“I am a mother and I like anal sex”

Third result on the first page of Google’s main search results! Score!

I am sitting here actually laughing out loud. I have totally got the market for long tail crude sex searches nailed. I’m going to offer my services to the sex industry. It just goes to show, fellow SEO geeks – write natural content aimed at users, not machines, and Google rewards will follow.

For the record: I am definitely a mother, but ‘like’ would be stretching it – no pun intended. It’s true I will indulge, but there are many bedroom activities that feature higher up on my fun list. Like, this weekend I hung a vintage Vogue mirror in my bedroom, with a lovely Deco peacock lady on it. That was more fun than anal sex.

But whatever. I’m totally going for the anal sex search market. I’ve got long tail searches covered, but I want total search domination: anal sex = motherinterrupted. Every time.

I like the idea of a load of hot and horny types coming here to fiddle with themselves while reading about some dirty back passage action, and finding… me. The girl sitting writing this in an ankle length dressing gown, geek glasses perched primly on her nose. Yeah baby. I’m so hot…


A sentence I never thought I’d write – and a question I never imagined I’d answer

“It is impossible to orgasm when you’re worried that the string of your tampon is going to catch in his teeth.”

That is the best thing I’ve written all day. Possibly ever, in fact. And I write for a living.

There is a little more to the tale of the tampon. I’m only telling you so I can commit it to paper. I might forget, and that really would be terrible. (Zoe, if you’re reading this, you know what’s coming, and you’re excused from class…)

So I’m on my period and he clearly doesn’t care, and he’s going down on me. Which is cool. Quite sexy, actually. But I am never going to come. EVER.  He’s licking the string of my tampon, for fuck’s sake. I wonder if it will fray? If it frays, will I still be able to remove it? Yes, don’t be silly. But then he really could end up with a thin string of cotton between his teeth… What if it gets caught and he jerks his head? Eek! His teeth are really tightly packed together though. I bet he couldn’t floss if he tried. I wonder if that puts him more at risk of gum disease, or less? If floss/a thread of tampon string can’t get between his teeth, neither can rotting food… Hmmm. His teeth are really good. Maybe that’s why…

See how my mind is wandering?

I am never going to come.

“Um… PB… ”


“I’m sorry… All I can think about is you licking the string of my tampon.”

This is greeted with a muffled snigger. He looks up at me, those gorgeous curls framed by my open thighs, his huge green eyes peering amusedly over my pubic hair.

“Are you going to remove the tampon so I can fuck you then, or shall I?”


In the right frame of mind, I’ll do anal. I enjoy rimming*. I don’t think I’m that much of a prude. But the thought of someone else removing my tampon… Oh. Em. Gee. And I don’t OMG lightly. (What would he do with said item once removed? It’s a really light day, period-wise – what if he has to pull really hard? What if he pulls me off the bed? Is he going to do it right now, while he’s at eye level? Good god no…)

I shoot off the bed like a scalded cat, into the bathroom. “I’ll do it!” I shriek. Totally not cool.

But seriously. There’s a question I never thought I’d have to answer.

Proper bloggers end their entries with a question, to encourage engagement. Here’s one for y’all – ever had a man remove your tampon? And if not, would you let him? I want to know, on a scale of 1 – 10, just how big a prude I am…

*Zoe, you had better have stopped reading. Seriously.

Sleeping with Mr Greedy

Had one of those lovely conversations with The Boy today, where we’re both talking about entirely different things, but that’s OK. We were discussing our sleeping arrangements. Specifically, how sleeping on our own, in our own beds, is the most amazing, awesome, grown-up thing ever, but sleeping in each other’s beds is bleurgh-for-babies.

“Yes Mummy – because my bed has only one pillow for only one person: me!”

“That’s right…”

“And your bed has… Wait. Your bed has TWO pillows. For two persons!”

His little face lights up. Ohhhhh no. I see where this is going. There shall be no small boy kicking me in the kidneys all night…

“Yes – me and Mr Nobody.”

The Boy is very taken with the concept of Mr Nobody at the moment. He’s a very real presence in our home.

“Yes! Mr Nobody needs somewhere to sleep, doesn’t he?”

