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Me and Trina do not have sex in a motorway services

  Wed 24th February 2016

Wendy's just left, to pick up her daughter, although she said, and I believe her, that she'd rather stay and open the next bottle. She was wearing one of my favourite dresses of hers, a black and white one with a small dogtooth pattern. It fits her beautifully. She is fucking gorgeous.

We were talking about the floods, and I mentioned a really good clothes shop -- too expensive for me, but lovely clothes -- which is relocating to a drier location after a tide of sludge ran through the premises and all its stock. "That's where I get my dresses from," she said. That's where Seriouscrush used to get many of hers too. Clearly the buyer and I have very similar taste.

"I do have close friends, but there are very few people I can really say anything to. It's just you and Kitty really." A stab of sadness and distance in the stomach. It made me wonder whether she thinks us getting sexually involved would spoil that situation.

She was asking me about the weekend -- which I haven't told you about either yet. Me and Trina went to a weekender and stayed in Charnock Richard services. I love staying there. It feels artificial and wrong somehow, as if you're in a play about an imaginary hotel.

The man on the far right is not in the least bit envious
of another around his own age who is making a nice living
out of playing soul and house music in between
dancing with his gorgeous girlfriend.

We danced on and off for nine hours on the Friday, and a good three hours or so on Saturday. It's very sociable this scene, I love the music, and I love the flickers of flirtation on the dancefloor. I want to be looked at and to be found attractive. Part of my calculations with Trina is that I need to keep her on my side so that she can pay for it all and do the driving. Oh dear, the venality of it.

To my relief, there was not a scintilla of desire from her side, despite her dancing knickerless in my room the other night, and the sex-catalysing drugs we were on. I'm actually a little ashamed of ever having had sex with her. Looking back on it, the sex with Trina was more taking advantage of her; but on Saturday, it was twin beds, not even a hug, just a "night night." And this is correct.

About an hour after she left, Wendy rang. "Looby, I've been thinking..." I stopped my breath, wondering if she was going to say what I want to hear. But no, it was about a possible business opportunity.

Yesterday afternoon, the unhinged drugged-up man of latent violence was in the pub again. I ignored him, but a minute after I'd walked in he greeted me, all sweetness and light, and we exchanged the couplets of Lancashire's shorthand form of cordiality.


I can assure you with 100% certainty that she thinks getting involved with sexually would spoil the situation. I’ve been through and have seen it thousands of times. Sorry, chum.

Trina is over the hump. Thank goodness. I thought I’d never see this post.

Thu 25th February 2016 @ 12:18
Comment from: [Member]

I don’t want to hear that, but I know you’re right. It’s not going to happen.

Thu 25th February 2016 @ 12:55
Comment from: furtheron [Visitor]

Despite my total lack of experience in this department there’s a part of me thinking “If it was going to happen it would have by now"…. and “she sounds like she values him too much as a friend and confident” So I’m siding with Exile on this one

Tue 1st March 2016 @ 16:07
Comment from: looby [Visitor]

As we say in the local vernacular, “no fucking chance, mate.”

Wed 2nd March 2016 @ 15:59

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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.
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The more democratised art becomes, the more we recognise in it our own mediocrity.
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Tell me, why is it that even when we are enjoying music, for instance, or a beautiful evening, or a conversation in agreeable company, it all seems no more than a hint of some infinite felicity existing apart somewhere, rather than actual happiness – such, I mean, as we ourselves can really possess?
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The working man is a fucking loser.
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