Cupid strikes again, with bad aim

Dearies, you all know how I love to delve into matters of the heart, particularly so when it's other people's hearts. After a dry spell, when I didn't manage to bring any two lovebirds together for any successful period of time, I have struck gold (though admittedly, I say this somewhat prematurely).

On Friday night, we had a big par-tay at Peas' and my flat, and I'd manipulated a meeting between one of Peas' friends and one of mine. They barely said two words to each other, she got drunk and said rather loud and rude things about the girl he ended up snogging on the couch, but after that, she landed up talking to the guy in question's best friend...

After I chatted to him (best friend, not snogger) yesterday, it emerged he was as keen on her as she was on him, so I arranged some number swapping, and she called me this morning to say that the exchange has resulted in a first date. Ahhhhh, sweet!

It's a case of killing two birds with one stone, as in the process, I've managed to right some previous wrongs on this one, methinks...

Other amusing transgressions of the evening: I wore my brand new pristine white dress to the party (oh yes, we can all see where this one's going!), and during an overly-enthusiastic shimmy in front of the female lovebird, I knocked her, and she emptied her full glass of red wine on the dress. I'm pleased to report that it was salvaged, but people began to ask me whether I was conducting a fashion parade after having changed twice already. And, Peas finally got her first girl snog, which I'm rather upset I didn't administer. The lucky lady is no other than her boyfriend's new flatmate. Kinky, indeed. Menage, anyone?

In other news: I had veeeeery fabulous sex on Saturday night, which I attribute directly to the boyf's excessive consumption of alcohol directly prior to the festivities (he kept going and going and going, baby!) I'm still glowing today, and maybe hoping for a repeat performance tonight :) Again, sharing too much, but I am such a giving person, aren't I?

Violation

Apologies for the elusiveness, work's been a little on the crazy side right now. Which is particularly frustrating, because I've been dying to tell you all about the horrendous experience I had on Monday night...

So there I was, innocently driving back from gym, on a dark and empty not-so-rural Oxford Rd, chattering away to my boyfriend on the phone (hope any traffic cops reading this don't view this as an admission of guilt). As I came to a red robot, I saw a strange-looking beggar waiting to approach me, so something told me to close my window, and although I'd finished my conversation with the Gilb, I begged him to stay on the phone as I waited that awkward minute for the robot to turn green. Predictably, the beggar came up to the car, I gestured (politely!) that I wasn't going to give him money, and then somewhat unpredictably, he started KISSING MY WINDOW! I was freaking - his lips look like the puckered sucker mouth of a remora fish (I think, I've never looked at one), and made this shlurping sound I could hear from inside the car. He even left saliva on the glass - gross! So I started tapping the window where his lips were and screaming "Take your disgusting lips off my car!" but I think that just spurred him on...

After what seemed an aeon, the robot changed colour, and I sped off, his lips leaving a trail of spit along the front window panel. Now I have the Catch-22 dilemma of not wanting to touch the window to clean the mark off, and being reminded of that revolting moment each time I open my car door.

So now you know.

But, onto better things: had a fabulous week of shopping sprees - three pairs of fabulous new shoes, one splendid new bag, one funky top, one heavenly 1940s-style dress, one hot pair of jeans. And all for far less money than they should have cost! Also, I've been quite the social bunny, with dinner arrangements, art exhibitions, Italian society events, cocktail parties, and a party at our flat tonight (first one hosted there since I moved in!), for which I've arranged a girl-meets-guy setup (he thinks she doesn't know I'm trying to set them up, she's going to pretend not to know) for my immense amusement.

Aaaaaand, if I get the time, next week I'll compile a list of porno Star Trek lines for y'all. This was inspired by a conversation with a colleague about that arb plastic surgery procedure, butt-hole bleaching - I've had far too many conversations about this recently. Not sure how Start Trek became related to the topic, but hey. I'll whet your appetites with one... Star Trek: Deep Space Naai.

Arguments, books, aprons and hairstyles

Allow me to stray briefly from the genitals, to tell you that my bolshy ex - that one I had the infuriating long argument with - both greatly pleased and infuriated me last night; the former, by buying an appropriate and brilliant Christmas gift - which we only traded last night - a book entitled "Things You Know But Can't Prove". Score one to him (although, he got exactly what he wanted, an apron boldy declaring "I've got your low-carb diet right here", which was immensely embarrassing to take to get done at a seedy print shop in Northcliff). However, he told me that the night before last he found my blog, and thought it was boring. Not good for the ego. If this is boring - the place where I get to filter out all the insignificant day-to-day trivialities of my life, and post only the more interesting ones - then what the hell does he think of our interactions in the unfiltered flesh? Though ironically, today a newcomer, Billy made me feel better by saying the last post was rather good - an unsolicited compliment, that made my day a lot better. Thanks Billy!

