And so endeth the celibacy...

And thus with a date, the self-imposed celibacy was terminated.  Its incredible to look back on the last year and everything I have learned, experienced and achieved.   At this time last year I could not concieve of being able to manage a year without men (or women!), so entrenched were my bad habits.  I also couldn't imagine being able to trust again after a shitty relationship, shitty break-up and shitty assault.  But I am trusting again.  And I am seeing that there are some good men out there again.  Certain individuals have restored my faith, simply by being quietly there and positive influences, holding out a hand when I've stacked it in the stairwell on my leopard-print heels.  Others have judged me as though I have Leprosy for choosing to no longer engage in the mindless bullshit and game-playing that was my experience of dating. 
And this year, I have learned just how amazing I am, how much fun being single is, and how much I cannot wait to go see my friends around the world and explore, try new things, embrace all the possibilities and options. 
Yes it was a challenge, yes I slipped a few times, but on the whole, I'm glad I stuck to it. I learned a hell of a lot about myself and my life, and I can confidently assert that I am stronger and happier for it.
One of the greatest and nicest surprises of it was learning just how much I have enjoyed blogging.  So I do plan to continue, and continue in this vein - let's face it, Carrie Bradshaw got nothing on me!  What was originally a method of self-control has become a hobby, a source of joy. And given the feedback I've had, as well as now getting published, it's nice to know I'm someone others can relate to.  That's a pretty amazing feeling.  So now to come up with a pithy and witty nom de guerre for my new blog - I can't continue to use this one when the point is the opposite......
Thanks for sticking with me folks :-)

Why shagging your colleague is a catastrophic mistake

Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned?  Au contraire – hell hath no fury like a woman whose reputation has been tarnished. 

My oh-so-stupid mistake from 6 months ago is back to haunt me with a bang.  I have been reliably informed that he talked.  Bastard. That he is fact indiscreet. Fucking prick. 

Why oh why do men feel the need to brag about their conquests?  I’m mortified – and still having to deny it and deny all knowledge is really unfair and difficult.  Why can’t it just be allowed to die?! It was a massively stupid thing which occurred after hours of heavy drinking. 6 months ago! When will it be allowed to be put to rest? 

I cannot comprehend the male mentality. Why do they feel the need to degrade and humiliate women? 

Wake up lads.  It’s not the 19th Century anymore.  Calling someone a slag doesn’t make you cool, with it or decent.  It makes you a prick.  The world is tough enough for women without you having to make it harder by destroying someone through gossip and loose tongues.  Mummy (should have) taught you that if you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything – and that’s very much the case here.  Keep your fucking mouth shut!  Especially when said encounter was less than explosive and much effort was put into trying to come, to have all that hard work literally thrown back at you is rather .... aggravating. 

 

I kept my mouth shut.  Not only out of embarrassment for breaking my cardinal rule, but out of respect for his fiancée – who I didn’t know existed.  So to learn that said wankstain has been running his mouth and telling people about it, I feel sick.  It’s bad enough I have to face Mr Moobs on a daily basis, but to learn that he had the audacity to put it all the responsibility on me and to – actively, and out of choice – tell people about it.... Grr.  You clearly have no respect for her either.  And yes you may have made me look like a ho, but how would you look if I were to open my mouth?  Internal kiss’n’tell time, perhaps?

 

Sadly there is nothing I can do about it.  I cannot countenance telling the truth – not to so many people, and certainly not in the workplace.  I will not engage in a ‘you’re a bigger whore than me’ war of attrition – and neither do I want to confess to my spectacular embarrassment of being so drunk that he looked sexy.  Beer goggles?  More like 18th century plush lovingly restored floor-length beer drapes with linings fitted to guarantee shrouded darkness. 

 

I do so wish I could throw something at his head.  Preferably a hard heavy and blunt object.  But that would be unprofessional.  I am a professional in every sense – but do not call me a whore. 

 

Secrets

Secrets.  Everybody has them.  In our years of existence, we wouldn’t be human if we didn’t have something to hide.  The question is, where should the line be drawn?  Do we want everyone to know our business? 

There is now a trend for posting every inane and boring detail about life on social media.  Why is it our society finds it acceptable to tell the etherworld how much we hate our jobs, the idiots in the morning queue at Starbucks, and our families? Surely committing something to Facebook timeline is much more damning and evidentiary than bad words and thoughts whispered aloud?  At least there is plausible deniability in verbal confession.  Yet there is something infinitely more intimate, something more soul-baring, in talking.  It is a much more trusting act to confide your deepest darkest secrets to another.  Perhaps this is why we say what we really feel online, and keep the public face up in the ‘real’ world. 

When beginning something new with a new person, be it a romantic or social something, how far can we go in terms of confession?  What in our past defines us?  How can we use our experiences as barometers of personal growth and emotional maturity?  Every experience, when recounted to another person, has connotations stemming from their own history and prejudices, conjuring up opinions, stereotypes and judgement. 

