I'm off my tits

Wilma came round yesterday with a litre of port, three different cheeses, Mozzarella and chillies, some sort of spicy olives, and a bottle of red. She'd stolen it all. We drank our way through it. We talked about sex. She'd had a useless lover recently. "'Play with me', I said -- and he didn't know what to do."

I said that I feel like I've got this drive, some of which is in sex, but it's also in art. "I wish I did," she said. "Well you won't feel like that will you? You're a depressive," I replied. I like Wilma. I can say what I think.

I'm off my tits. Its ten to eleven in the morning, I'm on my second pint, and haven't been to bed. In the pub, I've just extricated myself from Mick, whose words of wisdom you can see in the righthand column there. He's a cantakerous curmudgeon, one of those men you don't want to like but end up asking to your table. He doesn't know my name. "Are you still at the hospital?" he said. No idea where he's got that idea from, so I said "Yes, you know, just jogging along." I've never worked at the hospital. I know his full name. He knows neither part of mine, because he's neither interested nor observant.

The ship has docked and unloaded a lovely cargo. When people talk about sparkle dust, they talk about it as if it's one drug. Well, no, there are different types and this one is exactly what I like. I suppose it must be a consequence of vasodilation, but fuck the science, it makes me feel sensual, as if I need any encouragement in that respect. Everything is brighter, the trees are more vivid, and the birdsong is more sibilant. Across from me, two men who are trying to be friends but are more interested in their phones, are tap-tap-tapping, heads down. God grant me never to have friends like that.

Me and Trina went out in Preston yesterday and got pissed. We had arranged to go to the Southport Food and Drink Festival today and I rather stupidly said that I had also arranged to go out with Wendy and Kitty and daughters and perhaps I could come over a bit later. Oh fuck, bad idea. Edited highlights: "I have now accepted that you've moved on. Your obsession with Wendy has ruined our friendship. And please don't contact me now as I'm going to get ratted and you know not to go there. Even my autistically introverted ex husband can't be bothered to respond." So much fucking drama, can't be bothered.

I was absolutely coursing with sex desire for Wendy this morning, and managed to keep my hands off my phone, if not my cock. Me and Kitty and her are meeting up in an hour or so. I want to fuck her so much, and that's never going to happen. I want her wearing nothing but her dresses. We can go through all of them, my cock stuck in her as I gaze at her and run my hands slowly along her gorgeous body. I want to fuck her so much.

I remember what Donna said the morning after we were in the same position. Silent, me gazing at her, raking her with my eyes. "I love how you look at me. I feel adored." I want Wendy to feel adored, but she doesn't want me to adore her.