More than once in my life I have been called a "potty-mouth". Perhaps my unrestrained use of the vernacular and my more than comfortable use of the word "fuck" has caused this reputation to come about and somewhat stick. I will add that such comments neither disturb or deter me. Just this morning I was trading quips with a friend who is dating a vegetarian. [Why he is a vegetarian is lost on me - perhaps there could be some moralising on this point - but if anyone needs a bloody good steak - it is him!] Apparently in a moment of unrestrained rage the previous evening, he accused her of having "beef breath!". Tears of laughter - is all I can say!

Isn't it a little early for that?

In light of my recent degeneration into romanticism, I am going to attempt pull back the reins on the mush factor and continue entertaining the masses (!) with more interesting stories. But don't hold your collective breaths.

This evening, in about 2 hours in fact, B and my mother are going to come face to face for the first time. Now, B and I have only been seeing each other for just over two weeks, and by anyone's standards meeting any parental units at this point is both highly optimistic and a little confronting. It is of course not by design. My mother lives inter-state and visits rarely. I am leaving on the weekend, with Mum, for a trip overseas for 12 days - which will of course separate me from the beloved. So, with time constraints as they are, I decided that a dinner for three was the best solution for me.

Mum is not fazed by the prospect of meeting the latest and greatest. Thankfully in the past I have not inflicted my parents with numerous boyfriend meetings - just a couple that have made it through the hoops to warrant a parental confrontation. Far scarier meetings await B; my darling friend L7 prioritises the happiness of her friends and as such will closely examine any prospect with the most critical eye. There was a time when an intimate dinner with my mother and a man of my choice would have me more than a little tense. But thankfully, time, maturity and a hefty dose of anti-depressants all round has cured the women-folk of the family from any nastiness that could have potentially ensued.

So cross fingers bloggers for a happy evening - although a juicy story would be helpful for my next entry!

And the romance continues....

The new beau, B, is proving to be the dating sensation of the new millennia. As time goes by (yes, just over two weeks now - looking long term compared to recent history), he is just getting better and better. But of course, as time goes by, I have to keep suppressing my insecurities. I am a little worried that he will find out that I am really not this self-assured and confident - and the true self will come forth. Perhaps we are both putting on a small show. Showing off our best side, our wittiest repartee, our most charming demeanour. What happens when we stop trying to impress each other anymore? Oh that's right - that's called marriage. [Sorry, the cynic in me couldn't resist that one.]

I am currently reading my way through the entire Alain de Botton collection. I must admit to being hesitant at first - when something like a modern philosopher achieves a modicum of commercial success, I poo-poo it as being mere pap that is pandering to the masses. So, it comes as a great surprise to myself to find that I am enjoying his work immensely. The book that I am currently making my way through is "On Love", which is philosophical telling of the process of falling in love and how the relationship develops. It is curious being in that stage in life and reading about it at the same time. Much of what he has written rings very true for me, but none more so (and in light of the previous paragraph) than the following quote,

Every fall into love involves the triumph of hope over self-knowledge. We fall in love opting that we will not find in the other what we know is in ourselves - all the cowardice, weakness, laziness, dishonesty, compromise, and brute stupidity.

Here's hoping that I neither find nor reveal many flaws in B.

A few rules before we go on.....

I have a few interesting, albeit quirky, traits to my character which make me definitely unique. There are things that all of us do to make us feel comfortable in our own home, and some of these things become rules of sorts by which we live. For example, I cannot abide by towels being hung haphazardly - corners should match. I love slipping between ironed sheets on my bed. And an open drawer or cupboard door will drive me to drink.

In the bedroom, by contrast, my rules are quite simple. When it comes to antics bound by the bedroom (or whatever is available when the flatmate is not home), I am willing to be adventurous, creative, and full of fun - as long as the main rules are abided by. These rules are simply the following;
(i) There should be lighting - ideally candles, sunlight, heck even the bedroom lights on, but there certainly should not be darkness. I want to see what I am working with. I want to see reactions. And,
(ii) No sex after 10:30pm on "school" nights. This is a simple one really based on the fact that men may be able to roll over and snooze post-coitally - but I know me, and I find myself energized and want to stay awake. So late night sex during the week will always prove tiresome the next day.

That's it really. I think that there is a great deal of latitude within those boundaries for everyone to have some fun.

Lexical Largesse

It is funny how the same turn of phrase can be different depending upon whose mouth the utterances are forthcoming.

Prior blog entries refer to A, a Shrek look-a-like if there ever was one. He offered to pick me up from the airport after a trip back to see the family. The most unfortunate part of this whole endeavour is that he duly waited at the gate, for no less than 2 hours prior to the plane landing. An action that has "stalker-potential" written all over it. But, that my fellow bloggers is not what bothered me. On the drive home, he imparted stories about his time at the airport whilst waiting for me to be delivered to him. Apparently, he began conversing with some lovely young lady (his description, of course) and she enquired as to his reason for his patient meanderings in such a locale. He replied, and then related this to me, that he was waiting for his "girlfriend". When he expressed this, I believe my stomach wrenched and I was unable to speak.

