Mystery of the Disappearing Boyfriend

I've Googled the term "boyfriend disappeared" and boy oh boy did I find a lot of stuff out there! Disappearing boyfriends are an international phenomenon. I didn't realize the extent of it

On this website the girl hasn't seen her boyfriend in 6 weeks. Crikey. And the advice the website author gives?

Have you considered the fact that Jesus Christ loves you and has a wonderful plan for your life? No matter what the circumstances are, He can change you from the inside out and give you a new perspective on life.

Actually, no, that's one of the few possibilities that I haven't considered.

It happens to gay guys. Some very sound advice here at this site.

Bottom Line: Move on as soon as you feel up to it. Date and stay determined to meet a man who deserves your time and attention. If the missing man ever reappears, think long and hard before you automatically let him back into your life. Keep in mind that old expression, "Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me."

It happens to Canadians, eh.

A: Blow this bubble out of mind; your feelings are more about past hurt than present loss. You were a long-distance couple who didn't have much time in each other's company, if any.

It happens to friends of friends.

Anybody ever had a boyfriend just disappear?
The reason I ask is because I was recently talking to one of my close girlfriends who told me about her college boyfriend who never broke up with her. He just disappeared and never saw or spoke to her ever again. She said one night they went to some university function like a dance or ball. She said her boyfriend was kind of in a bad mood that whole night. He left the party without telling her and she never saw him EVER AGAIN!

It even happened to Olivia Newton-John

So I guess the disappearing boyfriend happens to the best of us. At least it gives me more material to write about. And remember Pete (real name Tom), I always get the last laugh.

Say it Ain’t so, Joe, er, Pete

Say it Ain’t so, Joe, er, Pete

I never thought of myself as someone afraid of to commit. After all, here I am searching for Mr. Right. Of course when he comes along I’ll want a monogamous relationship with him, right? At least that how the script goes in my head: Meet a great guy. Go on a few dates with him. Decide to be exclusive monogamous relationship – or not?

Friends, Romans, Former Shags, Countrymen: I, Anjelika Jinx now have a boyfriend. I feel like this is a monumental statement that I need to yell from my balcony as it’s been a while since I’ve said that.

It’s early days, so who knows how it will go? My boyfriend, let’s call him Pete, is the real deal. Tall, handsome, polite, intelligent, terribly nice, sweet, adoring and crazy about me. If ever there were a doting boyfriend, then he’s the epitome.

I should be happy. I should be on cloud 9. This is what I wanted isn’t it? There’s this part of me that’s thinking, “He’s too keen. This is happening too quick.”

The fucked up thing is, if he rejected me just a little I would be SO into him. Maybe it’s the “treat ‘em mean to keep ‘em keen” philosophy? Rejection is one of the most desirable qualities I dig in a guy. If a guy is standoffish, emotionally unavailable or distant I like him more. Why?

Why can‘t I just appreciate a good guy when he comes along? Maybe there are some things I’ll never know the answer to.

This Week Sucks

This week sucks

I’m chilling in my flat listening to slow jams, which sometimes are the best. Earlier today I was listening to the album Rudebox by Robbie Williams. This is one of the few albums that I thought was total shit the first 10 times I listed to it then I changed my mind. The more I listened to Rudebox, the more I realized that it’s actually a solid album:



His song, “The 90’s” has been in my head most of the day. As far as songs go, I’ve heard much better. There’s nothing pretty or melodic about this song. Lyrically it’s unsophisticated. It’s not even sung property. It’s a lazy spoken-word ditty. What stands out about it, however, are the raw emotions.

Is it a song, or is psychotherapy? Just by listening to the song, you can’t help but think, “should he really be saying all of this so the public can hear?” It’s almost…. embarrassing. I find it really heard to listen to someone’s pain. But somehow the song still draws me in.

It reminds me of something Wanda once said. Regarding my podcast episode, "Fallout and Foreplay." She said that the emotions on it were so raw, that it too was hard to listen to. Funnily enough, I got more e-mail about that episode than any other episodes.

Besides that my week has been pretty shit. Work is un-relenting. It’s totally driving me insane! I got in an argument with Wanda. I got mad at Mr. Charming all over again and decided not to be friends with him. If there’s anything I’ve learned from the BFE debacle is that sometimes it’s just best to walk away.

I think Kenny Rogers said it best when he said, “You’ve got to know when to hold ‘em / know when to fold ‘em / know when to walk away / know when to run/” And the situation with Mr. Charming is indicating that I should run far, far away.

I haven’t had a paycheck in nearly 2 months, so I’m totally skint. I have MINUS £9.50 in my bank account.

I’m a month late getting my book revisions back to my agent. And on top of that, my fucking Mac died yesterday! The hard drive is busted – and if it turns out that my book can’t be recovered I am going to fucking FREAK OUT!

Here’s my shit list for this week:
1. Payroll – who can’t seem to get their shit together and pay me on time.

2. Mr. Charming – who remains an asshole. If you’re that curious listen here. (skip to 29:59)

3. The Apple Store on Regents Street – They suck and you can never get an appointment with them.

4. British Gas – How is my gas bill over £200?!?

5. Phone chargers that don’t work.

Send me positive vibes and maybe next week will be better

Cock-a-poo

Cock-a-poo



Wanda and Anjelika discuss:

- Joseph in the Bracknell
- Hull
- Tories
- Relationships
- Having sex with your husband everyday
- Hillbilies
- Corn
- Abortion

And So I Waited…

And So I Waited…

Phil Petrol, the VP of Ad sales was supposed to call me 8:30 PM yesterday. Although I had the chance to save my dignity and abscond, I actually ended up staying in my office, perusing though PerezHilton.com for gossip. Every fibre of my being said “Go home, don’t wait for this idiot,” But part of me was curious, why had he suddenly asked me out?

