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I'm off my tits

  Fri 3rd June 2016

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.

4 comments

Comment from: kono [Visitor]

That certain set of humanity who enjoy the substances that allow us to notice and appreciate things in a different light are a special lot, sobriety can sometimes do that but not often, i fucking dug this post, don’t wince at it (as you’ve mentioned in the next post) i’ve posted many things on the lounge and many were written under the influence of various substances over the years… and though these days we like different drugs the other day i got ripping high on a lovely strain while doing a bunch of yard work and then took a shower, it was one of the best fucking showers ever, it was like standing in liquid electricity without all the harmful side effects, it was beautiful.

Sun 5th June 2016 @ 14:28
Comment from: [Member]

Thank you kono. I know writing is supposed to be for writing’s sake (what a load of bollocks, that’s too introverted a view, Western individualism rearing its selfish head again), but it’s a social activity as well and I must say it does give me a little frisson of pleasure when someone unknown (that makes it even better – it gets rid of manners) responds in a way that you sense a resonance in their life.

I liked the shower story. I like water and drugs too. I’ve got a couple of memories with that combination. And people ask “why do you need drugs?” Inwardly, I laugh.

Sun 5th June 2016 @ 22:04
Comment from: kono [Visitor]

In my wasted youth i used to surf stoned out of my gourd, sometimes tripping, i remember i’d come home from the graveyard shift at the local 7-11 (where my night was spent scamming the register for as much as i could pocket) at the beach where i lived and i’d crank up the hookah and then hit the water, nothing beat laying on the board and letting the ocean roll by under me, every now and then i’d try and catch a wave but it was the sound and the feel, in short it was fucking gorgeous.

Tue 7th June 2016 @ 15:36
Comment from: looby [Visitor]

It must have been lovely to be able to dive into the sea after all that. I used to take some acid with me on our family holidays to Brittany. Neither of us drive so we went by train, the overnight ferry, then train, train, bus and walk. The customs at the port are non-existent or just not interested. You could have got kilos of stuff through. But acid will never be discovered.

I used to love swimming in the sea while tripping, in the evening, with the ever-changing canvas of the sky and a low sun, and swim a long way out, laying on my back and looking up. Once day it started thundering and lightning whilst I was off my head. It was truly magical and indescribably profound. I’ve the spiritual depth of a puddle but I felt an infinitesimal part of something infinite – and it was overwhelmingly sensual too.

Then, I came back to the caravan and the girls and Kirsty were there chatting away, we had acquired some random other children from the campsite as well, there was the smell of barbeques, and the French family next door having their long tea outside. I took my book and sat in our little garden outside but couldn’t read, I was so happy.

Wed 8th June 2016 @ 06:49


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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

I am here to change my life. I am here to force myself to change my life.
Chinese man I met during Freshers Week at Lancaster University, 2008

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?
Turgenev, Fathers and Sons

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One good thing about being a Marxist is that you don't have to pretend to like work.
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The working man is a fucking loser.
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