When my buddy S calls me "girlfriend", there is an irony laced with faux black-American homey accent and all the quasi-cultural reference that it may imply. Although to call him the reciprocal "boyfriend" just sounds a little wrong, although calling him "my bitch" still doesn't quite cut the mustard. But I digress.

Last night, the new beau, B, turned up bearing groceries and the eagerness and forcefulness to expunge me from my own kitchen (a task not easily achieved) and began creating a meal for our repast. Although no Jamie Oliver, he is certainly a dab hand in the kitchen and can impressively wield a knife and season a chicken breast. Whilst feeding me morsels in the kitchen, he commented that the only thing better than lovely food, is feeding your girlfriend lovely food. No stomach wrenching, no homey irony, just a little skip of the heartbeat and a warm inner glow.

Hits and kisses

A girlfriend, L7, once commented to me that she is an extremely good kisser. I protested at this statement, since I have been told, more than once, that I am an exquisite kisser. And I have heard a few others make such claims as well. But how can we all be fabulous, since I know that I have kissed some persons with atrocious technique - and they might also think that they kiss alright. Well, she further her comment by saying that she also believed that one considers someone a good kisser if they kiss like yourself.

In the past week, I have been fortunate enough to kiss two different gentlemen. The first has featured here before, the anti-Christ A (don't ask). He possesses a certain amount of sexual chemistry that I find quite alluring, but kissing him, although passable, was a little tedious and had me wiping my mouth afterwards (excess saliva is never attractive). On the complete opposite end of the spectrum, B, (sigh!) is amazing. We are at that amazing stage of a new relationship where you can't get enough of them, don't want to leave each other, everything they say is witty, everything they do is charming and every touch is filled with fire. But the kisses! We kissed and kissed last night: deeply, gently, passionately and playfully. Our tongues danced, our lips met and parted. It was truly beautiful, and perhaps one of the singularly most sensuous moments of my life. Even thinking about it today made my stomach flip and brought a smile to my lips. I look forward to more of this!

What colour are you?

There are some questions that should be pretty simple to answer. Height? Weight (when you choose to divulge that sort of information)? Sexual orientation? But the one question that slips me up every time is eye colour.

I seem to get get all befuddled when trying to pin my colour down to just one category. Of the limited options available on any pigeon-holing type form, I usually default to "Brown". But I always feel that "Brown" is such a second rate eye colour. Ok, not all of us can be Elizabeth Taylor and claim violet eyes, but when there is a little deviation from the norm one wants to exploit it all one can. My eyes have a large amount of green, located on the periphery: laterally and inferiorly in true medical lexicon. Of course, in dimly-lit environs, such details can be hard to spot. So picture a romantic dinner (definitions of romance to come in future blog entries), candle-lit with lovely wine, a gorgeous meal and handsome gentlemen leaning in to comment, "You have such beautiful brown eyes." It probably did a little to dispel the magic of the moment when I began my long and complicated explanation that my eyes really aren't brown... blah blah blah.

To his credit, B managed to suppress a smirk - probably bemused by my soap-boxing over such a trivial issue. So the eye description that is unanimous with all the men of my acquaintance, over many years of polling the issue: Come Fuck Me.

Works for me!

A non-religious experience

In the space of 12 or so hours I have experienced possible the best and worst that the male species has to offer.

After the delightful experience that is flying for long distances, I arrived home Sunday morning - tired but very happy to be home. After a little nap, I logged on to receive the many e-missives that were awaiting me. To my delight, I found on-line a boy who had recently admitted to wanting to wander down the pathway of a relationship with me, albeit in "baby-steps". Of course, in light of that revelation, I was immediately intimate with him - in the biblical sense. (I will only interject here to say that I have heard this line before, but still decided it was the truth.) So, we started chatting, only to have him say that in the past week (whilst I was overseas) he had sex with someone else. He then went on to say that he didn't have to tell me, but thought he would be honest with me. He then had the temerity to wonder why I was taken aback because "we aren't an item". I begged to differ! So, needless to say, his number has been removed from my phone (again!) and much thanks is owed to my dearest S who consoled me.

So then the day continued... I went to my usual Sunday eve locale for bevvies, food and fine entertainment (and a big shout-out to you boys!). In the course of the evening I began conversing with a lovely lady who declared that, "You just have to meet my brother!". Now can I tell you that a sister's recommendation of a beau is generally not that meaningful, so I begrudgingly nodded my assent to meeting him - at which point she rang him and got him to come to meet me that very second. Well, bloggers, I am happy to report that he (B) was delightful company. He took me, his sister and J to a lovely little wine bar where he treated us to lovely wine, and turned to me and said "Do you like Foie Grois?". A girl could go dizzy with this sort of decadent, but delightful, encounters. Anyway, at an opportune moment when we were alone, he leaned in, took my hand, looked into my eyes longingly and asked if I would be interested in dinner with him. I believe it took all my strength to not leap to my feet and scream out "HELL YES!!!!".

So from the anti-Christ to an angel: all in one day. Nice work is all I can say.