of this post has nothing whatsoever to do with this vapid blonde, who - while she is in fact blonde - is most certainly not vapid.)

(I'll start now.)

Dearest ladies of my current and previous homelands (also known as insipid, whiny, manipulative wastes of time, energy and tits),

I need a word.

I'd like to say first of all, well done (because one is meant to open these letters on a high note) to womankind on the whole feminist movement earlier this century. That was a tough flog, but we got there in the end and I only wish I could have been around to see it first hand.

Hats off and all that.

However.

I'm afraid, my fellow members of the feminine sex, that from what I can see you - with your mindless chatter and lack of anything interesting to contribute to any situation - have taken the hopes and dreams of the suffragettes and...well...

...fucked them.

Badly.

With little technique and appalling oral skills.

You see, I've been searching these last few years for female company which is in any way stimulating, valuable and worthy of my limited free time. And after years of fruitless searching and regular disappointment, I have to say I'm knackered. Over worked and largely empty handed.

I'm irritated, I'm sickened and I'm generally fed up.

So fuck you, you nauseatingly (and falsely) saccharine little c*nts. Fuck you and the subservient station wagon you rode in on.

You're ruining it.

And it isn't just me you're ruining it for, either.

Nearly all of the men in my rather close knit group of friends are intelligent, successful, charming and a pleasure to go to mental battle against. And yet, each and every one of them has a partner who is either boring, void of opinion, ill-informed, catty, disinterested or just plain stupid.

(Yes, I am aware that this also points to a rather disappointing trait in my male friends - bad fucking taste - but it's not them to whom I'm writing today. It's you.)

Furthermore, many of them tell me that they'd love to find a woman with a brain, a backbone AND a great rack, but that they're just so few and far between that most of them have stopped looking. They settle down with the likes of you and then cheat on you with the likes of me. (Not with me, per se, as I've got way too much self respect to shag a married man, but with strong, interesting women, generally.)

And lately, I'm not entirely sure that I blame them.

I'm not even looking to shag you and I'm fucking bored.

What's worse?

For the last six months or so, I have been engaged in this thing we call blogging. And through the wonders of modern technology I have met some extraordinarily intelligent, informed, independent and generally feisty bitches - most of whom, if ever given the opportunity to meet for a cocktail, I would sacrifice a night with a Spaniard just to attend.

But out here in the real world I am surrounded by pathetic, timid, insipid wastes of space who think that their only worth is found between their legs - be it in pleasing a man sexually or in the resulting spawning of ~~house apes~~ children - or who simply can't be bothered to have an opinion on any given subject, as educating oneself can be a lot of effort and there's far too much Kardashian on TV to bother with such things.

So tell me. I beg you. Where do all of the feisty b*tches GO when they're not blogging?

And why, oh why, are the city streets TEEMING with the likes of YOU?

You with your judgement, your lack of drive, your willingness to play second fiddle and your excruciating recitation of the phrase "I agree with him" are making the professional and personal lives of women such as myself a misery. As a result of your decided crapitude (a word I've just innovented), we are forced to work twice as hard to gain the respect of our clients and/or partners, we're regularly overlooked in a professional capacity and we STILL earn only a fraction of both the respect and the paychecks of men.

Then again, I suppose it's to be expected, what with the likes of YOU running around, all sweetness, subservience and empty space.

Are we as a sex expected to be granted equality when such a large proportion of us are simply not worth the breath required to say "equal pay for equal work"?

Oh wait, I forgot.

Most of you don't work, because 'your place is in the home', right? You've not chosen to stay home, you're home becuase you 'should' be.

And so should I, n'est-ce pas?

Well fuck you.

I'm officially sick.

Of it and of you.

And it's time you get off your insignificant and ever-expanding (Because once you get married you don't ned to worry about your appearance, am I right?) asses and fix it.

I hereby demand that all of the women who fit the above description (and do NOT attempt to feign ignorance of your own pathetic existence) do me a solid (because you fucking owe me one) and engage immediately in the following activities:

- Read a fucking book.
- Watch the fucking news.
- Get a fucking job (And yes, I do count raising children as working. I don't understand it, mind you, but I count it.
- Form a fucking opinion.
- Develop a fucking sense of humour.
- And learn to stand on your own two fucking feet.

Or, for the love of all that is right, just and full of Spaniards -

get out of my fucking way.

Yours with love,

- B x

My best friend, the c*nt.

2011-02-14T11:37:00.008Z

One sunny Sunday morning, The Barreness met her dearest friend, K, for what ought to have been a very pleasant brunch.

Instead...

K: *smirking, irritatingly*

So...? Good weekend, I see?

B: *innocence*

I’ve no idea what you mean.

K: *smirking still* *now with extra superiority*

You were with The Painter again last night, weren’t you?

B: Nah. I’ve seen him twice this week. He's not THAT gorgeous. Anyway, I can’t have him getting the wrong idea, can I?

K: *pointed look*

B: *gaze aversion*

B: WHAT??

K: You’re a liar and a slut.

B: *gasp!* *indignantion!*

I most certainly am NOT...a liar.

*cough*

What are you on about?

K: *reaches over and lifts a few strands of B's dark hair - now covered in bright blue paint*

K: *silence*

B: *eyes up possible escape routes and finds none to her liking*

B: Okay. I'm a liar. And you're a c*nt.

*sips mimosa and sulks*

K: *satisfied smile*

***

So it turns our oil paint is a b*tch to remove, kids.

Life lesson, from The Barreness.

De nada.

Also?

I'm reasonably certain that not all of you have voted yet. (There are only 22 votes at the moment and I'm quick like that.)

I will accept only oil paint and/or visiting Spaniards as an excuse for not voting.

*polishes paddle and snaps harness leather*

That is all.

It's like filet mignon for the ego.

2011-02-10T15:38:00.009Z

So my beloveds,

I've been at this blogging thing for just over six months now, right?

And I've got UNQUESTIONINGLY the best readers and commenters in EXISTENCE, yes?

Readers who email me, ask my advice, send unsolicited photos of their genitalia, and even make use of my spare room when they pop to London for a much needed vaca.

(Seriously, London. Prepare yourself.)

And I work hard for you, do I not?

I feed your secret (and occasionally outward, you naughty little monkeys) desires for hedonism, excess and sexual ~~overindulgence~~ freedom, n'est-ce pas?

Well, now it's time for you to do something for me.

It seems I've been nominated by one of my little angels for an award:

Apparently Ms Skylar thinks I have a way with words (I have a way with lots of things, Kitten.) and would like to honour me with this sweet little nibble of egoism and bragging rights.

I think you should too.

(And yes, I'm pretty sure that to vote you'll need to set up an account. A slight ass pain, I admit, but I'm worth it.)

So go! Go now and vote, my lovelies.

Or I'll give you three licks with the 'naughty' paddle.

(Then again, I may just do that anyway...)

I cannot even write this post without a cigarette.

2011-02-09T13:24:00.007Z

*strikes match*

*lights cigarette*

*breathes deeply*

*exhales*

So...I’m not sure there’s an easy way to say this.

I realise that I’m not what you’d call Politically ~~Nauseating~~ Correct. I’m not one for sugar coating (Actually that’s not entirely true. But it’s a delicate art, requiring a steady hand and copious amounts of vodka.) (Um...never mind.). I like to be given things straight up (and curving slightly to the right) - which, in turn, is the only way I know how to give them.

So I’m just gonna tell you straight, my beloveds.

*another drag*

*exhales*

I may’ve just had the best sex of my life.

The Barreness Blog Moderator: *Tap tap tap.* Is this thing on?

Did you hear that, people?

Best.

Sex.

Ever.

Had.

BY ME.

For those of you who may be new here - we're not talking innocent school girl levels of experience.

I have had man or two in my life.

The Barreness Blog Moderator under his breath: Pfft. Or 200

*extinguishes cigarette on moderator's arm*

*moderator shuts up*

I can’t explain it, my lovelies.

I can't define it.

I wasn’t even aware of his existence before yesterday.

I-I’m not even sure if he was Spanish.

!!

But he was dark haired and blue eyed.

He was cocky without being arrogant. Strong but not boorish.

He tasted of wine and cigarettes.

He laughed like he meant it.

And he’s a painter.

*begins tallying the hot points*

*loses count*

And after the dancing, the laughing and the midnight tapas in a tiny restaurant to which I've never been before (and likely never will be again), there was the studio.

There were canvasses.

Of women, mostly.

All with amused, defiant expressions.

All nude.

I cannot wait to join them.

More wine.

And the smell of oil paint.

The feel of it on my skin.

Scratching and biting and screaming.

Lots and lots of cigarettes.

***

My darlings, may I introduce The Painter, my newest inductee.

In whose presence I didn't think of him at all.

At last...

I should discuss more weird shit on this blog. Or at least use more profanity.

2011-02-07T12:26:00.023Z

And yes, it's possible.

*indignant eye roll*

But I'll get to that in a minute.

The following is an excerpt from an actual conversation with ~~The Man that 1957 Forgot~~ ~~Ward Cleaver and Mary Tyler Moore's Lovechild~~ some complete nutter - clad in actual spats and sporting entirely too much hair gel (Though he did have tragically gorgeous forearms.) (I have a thing for forearms.) - on Saturday night...

((Yes, the punctuation in that sentence was exhausting.))

Ward Jr: Buys two drinks with a widely fluorished £100 note and - with a sideways smile and the waft of particularly potent aftershave - slides one of them toward the Barreness .

"You look thirsty."

The Barreness: Glances at her half full glass of and raises a questioning eyebrow at the long lost member of Weazer. She lifts the her glass and shows him the relatively healthy liquid levels.

"Do I?"

Ward Jr: Shrugs and inches slightly closer.

"I have a feeling you're about to trade up."

The Barreness: Turns to her mate and the barman, Rafael (hot, Spanish, and a definite contender for the open harem slot) (So what if he's barely 22?), and asks what The Beaver's Older Brother has just purchased for her.

Rafa: Gin and tonic, luv. *

*Accent: Hot. Southern Spain, methinks. Damn. Now I'm thinking of THE Spaniard again. Bloody hell.

The Barreness: Again, with the eyebrow.

"I'm on whisky, actually. Single Malt. Few drips of water. One cube of ice."

Ward Jr: Shrugs again. Fucking irritating, all that shrugging. Kind of makes me want to sit on his shoulders, just to hold them down. If it weren't for all that hair gel, of course. Damned forearms.

"Yea I know, but ladies don't drink whisky. Mine don't anyway."

The Barreness: Smiling sweetly and handing back the house G&T...

"No, I can imagine they don't. Nor do they, I suspect, achieve orgasm with any degree of regularity. Thanks, but I'm not in the market for trading just now."

The best part? Ward then pulls out a plastic comb, Danny Zuzzo style, and - I kid you not - smoothes the sides of his slick back whilst eyeballing the other potential victims in the bar.

Most of whom have already vacated the area. Naturally.

Okay, never mind the hair products or the questionable footwear. (Don't get me wrong, I dig a shiny pair of spats, but you have to be a proper bad ass to pull them off.) What moron asks a bartender what a woman is drinking and then just arbitrarily decides to buy her something different?

It isn't that I mind blokes taking a shot, or that every man needs spats-level style just to approach a woman. It's that I wish proper dipshits would just have the decency to BE dipshits without trying to feign some kind of style which is clearly just a dipshit in sheeps clothing. Or... spats. Surely there are dipshit-ettes with whom they could engage in this sort of boring chat and at least with proper markings they could identify one another.

Furthermore, it's really making this audition process quite the onerous task.

Anyway, back to the title of this post.

I have noticed something of a trend on several of the blogs I visit: The checking and reporting on of search terms.

Elly Lou does it, with style and panache (But really what doesn't she do with style and panache?), as does everyone's favourite, Jenny the Blogess, and I have to say, their relative traffic sources are currently sparking some little green pangs of envy in yours truly.

Honestly, Elly Lou gets people looking for "Jesus as a Vagina" (If there WAS a God, he would clearly have sent that guy HERE.) and all I ever get is "nipple pleasure" and "cunnilingus instructional photos".

It's just so...typical, really.

Search for nipples, find the Barreness.

Wait.

Ummm...awkward.

Anyway, I did some further digging and discovered one search term (Searched for today, in fact. Scary.) of interest:

"Cumming on sailors penis turtleneck"

I'm sorry, what?

Now I ask you, my lovelies - How grossly unjust is it that I publish one little instructional post on giving good head and my inbox is flooded with "God hates you" mail (Newsflash, Crazy Christian Emailers of Death: I'm an atheist, aka One Who Does Not Give a Shit What "God" Thinks), while others are out there Googling "Cumming on sailors penis turtleneck" with reckless (and un-email-harrass-able) abandon?

I guess I'll have to post some more scandalous shit on here, if only to see how interesting my search terms can get.

That prospect even frightens me.

And now, for a photo I took of me the other night at a Starbucks near King's Cross Station.

I think it looks kinda cool and ghost-y.

Random and unrelated? Yes.

But it's been one of those kind of days.

Must have been all the fumes from the hair gel.

Ummm...obviously you've not seen my ass.

2011-02-06T12:21:00.012Z

Or you'd adore me as much as she does, lovely thing.

And yes, I realise that, what with this being an anonymous blog, the actual seeing of the ass is rather difficult (I did consider photographing my own ass and posting it here, but that seemed a little to indulgent and over the top, even for me), so I suppose you'll just have to use your imagination.

Go ahead. It'll be...almost as good, I'm sure.

And while we're on the subject of body image, I'd like to share a recent encounter with a fat, condescending c*nt who dared suggest recently that I may be lacking in substance because I wear stiletto heels, have no children (please PLEASE change the record) and am not, in fact, 30 lbs overweight:

Fat, condescending cunt on the subject of physical appearance: Well, I suppose some women can fill their time with such trivialities, but I have a home to run and a mind to broaden, so I tend to fill my thoughts and time with more...useful things.

Barreness, calmly, despite tidal wave of indignation and inner rage: Mmm...yes, I can understand that spending most of your time with toddlers and those who change their nappies must be mentally exhausting. Much more so than any of my clients - you know, in the business that I own? - or than the government officials to whom I speak ion a regular basis whilst campaigning for equal rights for women in Africa. I mean, I know I have a PhD and everything, but I bet it's these shoes that keep getting in the way of achieving a broader mind. Thanks for the insight! But the thing is that, strange as it may seem to you, I like sex. And I've worked out how to use contraception (she needn't know the real reason for my barren state) so I find the relative risks of such trivialities as "exercise" and "regular grooming" rather worth the rewards of "regular sex" and "an active social calendar". But what do I know, not having a man who pays all my bills... ?

