Talent is sexy

The Women’s World Cup has been a breath of fresh air. Fit – in every sense of the word – women, displaying excellent ball skills and talent on the international stage. Orientation didn’t matter. Colour didn’t matter. What mattered was skill and tactics. And god, was it sexy.

Talent is sexy. Whether it’s football, cooking, an ability to load a dishwasher to its fullest capacity in a time effective manner, or kissing, done with skill, it’s bloody sexy.

And that’s the thing about modern sexuality, why pigeon hole yourself? Why restrict yourself?

I’ve kissed girls many a time. I’ve gone down on two. I’ve been fingered by two, and it’s been fun. But does that make a lesbian? Does that make me bisexual? Does it make me experimental? Does it fucking matter? No.

Life is for living. Life is for loving. Life is for finding the people, the places, the tastes, the feels that make you feel good.

But really? What makes someone sexy? Talent and skill with a good dose of modesty that makes me moist every time, and it can be either sex….

All I want is you…

I chat to other men through apps. I try to make an effort to find someone, someone other than you. But really? Truly? I’m still infatuated with you.

Last night I found the Mumford and Sons song, ‘I will wait’. It was haunting. Totally true, but I can’t spend my life waiting on the off chance for you. I must try to move on with my life. But I can carry on quietly loving you…

(I want you to be the right man…)

I couldn’t help myself…

Lets blame low self esteem? Or maybe attention deficit disorder? Anything is better than me thinking I’m still in love with Family Friend. As previously exposed he has no interest in me as relationship or relationship material and therefore I am setting myself up for heartbreak if I don’t move on with the rest of my life. Saying that of course, he is a photographer and inspired by recent trip to see some art I’m back to taking naked selfie’s, (which I’m sure give it 30 or so years may become some form of art) and he’s a great person to show them to for “feedback”.

Or to be blunt for me to find out if they turned him on… oh dear. I has been doing so well. So well… 🙄😬

The Sideboob – less is more all the way…

I order a dress online based on the positive reviews about it. It’s metallic pink. What could possibly go wrong?


The only part of the dress that looks good, is the fact it shows off a delicious bit of ‘side boob’. Yes. The only thing I like about this dress is the fact that as part of it’s cut, it showcases one piece of my flesh. The rest of the dress makes me look pregnant and although, yes, I would love to be pregnant with Family Friends child, if you aren’t carrying a miracle baby (as any pregnancy would be for me because of my health) then to be frank, you don’t want to look as though you are addicted to doughnuts.

I desperately want to love the dress. I heard a program on Radio 4 where the stylist said, that the go-to thing for Glastonbury was a ‘metallic dress’. And when I heard this, my heart cried out for joy as most glittery shiny clothing has an age cut off of 10 so for adult ware to catch up? I was overjoyed.

Flash forward to now and I am standing here in my ‘dream’ metallic dress and I look ridiculous. Luckily, despite my autoimmune disease which fatigues me enormously and my immune suppression which make me more susceptible to infection, I do have access to social media, so if in doubt, ‘Ask your friends’. I post some pictures online and wait.

Out in the real world, there are real problems happening. Don’t I know it. I’ve been on the front line of illness and stepped a little too close to the front line of risk in health. But now, in a moment of slight relief, I relish this silliness. This emphasis on nothingness. On fashion and folly. On ‘side boob’. On a body, I’m bloody lucky to still have.

No more ‘sexy texts’ from me…

I cracked. But I had good reason to.

My father while waiting for some medical appointment was in a waiting room when he saw a copy of ‘Spirit Magazine’ which was about steam traction engines. Inside the pages were some delightful illustrations of some viaducts in Devon and Cornwall. One of the pictures, in particular, was of the Viaduct in Truro, which is where Family Friend hails from.

Dear reader, I realise that the link between a 19th-century viaduct and a possible sexual conquest is tenable so that is exactly why I sent it. Because quite simply, I have not forgiven him his ‘disappearance’ the other Sunday, and now I am quite decided.

He will not be having sex with me.

Deep sigh.

A tilt of the head.

Yes. I will no longer be catering to this mans desires with photographs of me in lingerie, standing at provocative angles. No more me being ‘friendly’ and ‘flirty’. No. We are right back to where we started and there will never be another peep out of me about anything sexual.

Of course, I still want to be friends with him though! So when I saw this beautiful illustration of a viaduct it seemed perfect! The perfect friendship breaker? Yes.

Oh and it’s his birthday on Thursday, so I have also Amazon Primed him a Design Museum History of the Bike with the, I believe a casual message.

‘Dear ‘Family Friend’, wishing you a very happy birthday from Daisy and family xxx’.