But now, back to the genitals. Another good friend, with whom I've established a rather interesting and unusual relationship, has been the source of much inspiration for the penis blogs (no, it's not him who doesn't know his circumcision status. He informs me the status may well be known by numerous users of the Internet). He's been honouring me with details about the growth of his "little boy" during erections, which he so kindly measured today in the solitude of his office. And also, about his "little girl" hairstyle preferences (shaven haven, if you're curious). He has just acquired a new cellphone and will break it in by taking photos of the body bits in discussion for his friends' viewing pleasure. Now that's what we call a true mate, indeed.

I've been a substitute wank about 500 times

Whew. First up, let me just inform you all that a mate of mine shagged her recently-acquired boyfriend for the first time on Friday night, and by Sunday night had done the dirty 9 times. Just so you all know.

Now, back to that rather prevalent topic of recent times, the penis. But, not so much about its physiognomy, more about its function. I went to a "hoer en boer" party on Saturday night, where the conversation drifted to masturbation, as it so often does. Except this time, my boyfriend revised his estimate of the average number of times a week he wanks. Originally, he'd told me it was a three-times-a-week thing, but on Saturday he stated that it's always been a seven-times-a-week thing. Except on days when he and I see each other (which usually results in a shag, which he informs me overrides the urge to wank). So, if you count a shag as a wank, that's 7 days a week, 52 weeks a year, for around 13 years, which is: 4,732 wanks. (I, on the other hand, come out at between 900 and 1,200 self-loving performances in my lifetime).

Given that the boyf and I have been having sex for about 34 months, at an average rate of 3 times a week (not entirely true, when I was down in Cape Town working for nine months I'd only come to Joburg every three weeks for a weekend, but obviously there was a greater concentration of sexual activity during the visits), that comes out at 408 shags. During this time, he would have "spilt his seed" 952 times, minus the 408 wank-substituting-shags, which is 544 times.

Hmmmm. I'm not trying to make a point, just putting the facts out there. "Keeping you all informed, even when you don't want to know." Now wouldn't that be a great catch-phrase for my own talk show?

wild girl

Took the test. My flatmate's a man-eater, so it's not a bad combination, I think. Much more accurate than reading star signs!

Your Reputation Is: Wild Girl

You love to give people something (and someone) to gossip about As far as you're concerned, all gossip is good gossip

What's Your Reputation?

pee-pee pics

Thought I'd better upload those circumcised/uncircumcised pics for you to scrutinise, as I have nothing better to tell you today. A little annotation may be required for the third pic - this is an uncircumcised penis gone bad. Studded for extra pleasure?! Sorry, it's really vulgar, I know, but I felt the need to express my crude side - it's been lying low for an uncharacteristically long time.

As for the guy who didn't know his 'status', he asked his mom, who says he hasn't been circumcised. But he says his more closely resembles the circumcised version, perhaps from excess playing with the foreskin and pulling it back from the head as a kid. hmmm.

While I'm more a fan of the circumcised variety, sometimes the larger piece of flesh attached to the penis can more than compensate for the preference...

Get me to the church on time.

Sorry about the pics from the last post, folks. My dealings with Blogger are not as smooth as the user-interface interaction should be (hell, I don't understand what I just wrote).

In the whole flurry of the genitalia, I forgot to tell y'all that, in the spirit of the New Year (and because I really really want an invite), I had coffee with a long-lost friend I used to refer to (never in her presence, naturally), as "Ghohppptttt!" (my esteemed colleagues all agree that this is how a spitting noise is spelt in English). Ghohppptttt! was just as she used to be, all friendly and pretty-in-pink, but has acquired the glow of one who has succumbed to the pleasures of carnal sin (being highly religious, it took her a while, but she assures me they only "did it" a few months after her fiance' proposed to her). She's got one mother of a bling ring on her finger, and the wedding is going to cost R160,000 - so you all see how vital it is that I'm invited to this function! I didn't crack the nod yet (quite astounding with the rather obvious way I was trying to lead the conversation in that direction), but I've got four months to work on it.