FCCotSoPA: ((Totally awesome, bad sitcom style indignant heel spin and exit stage left))

The thing is - and this may come as something of a shock - whilst I have been known to rant incessantly about how much vapid, stupid, helpless bimbos make me want to peel their acrylic fingernails off with my teeth, spit them into a jar of cyanide and then feed them, inside great heaping spoonfuls of ephedra, back to the pathetic wastes of space - I actually take no issue with women who strive for aesthetic perfection, per se (this is, of course, provided that "strive for" doesn't morph into "obsess over"), so long as it's not the only thing they strive for in their lives.

For me, it's all about motivation.

I am a thirty (mumblecoughclearthroat) year old woman who owns her own business, pays her own way, takes care of herself and generally takes no sh*t from anyone. I am educated, politically informed, have travelled more places than many people can spell, and I have no time for the (genuinely) shallow, superficial or small minded.

Also?

I like to look good.

I like to feel intelligent, strong, independent and sexy, and I see no reason for any of the above facts to be called into question because I wear makeup, high heels or lace (erm...and sometimes leather) (and other times latex, but only on special occasions) undergarments. I don't think I need to justify the time I spend in the gym or at the dance studio, as if caring about my physical appearance somehow negates my education or professional opinions.

It's just one more way that women judge, criticise and generally stifle one another and it's reaching almost to the ridiculous. Also, rather disturbingly, this total aversion to caring about one's outward appearance is, for me, symptomatic of a complete break from the realities of the world we live in.

Of course we all wish women weren't judged by the way they look. And obviously the educated, independent and generally feisty among us should be letting the world know that we neither need nor want looking after. These facts are indisputable.

Yet, to deny the present import of ones physical appearance is lunacy on par with the co-ed who thinks she can attend a frat party drunk, half naked and engange in heavy petting with the football team without running into any trouble because "no means no".

Reality? There's a twit on isle three who needs a head check.

The fact is that women are often judged on their appearance and that our self confidence is based, if only in part, on the way we look. It's ugly, and we should all be working actively to change the emphasis from our breasts to our brains. But at present, it is the world in which we all live and must learn to function (whilst demonstrating the need for change).

There are also, of course, the extraordinary health benefits of exercise and a sensible diet, but I'll not go into that now - mosty because I'm bored already just typing the phrase "health benefits of exercise and a sensible diet". But you get the idea.

Call my crazy, but I don't criticise women who are not in great physical shape. I don't criticise women who chose motherhood over hedonism (though I must say I am confused by this choice). I do not criticise women who have plastic surgery to make themselves feel better about the way that they look. As long as a woman has something between her shoulders other than air and an open mouth, I don't fucking criticise, full stop.

What can I say? I tend to fill my thoughts and time with more...useful things.

Like Spaniards.

Obviously.

P.S. I mentioned the lovely Kat in the first sentence of this post, as she very kindly gave me one of these:

If you've not been by to visit Miss Kat, you ought to go.

P.S.S. In actual fact, Kat has not seen my ass either (poor chicken), but I suspect she can tell that it's spec-TAC-ular. Right you are, my sweet.

Right you are.

Did I say three days? Okay, so I'm unreliable.

2011-02-03T11:37:00.013Z

So.

Bruges then.

My advice, if you're considering a visit to this charming medieval canal city?

Don't fucking bother.

That is to say, don't fucking bother to go to Bruges in January, when the whole place is frozen (Literally - the streets, the square, the canals, your arse if you stand outside for more than 30 seconds - everything.) and the only people in the city are a few waiters, a handful of lovesick newlyweds, ONE decidedly cute French guy and his four mates on a stag do, and your cockblocking married friend, S, who very nearly "fell" into one of the frozen canals when she dared suggest to your new French friends that she "didn't feel comfortable" accompanying them to the next bar because she felt it "inappropriate" for a married woman to spend time in the company of hot men.*

Was that sentence just irritatingly long and mind numbingly confusing?

Yea, well, so was last weekend.

Three days in Bruges? Way too long. Why the fuck would anyone go there in the first place - especially in January, when it's deserted and frozen solid? Mind numbingly confusing.

Also? No midgets.

Like, anywhere.

Misleading Hollywood B@stards...

Yes, it's very pretty, and the museums were plentiful and there is a Michelangelo sculpture (one of the few outside Italy in the world) in one of the most beautiful churches I've ever seen in the centre of town. Also, I suspect it would suck FAR less to visit Bruges in the summer, when you can stand to be out admiring the gorgeous architecture and enjoying the canals. But honestly? If Frenchy hadn't slipped me his card so I could text him my room number once I had rid myself of Her Married(and dead inside)ness, this particular visit would have been a total loss. I'd have been beaten by Northern Europe. My spirits crushed by a big block of frozen Brussels. 'Venice of the North': 1, Barreness: 0.

Of course - with deepest gratitude to both business card printers and mobile phone companies throughout Europe - the actual score card read more like

- Frozen Medieval Wasteland: 1 (I still shivered for three days in an empty city)

- The Barreness: Multiple.**

And so? How have you been these past seven days, my darlings?

* Reason number 6,834 NOT to get married.

** Reason number 6,835.

Like Jack and Jill, only dirtier and without the happy ending.

2011-01-27T13:47:00.005Z

It's the same old story...

Girl meets boy.

Girl refuses a relationship with boy because relationships lead only to boredom and the slow decline of one's sex life.

Boy agrees to no-strings shagging for several years until one weekend in Spain boy fucks up monumentally and girl ends said shagging arrangement.

Girl finds herself unexpectedly sad and attempts to forget boy through excess.

Work, drink, smoke, dance, shag, smoke, work some more...

Girl worries - as all of the usual distractions continue to fail - if there wasn't more to it than just shagging. Is it possible she...felt something for the boy?

Boy eventually apologises.

His remorse is sincere and convincing.

Girl is happy.

So happy, in fact, that she packs a bag, grabs a girlfriend and hops a train to Bruges for the weekend.

But only after accepting the Replacement Spaniard's invitation to Mallorca in March.

Boy can suck it.

See you in three days, my beloveds.

Blogservations, emotional diarrhoea and your penis.

2011-01-24T13:58:00.019Z

And so it was, that on this day, six short months ago, a diminutive, sweet young girl from small town America began a blog about life in the big city of London...

Um...yea. I'm sure her blog is great, but if you ask me she sounds impossibly dull and in rather dire need of a good hard shag. Or seven.

Yes, dearest readers, 'twas exactly six months ago that Yours Truly burst - boustiered and randy - back onto the blog scene to thrill you all with tales of hedonistic pleasures and childless excess only possible from persons with ~~dubious morality~~ a finely tuned sense of adventure.

And one hell of a ride it's been.

Several actually.

*cough*

But lest you think me a complete bore for having actually remembered my six month anniversary - particularly as I have been known to regularly forget the surname of the bloke with whom I'm making out as I'm making out with him in the back of a taxi on the way to/from someplace fabulous - I should point out that it was actually you who remembered.

Well, okay, not you.

You. The one in the back. The cute one with the nice hair.

This morning, I awoke to an exquisite email from a reader, the subject of which read simply: Happy Six Months, and the body of which read: I'm so happy you came to the party.

K-yoot.

And, as I remember to check my email about as often as I remember to 'ring my mother' (whom I hate) or 'clean my car' (which I rarely use, living in central London), there were a number of other, rather less heart warming items in the old inbox as well:

- There was the usual hate mail. "You're a whore and God hates you (I'm sorry, who?) and blah blah I-get-sex-so-rarely-my-bits-have-actually-grown-over blah."

- There were a few offers of free stuff/requests to review products. Sorry, kids. I buy my own vibrators and this is not the home shopping channel. Though, lets not lie, if this was the Home Shopping Channel, it would fucking ROCK.

Wait. They've already GOT one?

- There were the standard few words of worship and/or undying devotion. One bloke actually offered to fly me to Abu Dhabi, at his own expense, if I would agree to spend the weekend with him. If only I didn't have this thing about "paying my own way" and "not being a prostitute". Pesky scruples...

- This weird weekly email service which sends me blog stat reports was there. I have no idea when or how I signed up for this thing, but it's sort of fun to look at (even though all of the info is available on my Blogger Stats tab). And how you ever noticed that as soon as you start getting a good number of followers, you become OBSESSED with watching that number creep up? I mean, I've always been something of an attention whore, but I think I prefer it the old fashioned way. With low cut tops and obscenely tall shoes.

*

**

* Photo of self (black top) and friend (purple top) to demonstrate entirely too much cleavage on display in public.

** As I look at this, it occurs to me that my clever attempt at retaining anonymity kinda makes us look like we're making out, which we're not. Not that I wouldn't of course, 'cuz she's pretty smokin', just that we're not. Also, you can't see my shoes but, trust me, they were to my usual standard: stiletto'ed and tall. Very tall. Shamelessly tall.

- Then there were some naked photos.

Sorry, what now?

I sh*t you not, my darlings, one dude actually sent me naked photos of himself to "cheer me up", post Spaniard Debacle. And I have to say, if it didn't creep me out so very much...RAWR. And um, ouch?

*

* Note, I cropped out his head(s). He did not. But rest assured, they were all equally impressive. I highly recommend clicking to enlarge. If you're not too afraid, of course. (And who could blame you if you were?)

And so...a summary of my blogservations from the last six months?

1. God hates bloggers who have sex.

2. If you want them to, people who read your blog will buy you vibrators.

3. Blogging will aggravate your tendency toward attention whore-ishness. (And inspire you to make up fun new words!)

4. If, as something of a sex blogger, you're ever pathetically spew emotional diarrhoea all over the blogosphere (my sincerest apologies, kids), be prepared. Your readers may just try to cheer you up... with pictures of their penises.

And yes, before you ask. I totally got that guy's number.

Who do you think you're dealing with here?

Withdrawal is a bitch.

2011-01-22T11:06:00.008Z

Well shit.

Issues, my lovelies. Issues.

As you're undoubtedly aware, I pride myself on being something of an emotion-free zone.

Those three little words that 'every woman' dreams of hearing?

Not interested.

Long, lingering gazes?

Staring freaks me out.

Handheld strolls along the seafront?

Clearly you've not seen my shoes. And...your hand is sweaty. Bugger off.

Which is why I find it immensely irritating that, despite visits from 3 of the remaining 4 Harem members, copious amounts of alcohol, several joints and a particularly sweaty evening at the salsa club with a yummy South American,

I am still not myself, following recent events with The Spaniard.

Is it pure disbelief that he would behave in such a way, considering how FUCKING AMAZING I am? Am I just unaccustomed to things not going exactly as I want them to go and, as such, I can't shake the feeling that 'something's just not right'?

Or is it worse?

Do I fancy more than just his gravely voice and sexual prowess? Are there...((she whispers, for fear speaking the words may make them true))... emotions involved?

I can't even think of it.

Even The Replacement Spaniard (who, incidentally, sent me a photograph two days ago and is more beautiful than I remember by some distance) - who has already asked me to join him for a long weekend in Mallorca - holds little interest.

(Although... post aforementioned photograph, I'm considering it.)

This. THIS is why I avoid relationships like the fucking plague. Not only are they dull, confining and generally lacking in interesting sex of any kind, but when they go wrong, your whole bloody world just doesn't quite fit anymore.

My confidence is shaken, my fearlessness is waning. My hair just won't go right.

And my hair ALWAYS goes right.

Honestly, how do you people DO it??

I can't drink, dance, smoke or fuck enough to get the bloody Spanish tosser off my mind and believe me - when pressed, I can do all of the above with a ferocity few can fathom.

Is there like, a cream that you can apply? A little black pill to pop?

A sledgehammer, perhaps?

The other night, The Russian came by with a bottle of vodka, two silk scarfs and a home made pavlova (the eating of which he proposed in the most delightful way) and I?

could only manage a few 'bites'.

HELP.

Cock. And bollocks (that's British for balls).

2011-01-18T13:59:00.012Z

Well, buenos dias, mis amigos.

Terribly sorry to have left you Barreness-less (heh) for nearly a week, but at least this time you knew exactly where I've been and can therefore excuse the prolonged absence.

Yes, I have finally returned from my beloved Espana and - as I suspect you're all positively twitching from the pent up anticipation (I do relish inflicting that particular sensation) - a few details from "Shag-a-thon 2011":

Flight to Spain: delayed for 2 hours. On the runway.

Bollocks.

Luggage: Broken in transit. Dragging a three wheeled suitcase through a 5* hotel whilst trying to look alluring?

Bollocks. (and a littel bit funny)

Aforementioned 5* Hotel: Lovely, and with an impeccable location, but most certainly not 5* or worth the ENORMOUS price tag.

Bollocks.

The Spaniard: (Yes, THE Spaniard) Unspeakable cock. (And not in a good way. I literally cannot speak of it.) Suffice it to say that the King of the Harem and the star of most of my least family-friendly dreams has fallen rather dramatically from his throne, and I am still reeling from the shock of it.

The replacement Spaniard (sadly only unearthed on my last night in the city - go f*cking figure): Utterly divine. But, like, frighteningly so. Like, the kind of Spaniard that would make even the most hard hearted hedonist and lady-about-town consider handing in her riding crop and boarding the sleeper train to Monogamyville. So, naturally... I can never see him again.

Bollocks.

Flight home from Madrid: Delayed for 8 excruciating hours.

BOLLOCKS.

Un. BELIEVABLE, people.

The long awaited (and very needed) "Shagfest 2011" was an utter and complete bust. THE Spaniard has been booted from the Kingdom (I genuinely never thought I'd see the day) and, if I'm honest, between the Great Flu of Death, my crappy birthday and the decided LACK of post -coital limp, I'm a little bit fucked off with 2011 generally.

Let me not be unclear, my many gorgeous readers (oh yea, the BONing thing did still rock, so I guess 2011 has one tick in column A) - it wasn't a completely shagless weekend.

Let's not forget whose blog you're reading.

But the visions of strippers, sex games and chocolate dipping sauces which had danced merrily in my head throughout the Month of the Phlegm - right up until I greeted the Spaniard at my hotel in a...special outfit - have been properly and irrevocably crushed.

The girls were fat, the games were fixed and the chocolate was fucking rancid, y'all.

B-O-L-L-O-C-K-S

So before I just cash it in and decide to remain indoors and alone for the whole of 2011, I beseech you (Beseech? Who says that?): cheer me up a bit, my lovelies. Regale me with stories of breathless, sweaty, up-against-a-wall, over a city front balcony, silken scarfed and leather strapped action, would you?

