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Rochdale, town of sex

  Thu 29th September 2016

Five o'clock and I'm in The Turk's Head in Victoria in Manchester. I've come here from the station bar where I ordered a pint of Jaipur and walked out after it had been poured when the barmaid asked me for £4.85.

I went to Trish's yesterday morning. A pub lunch made by someone who would be better off working in a coal mine. My "feta cheese salad" came in a colander with a kilo of lettuce and a small portion of grey sugar solution as the dressing. She was looking fuckable, and I told her that I'd like her to come out to a restaurant with some of my friends and to wear a dress and no knickers; we'd shift the table a few inches closer to ourselves to prevent any risky sightlines from our friends. Ten minutes in, I'd inch my hand onto her thigh and then up to her cunt and let it rest there for several minutes, before bending my middle finger inside her, and all the time she would have to talk decorously and give nothing away.

We drank constantly; brandy and rosé wine for breakfast. I fancied a little optical brightener. "If I ask for any of that stuff you've got to refuse me." After her fourth line -- I think -- a gentleman never makes an account of shared amphetamine -- she drove us to the offy for another bottle of brandy and some bottles of cider. "Use my card, but you'll have to go in. They know I'm a pisshead there."

The offy is next to a beautician where she has her nails and bikini line done. (Thank fuck she doesn't have The Modern Abomination -- what me, Kitty and Wendy call a shaved cunt. She's got the lovely soft, slippery cunt hair of a sixty-year-old. I love her cunt.) She said me that she'd told them about me. "Well, he takes care of himself, he smells nice, and he made an effort." As I returned to her car, clanking with drink, I saw one of the girls mouthing and gesturing to Trish "Is that him?" Back at hers, tea was abandoned. "Do you want to stay over?" she asked.

I love it beyond measure, that sex (and drinking, I suppose), is the central element in our relationship. I am fed up to the back teeth with meeting women who say we have "shared interests" -- as if I give a shit about anyone's taste in film -- or worse, suggest "going out for a walk." The only walk I'd be interested in with Trish is to some hidden dell where I could fuck her under a tree.

Today she had a prior engagement. "I'm supposed to be going to my Mum's to make these fucking curtains. You're good at lying, what could I say?" "Tell her that I stayed over last night and I want to take you to Rochdale Literature Festival." "I'm too drunk to say 'literature'."

I left hers an hour ago after a fucking good afternoon, literally, and sat on the train with that delicious fading delirium that you can only get from sex. I find her exciting and I fancy her. I think she's pretty and sexy at the same time. Like all reckless, educated, borderline bipolar women, the kind I always go for, she goes on and on about herself all the time. "Fucking hell you do witter on Trish. The only way I can shut you up is to fill your mouth with my cock so you can't actually talk, isn't it?" "You can do that whenever you want." "I will Trish, and don't think I'll ask your permission first either. Honestly love, you're going to get it." She says things more colourful than that that I would write as a fantasy script for the kind of adventurous but submissive sexual partner that she is turning out to be.

I texted her from Victoria. "I've just passed a poster for Rochdale Literature Festival. I'm so glad we skipped the talk on Themes in Modernist Danish Literature. P.S. I think you're a bit fabulous. Only a bit. I want to turn you into even more of a dirty slut than you already are, and to, I mean see you again very soon X"


Are you sure she’s not an actress? Your description of her reminds me of the actresses I used to date way back. They’re wonderfully needy and talk only about themselves but were passionate with a reckless abandon.

Now I’m getting all melancholy for the old days.

Thu 29th September 2016 @ 18:57
Comment from: [Member]

No she’s a French graduate, worked as a PA in Paris for a few years, came back. got an MA then married a Croatian restaurant owner. Retrained as a nurse. Now retired.

Even before I met her (as long ago as last Friday), I told her “you sound right up my street.” Sex on second date, fucking fucking fucking. That’s what I want. It’s so liberating to have sex with someone you actually fancy. It makes me remember times I’ve had sex with girls I don’t really fancy but I just use them. I really fancy Trish. She makes me think of sex, all the time. She does go on about herself but like you say about your actresses – she’s passionate, and I don’t want any relationship whatsoever that doesn’t have that in it.

And to lower (heighten?) the tone, she is fucking good at sex. She’s been around the block and I love girls like that.

Thu 29th September 2016 @ 21:32
Comment from: kono [Visitor]

The line about “shared interests” is the what i like to call the fucking truth, i don’t know how many times i’ve feigned interest in order to get laid but i do know and those few occasions where the shared interests were fucking or drugs or fucking and drugs were the best “relationships", i’ve had.

Mon 3rd October 2016 @ 13:18
Comment from: [Member]

You’re dead right kono. I thought her musical tastes were terrible, and she’s not a massive reader. What does it matter if you’re having a nice time? It was so lovely that sex was central to her. I loved that. All gone now though.

Wed 5th October 2016 @ 20:52

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

M / 60 / 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.
James Meek

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

I hate the iPod; I hate the idea that music is such a personal thing that you can just stick some earplugs in your ears and have an experience with music. Music is a social phenomenon.
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La vie poetique has its pleasures, and readings--ideally a long way from home--are one of them. I can pretend to be George Szirtes.
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The working man is a fucking loser.
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The Comfort of Strangers

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