On an entirely different note, my intellect has fallen to new lows (when will it stop?). Last night, I went to dinner at a friend's house, on the same road as Old Ed's. I got there, in the dark, without thinking twice about finding his house. This morning, I managed to convince myself of the great need to go gym, and after pre-packing breakfast for after the workout, lunch, toiletries and work clothes, I proceeded - as one will - to drive to the Old Ed's gym, which most reasonable people will assume I would have found as easily as I did my friend's house the night before. Not so. After driving down 11th Street twice, I'm convinced the gremlins came and quietly packed up 4th Street, with the gym, my friend's house and all the other paraphernalia, and took it away. So, I returned to our flat, fuming, did 60 situps in lieu of the gym, with the intention of going to a permanent no-moves guaranteed gym later tonight. Hold your thumbs.

All things genital

First, the lady bits. You may remember that a while back I revealed one of my deepest darkest secrets - not being able to pee in a public toilet if other people were present. While some girls I've spoken to (surely there must also be guys out there who suffer similar bathroom angst?) admit to finding it a bit awkward letting out that tinkling trickle in an otherwise quiet bathroom, I have never been able to go, preferring to suffer the pain and discomfort of an imploding bladder than the humiliation of the tinkle. And, you'll remember I threatened to go see a psychologist about this frustrating issue. Which I did this morning. He was a hypnotherapist (yes, yes I know you're sceptical but listen to this: after ONE minute of talking to me with my eyes closed, he asked me to open them AND I COULDN'T!), recommended to me by a friend. I won't relate all the personal stuff that he brought up from my childhood that apparently manifested itself in this way (and he reckons there are others), but I'm going to buy shares in Kleenex and then recommend that all my friends go for a few sessions with him. He has boxes and boxes sitting there on the table, and you just know it's going to get emotional.

Yoiu're busy wondering if it worked - well, I haven't had the opportunity to test it yet. He says it will take a while to convince myself I can do it, but with a bit of time it should flow freely, so to speak.

Right, now for the man bits. A certain man I know (whose identity for embarrassment's sake, I shall withhold) does not know whether or not he's been circumcised. A conversation with my flatmate caused me to carry out a survey of the guys I know, all of whom are aware of their circumcision status, save this bloke. I've sent him a few pics from Google Images to help him along (he's too embarrassed to ask his Mom, and so he should be, in his mid-twenties after all!), and though he's convinced he wasn't circumcised as a child, he tells me his pee-pee looks more like the circumcised ones in the pictures. He won't send me a pic of his for my objective opinion, though. Anyhow, I've stuck in a few pics for your enlightenment, or confirmation of circumcision status, if need be, but assuming you all know what the chopped and unchopped version look like, I'm not going to annotate. Enjoy!

Hello 2006!

So, here we are on the third day of 2006. The weather is just screaming "Stay in bed with a great book and a solid stream of good cuppas flowing!" but here I am, in the office, using company time and resources to write this. Well, my holiday was largely uneventful and relaxed - which was precisely what I needed - and I managed to work the Worst Tan Lines Ever into the slightly more redeeming Most Tan Lines Ever. We came up to Joburg one day earlier - on the 31st, to celebrate the New Year with our good friends up here, which was a rather grand idea indeed. I chuckled while the Gilb's friend worked up the courage to ask dear Jen-Jen on a date, gossiped with the doctors from Cape Town (en route to Mpumalanga for their community service year), then unwisely took the strongest acid of my life with the Gilb's best friend, and spent a morose few hours cornered in his company. Oh well. Things started looked up during the daylight hours of the 1st Jan, when we eventually got around to cooking the lunch I had promised to hold for the good peeps in Joburg, and I finally quaffed on the Moet & Chandon bottle I was given as a promotion gift. I am wearing the metal cork cage thingy from the bottle as a ring today, which was ever so expertly fashioned into the ring by Jen-Jen (thanks babe!)

Resolutions for the New Year: I have none clearly defined, really. But I am happy to report that I am in a far better state of mind than I was for the whole last quarter of 2005. I realised that you can't always run from things when they get tough, sometimes you have to put in the effort to work on them, especially when they're as important to you as this is to me. So here's to a peaceful, fulfilled 2006 - that's what I'm after.

Hope you all had smashing Christmases and New Year's parties yourselves... I expect calls and emails from all of you detailing the goings-on of the past few weeks.