And if you have to - make that shit up. My trip was a fucking disaster.*

* Disclaimer: The term 'disaster' does not, of course account for the loveliness of the 'The Replacement Spaniard', who was scrumptious but who, alas, I was simply not prepared to embrace with my usual carefree fervor. Bollocks.

Aren they supposed to, like, take me to dinner first?

2011-01-12T11:08:00.002Z

Well kids, it's happened.

Last night, with no strings attached and no need to throw anyone out in the morning or in the midst of a sub-standard performance (So, like, my ideal situ in many ways.), it happened.

And I didn't even have to wax first.

I got BON'd, y'all.

I suppose the Goddess of the Blog World (no, not Annah. The other one.) looked down upon my 28 days of bone-lessness and my Month Long Flu of Destruction and thought,

"You know what? I think Imma toss that b*tch some BON love. She needs it. Also her boobs are amazing. How have I never noticed them before?"

Or...something.

Anyway, may I extend a hearty "muchas gracias" to the mysterious BONers (hee hee) and a "buenos dias y bienvenido" to all my lovely new followers as I accept graciously the belated birthday gift of BON love. Though if you could maybe rephrase it to read BON lust? I'm more comfortable with that particular 'L' word.

And speaking of lust...

Items ticked off of today's pre-Madrid (AKA The Land of Making Up for Lost Shagging) prep list include, but are not limited to (because some things even I don't talk about) (Okay, not really, it just sounded more dramatic.):

Gym - 1.5 hours
Waxing - .75 hours (Damn you, Italian ancestry!)
Facial - 1 hour
Kegels - 15 minutes per day for the last two weeks (What? Like you wouldn't.)
Packing - .25 hours (I won't need much.)
Preparation and packing of whips, leather harnesses and other ancillary sexual accoutrements - Oh...a while.

The plane departs at 8.30 tomorrow morning, following dinner and probably several cocktails with Senora Lame-O (my fantastically gorgeous English Rose who rather oddly thinks that house cleaning and jigsaws are 'good fun') (Yes, you read that right.) this evening, and I would think round two of The (VERY) Overdue Boning of Yours Truly should commence around teatime (that's dinner for my Yanks).

Should I find a free moment, I'll post an update/pop round to some of you and say hello. But honestly I wouldn't hold my breath or be offended if neither happen. I don't actually plan to come up for air until I'm BACK at the airport in on Monday.

With a slight limp.

In Joan We Trust

2011-01-11T12:09:00.015Z

There are several bits weighing on the mind of yours truly today, gorgeous chaps and chapesses.

First and foremost, some good news: The Mother of all Flus has FINALLY left the building. Bring out the marching bands (are they Spanish?), kids – I’m very nearly back to normal.

And not one but TWO days pre-Madrid (aren’t I organised?), so I intend to make a quick trip to the spa for various flu-repair treatments tomorrow before jetting off to commence the making up for lost celebrations. Also, The Spaniard rang to apologise profusely for his oversight and has sworn to make it up to me this weekend.

He may need oxygen by the time I’m finished.

But onto other, rather more serious matters.

I’m afraid it’s with a solemn heart that I spent the majority of this my first morning of wellness. I’ve been catching up on all of this nonsense over the last couple of days and I’m afraid that even my dark, hedonistic heart is screaming from the agony of it.

Has America always been so hostile of temperament that we would entertain the doctrines of hate which are running rampant across the current political spectrum?

Furthermore, when (to paraphrase a rather brilliant American friend of mine) did the toxicity in the US reach such a level that we would vilify someone like that Sheriff of Pima County simply because he DARED suggest that there’s an undercurrent of hate present in America and that the extremist politics and violent rhetoric (crosshairs, anyone?) MAY have played some part?

Not to mention the suggestion by some @ss clown talk radio guy who appeared on BBC's Radio 4 last night that, “The shooter wasn’t politically motivated, he was an atheist. He read the Communist Manifesto, for Christ's sake. The guy was just NUTS!”

...

I’m sorry, what?

Oh yea, it’s the atheists bombing women’s clinics, rallying outside the funerals of fallen soldiers (“God Hates Fags” was, I believe, their slogan of choice) and campaigning (sometimes violently) to keep legal adults from expressing their love in the eyes of the law.

Good old religious fundamentalists will keep us on the path of righteousness, is that it?

And you're probably right, you narrow minded f*ckwit - no one should read one of the most powerful and influential pieces of political ideology written in this century. Communism doesn't work in practice, therefore anyone interested in the theory or doctrines behind it is clearly insane.

Let's go ahead and add ignorance and fear-mongering to the long list of our recent accomplishments, shall we?

It's all getting to be too much for me, kids.

I feel (as does my aforementioned brilliant mate) as though something is about to break in the States and I am powerless to do anything about it. Ordinarily I would be screaming, “Get involved! Make a difference! Take a stand!”, but really...where does one begin? The mountain of hate and vitriol is so steep and so ingrained into the fabric of American politics that one can hardly imagine finding foothold anywhere.

I have been really struggling with the urge to just shrug my shoulders and think, "Well, I don't live there anymore..."

I know, I know. Nauseating, B.

But thankfully someone has come along and schwacked the defeated, pathetic little girl me back to the land of butterflies and candy canes, and replaced her with the fired up, righteous, bass@ss me of riding crop and unbending will. And not a moment too soon either.

Thanks Joan Jett.

I kid you not, my beloveds. Just as I was feeling fairly hopeless and pitiful this morning - the weight of it all beginning to take a physical and emotional toll - the iPod rather prophetically shuffled to Miss Jett, who proceeded to snatch (hee hee) me up by the garter belt (what? I'm preparing myself for the weekend) out of the doldrums, give me good shake for being such an unbelievable pansy and toss me back into reality - a fresh hand print on my @ss and a newly kindled fire in my belly.

I'm ready for battle, y'all.

In the figurative sense, of course, this is a non violent can of @ss whoopin I'm about to crack open.)

So wherever you are, whatever the (non violent) battle, however you're struggling to reclaim your mojo and commence to b*tch slappin' (metaphorically), I recommend you listen.

Loudly.

To this:

Then give me a bell and we'll kick some hate mongering @ss, Joan Jett style.

Well it wasn’t all champagne and dancing girls.

2011-01-09T13:03:00.013Z

It was more Lemsip and Dancing with the Stars.

UGH. I can hardly speak of it.

Day number 22 of the illness which one can only presume has escalated into full blown Consumption – also known as the Day on Which I Turned 29 Again – was spent as most of the previous 21 have been: in bed with a fever and with nothing but drugs and DVDs for company.

And not the good variety of either.

This. Is NOT how I'm accustomed to spending my birthdays.

Observe.

My birthday last year in Mallorca.

My birthday this year in my stupid flat.

I did brave the FREEZING BLOODY COLD (tell me why I left Miami again?) for a couple of hours in the early evening yesterday with The Brit, who treated me to some sushi at my favourite spot (because I'll be DAMNED if I was going to spend the whole of my birthday alone in bed), but even then I could only manage about half of it and hadn't the stomach to invite him back for a quickie.

Err...I mean coffee.

The Russian popped by with an enormous box of roses which I could only accept meekly and close the door, also without invite.

The La Perla box which arrived yesterday, courtesy of The Professor, still sits unopened in the lounge, as I cannot bear to look at it.

And to add insult to actual crippling diseases?

The Spaniard was nowhere to be found.

U N B E L I E V A B L E.

Not one smokey, ravaged, thickly accented word from the Chosen One who, admittedly is in Madrid at present but, nevertheless is the ONE person I thought I could count on for the requisite showering of gifts and well wishes on mi cumpleanos.

What's more, I'm due in Madrid on Thursday (unless of course, I've just decided to go ahead and give UP by then) and I'm half tempted to cancel the trip just on principle. Only half tempted of course because it's been twenty two fother mucking DAYS, y’all.

That's like, a dry spell of married person proportions.

Perhaps I'll ignore him at a less critical juncture.

Kill me.

Something just had to be done.

2011-01-05T22:34:00.004Z

Okay, I know what you're thinking...

B, something's different. Have you changed your hair?

Why yes. Yes I have.

And the stylist?

None other than the mind numbingly talented Rabbit of The Journey and of all that is generally awesome.

Rabbit has given me a wee trim and recolour and will be making further improvements (wardrobe and the like) over the coming weeks. So stay tuned for ever-increasing fabulousness, courtesy of He with the silver tongue (err...keyboard) and magic fingers.

I've also changed the name of this wee blog as the sailor theme was really very 2010 and, frankly, I'm a narcissist.

Oh you didn't know?

Lovely to meet you, my name's The Barreness.

Furthermore, as I'm STILL sick with the flu and as Saturday will officially ring in the third anniversary of my 29th year on this planet, I really did need something to brighten the horizon a bit.

So I've gone black.

And, as the saying goes...

Oh, I don't really need to, do I?

Hot dogs down hallways.

2011-01-02T21:30:00.011Z

Recently, a mate of mine (Let’s call him Sean.) (Because that’s his name.) (Not to worry, he doesn’t read this.) (I don’t think...) attempted to denigrate a conquest of his, claiming that her lady bits were...well used...and thus perhaps rather...lacking in grip?

Sean, in his louder-than-necessary-and-clearly-just-for-the-listening-benefit-of-the-assembled-crowd voice, snorted over his pint of Stella,

“Honestly, B. The bird’s either been shagging farm animals, or is some kind of freak of nature, but I swear I could hardly feel a thing. It was like tossing a hot dog down a hallway, B, honest.”

And he laughed as he took a long, exasperated swig of his beer, rather unsubtly noticing the sniggers of those within earshot.

Now, I suppose one can only presume that, when recounting such a tale of manly superiority amongst his fellow rugby lads, this kind of chat would have gone unchallenged; a chorus of resulting grunts, groin scratches and “I hear ya, mate”s reactively permeating the testosterone-laden pub-mosphere.

Unfortunately for Sean, he was having a drink with me. I know him, and I know several of his former girlfriends, and frankly,

I like to be the only arrogant c*nt in the bar.

B: Really, Sean? That bad?

Sean: I shit you not. ((A pointed look. Another sip.))

B: And...there's no chance that it was more of a hot dog situ than a hallway one?

Sean: ((Confident laugh.)) Come on, B. None whatsoever.

B: Really? None at all??

Sean: ((Nervous laugh.)) No.

B: ((employing her loud-enough-that-anyone-formerly-impressed-and-still-listening-will-definitely-hear voice)) Sean, my love - remember last year when you shagged that mate of mine?

Sean: ((shrugs)) Yea.

B: And remember how I told you that women discuss sex with one another in way more graphic and inappropriate detail than blokes do?

Sean: ...

B: ((sips pinot and waits patiently))

Sean: You couldn’t just let me have that one, could you?

Poor little chicken.

Err...processed chicken product.

Resolve This

2010-12-31T14:36:00.010Z

Friday, 31 December, 1.30 pm.

Roll out of bed, light a cigarette, brew an extra large, extra strength cappuccino, bid a distracted farewell to The Pilot and sit down for a quick catch up with blog mates...

Annah – irritated at early morning enthusiasm (I feel ya) but still - in bed with a man, so all is well there.

Sister Merry – healthy bitches and broken car. I feel as though I should spend some time with her.

Patty – oddly lamenting overindulgence and self destruction. I definitely need to spend some time with her.

Before I know it I’m lost in the blogosphere (Am I the only one who finds that word excruciating??), following a comment to a link to another blog and so on – generally something I enjoy doing as it’s a great way to find good reads and ‘meet’ new people. But today my blogabout is less making me want to grow my blogroll and more making me want to grow weed in the conservatory and spike my cappuccino with single malt.

"What happened last year and how did I progress toward X,Y or Z self improvement goal?"

"What can I do this year to improve my: mind, body, sex life, finances and/or social status?"

"Am I really happy? Fulfilled?"

"Do I understand ME? Who I AM and what I’M all about?"

"That’s it! I’m joining the gym! Buying a book! Taking a class! Seeing a shrink!"

Shutting the hell up?

It isn’t that I’m anti self-improvement; I’m all for it. It’s the fucking insincerity of it all which gets me. If you wanted to know yourself better or to fit into your latex dominatrix gear and size 4 leather harness (What? You’re more comfortable with the little black dress analogy?) or if you wanted to be better with money or more successful professionally, you’d probably have done something about it before today. Furthermore, are these things you really want, or just things you think you should want because that’s what society and Cosmopolitan say you should have?

I thought so.

And yet it seems everywhere I look the Great Stock Take and Resolve is taking over like the fucking plague.

I mean, I could make some resolutions, if pressed. Something like:

Drink more whisky. I like the smell of it and it works wonders in my coffee. I think I’ll try it straight. Over ice. On a Spaniard.

Or Spend more money on clothes. I work hard to stay in shape. (Actually I don’t. I mostly dance to stay in shape, which I love, and I am blessed with a lightning fast metabolism, even at 31.) (Also sex helps.) (And yes. I am a bitch.) Furthermore, saving for the retirement is great and all, but honestly? I’ll not have this body forever. I shall drape it in pretty things for a long as I can.

Or maybe Abandon the Rule of 5. Frankly, I miss the odd one night stand and the whole purpose of the Harem is to avoid commitment and to live a life of unbridled hedonism. As such, said boy team is now a fluid group.

I could resolve to Eat more sushi. Not sure why , but I love it, so...

Or I could Give more sex tips. You’re starving for them, kids. It's actually a little scary. My head giving posts are my most popular. My inbox runeth over.

I could resolve to do a thousand different self-serving, hedonistic things in 2011, but I say bollocks to it.

I'm f*cking brilliant. Just exactly as I am.

And you know what? I suspect most of you are as well.

So put the pen and paper down and step away from the self help section at Borders.

Go get your best kit on and drink a few pints of preparatory agua (dehydration wreaks havoc on the skin). And whatever your plans are for the evening – be they out and fabulous or in and cozy – I recommend giving the old two fingers (or middle one, if you're a fellow Yank) to all the bloody pressure. How about we celebrate the shit we got right and forget all the 'improvements' we could make.

Cause let’s be honest. All things considered, we have it pretty f*cking good.

Happy 2011 to all.

And to all a good Spaniard.

Wait. Christmas is supposed to be G-rated and family friendly?

2010-12-23T15:35:00.007Z

Well sh*t.

Best not to watch this then.