And his gorgeous little face lights up again as a new thought occurs to him.

“Mummy – did you ever sleep with Mr Greedy?”

I think about The Pirate, and how much he took from me.

“Yes, yes I did…”

“And did he EAT YOU ALL UP?”

I think about The Pirate’s animal enthusiasm and considerable talent for oral sex. His hands pinning my thighs to the bed as he buried his face between them. Wiping my juices all over his face then smelling his hands, really breathing in, like I’m honey. Me nervously piping up that I’m on my period, and him looking at me like I’m mental and going down on me anyway*.

“Yes, yes he did…”

“Were you scared?”

Pinned to the floor of my living room so I can’t move. Nipples pinched so hard it hurts. Sharp, fox-like teeth in soft, hidden places. Slaps to the backside, playful at first but then not so, administered with a look that says ‘defy me if you dare’ – which was obviously met with defiance. Always, a show of strength – and he’s so, so strong. The thrill of submitting, giving what I know he could take  anyway.

“A little bit. But sometimes it’s fun to be scared…”

“Do you prefer sleeping with Mr Greedy or Mr Nobody?”

Ah, the million dollar question.

“Mr. Nobody,” I reply. But I’m not fooling anyone.

*It is impossible to orgasm when you’re worried that the string of your tampon is going to catch in his teeth. Fact.


I’m divorced.

I’m divorced.

I’m divorced.

If I say it enough times, it might feel real. Or transport me out of this shitty world and into one where divorcees don’t feel like dirty used goods. One where we are revered; a world where people wear images of us around their necks that they rub in times of need, and clamour to kiss the hems of our slutty divorcee robes.


Still here.

It’s not like I had any desire at all to stay married to the wanker. Or that I’d ever unwish the time we spent together. We made The Boy. He is amazing and wonderful in ways I can’t even begin to express. (I’ll try. This morning, in the car: “Mummy, if you open your mouth like this and breathe in – you can smell your brain!” Gentle probing revealed he meant that if you breathe out on a cold day, you can see your breath, but that’s not half as interesting.)

So I don’t know why I’m so thoroughly pissed off, really. I’m still angry, I guess. Angry that The Boy doesn’t get the deal he deserves, the traditional nuclear family. Angry that my ex-husband threw it all away for a relationship that, by his own admission, isn’t very good. And angry that, in spite of this, he’s getting what I want. A family, a new baby (due next Monday – yay!). How is that fair?! He doesn’t even seem to want it. WANKER.

It feels like the only progress I’ve made in my own life in the last year is not slipping any further backwards. Which I know is an achievement given all that has happened, but it doesn’t feel like one. I hate standing still and treading water. HATE it. I can’t move house yet for various tedious financial reasons, I can’t move jobs yet, I can’t see myself ever finding someone who’ll put up with my fucking mentalness… I feel trapped and stuck and stagnant. And it really pisses me off.

Yeah. I’m pissed off.

In other news, people are finding my blog through the phrases ‘fuck off’, ‘fuck you’ and ‘fuck off you timewasting bastard’. Which suits the general vibe over here. Fuck fuck fuckity fuck fuck fuck off. FUCK OFF. There. Let all the angry people on the internet find their way to me. Let my profanities be a shining beacon for all of those who are dispirited and in dark places. Suffer little children, come unto me… We can be totally fucking miserable together. Fuck.




New Year’s resolutions

Got to be done. Got to be committed to paper – or t’interweb – in order to be able to properly beat myself up with them when I fail. Ah, that’s the spirit…

Notes to D for 2012

1. Stop sleeping with inappropriate men. It makes you feel worse. And you might catch something. Ugh.

2. Go to bed before 11pm more nights than not.

3. Try and exercise for half an hour every day. This will involve walking round and round the field near work at lunch time. Even in the rain. Are you listening? Even in the rain.

4. Take multivitamins every day. EVERY DAY. EVERY FUCKING DAY, D. Why do you find this so ridiculously hard to remember to do?

5. Write more. Your blog, the novel (as if!), at work (it’s kinda what they pay you to do…). More words. They do good things to poor broken souls.