How much do I wish I could shout the truth from the rooftops?  Especially if we are wronged, if something bad is inflicted upon us, why do we carry the shame and the guilt of keeping that secret?  I can confess to not believing in matrimony, monogamy or the longevity of sexual attraction, yet I am ashamed to admit I have been badly hurt by male scum in the past?  Even that in and of itself is an emotive term – ‘men’ is too honourable a term by which to refer, yet to say scum is to imply there is still emotional resentment and pain.  Is it possible we could ever believe someone has moved on from their ex and the pain they caused, or is it more of a reflection of self – if I cannot be over my ex, surely no-one else has managed that either?  Or is it more of a fear of being castigated as flawed, damaged goods, unlovable?  I truly believe I am over the BS of the past – months of celibacy, plus focusing on other matters has brought me to a higher level of clarity and consciousness.  The only downside is that it now takes more than physical attraction to get me into bed, which subsequently means Roger and I are spending more time together than I would like.  My celibacy no longer stretches to abstaining from all sexual thoughts and actions; in short, I needed to come.  Anyway, I now require a little more than pheromones.  I also want to be able to be honest and open.  I don’t believe in burdening people with every little detail of life, a la the ‘why don’t you like me’ artist in Friends, but if someone asks me on a date about my life before I met them, I don’t want to have to pretend.  Dating, as much as it would be great if it could be handled like a job interview, is not about an employee or a position.  It’s about a connection, a spark, and I would like to be able to be open without worrying that I’ll lose the vacancy I’ve applied for. 

My romantic CV is certainly not as glowing as my professional one.  My first love, possibly the love of my life, was a soldier.  We were together from 16-19 and I believed he was the one.  I ended it, a decision which I don’t regret as we were too young to be as in love as we were.  I wanted to get out, explore the world, have a lot of sex with a lot of strangers.  Experience university to what I considered to be the fullest.  The next guy I was with for over 18 months, yet when I think back on my love life, I tend not to think of him.  He was vanilla and probably a rebound; definitely not the best idea.  But we parted on good terms and he is doing well.  I wish him every happiness.  The guy I used to consider to be the love of my life, well, now I feel indifferent to him.  Our entire relationship was a mistake; our break-up – catalysed by my steamy fling with a Sicilian (which he still doesn’t know about) – was the second worst thing I went through. 

The thing is…. The others in between, and in some cases during, were the ones who I believe truly made an impact.  There were the handful I had mind-blowing sex with; the aggressive depressive; the one who should have blown my mind but didn’t quite do it for me; the overgrown man-child still in love with his mother; the idiot who failed to tell me he was engaged.  Oh yes – another lovely thing about me – I will not be anyone’s mistress or rebound girl.  I have never set out to have those things, they have been retrospectively realised as such, whereas the guys who have treated me as such had planned it. 

My truth is that I have been hurt in the past.  But I am proud of what I have achieved, my strength and power.  Had I not experienced what I have, I wouldn’t be who I am.  But how do I say so without sounding bitter or defensive? 

Is it really so much to ask...?