As I'm currently flu-riddled (yes, again) and thus far too snotty to be naughty (note: rhyming entirely accidental and not an attempt at actual wit), I thought I'd let the Wet Spots take your Christmas preparations for a quick dip in the dirty.

I love a good fisting tune at Christmas, don't you?

Happy and Merry, all.

Man, I feel like...a man.

2010-12-17T17:12:00.010Z

Today, for the first time in some time, I find myself both regretful and unusually sympathetic to the plight of the masculine sex.

And it’s not often that yours truly is saddled with either sympathy or regret.

One simply can’t live the way I do without effectively abandoning a normal sense of ‘right’ and ‘wrong’ for one’s own, shall we say ‘tailored’ view of morality. Furthermore, I make no excuses for living the way that I do, and I make a point of being absolutely forthright with all of my...companions...as to their status in my life (which invariably lies somewhere ‘neath the Spaniard in the relative pecking order). (But don’t tell the Spaniard this. He’s cocky enough already.) (Bless him.)

But today, as I limped my way into the office for the first time in some time – Starbucks and a new number (what have I told you?) in hand and ready to face the working world for the first time in weeks – I received the most disturbing voicemail from a recent one night stand (sort of) and huge HUGE mistake:

“B, I just don’t understand this insistence on seeing so many men at once (Shall I spell it for you?). I’m not saying you’re a whore (Yes you are.) or that you should change (Noooo...), but just that you should consider the image you’re projecting to other women. You say you’re worried about women’s rights and that you want women to be treated equally (Yes, and?) and I just don’t consider that you’re setting a good example for women by behaving this way. (Riiight. Cuz we shouldn't also be allowed to be sexually dominant/aggressive/fulfilled.) Call me when you can, okay? (Fat chance.) I really want to talk. I’m worried. (Sure you are.)”

I swear to, you know...whoever (Damn you, atheism – you make common phrase usage so difficult!)...I felt like one of those guys who is a known man whore (and I mean that in the best possible sense), and has some desperate, needy chick clinging to him, thinking that with reason and the provision of regular blowjobs, she may succeed in ‘changing’ him.

Seriously...? Does this theory still exist??

Furthermore, my little friend, I’m a woman. In my former life I played (read: taught a fucking master class in) this ridiculous game, and therefore am utterly au fait with all possible scams and manipulations. I wrote this book, b*tch. Now kindly place it back on the shelf, wipe clean your fingerprints and fly away in search of lesser women.

Is this how men feel when confronted with a needy, clingy, Martha Stewart type who thinks ‘the love of a good woman’ is all you need to mend your evil ways? Cuz I have to say, I’ve had some pretty spectacular head in my life, but give up the Spaniard (etc) and a life of unbridled self -absorption??

Not even for Javier Himself.

Now for the gratuitous underwear photo:

Because I can.

It isn’t that I don’t love you. It’s that you’re bad in bed.

2010-12-15T12:21:00.001Z

Holy crap, has it been nearly SIX WEEKS??

And yet still, as I gaze at my little followers box, I find I’ve only lost a handful of you.

((sniff)) How lovely you are.

And, well yes. How fabulous am I?

Err...don't answer that.

((sigh))

Anyway, the short version of the epic(ly boring) tale is that I’ve been in and out of the hospital for a few weeks with a slight recurrence of the C-monster who stole my girl bits in the first place. I’ve been poked, prodded, swabbed, sliced open and entered in a most undignified fashion (and not even by a Spaniard), and as a result simply haven’t had the energy or will to blog for some time.

Well boo bloody hoo, you say.

And I concur.

So let’s not dwell on the ugliness, shall we? Instead let’s dwell on some decidedly delicious news - my most prominent caretaker these last few weeks and newest member of the Harem: The Russian.

Okay, I know, it’s an entirely different bit of geography than what you’re all accustomed to seeing referenced here. But I must say it appears there's a bit of Wanda in me, kids. (The wife, not the fish. And a gold star to all who caught the film reference.) I can't deny that a hard shag to a blaring Stravinsky does wonders for the soul of a woman pissed off at everyone and noone in particular.

(The worst part of being an atheist? No one to blame when sh*t goes wrong.)

(The best part of being a cancer patient? You get to write cryptic bollocks like, "a woman pissed off at everyone and no one in particular" and no one tells you to shut your whining little trap. Brilliant.)

We met at the hospital, actually. He recovering from a knee surgery (remnants of a semi-professional Rugby career. Um...HOT?) and me from the removal of the last remaining vestiges of my lady parts. And, as they say, one thing (a comical first meeting involving limping, slipping and crashing on icy London streets) led to another (a desperate, sweaty, clawing shag session in the toilet of a theatre, from which we *may* have then been thrown out), and before you know it, the Number Cruncher had been usurped.

Well, he had to be really. A harem of more than five is just plain slutty and I've a reputation to consider.

What?

Okay, fine. (F*cking pedants.) I haven't a reputation to consider, but the harsh truth is that he was fairly shite in bed and I only kept him around because he was exceptionally beautiful and had the most remarkable shoulders I've ever balanced my upper thighs upon.

I must say the Russian has been ever so slightly too keen to 'check on' me of late. The homemade soups and (voluntary) watching of Audrey Hepburn films has officially gone from new and rather sweet to stayed and slightly frightening. Furthermore I'm not entirely sure how he'll take the news of my coming return to Madrid (um...yea. It's still ME.), but seriously - you should see the lips on this guy.

((shiver))

I wonder if he'll go all Soviet Block on me and attempt to stifle my freedom when he learns of the remaining harem members or his second-class status 'neath the Spaniard.

I wonder if he'll do it with silk scarves and copious amounts of vodka...

((pausing to consider the possibilities))

Ahem.

So. Right then. What's new with you all?

Alive, well, and me again.

2010-11-10T16:09:00.004Z

Dearest chaps and chapesses,

Need I really apologise for my absence yet AGAIN?

"Umm...Damn right you do, you unreliable bitch."

Hokay.

Reasons The Barreness has been unavailable for consultation, post, or comment love these last two weeks include (but are not limited to):

Moving house

New house having no wifi (STILL) as the UK offering absolutely fuck all by way of speed or customer service.

A very very necessary trip to Barcelona (yes, again).

Work is so fucking busy I've literally not had five free minutes to blog.

I'm busy and important, dammit.

I have so many things to tell you, I can hardly contain them all.

First, the new digs are fabulous (albeit technologically challenged). I would post pics, but this is an anonymous blog, so...not practical. Just take my word for it. Fab. Ulous.

Second, I've had the most amazing time in Barcelona.

And I know what you're thinking..

"Of COURSE you have, B, but did you actually venture outside your hotel room?"

And do you know what? Yes! Yes I did!

What can I say? I needed a break. From the job, from the cold, from the harem, from the onslaught of Dear Dirty Abbey letters (More on those in my next post, I think. Holy Crap.).

The Spaniard was unavailable for travel (little b@stard), or I may have not, in fact, left the hotel room. But let's just say I have discovered that Spain is FULL of Spaniards.

What a marvelous place...

I spent four days in Barcelona, and I met more people in this time than I have in the last five years in England. (My, what a warm and welcoming bunch the English are!) I met artists and musicians. I attended a protest rally and kissed a girl just to f*ck off the Pope. I spent the night with a Spanish guitarist. (What? It's still ME.)

(Also, it may have been two nights.)

*cough*

I smoked, I drank, I chatted, I danced, I explored. I sang a Billie Holiday song in a smokey Jazz club deep in the Cathedral Quarter, and I haven't sung anything for months.

Fucking brilliant. And just what I needed to remind me of me.

It's funny. I really can't remember when I lost me, but I know that when I found me again, I was stunned at how much I'd missed myself.

I love to sing.

In the meantime, I know you've been missing me terribly.

*crickets*

Ummm...yea.

Whatever. I'll be popping round to see what's been going on with all of you very soon indeed.

Who am I, "Dirty Abby"?

2010-10-28T14:14:00.003+01:00

Damn the relentless passing of time.

Here I was feeling all smug for my rapid posting skills (three whole posts last week!), and now we're back to square one - four days postless and you’re all bloody impatient again.

Well, what can I say?

The Spaniard returned after a prolonged absence yesterday and...so...I was busy.

Ahem.

Also, as an unfortunate result of my ridiculous schedule and, well, Spaniard requirements, I’ve not checked the old email account for a bit and holy. Crap. Have I pissed some of you off.

It’s actually a little delicious...

This one thinks I’m anti shagging (and has strong views on heel height):

How can you possibly go on about flouting female stereotypes when you’re busy prancing around London in stilettos and shagging your way into board rooms the country over?

- Annoyed in Andover.

Dearest Annoyed,

I’m interested in the female stereotypes to which you refer...

Have I ever used this space to preach against free shagging or to speak out in favour of heel-less footwear?

Cuz I’d like to think that my schtick was more about denigrating the narrow minded fuckwits who judge women based upon what they wear, who they shag or how they chose to use their “baby making bits”.

Perhaps I’ve not been clear?

Please advise.

- B x

This one made me a little sad:

Dear Barreness,

I do love you but I have to tell you that I was upset about your prenuptial post. I signed a prenup under duress, from fear of being left by the man I loved most, and I regretted it after I signed it.

I probably would have moved to the UK if I knew they didn’t enforce them there!

I think you should acknowledge that some women are forced to sign prenups or their marriage could be in jeopardy.

- Angie

Angie honey,

So your kind does exist...

Where do I begin?

I’m not sure whether to slap you or to cry on your behalf, but either way I’m afraid my opinion on the subject remains unchanged.

I’m certain that there are women who sign prenups under duress, but the post was not questioning whether or not this happens. It was questioning WHY this happens.

Were you really that desperate to get married that you would sign anything?

Was he really that obstinate about making you sign it, even if it meant you may not marry him?

Did it ever occur to you to ask?

- B x

And this? This freaked me out a little. And it isn't the first time I've been asked something like it:

Dear Barreness,

I’ve been reading for a while and I think you’re awesome. I also think you might be able to help me with a little sexual problem...

...((content edited for the squeamish among us))...

...((who, lets face it, probably aren’t reading this blog, but nonetheless I thought it wouldn’t be prudent to reveal all of her dirty details without asking her first))...

...so should I try it? Or should I tell him to “fuck off” as you undoubtedly would?

I’m asking you because you seem like someone who would tell me the truth straight up, and not dress it in a skirt and make it play nice.

- Ella in America

I did respond to Ella (not least because her closing analogy was fucking brilliant), though I've not posted it here, as it would sort of work against the whole purposeful omission of detail above. But I must confess that I felt pretty weird about it...

Really? Who am I, “Dirty Abbey”?

Do you lot really think me a qualified practitioner of Sexual Healin’?

Can you all handle the truth and is there really that much of an appetite for it?

Is 11am too early for a vodka tonic?

Because Sister Merry likes a little naughty on the Lord's Day...

2010-10-24T18:01:00.002+01:00

Sexy Sunday for Sister Merry.

In Barcelona

The street is damp and silent, save her heartbeat and a softly playing guitar.

When did it rain?

In her memory, the evening splinters and rearrange itself, its metallic taste lingers on her lips.

A fistful of pills. An overflowing wine glass.

A line, a hit, a fuck.

Rinse and repeat.

The buildings in this place echo the shapes of nature. Concrete bends and curves into the shape of him. The round of his shoulder. The rise of his cock.

Ever the taker, tonight she had given herself completely to the sights and sounds of this place.

To the rhythm of the stranger with the dark eyes and the searching lips. It was the music that brought him to her. It was the music that led her. That let her.

Now in the small hours of morning, she walks alone again. A long black dress. A long white cigarette. She feels neither wet concrete on her bare feet nor early autumn chill on her bare skin. She doesn't notice that her hair has fallen from its clips. Black lashes on her shoulders.

But she can still see him when she closes her eyes. She can still hear the music if lets herself listen.

She can feel him watching her walk away.

Through the slow exhale of a cigarette and the quiet whisper of a Spanish guitar.

This is becoming something of a trend.

2010-10-21T12:03:00.008+01:00

She comes, she goes. She leaves lame-assed apologies for prolonged blogging absences. She casually dismisses her neglect with tales of rooftop pools and videos of ass sex songs.

And she leaves you again, for days, without even a hint of a warning.

Pathetic, really.

If only she wasn't so damned self centered, she may actually feel badly for the anguish and withdrawals her absence has caused.

If only she'd not been working her nuts off whilst battling the worst cold anyone's ever had in the history of the world (See Twitter feed. Heinous.) since Thursday last week.

If only she'd stop referring to herself in the third person.

I know it, kids, I do. Go ahead and scold me.

Tut. Chastise. Spank, lightly with a feathered horse whip.

Um...

Anywho, obligatory apologies and excuses be damned, I think you may need to sit down because I've got something to tell you which may throw you for a bit of a loop.

No, I'm not engaged.

Really? We have met, right?

I'm not pregnant either.

You: But, B, miracles can happen.

Me: Not for an atheist without her girl bits they can't.

Moving on.

What I have to tell you is somewhere along these lines, but not a full blown diatribe again.

You: Thank God for that one.

Me: Thank who? And bite me.

So it turns out that in the UK, prenuptial agreements are not legally enforceable. Rather, they are enforceable, but only if the court thinks it "fair" to do so. Never mind that two consenting adults have entered into a contractual agreement; if someone wants to contest the terms of a prenup after it's been signed, they are free to take it to court and let the court decide if the agreement was fair.

But let's set aside the inherent fuckedupedness in that little gem. It gets worse.

Recently there was a court case in which a husband was trying to reverse the prenup that he signed with his wealthy German wife. It went through several levels of appeal until it reached the UK's High Court (Like the Supreme Court but, you know, with better manners. And lots of tea breaks.), at which it was decided to honour the terms of the prenup at long last.

"Bravo" say the responsible adults in the room.

"Bullshit!" call the vapid twits.

Come again?

Vapid Twits: (Consisting of a female attorney and business owner, who will remain unnamed, but who were interviewed on a radio talk show following the ruling) (Also, I'm summarising, but pretty damned accurately.) We are appalled by the decision to uphold this prenup, as we feel this will ultimately set a precedent which will disadvantage women.

Responsible Adults: Que?

Vapid Twits: Well, sometimes women feel pressured to sign prenups because, without them, the man may not agree to the marriage.

Responsible Adults: Um...

Vapid Twits: Furthermore, it's sometimes difficult, in the heat of the moment, to think rationally on these things, and often women will sign them without really understanding what they've done.

And the Barreness erupts into a flaming ball of rage that makes South Beach look an attractive snowboarding destination.

Let me see if I've got this one.