6. Wear make-up more days than not, so when the man who comes to service your boiler is unexpectedly the most handsome creature you’ve seen in a while, and is also single and quickly becomes besotted with your boy, you aren’t standing there looking like shit on a shovel with unbrushed teeth and hair and the dowdiest grey dress on you own, because it didn’t need ironing. Make more of an effort. Not for anyone else. But for you.

7. Burn that fucking grey dress.

8. Find ways to fund your L’Occitane Immortelle Divine habit that don’t involve breaking resolution number 1. Good skin makes everything much, much better.

9. If (when, I fear when) The Pirate reappears, be strong. BE STRONG. His last email may well have ended in 2 kisses. Please for the love of all things holy, stop fucking analysing them. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx. There. 20 kisses in 2 seconds. It’s that fucking easy. His finger probably slipped, or he had a terrible cold and he was dying and far too weak to even lift his finger off the ‘x’ key. BE STRONG.

10. Play with your son more. Even brumming, which has a whole circle of hell dedicated to its unique brand of random, soul-destroying tedium. And even though he makes the ‘rules’ up as he goes along and never lets you be the car/fire engine/ambulance you want to be. It won’t be long before he’d sooner spit on you than brum with you.

That’ll do. There are 4 minutes to go before I break number 2 and about 20 minutes of chores to do before bed. Oh well. I’ll start tomorrow.

“i don’t care who’s cock i just want cock”

Today’s best search referral… The ‘who’s’ is making me itch, but otherwise, a fine Google search.

I wonder what she or he was hoping to find? I mean, cock, clearly – but how? In what format?

My need for cock has somewhat diminished. The night I wrote about wanting sex did indeed end with a gorgeous boy in my bed. Involved rather more deft catching of vomit, changing of sheets and turning of mattresses than I would have liked, though. 3-year olds rock…

And this marked the beginning of a downward health spiral that saw me throwing up 2 days later, him on penicillin now and me still trying to cough that fucking lung up (come on you stubborn fucker. Either come out and show me what you’re made of, or quiet the fuck down…).

I don’t think I could do sex right now if you paid me. And I’d definitely have to pay him. The only movement I can muster is that bastard cough…




Ha! Fuck you, 2011!

Yeah. Not a fan of last year. Wasn’t a great one. Losing a parent and your mind, all at once? Not good – especially when played out against an angst-ridden, piratical soundtrack. Not good at all.

But but BUT – ding dong the witch is dead! 2011 has finally, at last, took-its-time-but-got-there-in-the-end, done the right thing and fucked right off.

You know what? I’m going to use an exclamation mark: ! In fact, have several: !!!!!!!!! No matter what else happens (and I expect it will, else has a habit of happening…), 2011 will never, ever be seen again!!!!!!!!!



!!! (OK. I’ll stop now. Devil’s punctuation…)

I went to my friend’s house last night, on New Year’s Eve. He’s had a pretty shitty, turbulent year too. We ate curry, drank cocktails and sat in front of the fire gossiping like old women. And then at midnight, we raised our glasses of champagne, did the kiss thing, then went outside and released a Chinese lantern. Not to welcome in the new, but to see out the old. The picture on the right shows what we wrote on it.

I’ve never launched a Chinese lantern before. I had read that they’re trying to ban them, and decided that ‘they’ were health & safety gone mad killjoys. And then I read the instructions last night – ‘do not release within 5 miles of an airport or military base’ and thought – seriously?!

And then my friend lit it, and whoosh! It caught like the Australian bush. Ooh. Very flamey, aren’t they? And then it got really windy while he was holding it, waiting for the trapped air to heat up, and it swept up and nearly set his beard on fire. And then he let go and it hurtled sideways into the hedge in his front garden, and he risked life, limb and posh winter coat to rescue it (I confess a little bit of wee came out here, I was laughing so hard). He let go of it again and it went up, had a (heartstopping) little rest on his neighbour’s TV aerial before finally, finally sailing off into the night.

Yeah. They should ban Chinese lanterns, they really should.

2011 didn’t want to go, the tenacious, vicious, weaselly little bastard. It hadn’t finished with us. But happily, we had finished with it, and we went back inside and carried on drinking and gossiping for another 3 hours.

Now. Can we not have a year like that again, please?