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I give a glamour model a flapjack

  Fri 20th July 2012

I went to do my volunteer reception work at Really Late, supervised by someone I hadn't met before. She looked like a girl from a 70s pop magazine, with long bobbed hair, a red and white checked shirt and tight jeans. I enjoyed talking to her, telling her all about Trina, and the fact that I was going to meet a former glamour model for a drink afterwards. We parted outside the building, and I looked back at her after I'd gone a few steps, with a big smile on my face. Unfortunately she also picked that time to look back at me and it suddenly seemed a lot more flirty than I'd intended.

I went to the pub to meet Chris. I first met her about twelve years ago in London, when we met at a Usenet group meet. Never saw her for ages, then heard she was teaching not far from here, then, after another interval of a few years, we've bumped into each other a couple of times. She contacted me on the dating site the other day and suggested a drink.

Before meeting her, I popped into the Robert Gillow. My former next door neighbour was there, looking fetching as usual in a mustard yellow blouse with wide lapels, and jeans. She's a good bit older than me but I find her quite attractive; she's a bit of a lush and I sometimes see her wandering somewhat meanderingly home. Last year, on one of those licentious days around Christmas when the whole city feels pissed by 6pm, I ended up stroking her back and arms whilst sitting next to her in the Sun.

I went up behind her as she was sat on a stool and pinched her nice bum. She knows I like her and that I like flirting with her. As we said goodbye I put my hand on her forearm, and had to dismiss the urge to stroke my hand along it.

Chris walked in looking very pretty, in a grey scooped necked dress dotted with black circles, with a big black bow whose tie hung attractively and eye-drawingly down the parting of her lovely tits; the whole of her was beautifully, curvily shown off by the tight greyness of her minidress. Black tights and flatish shoes with little white dabs of plastic. We talked about boyfriend and girlfriend joys and woes, sex, bringing up children, and so on. She came back to mine and we carried on with the sex talk.

To my shame I had nothing at all in the way of drink, so I just had a bit of the other stuff and she had a flapjack. I said how much I like fisting, how intimate and slow it is, how much care and trust it requires; and what positions I like. It's absolutely fucking lovely describing to an attractive, gorgeously titted, well dressed, chatty, hairclipped, unaffected, young woman, what you like doing in sex, what works and doesn't, and hearing her say what she likes back. I'm glad we've re-established contact.


An academic contacts me on the dating site. "I know you've said you're spoken for now looby, but I did want to just get in touch, because when you said you want someone with nice tits, a PhD, and an MDMA factory--well I am that woman." I've got a good idea who it is, and if it is her, I bet she'd be fun. I wrote back suggesting we could go out dancing.


In yesterday's LRB, Terry Eagleton informs us memorably that "Brendan Behan once described himself as a drinker with a writing problem."

7 comments

Comment from: [Member]

i enjoy the sort of friend where the flirting is safe and easy. with no (or very limited) prospects of consummation… can’t say that i’ve ever discussed the art of fisting, though.

Fri 20th July 2012 @ 12:25
Comment from: young at heart [Visitor]

I thought at first glance it said ‘how much I like fishing….’!!

Fri 20th July 2012 @ 17:40
Comment from: [Member]

Ha ha ha, YAH!

Fisting–the only activity in which it’s been an advantage to have been a nailbiter since primary school. Wouldn’t use it as an excuse when talking to my mum though.

Fri 20th July 2012 @ 19:14

I did a post not long ago about how liberating it is to go out with a woman you’re not trying to seduce. It certainly can free up the topics of conversation.

How is it you’re flirting? I thought you had a girlfriend?

I saw some Behan plays at the Irish Rep out here a few years ago and really like like it. He’s got some talent.

Sat 21st July 2012 @ 01:24
Comment from: [Member]

Doesn’t everyone flirt, all the time? And I think I behaved correctly: not even a peck on the cheek as she left (I wouldn’t trust myself).

I’m unfortunately unaquainted with Behan but the vague details of his life that I read, in search of a source for that quote, are very interesting.

Sat 21st July 2012 @ 10:00

I just get more and more envious…how the hell do you keep pulling in all these lovely women?

Just don’t stop, it’s much too amusing, in a vicarious way of course.

I’m not going to even mention the fisting, as I’m descended from an agricultural family, and my fists look like large knobbly King Edwards. Any woman looking at them would run screaming to the nearest RSPCA.

Sun 22nd July 2012 @ 05:33
Comment from: [Member]

Heh heh :) You have to be careful when mucking about with spuds.

Sun 22nd July 2012 @ 11:08


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looby, n.; pl. loobies. A lout; an awkward, stupid, clownish person


M / 56 / Bristol, "the most beautiful, interesting and distinguished city in England" -- John Betjeman [1961, source eludes me].

"Looby is a left-wing intellectual who is obsessed with a) women's clothes and b) tits." -- Joy of Bex.

WLTM literate woman, 40-65. Must have nice tits, a PhD, and an mdma factory in the shed, although the first on its own will do in the short term.


There are plenty of bastards who drink moderately. Of course, I don't consider them to be people. They are not our comrades.
Sergei Korovin, quoted in Pavel Krusanov, The Blue Book of the Alcoholic

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