Two "professional" women, on a global radio show are telling the world that, not only are women too stupid and emotionally driven to read and understand the terms of a legal contract, but - and this is far worse - that marriage is so goddamned important to them that they will sign away their rights just to get the vows read out in front of their friends and relatives?

Is this a fucking joke???

Before you say it, this isn't a comment about marriage. Marriage works for some people, I think. You know, for a while at least. Until they remember what sex was like.

You: Here she fucking goes again.

Me: Yea. That one was low. I'm actually pretty proud of it.

This is about the sad state of the world and of women in general if there is even a morsel of truth in what The Twits had to say. IS marriage really the ultimate goal for women? Are we really happy to say - to men and to the world - that we're so desperate to be married that we'll sign a contract that we aren't happy with - or worse - don't understand, just so we can change our title from Miss to Mrs?

(And don't even get me started about how much I resent having to declare my marital status to all and sundry while men are "Mr"s for their entire lives.) (Shit, I did start, didn't I.) (Okay, I won't finish, but you see where I'm going.)

I come back to one of my regular mantras which is that I blame US for a big fat chunk of the inequality that we face.

Are there really women who think this way? Or have they just not bothered to think about it properly?

Which is worse?

Don't they get that to be treated as an equal, one must ACT as an equal?

Because pulling this breathless, stupid, wide-eyed, "Oh gee, Your Honour, I just didn't understand what I was signing. And if I didn't sign it he wouldn't have married me!" bullshit is not, I repeat NOT acting an equal.

It's acting a fucking child.

And we don't let them sign legally binding contracts either.

I think I'll write a book. Start a cult. Screw a Spaniard.

Oh wait.

We could always take a correspondence class.

2010-10-15T11:13:00.004+01:00

Warning: Do remember that I own my own business.

Probably best not to play this in fron tof the boss.

(Or anyone who finds no humour in ass sex.)

Not that you'd want anything to do with *those* types, anyway.

Pfft.

Yes, I forgot your birthday. But you should have SEEN the roof pool.

2010-10-12T17:15:00.000+01:00

Date: Friday, 8 October, 2010

Location: office of the Barreness, London, UK.

Time: 08.12 am

It was a scene not commonly found 'round these parts.

Papers strewn wildly about the desk, floor and sofa. Neglected office plants lay parched and limp on windowsills. Project plans are makeshift wallpaper and everyone’s favourite sex kitten has neither sexed nor kittened for days.

Days I tell you.

She is a shell of her former self. Overworked, overwrought and seriously neglecting her roots. (Though she has dropped five pounds from simply forgetting to eat, so...you know...bonus.)

Suddenly, the receptionist buzzes.

Receptionist: B, it’s the Spaniard for you. F*ck me, he has a sexy voice. Could you like, record him sometime and let me borrow it?

B: I’ve a number of recordings, K, but most of them include video, so no. Unless of course you’d like me to fire you so that you could neither sue me for sexual harassment or kill me in a bout of insane jealousy?

Receptionist: *ponders*.... I do get a bit jealous.

B: Indeed.

Receptionist: I’ll put him through.

Spaniard: Guapaaa. How are you?

((F*ck me, he has a sexy voice.))

B: Not bad, Spaniard, if a bit manic. What’s up?

Spaniard: So you know Miguel, my friend?

B: ((Better than you may think.)) Yes, of course.

Spaniard: Well he’s just moved to a new place in Madrid and he’s having a big house warming party on Sunday. I thought maybe we go?

B: Sounds suspiciously like a couples’ thing, Spaniard. You know how I feel about couples' things. Furthermore, who throws a party on a Sunday? Don’t they work in Spain?

((Of course they don’t. They’re far too busy shagging and flamenco dancing and generally being hot.))

Spaniard: *sexy laugh* ((Fuuuuck.)) We just don’t take life so seriously, Guapa. ((There he goes again.)) Anyway, not a couples thing, I promise. But he’s got a rooftop swimming pool and an open bar. And there’s a salsa place on the ground floor of his building. B, you’d be in heaven...

But I was already there.

He had me at rooftop pool.

I was packing my salsa shoes.

I was ordering self tan.

I was doing my keagles.

What?

And so, a quick visit to BA.com, a long overdue appointment with Helga (No, I am not taking the piss. I actually have a German waxer called Helga. She is at once brilliant and terrifying.) and I was sipping Sangria in the sweltering Spanish sunshine before you could say “mad alliteration skills".

As such, I’ve both neglected my beloved blog buddies for a few days (yes, again) and forgotten my mother’s birthday.

Is it wrong that I’m far more upset about the former slip up than the latter?

I shall regale you with stories of Spanish adventures later this week. But before I do, I think it time to pop by and see what you all have been up to.

First though - on the subject of flights...

(And, well...gayness...)

This made me giggle.

Modesty just doesn't suit me.

2010-10-07T21:35:00.004+01:00

And yet...here I am...blushing.

It seems that this week, I've been nominated for a lovely blog award from not one, but TWO feisty bloggin' beauties.

Good taste gets around, eh?

Many thanks and a cheeky ass smack to Ms Molly Malone (doesn't she just sound like a porn star?) (Um...I mean that in the BEST POSSIBLE way, Molly.) and Ms Pragmatic Spector (super fabulous, even though I need a bloody dictionary to read most of her posts).

And, it seems that in order to accept these honours, I must nominate 10 other bloggers whom I admire, so here goes:

(Erm, and I've thrown in a few extras, cuz I got two nominations.) (Also, cuz this is my blog so I can do shit like that.) (I'm a crazy rule breaking b*tch.)

The Rabbit - Some of the most hauntingly beautiful writing I've read in a very very long time.
Sister Mary Hellish - We have a mutual worship thing going on.
Madamoiselle Haute Mess - My very firstest blog buddy makes bad decisions (that's the good bad, obv).
The (totally NON) Vapid Blonde - her name is, like, ironic. Get it?
Patty Punker - uses fuck almost as freely and lovingly as I do.
Ms Beausaphine - makes me laugh every. time. I read her.
Jill Hamilton - Oh, she goes there. Does she ever.
Sassafrass Jane - what happens when supermodels blog? You find out that some of them are smart and funny too. I actually hate her a little.
Wicked Shawn - she's been through shit and still smells of Chanel. Fab.
Nicky - she had a fight with a hurricane and won.
Sweet Annah - damn you, your hotness and your mad paint skills!
Fred - biting wit and a fantastically beautiful lady friend. (who has given him permission to love me)
Jenny - Damnit. I tried to resist, I really did. But I love her. In a (mostly) non lesbian way.Who doesn't? Also, she'll never read this, so I figure I'm pretty safe with the lesbian reference. Right?

Anyway, I know it's late and all, but I'm officially here today with another scandalous few lines. (Muchos grateful if you'd clicky and comment, so they know how much you love me...)

And finally, I know I've been a very naughty Barreness (and not in a good way, for once) -

I promise I am DYING to visit all of your blogs, but there simply have not been enough hours in the bloody day this week. I will be visiting and saying hello to everyone tomorrow, I pwomise. (I have actually blocked an hour and a half in my diary as "personal appointment" for no other purpose than to visit all of my blog peeps.)

(That's as close to real love as I get, kids.)

- B x

***AMMENDED: Holy crap, I won THREE of these babies!! Much love and many apologies to Mynx, who is also spreading the love (and some seriously horny stories too. Oww!! ***

Fetish Shmetish

2010-10-04T17:42:00.000+01:00

Warning: Some of this is maybe a bit gross. And by “maybe” I mean as certain as George W was an unholy wanker.

And another thing: Maybe it's best to just go ahead and presume reading this blog at work will get you on the naughty list. (Not that one.)

After my recent introduction to “Alisha” and the bizarre world of cross dressing for sexual pleasure, I have begun to think that I may be a bit – dare I say it? – vanilla in my particular particulars.

*gasp*

I mean, I’m usually up for a bit of

Role play - Good afternoon, Mr Spaniard, I’m doctor B and I understand you’ve an itch in need of scratching?

Dominance and light S&M – Here’s ten lashes to stop that incessant whining. And there’ll be ten more if there's even the suggestion of further whimpering from you, you insolent little ...

Exhibitionism – That box at the Apollo may never be the same.

and Porn – Many kudos to Andrew Blake, who creates some of the best chick-friendly porn around. (Complete with the odd extreme close-up to please the boyz.)

And yet, the longer I gaze pensively across the landscape of fetishism, the more I realise that even my most outlandish costume or merciless cropping cannot compare to some of the secret desires out there...

1. Transformation fetish

Okay, Janya's sort of hot.

Achieving sexual arousal by depictions of transformations, usually of people into other beings or objects. I guess that makes Jayna of The Wonder Twins the Jenna Jameson of transformation fetishists. (<-- I totally stole that sh*t. It made me laugh.)

2. Amputee fetish

Please please tell me these guys are not in Sierra Leone with any degree of regularity. I’ve been there. Nothing sexy about it.

3. Hierophilia

This fetish gets its subscribers off with religious or sacred objects. I'm of a mixed mind about this one, as I've often fantasised about fornication within the House of the "Lord"

Hello, Sailor commentator reports: "The sound of rushing feet is deafening as all of B's religious followers exit the building. Have they not been warned? Has she been unclear? Would they return if she offered free gifts or promises of sexual favours?"

4. Emetophilia

Also called a Roman shower, emetophiles dig on inducing vomit and then screwing. Erm, I thought The Exorcist was meant to terrify, not turn on...? Anyone?

5. Eproctophilia

Hokay, really? Farting??

6. Urophilia

Damn. Golden showers. Should maybe have included this in the opening bit, except that it’s never really been my bag, as it were. Have given and received before, but never found it all that stimulating and the requisite rubber sheets are not. sexy.

7. Klismaphilia

Enema, anyone? Quoth the Klismaphile, “Yes, please!”

Quoth the Barreness: “Been there, hated it, sent the f*cking t-shirt back.”

8. Necrophilia

“I see dead people. And I likey.”

Um,yea. Not until Javier kicks it.

What?

9. Coprophilia

Also commonly known as “scat”, I’m not talking modern jazz here, kids. One should perhaps avoid the “eat shit” mandate with Corophites. They will do it. Gladly.

Shame, really. He was pretty hot.

10. Anthropophagolagnia

The cherry atop this rather disturbing bowl of frozen weirdness belongs to those who rape and then eat their victims, Dahmer style. Gratification is not complete until digestion begins and it's a popular fetish of serial killers. Naturally.

Okay, so maybe I judge a little.

Ultimately, looking at this list makes me absolutely thrilled to dress the old boy in satin and make him lick my stilettos. After all, he could be asking to lick the remnants of my last hangover or contents of my toilet.

((shiver))

Furthermore, he has followed my instructions to an absolute tea, and I'm really not keen to put all that hard work to waste.

So, in short, the tranny is in, and I'm sticking with vanilla...with the occasional sprinkle on top.

Oh, and I'm never drinking again.

Waiting.

2010-09-30T14:01:00.005+01:00

She laughs when she thinks of the advice that people from her past were always all too willing to give.

You need a man, a steady partner. You’ll want children someday.

You’re not getting any younger.

They must implant this into the forebrain of women as they transform them from the spiky young feminists that irritated but entertained her into the vapid, Stepford wives that bored but bored her.

She had gone another way.

Free from strictures of family and relationships.

Yes it had cost her something. She felt it constantly; a permanent reminder of the price of unfettered freedom.

But you didn’t have to find yourself in the arms of another, though Freud and his kind would doubtless say she was trying.

There had been many men, and come to that, girls. Some lasted weeks, some hours. But she had never needed them to complete her.

She was complete, and what she was missing she could do without.

The door to her apartment is at the bottom of a short flight of granite steps. She stands at the top, waiting, naked.

She lights a cigarette and inhales slowly, savouring the acrid bite of social aberration.

There is the shadow of feet in the slit of light that underlines the door. There is a pause and a slight intake of breath.

And finally, a knock.

P.S. Don't forget to click. Sex and the 405 (in a few hours, when California wakes up) if you're into this kind of thing.

Auditions now closed.

2010-09-29T10:37:00.000+01:00

Once again, it’s been DAYS.

Sorry kids. Work, boys, dance, work, WORK, blah blah...

Enough of that; I have news.

The Harem is, once again, complete.

Hello Sailor commentator reports: "There was a mixed reaction from the crowd to the recent announcement of the closing of Harem auditions. Some seemed genuinely pleased and eager for details, while some lamented the death of mystery and the mental pictures that the audition process sparked in their (delightfully dirty) minds. Let's listen in for more details..."

Please welcome (in the figurative sense, of course) The Professor.

Cambridge graduate and current lecturer at a prominent London University, his command of the English language is equalled only by his command of the bedroom (when I relinquish it, of course). But the real decision was made after our first night together.

Professor: ((laughing as he dresses and arching one dark eyebrow)) You know, I’m usually the one who gives the lessons, B.

Bareness: ((laughing also, thinking of her last blog post and wearing only freshly lit cigarette)) I believe that.

Professor: So...when can I see you again?

Barreness: ((inner wince)) Well, Professor, here’s the thing...

Professor: ((interrupting with a light chuckle and thieving of aforementioned cigarette)) B, I’m kidding.

Barreness: Eh?

Professor: You haven’t the interest and I haven’t the time.

Barreness: ((stifles delighted giggle)) Well, it's just that...

Professor: No need, really. How about you ring me when you fancy it? And in the meantime, I’ll get some practice in...

Aaaaand SOLD.

How much practice do you think he will have had in three days?

I heart my life.

Demystifying Cunnilingus.

2010-09-25T09:45:00.005+01:00

Warning: If you've not already sussed it - probably best not to read this in front of the boss.

Other Warning: If you're easily offended by the open discussions of sex, this may not be the post (or the blog, for that matter) for you.

Greetings Chaps and Chapesses.

As you might have guessed, today's topic is an educational one, its necessity brought into rather glaring focus for me throughout the recent audition process.

As it turns out, despite machinations and unsubstantiated claims to the contrary, ~~nearly every man I meet, infuriatingly~~ ~~most men~~ lots of men are absolutely bloody clueless about how to give good head.

This is a situation to which I feel it my duty - as resident sex kitten in this particular corner of the interweb - to lend a helping hand.

To extend the snatch of friendship, if you will.

*cough*

You see, I think we women are really quite unfair to men.

On one hand (and sometimes in two, but only if you're really lucky), we have the penis. Reasonably straightforward and requiring very little by way of operating know-how. And yes, of course you can get creative and interesting with your technique, but there's a basic in and out motion required to get the desired result and as long as you roughly master this, you're doing alright.

