Looby wishes all those in search of Nazi sex or pictures
of schoolgirls in their underwear, lurkers, readers, bailiffs,
and especially, commenters, a very Merry Christmas.

We will use this glass of Gueuze to alert those of a nervous disposition to the presence of saucy content in the post which follows.

I've never known what it is to love anyone. A few years ago, when I was in the depths of despair over Seriouscrush, Heather said "One day, you will meet someone who will love you for who you are." "Yeah right," I thought. Romantic crap, typical from an over-emotioned American.

I've had a lovely day, which I'll detail later, pissed, out with gorgeous Kitty with her beautiful dress crossing over her curvy body, and sexy Melissa in a slinky woolen dress tightening over her lovely tits, her hair falling down and forcing your eyes onto them. Sexy girls, radiantly sexy. Chat chat chat. An old flame of Melissa's was there: intelligent, and if I can use an old-fashioned word, charming. Calm, civilised, open when he was asked to be; very likeable and unblokey.

Kitty said "I've never heard you talk about anyone like you do about her." I want to pour out my affection for Trina, wishing she were here. I walked home, talking to myself. "I love you Trina, I love you, I love you, I love you." I wanted her next to me in the pub with Kitty and Melissa and to show other people, my best friends, how much I like her. I want it to be public. She is kind, chatty, and I fancy her so much. I feel the same way about her that my friend Brian expressed when he said of Ingrid: "I want to fuck her all the time."

When I'm with her, we kiss and she makes my cock hard and we sometimes postpone dinner because I need to fuck her, and she likes being fucked. She loves my cock in her and I love shoving it into her cunt. I like forcing my cock into her when she's still asleep, pushing her legs apart while her cunt is dry. I get on top of her while she murmurs sleepily, not knowing what's happening. It's painful and it hurts my cock and I want it to hurt her too. The scraping pain is so enjoyable for me that I can't do what I'd like to do, which is to look at her face and watch her wince with the pain caused by my cock forcing its way into her dry cunt, before she wettens with sex.

I push her big tits together with my forearms and look at them while I'm fucking her. I love how she laughs during sex and the wine that we drink while in bed, and our talk about politics and children while we stroke each other and I pinch her nipples hard and pull them until it hurts her too much, and show her how much I love fucking her, how much I like her, and how I don't have to say any of this in words, but just by telling her to take my cock into her mouth or her cunt.

Afterwards, she rests her hand on my cock and I rest my hand on her cunt as we talk. Sometimes she makes me hard again and if I want sex I don't ask, I just push her onto her back and pin her arms down above her head and shove my cock into her. If she turns her head to one side I push it back towards me to make her face me and kiss me.

I feel viscerally, bodily, alive with life, with Trina. I feel it all day and night long. We talk, we drink, we fuck. It's so basic. I love our sex, and there's many more avenues to explore yet. I love the physical act of fucking her, and I love being able to show her, by guiding her hand on to a cock that stiffens every time I see her, that I fancy her (someone who doesn't understand why she is fanciable). I love telling her that she is gorgeous and physically desirable. It's a liberating thing for me to be able to say, since it's true. I love not being ashamed of my body and laying on the bed naked, completely at ease.

Another letter arrives from the bailiffs. No visits yet, as far as I am aware, although I have been avoiding my house somewhat.

I think I know their game. Assuming their letters are copied to the Council, they're claiming for "visits" which they haven't made so that they can add more money on to my bill. If they've done any research on me whatsoever they'll know I'm a complete financial basket case and not worth pursuing.

In such situations, there is only one thing one can do.

We checked into our room, where Trina tried on the three outfits she'd brought with her. We got half through the second one before my stiffening resolve meant that my assessment of them had to find a mutually enjoyable form of expression.

Trina's a natural dancer and it was a joy to be on a dancefloor with her. I introduced her to several people. "Everyone knows everyone, don't they?" she said."

In the morning, while she was asleep, I had my hand on her cunt and was working a couple of wettened fingers into her. I like sleepy surprise sex and not asking. "Oooh!" she said, as she came to. "There's a mouse," which wasn't quite the response I was expecting. I fucked her with my fingers and then my cock. It was a lovely sexy night away.

This morning we took a peramubulation round the Ashton Gardens, donated by Lord Ashton of Lancaster, whose firm was the world's largest manufacturer of linoleum. Trina pointed out the different types of berries and shrubs and posed for a picture on a little wooden bridge. She stood there awkwardly, trying not to squint in the sun, and I kissed her and stroked her, desirable even under a sibilant anorak.