I love love love this time of year.  The air is so cool you can practically drink it. The bright sunshine contrasted against the deep blue sky highlights the beauty of the changing colours. The nights draw in, and the smell of autumn dominates, covering the London smog. The misty fog rolls across the fields as we yawn our way into the city. 
The current trend for luxe, baroque and Trans-Siberian fashion fill my head with Anna Karenina-esque fantasies of pre-Bolshevik Russia and gentlemen. Nights spent dancing and quaffing champanskiy, wandering along Nevsky Prospekt with my current squeeze. Granted shagging in the doorway of the Winter Palace isn't exactly historically accurate, not to mention somewhat difficult in those meringue dresses but hey it's my fantasy. And my boobs would look epic in one of those corsets. 
Back to contemporary London.  The bright lights of the city shine. We are bathed in their glow, basking in the exciting night-life Hollywood feel.  It's getting cooler, so we wrap up snug and warm with the breeze on our faces. We feel the excitement of the seasons changing, from the heady summer hedonism to the tingle of autumn and the promise it holds. Birthdays, Halloween, guy Fawkes night, festive festivities and the exploding butterflies as your summer suitor becomes more than that. You go on dates, the spark ignited by him taking your hand and you feel a pull down there.  Or you go online dating and find that actually, there could be something in this. The new York, sex and the city-savvy men ARE out there, waiting to sweep you off their feet with their dazzling dancing, intimate intellectual interests, and ability to blow your mind in every sense. It whispers promise as his cool whisper curls around your eardrum, setting off a sensuous shiver down your spine as somehow his words translate to a siren call to your clit. You pulse at the thought of him, and your emotions pulse too. 
There is something oh so exciting about this time of year. The days get shorter but the nights, oooooh those nights get longer. Which is great – except when I want to hibernate…I like my sleep. I don't like it interrupted. Once the party is over, and the wild child has stumbled back under her stale-smoke smelling rock ready to snore herself into oblivious stupor, I like my space. My privacy and my bed to myself.  So how do you turn a sweaty sleep under a super-high tog duvet into a seduction scene worthy of Sharon Stone? 
Alas (used purely for literary purposes and without a hint of regret) I had no summer suitor. Thus, I have no potential honey to spoon and shag by the fire, radiating smug warmth and inner contentment.  Suits me - more money for my Christmas present to myself. But I do want some pleasure - as  a lapsed hedonist, I need it. So I'm enlisting the help of old faithful - Santa.  Last year I thanked His Royal Awesomeness for my peace. This year I am asking him for one night of pure pleasure. I don't want a boyf, nor a relationship with emotional investment,  but I want this. 
The adult and humanitarian in me recognises one fundamental fact.  Its Not fair to hook up with and get close to someone, just to stop it before it goes too far and it actually looks like a relationship emerging from the haze of new year. January to may is a very long time and, if the last 10 years have taught me anything, it's that this is when I'm most likely to need a man.  But also most likely to get bored with my current squeeze and start planning summer adventures and minxiness.  I've been 'informed' that I have been damaged by my precious relationship. I have also been 'informed' that I am a modern feminist taking a stand and bucking the trend of settling (THAT was a fun debate held over my head).  Perhaps I am both. Perhaps I am neither.  But I honestly think I'm just not designed to be in a partnership. Or the guys I date don't really understand the concept of partnership. Anywho.... 
Dear Santa, I am writing early because mummy taught me to plan ahead and be organised. Plus my wish is a little more complicated than a barbie or a house,a brother and a dad.  This year I would like a night of perfect sex, with a stunningly sculptured selfless and skilled lover, who will take me to kingdom come - repeatedly. I want it on the perfect night, when I'm not so cold as to be hibernating, nor too warm to feel uncomfortable.  I want the stamina and the sex drive to satiate me, until I can take no more. 
And in return, I promise to be a good girl and not get so drunk at the office Christmas do that I wake up next to the tubby twat from finance, with broken memories of playing strip poker and dancing on the bar/table/CEO's lap. 
And I'll leave you an extra mince pie and carrot for Rudolph too. 

My ideal man

Im feeling rather dopey this morning. It's a gorgeous autumnal fresh morning, I'm wrapped up snug and pondering whether or not I actually am attracted to my colleague or whether it is an office thing. I suspect the latter as he is about my height. 
I'm trying not to think about the impending tough discussion with my boss this morning. Shes obsessed with checklists. So.... I've put together a list for my dream guy. Of course we'd have to click, connect and get on, but that's kind of a given.  I totes CBA to turn the following into prose, so the list must suffice. Sometimes in life, bullet points will do:
·         Tall 
·         Broad shoulders
·         Low body fat 
·         Muscly but not bulky 
·         Strong jawline and cheekbones 
·         Gorgeous eyes 
·         Tight toned arse 
·         Good dress sense 
·         Thick neck 
·         Not receding hairline! 
·         Not thinning hair! 
·         Flat stomach (hint of 6 pack but not ripped) 
·         Long eyelashes 
·         No moobs
·         Rugby player legs 
·         3 day stubble 
·         Close cut hair 
·         Rugby fan
·         Fascinating aida-style sense of humour
·         Doesn't want to just watch tv and drink beer 
·         Travels 
·         Loves foreign food 
·         Speaks at least 1 other language 
·         Poss. postgrad qualification 
·         Happier out than in 
·         Imaginative
·         Likes to go new places 
·         Thinks outside the box 
·         Well- read 
·         Not a misogynist 
·         Not violent
·         Believes in diplomacy but will step in to calm things down 
·         Creative 
·         Emotionally secure 
·         Articulate 
·         Comfortable expressing himself 
·         Respects others opinions 
·         Strong in his beliefs 
·         Passionate about changing something for the better 
·         Anti-dv and anti-sexual violence
·         Not a heavy drinker nowadays (hedonistic past is par for) 
And preferably not divorced and no kids, but I guess you can't always have it all...

It's Phoenix, bitch

Howdy all.  It's been a little while but I'm back again. Actually several months, but who's counting.  I'm certainly not. I've been getting better from a knockout bug, phased return to work and getting back to full steam socialising. I've rediscovered my equilibrium which is giving my bubbalicious world a fabulous aura of bamboo-green zen. In short, pretty damn good right now. 

The celibacy has been upheld. The last 5 months I had no desire (or time or energy!) for anything, and I'm really enjoying it.  LONG may it continue - with the odd flirt over the water cooler at work!

Phoenix has definitely got her groove back.