Then we have the vagina. Lady flower, vajayjay, bajingo, snatch (my personal favourite) - whatever your particular choice of term, its certainly not what one would call "user friendly". There are folds and hidden bits and some have innies and some have outies and if there were ever an operators manual created (what a MARVELOUS idea), its size and spread would rival that of War and Peace.

It's unfair to men for us to just expect that they'll know what to do when they get down there, and yet so many of us are disinclined to give instruction, as we "would rather not teach".

Bollocks.

If someone doesn't take pity on the poor sods and explain a thing or two, how will they ever learn? And furthermore, the longer they go without proper instruction, the more we have to put up with persons such as last night's contender for the open Harem place - a man so confused by the lady maze that I actually stopped him in the middle to suggested a cup of tea before he left. Straight away.

Yes. That bad.

But there's good news boys. The truth is that, despite a woman's many varied preferences, there are a few rather simple instructions which should help you to avoid the awkward mid-(pre)-coital tea offering and at least get the ladies suitably warmed up, if not breathless and begging for round two.

So let's start with a simple diagram, shall we?

"Lady Flower"

<------- Lady Flower image, courtesy of Microsoft Paint* and Georgia O'keefe**.

*Please forgive my Paint skills, as I haven't Annah's flare for this.*

** Also thanks to Georgia O'keefe, whose paintings pretty much all look like a vag.**

As you can see, boys (Or girls, if you like.), there aren't actually all that many bits with which to contend. Two possible entrance holes (depending on your persuasive skills and her tolerance for pain), two sets of "lips", and the ever elusive citoris - a tiny little button which on some women you can find easily and on some you can't. Not to worry, boys. Believe me, it's always roughly in the same place. Concentrate your efforts here, and you're golden.

So that's the anatomy.

Now, lets talk briefly about technique, which can pretty much be summed up in four words, which I'd like you to commit to memory and repeat over and over (to yourself, probably) the next time you're faced with the job of orally pleasing a woman:

More lips, less tongue.

Shall I go ahead and write it twice, enlarge and italicise it, just to be sure?

More. Lips. Less. Tongue.

Let's examine the logic of this statement for a moment. As you'll notice from my (rather creepy, I admit) diagram, women have, not one but TWO sets of "lips". Three, if you count the face. Are her facial lips for poking, flicking or stabbing at with your tongue?

I think not.

Women enjoy oral sex because it is a softer, warmer, more sensual experience than intercourse. A penis is for thrusting. Fingers are occasionally for poking or prodding (In lesson two we'll explore the joys of the finger-enhanced cunnilingus technique, but let's just keep things simple for now). But lips? Yours or hers, they're for kissing (and sucking lightly, of course).

The other thing to bear in mind about technique is that you have to change things up a bit. Think of a good massage. The masseuse may focus on "key areas", but they will change direction, location, intensity and pressure throughout the massage, to ensure that the muscles get the best possible workout. Same rules apply to snatch-licking. (What, too graphic?)

Thirdly (and lastly for now, as I've surely lost nearly every follower I have by this point), my last bit of advice is simple and (one would think) self explanatory:

Just f*cking pay attention, will you?

If we like what's going on down there, we'll let you know. We'll moan, we'll arch, we'll squeeze your hand. Just keep doing what you're doing and please, for the love, do NOT ask us if we're enjoying it.

If I wanted a chat I wouldn't have occupied your mouth. Attempting to chat mid-head is a guaranteed one way ticket way to Lipton town.

And there you have it - a few helpful hints from moi a vous.

I would never suggest that following these instructions will make you the greatest head-giver in the history of Danielle Steel novels. (That position is in fact already occupied by the Pilot - quite possibly the only reason I keep that one around.) But I do hope I've helped to unmask some of the mystery surrounding a lady's "red velvet love cavern" (best romance novel quote EVER).

Cribbs notes provided for a small fee.

Now away! Away and cunnilingus to your (lady friend's) hearts content!

And do feel free to report back on progress/feedback received.

Alternatively, you may send thank yous in the form of Jimmy Choos and/or naked photos of Javier Bardem.

I'm not here today.

2010-09-23T15:09:00.001+01:00

I'm here.

It's a new one. Tell me what you think? (And comment there too, lest they think me unpopular!)

Oh, and before I go, two things:

1. I've finally joined Facebook. (I know, but I'm BUSY, damnit.) "Like" me, baby. (If you can find it in my bloody tiny sidebar.)

2. I've got a new recruit due in this evening. I shall report back as soon as he's recovered enough to go home...

*wicked laugh*

Feminists are stupid. Unless I am one.

2010-09-21T18:02:00.002+01:00

Warning: There is very little sex in this post. (Yes, it’s still me.) So I've stuck some sexy pictures in, to help you get through.

Feminism is a word with which I've been struggling for some time.

Dictionary.com (do they even make printed dictionaries anymore?) defines a feminist as: one who supports the doctrine advocating social, political, and all other rights of women equal to those of men.

Sounds reasonable. Kinda makes a girl want to tie a bandanna around her hair and invest in denim shirts. *queue fist pump and "Hell Yea"*

What? She's hot.

My mate Nigel from the pub, however, takes a rather different view. Thoughtfully swilling cold lager while twirling a pork scratching between is fingers, Nigel considers his definition of the “f” word. Nodding, he crunches down on the deep fried pig skin. “Bunch of dykes, innit?” he says, a light smattering of animal fat flying from his lips. (He is SO never being granted admission to the Harem.)

ROFL

Nigel imagery notwithstanding, ------>

these two ends of the feminist image spectrum are very real. Furthermore, they’re causing yours truly a bit of a headache, as I’ve been confronted by a rash of male dominance lately (if you can believe it) and I am struggling to decide from which side of the “bull dyke – freedom fighter” battle I am fighting.

But suddenly, I’m taking notice of things which had never previously occurred to me and what’s more? They’re seriously f*cking pissing me off.

Worse, I’m pissing myself off.

I’ve written this post a few times now, both with and without specific examples of the incidents which have left me fuming but disinclined to speak out for fear of being labelled a “feminist”. And as you may have noticed, I’m not afraid of anything.

Not a sexy pic. Very very scary and revolting.

(Except for palmetto bugs.

<---------They look like this

and make me scream like

a six year old girl.)

And yet, I’m happy with, or at least able to laugh at, all of the other “ists” that I have been called in my day...

Activist

Environmentalist

Socialist (when I was young)

Capitalist (when I grew up)

Polyamorist (is that a word?)

Spanish-obsessive-ist (err...whatever)

I. Have. No. Words.

Anyway, the point is that even I - who couldn’t give a casual afternoon toss about societal expectations, gender roles or the labels that people constantly feel the need to slap onto one another – will sometimes hesitate before ticking the “Ms” box on a credit application, for fear of being seen as a “feminist”. Why is that???

And furthermore, why aren’t women universally supporting the feminist movement in its original incarnation?

I don’t mean the unkempt, militant, “don’t hold the door for me you misogynist wanker” kind of feminism. I mean the good old Wiki-feminism – the fight for equality in absolutely every area of society.

Are we lazy? Happy to give up our names and the need to look after ourselves once we “land a good man”?

Are we scared of being ostracized and ridiculed by the bleary eyed masses who don’t take the time to understand what we’re fighting for?

You didn't think I would forget you, boys, did you?

The trouble with my position here is that, for the most part, I blame us.

We're never going to achieve gender equality unless we pull our collective fingers out and EARN it.

This means no more "cashing in" on the rich guy.

No more "majoring in husband" at University.

No more accepting 30% less pay for the same job (Unless you're 30% less effective in your job and then you can bugger off while the rest of us are working.).

No more obsessing over being the "perfect woman" in order to attract a man (I guaran-damn-tee you that they don't), and for f*ck's sake, no more just accepting "the way it is". You don't like his surname? Don't f*cking take it. Don't fancy staying home with the kids? Then don't f*cking do it.

Or for the love, quite your f*cking bitching.

Now, dearest readers, I ask you:

Do the above statements earn me my feminazi swastika (I wonder if it's all swirly and has flowers on it...)? Or am I destined to be forever scorned by true feminists, as siding with the "penis bearers" (to use Charles's charming description, from a comment on this post), and failing to "get" their side of the fight?

And while we're at it - could anyone actually finish reading this after that pic of Javier?? Cuz I could hardly finish writing it.

You weren't expecting raindrops on roses, were you?

2010-09-17T00:36:00.007+01:00

And so, it's Thursday already.

F*ck me, where does the time go?

Honestly, I've missed two nights in the studio this week and haven't seen the Spaniard since Monday.

Mon.day.

I know.

But, dearest readers, tonight it is you about whom I'm most concerned. I've abandoned you these last few days, leaving you slack-jawed full of questions, with images of trannies swishing awkwardly in your head. Sorry for that.

Anyway, I thought it was about time I said a little hello, as I'm beholden to absolutely no one, save you lot.

(You better put out.)

And, as my rather protracted dip in the guilty pool of abandonment is beginning to cause some prunage (not sexy), I suppose it can't hurt to honour the following request, received by email yesterday:

B,

We know about your harem, we know about your job, we know about London. I get that this is an anonymous blog, but won't you tell us anything about you personally? What do you think about? What do you dream of? What are some of your favourite things?

You can't be just about sex, can you? That just has to get boring.

With love and curiosity,

Geoff

Hokay, Geoff

First - whatever kind of sex you're having now you must cease immediately. Apart from that I'll go ahead and dismiss the idiocy of your last statement. Trust me, it's for the best.

Second, and as regards the specific questions you ask, the first two have largely the same answer. Just go ahead and fill in some combination of:

- Spaniards

- a battery powered device that accurately simulates the sensation of cunnilingus (am I alone here?), and

- a naked Javier Bardem, dripping in champagne

and you'll find your answers.

But, as for my favourite things, I suppose I can work with you here.

Let's start with whiskers on kittens.

This is Samuel after a recent printer purchase.

My one true love, I do worship this animal and I couldn't give a toss if that makes me a cat lady.

I'm a cat lady with a harem, so bite me.

The shell ring in this photo was given to me by a little girl in a church in Central Africa.

She took it off her finger, put it on mine and made me promise to wear it every day.

That was three years ago and I now feel naked without it. (The bad kind.)

(I know. I didn't think there was either, but apparently it's the feeling one gets when one forgets a key piece of jewelry. Go figure.)

The guitar I first learned to play on.

I was determined to learn the slide guitar like Robert Johnson and Son House.

Instead, I learned one blues riff and drove my flat mate mental playing it over and over again.

I never did learn to play like Robert or Son, incidentally. But I did shag a guy once who looked a lot like Keb Mo, so I figure I'm about square with the universe.

I was sort of nervous snapping a photo of my book shelf, as I always think people use bookshelves less for the storage of literary genius and more to make themselves look like intellectuals. Prats.

Newsflash, kids. We know you planted the Nietzsche. Furthermore, no one in their right mind has EVER actually read Crime and Punishment without wanting to kill themselves, so just leave the John Grisham where it is, would ya? Bring the Twilight novels out from the "naughty corner" (it's awfully crowded there, what with the porn and old Spice Girls Albums) and let them breathe.

Anyway, this is an undoctored bookshelf snap I took this morning on my way out. And okay, I actually have read (and actually kind of liked) Crime and Punishment but it's not on my book shelf, hence I am not a prat.

I think it's on the shelves upstairs.

Every self respecting dominant female must posses a red riding crop.

Hours of fun in the fetish club and it really freaks out your Mom when she "happens to stumble across it whilst tidying up".

Finally, I took this shot last weekend at a girlfriend's house and sent it to another girlfriend who's ~~knocked up~~ about to experience one of nature's great miracles. (I couldn't even type that with a straight face.)

I just thought she might want to see what she was missing.

She was not amused.

But she did enquire after the permissibility of medical marijuana as a way of staving off PPD and demanded a bottle of Blue Saphire be brought to her bedside following the birthing process.

Both bad news for breast feeding, apparently. Pfft.

And there you have it, Geoff. A few of my favourite (and mostly legal) things.

You're welcome.

Do feel free to duplicate the effort, my blog friends, as Geoff and I would be very interested to see a few of your favourite things as well.

I'm not going to "tag" anyone because, honestly, that irritates the sh*t out of me and (rightly) makes the "tagged" people feel like lemmings if they do it and losers if they don't. Not my style.

But, if you do decide to let us into your own respective weird little worlds, don't worry -

I won't tell anyone it was my idea, even though they'll probably smell the awesome on it.

P.S. Finally got technical issues at Sex and the 405 worked out, so be sure to visit for a sexy fix on Thursdays. (This week's post you've seen already, but next week's has never been seen before.)

Well...okay. But hands off my shoes - you'll only stretch the leather.

2010-09-13T10:32:00.002+01:00

I have reached new levels of exhaustion, friends.

I'm talking marathon runner exhaustion. Single mum with two jobs exhaustion. Two days in bed with Javier Bardem exhaustion.

Actually, lets' ponder that last one for a moment, shall we?

***((ponder))***

Nice.

Hokay, so not only have I been working my nuts off for the last, oh, month or so (nights, weekends - the works), but I'm afraid that the men in my life may actually be the death of me.

Body and brain, both knackered. And I blame them.

For, not only did last week see the fond farewell of "The Kid", but another member of Le Harem, has now thrown a bit of curve ball at me; one which I'm afraid I don't know how exactly to catch.

And by curve ball, I mean meteor-sized ball of flames travelling at the speed of light.

Or, you know, big and a bit scary.

I shall illustrate.

But hang on, I need a cigarette for this one.

***((light and inhale))***

Okay, better.

So... on Saturday night I was enjoying a fantastic evening with one of my longest standing Members (I'm thinking of making them plastic admittance cards.) (I'm certain there's some kind sliding things into "slots" joke in there somewhere, but let's just leave that for the moment mmmkay?) who hinted all night that he had a surprise in store for me when we got back to my place.

Brilliant, I thought. I love surprises.

Would it be silken? Sparkling? Frowned upon in most of the US and punishable by death throughout the Bible Belt?

I was giddy with anticipation.

And I wasn't entirely wrong...

About 20 minutes after retiring to the bathroom to prepare said surprise (odd, but, what evs), out emerged said Member (I'll not be divulging who, incidentally, so stop asking!) clad in a black bra and panties, black stockings, sky high heels, a blond wig and a red feather boa.

Oh yea, I said it.

Red. Feather. Boa.