There you go, darling. You may want to pretend none of the thousands of messages happened, but I am not going to forget them. No, not one bit. 😉

Sugardaddie.com – To catch a fish…

I’m bored with boys. Toxic or not. It’s time to expand my range of field. And when you want someone successful and solvent, where should you go shopping?
Why Sugardaddy.com of course. Please hold your incredulity. Yes. This site is still going strong, ten years after I originally visited it, in the search for someone who would save me. A decade on, and I don’t need saving, I’ve done that pretty well myself, but would I like to meet someone successful, intelligent and charismatic. (Preferably with a sense of humour, but to be honest, if they have managed to get some way forward in life, I kind of assume they will have.)
Yes, I’ve browsed past these profiles before. I met my ex-fiancé here, so I know there are some genuine men who showcase their achievements, and some honest women. But life is too short not to be me so this time I won’t be pulling any punches. I’m not mutton dressing up as lamb. I’m steak, maybe even sirloin.
I’m not embarrassed to put myself into an arena mostly populated with young, busty, underdressed women looking for an arrangement or flirting with prostitution, because quite simply, I’m not. I’m me. The funny thing is most of them seem to think themselves not part of that ‘game’.
“So dinner was going well,” my telephone initial date confides.
“And then, halfway through, she asks me if I am going home afterwards.”
I know what’s coming, but I don’t mind this playing out for my entertainment, so I make the appropriate grunts.
“I say yes, and then she says, ‘Well if you pay me £200 I will come back with you and sleep with you.”
I try not to guffaw with laughter at this. We have early on this conversation established this man has 3 Porsches, the fact this girl thought he even had to pay for sex is ridiculous, but hey ho.
“And I said, ‘When did you become a hooker?’ She was shocked. ‘What do you mean?’ she said.
I repeated myself. ‘When did you become an escort?’
‘I’m not a hooker!’ she said and she was shocked.”
He had proceeded to explain to her how the escort world worked, and she had refused to acknowledge her position, instead of saying that what she was charging was for was ‘expenses’, her nails, her outfit…
“So I said, well, and what if I said I wasn’t going to pay you? Would you still come back and sleep with me?’, and she said no!”
“Oh dear,” I say in a commiserating tone of voice. Thankful he can’t see my face.
This isn’t an unusual story, and I do feel for this unknown man, his naivety and hers. In a world of so many blurred lines, when it comes to modern relationships, if you are older than 29, it’s best to cut the crap and be upfront and honest about who you are and what you want.
Three days ago I spoke to ‘Marcus, ‘six businesses in his portfolio’ Marcus, who said he was upfront about what he wanted and liked in his life.
“I can’t bare rudeness,” I said bluntly, already beginning to feel a little uneasy.
“No, not rude, I just know what I want, and then I go and get it.”
“Oh dear,” I thought silently, “Oh dear”.
“So what was the best sex you had recently and why?” he quizzed me, and like a rabbit caught in headlights I fell into his ready-made trap.
“It was with a boy” I start hesitantly, “and I’m done with boys now” I continue.
“He was intelligent and ticked a lot of boxes for me, and there was just a lot of compatibility” I continue with a reasonable amount of confidence.
“No, no!” he exclaims. “What made it great sex?”
“Compatibility” I reply, incredulous that someone I’ve never met before could be so crude and crass.
Jesus. Some people.
He goes onto to ask what I am into.
“Are you a handbag or a shoe girl? What do you like to spend your money on”.
By this point I have given up with any effort, I might have been subconsciously making from the point I found out this man was ‘comfortably off’.
“To be frank, any money I’ve ever earned I have reinvested back into myself and my personal projects. I don’t go and spend money on frivolous, things like that. I wear my clothes until they fall apart, as I believe we live in an era where people don’t appreciate the clothes they have and it’s bad for the environment to spend, spend, spend… without appreciating the human cost.”
I’ve lost him now. He is backing away. Him, with his “Vineyards in Sonoma’, he brought to ‘help some friends’. A good thing as really very few wineries turns a profit. His ‘Production Company’, and something else to do with cars. He thinks I need to ‘lighten up’ and I should lose the overlong ‘backstory.’
In all honesty, when he started to say, in answer to had he has ever been married, ‘Well, I don’t believe we live in the same world as our parents did’ I could tell he wasn’t ‘a good ‘un’.
There are rich people in this world, and there are arrogant, self-absorbed rich people, and as much I am trying to find an escape from my nightmare, (the forced exodus from the home counties) I’m too old to pretend to be something I’m not.
I wouldn’t mind going to the Westcountry if I was going to live in an artists cottage, with flame retardant thatch, and exposed oak beams that reek of history that looked out to the sea. Or even better, some modern pieces of stylish, whitewashed, architecture with big glass windows, and a space for my home gym, art studio and a massive industrial kitchen for my pop up restaurant catering operation to be held. But, instead, I will have two options. A shed, and no, it’s not a George Clark, ‘Amazing Spaces shed’ that has no plumbing or draft proofing, and comes with a view of a cliff wall that has knotweed. Or, not much better, and possibly more traumatic, the second bedroom in my parent’s mico cottage, where to move anywhere is a chess game of moving human pieces, with it’s paper thin walls, sun and stars wallpaper, that contrasts nicely with the fire engine red carpet. The latter was my early efforts at risk avoidance as Ribena stains wouldn’t show, but now this carpet is so dominant in such a small space it positively demands the attention of the eye, and I despair of such a room becoming my future home.
I’ve found good men on this site before. Interesting dynamic individuals, who have pushed themselves, and prospered, so I know it can be done. But last time, I was ready to fall in love with anyone, (I can, I’m like that, it’s not hard) and this time I’m not. I’m open to possibility, but I know unless there is chemistry, and it’s actual real love, it will fail before it’s even begun.
There are many women who can marry for money. Who doesn’t care who shags them senseless. Many women who don’t mind, fat, heavy, sweaty middle-aged men squishing them as they thrust hard and deep again and again. But I do.
Unfortunately, or maybe not, I’m fussy and if there isn’t chemistry nothing will be, but you have to be in the sea to catch a fish. And I’m undoubtedly fishing.