I didn’t really belong there at all

On the day I sat in the fifth or sixth row from the front. I didn’t belong with the family. My own family sat to my left, unspeaking, glaring even. The small child whimpered in the seat behind me and I bit back the urge to scream it into silence.

The Priest began to speak. For five minutes words like “so young”, “before their time” and “forgiveness” echoed in my ears. I felt elevated, as if my body was attached to strings in the roof high above. I was icy cold and my hands, scratched raw were numb through.

Then began the sermon. The Preaching. “For those who don’t walk with Christ, you will not understand this loss until you do.” With that I threw up on the parquet floor and left the bitter coldness of the chapel.

My First Blog Post

Pepper and CC invited me to join in. I don’t know why. They do computer, while I do typewriters. It’s a throwback to my rebellious college days. Everyone else embraced Facebook, I embraced the pen, paper and the Brother Typewriter.

Tonight, I sit. A few drinks on me. I look at my hands. They shine. There’s wrinkles. Far too many wrinkles for a 30 year old man. The shine is not a healthy glow. It’s greasy and dirty. I shower daily, but for all the good it does I may as well take a shower in vegetable oil.

I look under my nails.

Firstly, I see dirt. I should get some kind of nail brush. Then  I realise I’m holding my hand out like a puff, examining his nail varnish. I’m alone, but I still quickly put my hand down and look around to see if anyone saw me. Stupid really.

I’m 30 years old and my eyes are drooping down my face. My nose is lopsided. My adam’s apple seems to be building some kind of fort, how large it’s grown. My veins protrude through my skin. I’m sure if I was a junkie this would be a bonus, but I’m not. Instead, I’m a 30 year old man with junkie veins on my hands…and feet…and neck.

I’m getting old. I know I’m too young to say that, but I really feel it. All of my friends are either a number of years older than me (so I feel I sit in their age group) or they are many years younger (and I just feel like their older brother). I listen to the Beatles and the Kinks and Bowie. The closest I’ve come to liking modern music is Amy Winehouse…and she’s fallen off planet reality.

I have a smokers cough. I quit three years ago, but I can’t shake this cough. I sometimes cough up blood. It’s revolting. My doctor says it’s normal. He’s an ass.

I found a grey hair in my red beard yesterday. Yes, I’m a ginger bollox!! I’m a ginger bollox with a grey hair in his beard. Do I puck it? Do I dye it? Do I just ignore it?

My hairline is receding too. Actually, it’s developing some kind of tactical deployment. If it was simply receding, that would be fine. Instead, it’s like some kind of patchwork quilt…without the pretty colours and interesting designs.

Oh god!

I have a son too. Granted, he’s now exactly half my age and I haven’t seen him since I was a teen myself, but that adds to my contemplations on the everafter.

My brother died last year. He was…yep, you guessed it…30 years old. It was a heart attack. My grandad died of a heart attack at 33. My uncle died of a heart attack at 35. My cousin died of a heart attack at 31. And my brother – 30.

I drink heavily. I am recovering from an addiction to cigarettes. I don’t exercise. I drive everywhere. I have no girlfriend, no sporty mates, no fancy gym membership. If I make it to 31, I’ll be lucky.

So…I guess…wish me luck…

The Beginning of Things

I wait for him, very impatiently, in the back of the bar trying to look inconspicuous leaning against the wall by the phone in between the bathrooms. I try to look like I’m engrossed in checking messages but I’m keeping track of which bathroom has people in it.

Someone goes in one, someone comes out of the other, how am I supposed to keep track of this when all I can think about is him? Where is he? I can’t wait much longer. Finally, I see him walk in the front door, surrounded by his friends. His eyes scan the room and find me lurking in the back, and a devilish little smile crosses his lips.

 The group spot some free seats and move through the patrons. He excuses himself and moves away in the opposite direction making a beeline to the back. I shuffle back more out of sight, in case any of his friends watch him. He walks up to me and says “Hi there”, still smiling. I take one more look behind him, see nobody watching or approaching, and grab him by the hand, pulling him with me into the ladies’ bathroom, hoping that was the right one.

As soon as we get in, I slam the door shut and slide the bolt locked, and in an instant, we are all over each other. My hands wander every inch of his body I can reach while we kiss deeply, almost desperately, pressing our bodies together. I could go on just kissing him all night long but I know we don’t have long, and we both want more. We’ve been waiting days to be together again and all day I’ve felt myself grow hot and weak in anticipation of this moment. Every unsatisfied thought would leave a little trace of my anticipation, a growing spot that just reminds how much I want him.

As we continue kissing, he slides his hands down my thighs and grab the hem of my skirt, roughly hiking it up between us. He presses his head back against the wall in delight when he discovers that I forgot to wear underwear. I can feel him strain within his pants and he grabs my hand and presses it to him. I grab frantically at the clasp on his belt and slide my hand down inside his boxer shorts. As he slips my fingers between my legs, feeling the wetness and heat we’re creating, our lips and tongues continue devouring each other, unable to stop for even a breath. His touch almost enough to make me explode. No matter how many times he has touched me, every time is electric.