A six foot (plus), broad shouldered, athletic, alpha male type with whom I've shared many a stiff drink in the pub and the occasional shag against a wall/locker/Snooker table (what?) was standing before me, not in his usual tough guy incarnation, but as "Alisha" - a pouty woman-like creature who likes to be dominated, humiliated and otherwise squashed 'neath the proverbial (and actual) stiletto.

***((pause for sink in-age.))***

Hokay.

Living life without judgement is one thing. Screwing without it is entirely another.

And while the domination thing is totally feasible, (and - let's be honest - quite good fun), it's really only fun to dominate men in such a way (sorry boys). Furthermore, though extraordinarily attracted to the alpha male incarnation of said Member, I am not. in fact. a lesbian (further apologies, gentlemen).

Was it different? Naughty? A bit of fun?

Absolutely.

Do I have any moral issues or judgements on a person's particular sexual perversion?

Absolutely not. I generally encourage them.

Do think I'd order it off the sexual menu, if given the choice between traditional meat and two berries or the...satin-wrapped variety?

Probably not.

But then...maybe my pallet is not as sophisticated as I thought. Maybe, once one has acquired a taste for this particular deviance it could be quite delicious. Maybe my mind isn't really open to new opportunities, as I have always believed.

Confusion, thy name is The Barreness.

And so, to you, dear readers I ask - what is a girl to do??

Ride this strange wave to potentially exotic destinations?

Or dismount, swim to shore and cling to "safe" (boring?) old ground?

Cuz I tell ya - it took a couple of rounds with the Spaniard before I felt that my sexual equilibrium had once again been reached.

And then I thought, "You know, a red satin nightie would really suit his lovely dark colouring."

And then my head exploded.

It was messy. And I have work to do.

A Farewell to "The Kid"

2010-09-09T13:36:00.005+01:00

- He's sweet, really.

Quick with a compliment or proclamation of undying emotion (however hard I try to beat it out of him). Happy to run baths, massage shoulders and make morning coffee. Cappuccino - one heaping spoon of sugar. He never forgets.

- A little naive, perhaps.

"But why can't socialism work, B? All of mankind coming together for the greater good of one's fellow man? It's the perfect solution, if you ask me."

"Because, Sweet Kid, socialism is an arguably perfect idea which must be carried out by an unarguably imperfect race. Man is greedy, self-absorbed and genetically designed to seek out his own best solution. It's who we are and one of the reasons we've survived as a species. Capitalism - with all its many faults and troublesom shortcomings - is the reason we're as wealthy as we are today.

It affords us the ability to care about the plight of others."

- He's beautiful, beyond a shadow of a doubt.

He radiates the thoughtful whimsy of a poet; his unassuming demeanor betrayed only by the sharp intelligence of light green eyes. Tall and lanky, his dark, tousled hair is always slightly too long, but less for the sake of fashion than because his head is so far in the clouds that he simply forgets to trim it. He always smells of soap.

- He's gaining confidence as a lover. This cannot be denied.

When we first were together he fumbled and groped, totally unaware of the requisite nuance and subtlety of the sexual experience. But he listened. He learned. Occasionally he followed instruction. And now the lessons have shortened, as their necessity has lessened. And the morning's goodbye kiss grows more bittersweet with each evening's passion.

- Unfortunately, he's also a f*cking idiot. Fact.

"Did you used to go to concerts back when you were young, B?"

"Wow, B, I've just counted, like, 15 of your gray hairs!"

"I don't mind that you're 35, B, honest. I think you look really young for your age."

I'm thirty f*cking one, you embryonic simpleton.

I'll miss certain things about him, for sure.

But I do love the audition process.

Sorry, Sister Mary. I know it's not Saturday, but how about we start the working week with some sex?

2010-09-06T09:28:00.028+01:00

The door closes behind him.

Her skin is still warm.

His retreating footsteps beat a rhythm to which she sings, softly, tracing a line from hip to breast with her fingertips.

His favourite bit of her, he says.

Brief, fleeting, fervent, she loves him desperately in three hour intervals that begin and end with the rhythm of steps. In one direction and then in the other.

He is not like the rest.

Tonight was not unexpected.

Tomorrow it will not be forgotten.

This is what they said they wanted – a life free of obligation, of repetition, of confinement. They make time for one another, but never a plan. Neither can stomach the idea of stagnation. Not for them.

Theirs is a desire born of those forced apart by time, by distance. By mutual fear. Extraordinary selfishness.

Indulgence is her drug - the heroine of lustful stares. She revels in the knowledge that she is bound neither by her passions nor her ability to fulfil them.

She won’t be owned. He needs no possessions.

And yet.

In these quiet moments, when his steps have faded and taken with them his flavour and his scent, she wonders,

“What if...”?

But only for a moment.

Only until the rhythm can no longer be heard.

She forgets him again.

It isn't meaningless. It means sex.

2010-09-04T11:29:00.004+01:00

Warning: This post may offend any or all of the following: men, women, people in relationships, Christians, Catholics (they're different to regular Christians, right?) or those who ~~are blind and stupid~~ don't fancy Javier Bardem. Read at your own risk and, if you chose to stop following me as a result of this post, well...I'll miss you. And I recommend a stiff drink and a stiffer...oh, never mind. )

The greatest part about being a person with ~~dubious morality~~ an open mind is that it allows a life free from judgement.

I believe that the body is, not a temple, but a vehicle for feeding the mind. And what fantastic instruments we've got with which to spoon up the many joys of life!

A nose for smelling the roses (both delivered and naturally occurring).

A tongue with which to experience the many flavours of the world. (And food too.)

Skin, to share with the brain the wonderfully light touch of silk (on you, your partner, and sometimes both), the delightful "squish" of lotion, the "slllllip" of hot oils, or the warmth and mingled breath of a long, slow kiss.

Damn you, Penelope.

Eyes with which to behold Javier Bardem.

* Pause for a moment to appreciate.*

((Sigh.))

* And return.*

Once, when I was engaged in a futile attempt to rescue my waning Christianity, I read one of those "New Thought" Books, entitled Conversations with God.

For the most part, it was all, "I'm understanding and wonderful and don't be so afraid of me", blah blah, Godliness, blah. But there was one quote in it which I will never forget.

(Okay, actually I did forget it and had to go look it up, but I remembered that I had forgotten it, so that's something, yes?)

(Furthermore, why does this "God" character never chat with someone like me? Aren't the non-believers the ones with whom He should really be seeking a convo? Honestly, I think it ever-so-slightly chicken sh*t of Him.)

(Another bonus of atheism: blasphemy is fun.)

Anyway, the book said (Sorry - "God" said): "You have repressed sex, even as you have repressed life, rather than fully self expressing with abandon and joy. You have shamed sex, even as you have shamed life, calling it evil and wicked, rather than the highest gift and the greatest pleasure."

And it went on to say that God had given us bodies with an extraordinary capacity to experience pleasure, and that He couldn't figure out why we spent so much time denying ourselves those pleasures, and I thought, "Well, alright! If only this could catch on, maybe I could stick around in Christian Town."

It didn't.

I moved out.

We know.

Anyway,

I met a woman at a cocktail party recently, and as we were chatting she discovered my disinterest in relationships and my preference for experiencing sex in an open, untethered fashion. She was (very disappointingly, as she seemed at first delightfully feisty and open minded), gobsmacked.

"What do you mean, you have more than one regular partner? Don't you know that sex is supposed to be special??"

Ahh, one of my favourites.

Sex is "supposed to be" special?

Says who?

Our political leaders? Bill Clinton, JFK, that British foreign minister who "didn't have an improper relationship with the 26 ear old guy he spent the night in a hotel room with"? FAIL.

Our religious leaders? I hate to say it, but hello Catholic priests the world over. FAIL.

Our society? Yes, of course! THAT explains the unpopularity of pornography sites and the growing problem of international human trafficking for illegal sex rings. They're all paying for the "specialness" of the experience. FAIL FAIL FAIL.

Of course, sex can be special. Even my reasonably frosty heart has experienced the beauty of emotional sex (but lets just keep that between us, mmm kay). But why this insistence that it must be special, or it "shouldn't" be done??

The emotional experience of falling in love (and out of it) is both wonderfully exhilarating and exquisitely painful. I thrill in the ride as much as anyone, I just prefer to do it on a more abbreviated basis, rather than getting bogged down in obligation and a sense of duty.

I have feelings for all of the men in my life, I just manage them better than most. Like a little emotional filing cabinet.

"Um, Self? Can you pull the The Number Cruncher's file for me, please? He's coming round this evening and I want to prepare."

And, when they go home (or I do), I simply place the file neatly back in its drawer and return focus to the other things in my life - work, dance, Africa, friendships, you lot.

And so, dearest readers, I ask you - I don't judge those who senselessly deny themselves the pleasures bestowed upon us by Mother Nature, so why should I be judged for not doing the same?

And as you discuss, I shall phone the Brit. I need a good laugh.

And then probably the Spaniard. I need a good...

P.S. Not sure what's happening at Sex and the 405, but I think they may be having some technical issues. Will let you know when the new gig officially commences. X

Big News and Bigger Red Buttons

2010-08-31T09:25:00.082+01:00

Hello my lovelies.

As I'm sure you've noticed, I'm back from Shanghai.

Really, y'all, stop celebrating. It's embarrassing.

And following my return from the other side of the world, I'm afraid I have been doing little apart from lying my exhausted @rse in bed for the last two days (Jet lag is a weekend-thieving b*tch.), catching up on back issues of The Guardian and drinking copious amounts of tea.

Ahhh, home.

And what with all the aforementioned lazing about, one might surmise that very little life progress has taken place since my return, but oh, contraire, mes chers. There have been many many goings on in both the real and web worlds of Yours Truly...

As you can see, I've gone all official and stuff. http://www.thebarreness.com/ is my new interweb address. ((She polishes her shiny new house number, June Cleever style, and sweeps clear the welcome mat.)) There's no need to re-do blogrolls, etc, unless you fancy it, but having my very own URL strokes my enormous ego, so there we are. I'm a dot com.

In other news, it seems Saturday night's post has scored me a regular gig over at Sex and the 405 - a BRILLIANT, feisty and often hysterical sex blog which, as it turns out, was in need of a London correspondent. (Entre moi.) Come and check me out Thursdays for more Saturday-esque literary nibbles.

Finally, (and this is by far the most Earth-shattering and seriously f*cking unfortunate development of the lot) it would appear that The Spaniard missed me while I was away. (Naturally, I hear you say. But it gets worse.) He's missed me so much so that he has apparently been doing some soul searching (zzzzzz) and, as a result, has begun to press for the unthinkable.

Observe Monday morning's post (and pre, heh) coital convo:

Spaniard: ((Turns on elbow and furrows brow.)) Guapa?

Okay, I do love it when he calls me guapa.

B: Si?

Spaniard: I've been thinking.

Bad idea, Spaniard. Stick to what you're good at

B: ((nervously lighting cigarette whilst trying to look nonchalant)) Si...?

Spaniard: You and me, we spend a lot of time together. And I think we both have a good time, yes?

Epic, actually, but do go on.

B: Si.

Spaniard: Well, I don't understand why you don't want to be with me.

Barreness to base - we're gonna have a problem here.

B: But I am with you, S. ((she looks around in mock confusion)) Is there someone else here? Did you let them in?? They didn't have a video camera, did they? That sh*t is NOT. classy.

Spaniard: Ei, stop it... Si, you are with me now, pero I mean with me. You know, like, my girlfriend.

((Fuckity fuck fuck, fuck.))

I don't understand why you don't fancy it.

B: Okay, but, S, you do know why. I'm not a relationship person (house cat and personal waxer aside). And I've explained to you (and to the four other members of the Harem) (and to a few others before I narrowed it down to those five members) (and to that Aussie guy from Saturday's post) (and, uh...never mind) several times and at some length the reasons why.

Now I'm just annoyed. Honestly? Did he not think my reasons were good enough the last several times I explained them??

Spaniard: Well tell me again, por que I just don't think they were good reasons.

Hissssss.

B: ((exhaling slowly, stubbing out cigarette and gradually increasing volume levels))

Okay...

The first reason that I don't want to get into a relationship - with you or with anyone else - is that I don't cheat. Not because it isn't fun, because it is. Guilt be damned, that sh*t is naughty and illicit and totally exciting, but because the lying and the covering of trails is exhausting and I simply can't be @rsed. And incidentally, I do not sleep with married/involved men because I don't have to. Also, I think it cowardly and pathetic, but that's not really relevant here, unless you decide to find yourself another girlfriend and plan to delude yourself into thinking that I will continue to sleep with you, Spaniard. Let me save you the trouble - I won't.

((The Spaniard shifts uncomfortably.))

Second, I don't want to be in a relationship because I get bored. Easily. ((though, lets be honest, this one could hold anyone's attention for some time)) And when the inevitable boredom sets in, I'm simply not interested in either the anguish of breaking up or the effort of cheating (see reason number one).

Finally, I'm a 31 yr old ((yes, I said it)) woman who runs her own business during weekdays, a charity on the weekends ((What?? I never said I have no heart. I said I have no scruples.)), and spends nearly every other free hour in the gym, at the dance studio, or at the computer, writing. I have no TIME for a relationship. And I sure as sh*t don't want some jealous schoolboy b*tching about late hours or time spent away from home because I just couldn't give a hairy monkey.

So, unless you plan to morph into a stout German woman with a talent for smoothing the nether-regions of London's Soho district, can afford to buy my business from me so that I can live a life of luxury for the rest of my days, or are perfectly happy with having an open relationship ((Men are never okay with this. They always think they will be, but NEVER are and then get a little freaked out when you're fine with it. V annoying.)) so that reasons one and two are no longer factors, then I suggest you back off the big red relationship button, Spaniard, because I'm simply NOT. Having it..

Spaniard: ((Long silence. ))

Well.

((Has he bought the tough girl act?))

((KILLING me it's so long. This man is AMAZING in bed, y'all. Losing his company would be an epic tragedy.))

Okay then. You're right.

((And the angels sing an aria from Carmen))

Cigarette?

B: Si, gracias.

Immediatey, if not sooner.

And bring me some pinot while you're at it.

I need a drink.

2.34 am

2010-08-28T15:20:00.017+01:00

She inhales the first drag of her cigarette as though it's her last, savouring its bitterness and its gravel.

The night is warm and damp.

It has started to drizzle, but she doesn't notice.

She leans one hip languidly against the concrete balcony as the wind blows a strand of dark hair across her face. She doesn't notice that either.

She is naked, save the cigarette, and she doesn't care who sees her.

