He chose me?

I’m sitting on a train back to civilisation from Cern’s place reading Amanda Palmer’s book “The Art of Asking” when I came across a paragraph that made me stop and look out the window in contemplation. Then it made me smile from the inside out.

So I’m going to share with you this paragraph. So you can smile and think of a time that you heard such sweet words.

This is after she’d asked him if he would help her add text to some of her photos for her compilation book to go with her album at the time. They we in seperate relationships with others and had kept in contact via emails checking in as friends do. They happened to be in New York together a few months later and he asked her to meet up for coffee. Her being her she fretted about a birthday gift so gave him The Bride. Which was her street busking gig she hadn’t worn in a long time. He was having lunch with his literary agent that day so they agreed to meet at 4pm at Washington Square Park in winter.

I stepped up on the box at ten minutes to four, figuring I wouldn’t have long to wait.

After twenty minutes, I started to shiver & kept wondering if I should give up, but I didn’t want to get down & ruin the surprise, & if already suffered too long to let it go. There was construction in the park. Maybe he couldn’t find me. A few people stopped to get a flower. After 30 minutes, my fingers went numb, then my hands went numb, then my legs and arms froze. After about an hour, he appeared, accompanied by a woman, and approached me cautiously.

… Amanda? Is that you?

The Bride stayed silent. I stared at him & cocked my head. This was weird. He had come with someone, and I felt like I was embarrassing him. I’d noticed he easily got really embarrassed.

He put a dollar in my hat & I gave him a flower. I tried to make eye contact with him, and he smiled goofing while the woman stepped back and laughed at our little exchange. I hopped down. I still felt like I was embarrassing him.

Well, er, Amanda, this is Merrilee, my literary agent! Merrilee, this is Amanda, you know, the…rock star lady. With the dead naked book…and all that. Merrilee smiled at me.

I pushed the veil out of my face, reached out numb, gloved fingers, and shook her hand.


The uncomfortableness lasted a few more minutes before Neil and I walked off to a nearby cafe, where I told Neil I would buy him a birthday hot chocolate. I took off my wig and Neil helped me carry the 3 milk crates.

My god, you’re freezing, he said. Your teeth are chattering. He took off his overcoat and draped it over my shoulders.

I didn’t have any cash in my wallet, and the Cafe was cash only. But I had made eight dollars doing The Bride, and I insisted on buying his hot chocolate with those crumpled-up bills, which I fished out of the can I’d used to collect them. The bill for two hot chocolates came to eleven dollars. Fucking New York. Apologising, I hit Neil up for the rest of the money.
It’s ok, he said. What you did it out there was wonderful.
Ah thanks. Yeah sorry it got all fucked up. I should have planned the surprise better.
No, he said. It was perfect. I think it’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me, actually.
What? Really? I said.
Really. And I’ve decided something.
What’s that?
I’ve decided that I’m not going anywhere.
Sorry. What?
I’m not going anywhere, he repeated.
I don’t know what you mean, Neil.
I mean, he said, speaking more slowly, that I’m not. Going. Anywhere. Even if it takes years. I think I’ll stay right here.
Like…here at the corner table? I joked nervously. You mean you’re never going to leave the Cafe Gitane ever? That sounds very Neil Gaiman-y.
No, he said, plainly. I’ll leave this Cafe. But I won’t leave you. That’s what I mean. I’m not going anywhere.
Oh, I said. I see. I think

You see, Cern and I had a similar kind of talk this week. I was feeling pretty shit and expressed my feelings to him that I felt I didn’t have an option that made me feel ok with a decision and he sent me a voice message that conveyed something that may have taken this long to start to sink in. That he chooses me. Above anyone else.

I’ve not really had a guy choose me above anyone else before. Maybe that’s why it’s taking so long to sink in. I heard him but I never believed him. To believe him is taking a new found openness to him. It’s pushing some of my walls that I didn’t know I had erected. The ones where I heard people say things but didn’t believe they meant them, usually because they don’t and end up breaking my heart so I gave up hoping and believing a long time ago.

So maybe it’s time I let myself believe and hope. Scary. He is scary and still his arms are still the only place in the world I feel safe, wanted… home.


So take time out soon, stare into someone eyes that means something to you and offer the silent questions.

Will you love me even if I’m broken? Can you see the real me? Hello.



A friend-three-some? A pleasant blast from the past…

It’s been one of those weeks where I’ve been pretty sick and some guy messaged me on OKC.