She went off to Manchester to see a girlfriend. I sat in the pub and became involved in the next table's conversation. (St Anne's is very friendly). Three men, and a good looking thirtysomething blonde with a grey and orange woolen dress which stopped halfway along her thighs, black tights and boots.

It was an afternoon of refined conversation at a level befitting one of the Northwest's most elegant watering holes. A mentally disabled woman came in with her carer and was talking rather loudly. "That's the kind of bird you'll end up with," one of the men said to his friend. "You'll end up with a turkey--a fat bird that doesn't gobble any more." Blondie said that a woman in a club in Blackpool the previous night had been after one of the blokes. "Yeah," I said, "that's what he's telling you. He probably just went back to the room and had a wank."

I stood up to leave "Well, let us know when you're coming back to St Anne's because the entertainment is fucking funny."

Not one for the dating site

There was time for one last pint so I went to Fifteen, voted the best real ale pub on the Fylde and had a superb pint of Dark Star Espresso. I was flagging a bit by now, as the photo suggests. I got talking to a bloke who seems to have cornered the local market in right wing Protestant T-shirt printing. He showed me one of his T-shirts, printed for the Preston supporters of the Ulster Volunteer Force, with a design of the red hand, British Legion poppies, and the Union Jack.

But now, as Trina will be round in a little while so that I can give her a good seeing to her tea, I must leave you and prepare for her reception.

Track of the night

Yesterday afternoon I uploaded a mangled version of an audio blog post, but as I am manfully up at 6am in order to listen to the Fourth Test against India, I have taken the opportunity to upload a better version of Today's blog post. The original cut off the last few seconds.

I am in the pub with someone who's asked me to look over his dissertation. The couple at the next table ask if they can borrow my phone to ring a taxi. "Of course," I say. Especially as you're really pretty, I didn't. Mid forties. I've seen her round.

The taxi is a long time coming and we get into some pleasant chit-chat. It eventually arrives and Fit Bit and Bloke leave. I get back to correcting my friend's dissertation.

After a while I look up and am surprised to see Fit Bit standing alone at the bar. She's twiddling her foot round on her heel. Tight jeans, and a grey woolen wrap-around top that considerately stops at waist level. "I'm going to see if I can get her to sit with us, K---is that alright? Better than looking at you all afternoon." I hurry my drink so that I must go to the bar.

"Did the taxi get lost and bring you back then?" I say. She's got a lovely south Lancashire accent and I mentally repeat the sound of some of her words for the pleasure it gives me. "You could come and sit down if you liked--I'm sure you've had an exhausting journey." I get a little conspiratorial look from the woman standing the other side of Fit Bit. I smile secretly back, enjoying being interpellated in that way.

Me and Fit Bit get on easily and chattily. She swears like a docker and recites, using the looped and repeated narration technique common in drinkers, the details of how she had to come back to the pub as she had left her bag behind. It was still there, unmolested.

K has lost interest and hardly joins in; I am reminded that three can an awkward number socially. With my usual sensitivity in these matters, I ignore him, selfishly enjoying flirting with Fit Bit, getting to the Needlessly Frequent Forearm Touching Stage. She excuses herself to go to the loo.

"Fucking hell, she can talk," he says. "I don't mind that," I say. "She's fit though isn't she? Lovely tits." "Hmmm, not my type," says K, and directs my attention to a leggy young girl with a figure like a plank. "Oh God no," I say. "It'd be like shagging a xylophone."

She comes back and we launch back into chatting, me slightly wishing K would fuck in the general direction of off and have a go with Miss Plank. Suddenly, I look up and her rather large and rather bald boyfriend has been teleported to our table. He says something I can't make out in a disgusted voice. "Ahh," she says, waving her arm dismissively. "Fucking..." And he walks out.

The atmosphere sinks. I look up to see a couple of people watching our drama unfold, which now, without context, might look illicit. "Never mind," I say, "Let's have another drink. Pint of Guinness is it?" "Yes, and I want a Jagermeister."

K leaves and I breathe a guilty sigh of relief. Fit Bit gives me the background to her boyfriend's grumpiness. "I know I'm a handful sometimes," and the thought of standing behind her and stroking her breasts flashes across my mind, wondering what her nipples would feel like flicked under my splayed fingers. "But it's all control, control, control. I left my last boyfriend because of that and I'm fucking sick of it."

She shakes her head, as if to stop herself, and bids me a sudden and quick farewell, which takes me aback. I look downwards and gather my things, because I can feel "Well there you go son, that didn't quite go to plan did it?" being broadcast on all frequencies.