In truth, she rarely does.

Below her lies the city. Garish pinks and electric blues adorn its midnight bodice, its lines blurred and offensive, like a drag queen in a seedy after-hours bar.

She is lost in memory. In the spasms and convoluted imagery the evening has left behind. Pulsing music, moistening lips, reaching hands.

Teeth, skin, cocktails, pills.

Black blue, red, white.

The man in her bed is a stranger to her. They are both strangers in this place.

From the ledge she can just make out the line of his bare shoulder and she sighs.

She hates this part.

The gentle urging toward the exit, the inevitable protestations. Empty promises of phone calls and evening meals, just to placate him until she is once again alone with her thoughts.

A beckoning wine glass.

But, mercifully, he doesn't. Leaving no hastily scrawled number on the hotel courtesy pad, he doesn't ask after her favourite restaurant - in London or anywhere else. He doesn't offer to bring her back here someday. He doesn't speak at all.

He just slips from bed and dresses slowly, purposefully, as she watches from the balcony.

Still naked. Still smoking.

There are no words.

With a small smile he steals the last drag of her cigarette and a long, slow kiss. He tastes of bourbon, sex and ashes.

"You're incredible", he says, and closes the door behind him.

And she allows herself to love him until the sound of his footsteps have faded completely.

Then she turns back to the midnight pinks and neon blues of Shanghai.

Its gentle rain is a baptism.

Light another cigarette and forget.

I just deleted my last post because it was a load of tosh.

2010-08-25T23:39:00.001+01:00

Honestly.

It's 7.30 am in Shanghai and I've just got in.

I'm a little bit possibly slightly totally hammered and - though thrilled that the delayed post thingy worked and that the post I'd written (in something of a hurry) apres packing on Monday evening actually showed up - even I have to say, it was complete drivel.

Top Five Pick up Tips...

What is this, f*cking Cosmo??

I shall return to sanity in a few hours after some sleep and possibly and entire bottle of pain killers (don't ask) (really) and will attempt to post something less nausea-inducing at that time.

Until then, may I just say...

Countries without Spaniards really just oughtn't bother.

P. S. Apologies to Emily and Tiffany, who were kind enough to comment on said tosh. Real mates leave a comment even when the blogger is spouting drivel.

Sunday Postal

2010-08-22T19:48:00.001+01:00

Hello again, dearest readers.

Or should I say "Qīnài de dúzhě nín hǎo zàicì"? That's "Hello again, dearest readers" in Mandarin. Sort of sounds like you're sneezing.

Sincerest apologies for the lack of e-ttention this week. I've got a new project on which has had me travelling all over the bloody country, and which will have me Shanghai-bound from Tuesday. So in my very few spare hours I've been brushing up on the old linguistic skills rather than blogging. Cruel of me to abandon you but, hey - I'm a selfish c*nt. It's a little bit to do with why you love me, isn't it?

Side note: I love the word linguistic. Sounds like it should be dirty.

Anyway, the good news is that you all missed me terribly. (Obviously.) I know this because Le In-box du Barreness was positively overflowing this evening as I finally bid the Number Cruncher farewell and sat down to catch up with you all.

Briefly, of course, until the Spaniard arrives.

And so, as I've been utterly swamped with work and therefore up to nothing suitably scandalous for report here, I thought I'd share a few of my favourites with you. I may or may not make this a weekly thing, depending on the quantity and quality of the emails received that week. Then again, I am a self-professed commitment-phob, so don't count on it.

1. It looks like Annah is not only young, hot and talented, but is headed for yet another exotic Central American destination in the not too distant future. B*tch. Also she is coming to London sometime soon wherein I will treat her to many an English cocktail and Spanish man. I'd go ahead and be afraid, Big Smoke. This could get ugly.

2. Then an odd one. Amber said: "You should totally give more details of your sexual experiences. I bet people would really like to read about them."

Yes, Amber, I believe they would. It's called porn. Sadly, though a great fan of the "adult arts", with all the working and experiencing, I've simply no time to provide you with it. May I recommend this site, my sweet, sexually frustrated e-pal? It's one of the best female-friendly porn sites on the web and the membership fees aren't heinous. Apparently.

*cough*

3. It seems the Barreness has been rubbing some up the wrong way again. (Fun!) John said: I'm really fucking sick of all of these fucking man-hating bitches out there. If you hate us so much, why not just fuck women and shut the fuck up?

Okay, John. First, I'm sure your penis isn't that small. Really. It's okay. Shhhhh....

Second, although I am a great fan of the f*ck word, there are limits. Furthermore, the rules of grammar should not be ignored in any circumstances, so perhaps we can work on the eloquence and flow of our insults, mmm kay?

Third and most importantly, although I am not averse to the lesbian experience (I could point to a couple of rather hot evenings at Uni by way of illustration. Could, but won't.), I'm afraid I prefer carpet as a floor covering, not a snack (I know, I know! But really? At this point in our relationship, it should take more than that to shock you.) Also, I LOVE men, John. Love. them. I just hate ignorant, ill-mannered, megalomaniacal, obnoxious little boys with poor grammar and tiny d*cks- oops! Sorry, John. I'm sure it's perfectly...adequate. *mwah*

4. Carolina reports: "B, I just wanted to tell you how right you were - I just met the HOTTEST guy at a Starbucks in Chicago! Okay, I didn't go in looking for men (but I do think of your post every time I go in now hee hee), but there he was and the best part was that we were both in Chicago on business, and we both live in Atlanta. We're going out this weekend! Un-fucking-believable, B, you're a GENIUS!!

Carolina, my darling girl, excellent use of the transitional f*ck and congrats - I couldn't be happier for you. As for the genius bit... I'm going to have to agree with you here. Yes. Yes I am.

5. Finally, in my very favourite email of the week (obviously), Grant writes: The thing is that I don't even care what you look like, even though I'm pretty sure you're really hot. You sound smart and funny and confident in yourself and I love women who aren't afraid of their own sexuality and who don't need anyone for anything. If I ever come to London, can I buy you a coffee, or maybe something stronger?

P.S. I know it's an anonymous blog, but couldn't you just give us a sneak peek? Just so I know I'm right about you? xx

Grant, you sweet man. Very pleased to learn of your preferences in women. Sadly, my table at Starbucks is generally reserved, but if you can teach the Brits how to make a proper margarita, we may be able to work something out. Sadly, as this is an anonymous blog, a full pic isn't an option. But I suppose a sneak peek couldn't hurt, particularly as yours isn't the only request I've had. This is from a recent press shot. Collarbone and cleavage. You're welcome.

In other news, I've begrudgingly begun Tweeting, at another reader's request. I'm French on Twitter. Le great. Followers, click a gauche, s'il vous plait.

Merci et abientot,

F*ck the Smurfs (and the apocalypse).

2010-08-18T11:10:00.000+01:00

I've no idea when it happened, how it happened, or who f*cking authorised it, but it has, I fear, happened.

I am no longer 22.

I haven't been 22 since at least my 25th birthday and even the whiff of 22 I still got occasionally throughout 27 had well vanished upon that fateful entrance into decade trois, and now here we are. Not 22.

This has come as something of a shock.

Then again, I suppose there have been signs.

The slow realisation that being groped from behind at sweaty dance clubs by unknown (and unvetted) strangers wasn't as much fun as it once was. (Much better to be groped face to face and on demand, but that's a subject for another post entirely.)

The first time I slunk into a black midriff-bearing top and caught sight of the evil love-handle monster (with whom I've since been locked in vicious batle for the last several years).

The moment I stopped fancying 22 year old men and started fancying 40 year old men (who look 35, obviously) (Yes, I'm shallow. Please tell me you're not shocked.)

But last night, whilst driving along the fantastically gorgeous Cornish Coast (f*ck I love this country), returning from a client meeting, I'm afraid the reality of my 22-lessness finally landed with both feet, right on my eardrums.

Whilst listening, as per usual, to some prepubescent radio station which ordinarily pumps out hip hop and mindless pop drivel and by which I've always felt somehow soothed (also Ludacris and I are like this), I suddenly had a pounding in my head and a feeling of rage welling up in my (still flawless and 26 year old looking) chest...

The station was playing drum and bass music.

Now, drum and bass - to those of you who've yet to be blessed with the experience - is well...absolutely dreadful. (Yea, there was an opportunity to draw some witty or outlandish analogy there, but I just hadn't the energy. Let's have another go.) Imagine, if you will, that the Smurfs, carrying big f*ck off wodden sticks, have crawled into your head via the ear canal and commenced beating your skull from the inside whilst chanting a satanic call for the apololypse and dancing the lambada. (How was that?) This *may* begin to give you an idea of the horror that is drum and base.

At first I simply stared at the radio dial, perplexed by this abomination and thinking that somehow I could will it out of absolute suckage with the power of my mind and the pull of "the force". And when this failed, I swear I morphed into a 60 year old version of myself. So depressing was the display that I now must recount it to you in third person.

Swiftly stabbing the "off" button, The Barreness uttered, sneeringly (and out loud in an otherwise empty car, mind) the one phrase she thought would never, but NEVER pass through her lips.

"Well, that's just noise."

I then switched promptly to Radio 4 (Read: Old People's Talk Radio for the UK) and happily listened to a debate on the relative merits of wind energy vs solar power for the rest of the ride back to the city.

Of course, when I eventually got home and replayed said outburst in my mind, I was so distraught that I immediately freshened, headed to my favourite pub, brought home and slept with Option 2.

He is 24 and thinks I'm 28.

And today I feel... better.

F*cking Smurfs.

If your penis really wants a turtleneck, ask your Mum to knit you one. A rant from the Barreness.

2010-08-15T21:26:00.001+01:00

My Dearest European Men (I know many of you well):

At the risk of appearing - as many of my countrymen and women are often accused - culturally insensitive, I'm afraid I must have a word. It's about turtlenecks. And your penis.

But first, let me be clear about a couple of things.

I love the male body, in all its various sizes, lengths and colours. I am just as receptive to a long, lean male physique as I am to a stout, muscular one. ~~I don't need rippling abs or a flawless tan.~~ I am thrilled by the naked form in all its variations and in its splendor.

Save one:

The foreskin. It's unsightly, unnecessary and removable.

Yes, I know its natural. I know it supposedly safeguards a certain level of sensitivity. I understand that the surgery can be quite painful. And you know what?

I don't give a sh*t.

Not after the countless nights I've limped home in my 5 " stilettos, and the Sunday evenings spent wincing and choking over the agony that tweezers and/or my Brazilian waxer can inflict. (Helga is so joke. Seriously.) All of which I suffer through for your sake.

I have endured push up bras, eyelash curlers, "lip venom" (strange lip stuff that is supposed to make you look pouty but really just burns the crap out of your lips), piercings (um...okay those *may* have been kind of fun), and all manner of polish, paint and pruning just to be more visually appealing to you lot, and in return you leave me with this?

They come with no instructions, no warnings and no guaranteed minimal level of cleanliness (one never knows WHAT to expect when "unwrapping" such things). The whole situation is unpleasant, unappetising (ahem) and not a little bit frightening to those of us who are a bit more accustomed to ...crew neck sweaters, shall we say.

Furthermore, it is very difficult to maintain the mood when one person jumps off the sofa/bed/counter top (I can't remember) and shouts, "What the hell is THAT?" It was traumatising (for both of us, it has to be said) and I, of course, blame you.

I demand an explanation. And some extra baby wipes.

But I'm a trooper. A soldier, if you will, of the sexual. I've put in the hours and eventually developed my own (outstanding) technique for dealing with such unpleasantness, whilst most of you still contend that you simply "can't find" the clitoris or "can't comprehend" the instructions "more lips, less tongue". (I'll come back to that one another time.) The point is, it took some real effort to contend with the Shar Pei in the room and I demand some bloody reparations.

And so I've decided that the only way that the European continent can possibly begin to make right these injustices is for either:

a) a mass exodus to plastic surgeons, nationwide, exposing European members to the Yanks who love them, or

b) someone to summon Javier Bardem and book us a suite at the Ritz for a weekend.

In fact, better make it two.

I suspect he'll have quite a bit to contend with...

Wanker Knows Best?

2010-08-13T10:31:00.000+01:00

Sometimes I think the world is well and truly f*cking with me.

So, there are about a ZILLION offices on the Strand in London. It’s one of the busiest streets in the city and one of my favourite clients has an office there, which I regularly visit to check progress on existing projects and/or get briefed on an upcoming one. Also the MD is a serious hottie. But that's not the point.

I generally look forward to the visits. It’s a lovely part of the city always makes me feel full of excited energy - as though I'm really living in the “modern world”. Big city girl and all that.

And as I make my way down it’s broad sidewalks and past it’s theatres, shops and offices, I often think, "What a great time to be a woman."

Except for sometimes, when I realise I’m still living in 1952.

*****

Starbucks, the Strand, Friday morning, 7.30 am.

Cute Guy (I told you!) with Latte: So, lovely, do you work around here?

Barreness with Iced Chai: I do this week, yes.

CGwL: Ahh...so... are you temping at one of the offices then?

BWIC: No, I’m not temping.

CGwL: Oh, okay. Actress?

BwIC: Nooo.

CGwL: Model?

BwIC: Eyes narrowing slightly. Not since I was twenty. Obviously.

CGwL: Looking very confused. So...what DO you do, then?

BwIC: Having officially had enough and at serious risk of launching into an unholy feminist diatribe about the potential occupations of women in 2010 London (or anywhere ELSE IN THE WORLD, FOR THAT FUCKING MATTER), she turns and looks him directly in the eye, smiling sweetly.

Call girl. Breakfast bonk. (shrug) He likes to start early.

*****

Twat.

Guess which of the following actually worked.

2010-08-10T20:38:00.000+01:00

Option one:

A set of Mercedes keys slap down on the bar next to her and a handsom, sharp-suited city type slides onto the stool. With a slow smile and a long look he remarks:

"You look like even I couldn't afford you."

Option two:

Broad of shoulder and winning of smile, the bartender laughs and slowly shakes his head.

"Nah, those types are always hard work." But then he leans in closer and flashes a cheeky grin, "Lucky for both of us, I enjoy a long night of hard work."

Option three:

The dark, brooding, slightly tousled man sat two stools down watching this display slowly sighs, stands up and pays for his drink. He pauses as he turns to go and, in a low voice, whispers to her:

"I'm not all that impressed, actually. But if you'd like to try again, I'd love to let you." With that, he drops a business card onto her lap and leaves, without a backward glance.

Ladies and gentlemen, The Harem is about to induct its newest member.