He didn’t objectify me or make me want to stab him repeatedly in the eyeball with a rusty spoon. He looked vaguely familiar from his pictures and I couldn’t place him, I thought he looked like someone my old roomie had the hots for but I couldn’t be sure because I didn’t really spend that much time staring at his face – or any other part of his body when he used to come over. We spend time chatting outside while we smoked together and then I’d head in and do my thing and they’d do theirs.

So anyway, back to the story. This guy messages me. He’s smart, articulate and engaging. I’m sick, curious and vaguely interested if only because he’s not going for the kill and sexualising everything. So I message him back and give him a pat on the back for not being a jerk-off with the first few emails backwards and forwards.

Fast forward to today, I’m feeling a wee bit more human, my ovaries still feel like they are trying to chew their way out of my body but I’m functioning to a degree.

We go from OKC to Kik and he sends me a picture of himself cuddling with a cat. Said cat and him look even more familiar. I put it off to someone I must have a passing acquaintance with.

Then he asks me if I ever lived where I used to live a few suburbs away from where I am now. And like a jigsaw, all the puzzle pieces fit into place and I died laughing. No really, I did.

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Meeting Loki for the first time… and then my clothes fell off

Well you guys know that I’ve talked to Loki online now for a long while. And we had our first face to face when I was in the States.

Actually he came to pick me up from the Greyhound stop (which was a wooden hut in the middle of nowhere). To paint the picture, it’s on a back road. There’s a petrol station on the corner. There was a huge parking lot behind me. Some train tracks. No shops. No houses. And this white hut.

I stepped off the greyhound, after a harrowing 28 hours travelling – the snow storms cancelled services, the ice on the road meant that when we were actually on the road a snail would have passed us in speed… So by the time I actually arrived in West Virginia, I had baby puke on my shoulder as a child’s little baby decided that I was more interesting than his mother and glued himself to me, I was tired, cranky, hungry and my hair looked like an eagle’s nest.


Like this…

Sexy, I had it written all over me. I don’t know how he kept himself off me, really.

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Scent, tactility and the horny.

Scents. They are such a huuuuuuuuge thing for me. I can’t be with someone who smells wrong. Or feels wrong. I’m such a tactile person, I touch. A lot. I touch up clothes before deciding if I will try them on, if they feel wrong they aren’t going on my body. I have the same reactions to humans. If they smell and feel wrong, I can’t do it!!

Actually let’s go one step further and say that I can’t even talk to someone who smells wrong. I meet people, if they smell funky I have to hold my breath until I say hi how are you and quietly move away at a rapid pace.

Certain people I walk past in the street and have this reaction…

I’ll hug you and sniff you and love you forever

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Owning my inner slut. Or outter slut. Oh yes, hello!


I find it highly entertaining how often people will base judgements depending on how many people you’ve slept with.

Does it make my personality more attractive to know that I’m sexually incompetent? Does it make you feel dirty sleeping with someone who is a self-professed slut and lost track of how many people she slept with about the 150 mark?¬†Does it matter that to this day I’ve never had an STI? Or that I probably am more cautious about my sexual health than most?

I’m not a slut, I just love love

So this, this post is about me celebrating my inner slut. Owning her, knowing her and loving her.

Tell me something new
Cause I’ve heard this
Okay I’ll fuck you
A little taste test
You’ll be my little friend
You’ll be my little friend
You’ll be my little friend

You see, to preface, I found penis late in life. I was a lesbian until the age of about 21. I fell in love with a man from work and we went there. My first consensual mutual sexual encounter left a lot to be desired. I remember calling my cousin as I walked home to tell her I did “it” and she was a bit surprised at how inanimate I was talking about it. Almost scientific in my explanations and deductions on how it felt. She laughed a lot at me.

Don’t worry, it definitely got better. When my then first boyfriend proposed to me, I freaked out and broke up with him.

Cue my endless parade of penis. I’m sure some of them were attached to men, however the rest never really registered much. I was going through and catching up on the years that I’d denied myself the pleasure of this piece of a meat belonging to a man. That sounds rather objectifying no? Good.

And they think we fall in love
But that’s not it
Just want to get some
Ain’t that some shit
You’ll be my little friend
You’ll be my little friend
You’ll be my little friend
Yeah, yeah yeah

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Sex? Yes. Right now. And then again. And again. And ….


It makes the world go around.

Not money, like the rest of the herd would have you believe. No. It’s all about the shagging.

Now I don’t know about you but apparently according to this article, we wimmin folk go around denying our desires. So I sat and thought about it. Then navel gazed some more about it and came to conclusion that at certain times in our lives, we do actually suppress our desire to get laid. Or any other sexual desire that might crop up.

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