Nothing feels as good as his hands on me. That is, except for him being inside me, and I almost cannot wait. I reach down and wrap my hand around his and raise myself upwards. He steps forward and enters me, taking me breath. He stops, breaking our kiss for just a moment and looks me in the eye, one eyebrow arched, a moment more of teasing.

My eyes widen, begging for him to fuck me, and I soon he obliges, pushing forward firmly and sinking all the way inside. The sensation is indescribable. He knows perfectly how to satisfy me – giving me exactly what I want, exactly when I want it. This is not a slow, easy love making session. Maybe we’ll have that later. This is a fast fuck, satisfying what we want right then. I bite on my lower lip, trying to avoid screaming out. I feel my whole body tingle, my thighs shaking, every muscle tightening and releasing, the culmination of days of build up, wanting, longing, desiring this very release.

He is so good to me. I arch my back and tighten my legs around him, begging him with every inch of my body to cum with me. My body begins to shake and I can feel him twitching furiously inside. He stiffens a groan, I place my hand in his mouth and he bites down hard. The feeling of release numbs any pain.

Recovering I hop up, cleaning up a little, running my fingers through my hair. He smacks my ass as I walk out of the bathroom, with a promise of more the come. I return to my table with a smile that no one seems to notice, wondering when and where our next adventure will be.

It feels so deliciously naughty – committing such intimate details to permanent record.

Nyom nyom nyom

This weekend I have mostly been eating Cornflakes. I have learned three things. 

1. You can go for years without Cornflakes, but once the craving comes you must have bowl after bowl, and you realise they would be a reasonable choice for every meal. 

2. Some people are incredibly silly. Cornflakes with sugar are not the same as Frosties, and I won’t hear it said. Cornflakes with sugar are the foodstuff of kings. 

3. No matter how much I try, I cannot pour the accurate amount of milk for a given bowl of cereal. There is always milk left in the bottom of the bowl. It defies belief, because I actively pour less liquid every time.

Making light is all well and good…

…but this has really made me grateful for what I have.

And while I watched, she blessed herself with two hands

“Give out the Angelus” said the housemate when the bell started to gong before the six one, and I started to, and then we were both flying through it like mad things, taken with what an odd sort of thing it was to do for sport. I knew if I stopped for a second, I’d forget the words. I only know it by rote. It was only afterwards I realised that I also only know it in a monotone. 

HailMaryfullofgrace. The words merge. They’re not supposed to do that. They’re not supposed to mean nothing on your tongue either. I’m not sure how I feel about that.

When Your Boats Are Burned

Today I visited my Grandmother. Truth be told I had forgotten that I had promised her the day.   

At 86 her soul burns unmercifully independent. She will not bow or admit defeat.  I said to the boy that 86 is a little late for rebellion, but then, if not then when?

We exchanged small talk for a short while and then I retreated selfishly into the computer to flit away the hours until the next changing of the guard.  Silence and taps and the soft russel of a real home fire filled the time.

No task is undooable,no challenge to great. She makes her own mixed tapes and dreams of toyboy singers.  But then she scares us now that she cannot be left alone to her own time.

I washed her hair, explaining the virtues of moose for her curls and she turned to me and asked “so what’s that twister thing you’ve got down there on the computer?”

 

She always kisses on the lips…

…my strange married friend and always for that second too long. She changes in the company she keeps but doesn’t dance when no-one is looking.  I have little doubt should I suggest a collaboration she  would offer little resitance.

I suppose that into every life a little rain must fall but I feel sad for her.  It can only end badly.

Child of Our Time

I don’t want children. I won’t change my mind when I’m older. It wouldn’t be different if they were my own. I won’t ever realise there’s a baby-shaped hole in my life. There isn’t. I’m not even the sort of person who coos over other people’s babies before being happy to hand them back. Wobbly toothless grins and crinkley baby skin just don’t do it for me. I sometimes fake it over pictures when they’re passed around, just so other women don’t look at me weird. 

There’s that said then. Neither am I a tragic barren-wombed spinster. I just don’t want them cos it’s not for me. I’m not the sort who wouldn’t be slightly frickin’ resentful if I had to spend my time driving to under 11 football matches or changing nappies. Right, I’ve outted myself as a bit of a selfish wench. 

Second thing – how do I announce to my boss, without seeming like a careerist, cold-hearted type, that I don’t ever intend to go on maternity leave or need to leave early to take my munchkin to the dentist or ballet class, and he can feel free to promote me whenever and if ever he so wishes? 

There is no nice way to start the conversation.

“So, this womb of mine. Just so you know, I don’t ever intend to use it…” 

“I’m really big on contraception, like really big…” 

“I think sex is just for pleasure, never baby makin’” 

“I don’t want kids, can I have a promotion?” 

Sigh. Lads never have to make themselves clear.