At 9:00 PM I got tired of waiting. So I left my office in search of something to eat. I told myself, “If he doesn’t call by the time I eat, then I’ll just get on the tube and go home.”

I headed off to McDonalds and bought a happy meal for £1.99. Whenever I buy a happy meal I pretend that it’s for my non-existent kid which seems less embarrassing than admitting you’re a cheapskate. The cashier didn’t take the bait, hence I didn’t receive a fun, yet useless happy meal toy.

After I ate, still there was no call, no text, nothing from him. So I thought to myself, “If he doesn’t call by the time I get to Chancery Lane, I’ll get on the tube and go home.”

I got to Chancery Lane. Not a word from him. I got on the Central Line and headed to Bank. I changed trains to the DLR. It seemed to take ages for a train towards Canary Wharf to arrive. I passed the time by playing Breakout on my Blackberry.

As soon as the train surfaced above ground I received a text message from him. He says he’s on his way and that he’ll meet me in Covent Garden in 30 minutes. Damn, not enough time to go home. Too much time to go directly there, but whatever. For once in my life I was ridiculously early.

I arrived at Covent Garden and watched a street performer play an acoustic version of Blondie’s “Call me.” Out of sheer boredom I played a few more games a Breakout, beating my all-time high score. I called, the Voice-of-Reason in New York. I called a friend in Spain. I called another friend in LA.

While I was on the phone I got a text from Phil Petrol saying that he’ll be 10 more minutes and he’s on his way. It was past 10PM now.

What the fuck am I doing? It’s 10:30 on a school night and I’m waiting here in Covent Garden like an idiot. What did I really think was going to happen.

15 minutes later he arrives. He looks good. He’s wearing a light blue Armani shirt and dark trousers. He has a posh yet difficult to place accent. Apparently he’s a child of the world, having grown up in 4 different counties. At times he sounds English, then mildly Australian, bizarrely Canadian cross ed with posh American boarding school type accent; think Julianne Moore in The Big Lebowski.

He apologize for being late explains that he was at a business dinner with some folks from Nintendo; that he’s negotiating to get a free Wii and a Wii fit, for his own personal benefit. My God! I’m playing second fiddle to a piece of exercise equipment!

We go to one of the many pubs in area all the while I’m trying to figure out his agenda. I want to know:

1. What does he want?
2. Is it appropriate for me to be hanging out with a married man past 8PM in the evening?
3. Does his wife know where he is?

He buys me a white wine and orders the same for himself. We talk about work stuff. It’s nothing out of the ordinary except that it’s nearly 11PM. Surely, he could have talked about work stuff at work, no?

The pub calls last orders. We finish our wine then search for another pub. We end up at the Walkabout – ugh! For those of you not from London, the Walkabout is a cheesy Australian-themed pub. Young crowd. Party atmosphere. Loud music Faux Australian culture. Basically everything I detest in a pub. But we had little choice. As the Voice-of-Reason would say, “Any port in a storm.”

We order a bottle of white wine and take a seat in the back. Phil Petrol keeps mentioning the low-cut top I wore during the Christmas party. I try to visualize what I was wearing, but I can’t quite remember.

“I’m sure I remember you telling me at the Christmas party that you were gay,” he says to me.

“No, I’m not. I must have been joking if I said that.”

“It just weird’s me out, man. Cuz, well, you know…”

“No, I don’t know,” I say challenging him.

“Cuz, well, I, um, well, I was looking at your breasts that night. And I had these thoughts.”

“Like thoughts that I was gay?”

“It’s this top you were wearing. So low cut. And I kept looking at your breasts.”

“Well, yes. They’re there to be stared at,” I say jovially.

“But, well, after that night. I put you in another category.”

“The gay category?”

“Just that category where nothing would ever happen between us.”

I sense a slippery slope here, but I pursue with the questioning. “Shouldn’t I have always been in that category?

He seems nervous; tongue tied, and a bit frustrating at me for not being able to understand him. He takes a deep breath.

“I fancy you,” he states, “There. I’ve said it. And when you wore that low cut top I thought about what it would be like to suck your nipples.”

I barely raise an eyebrow. I’ve been down this path before with the BFE, CS, the DG, and the Shark. Suddenly, I’m not feeling so naïve.

“Cool,” I say in a confident and bitchy way that could only suggest I have his balls in my hands and I’m calling the shots.

“And I think about how great it would be to lie naked with you,”

I don’t ask the obvious questions:

• How long have you felt this way?
• What about your wife?
• What about your kids?

Instead, I ask him more pertinent questions:

• How often do you masturbate?
• What are your top three things to do in bed?
• Do you have an erection right now? [and I feel for proof]

He seems thrown by the conversation. He pauses for long periods of time before he speaks. As if he had been anticipating a conversation with me, but not quite this conversation.
I tease him a bit. I lean in and go for a kiss. I put my hand on his crotch. I can feel raging hard on beneath his trousers. His kisses are nice, gentle. He has plump lips; almost as big as mine, but not quite.

We spend twenty minutes kissing. We finish the bottle of wine. By then he’s begging me to set a day where he can leave work early and come over to my place.

“Why? “ I ask him. “I mean, what’s in it for me?”

But this point I was quite drunk. I don’t remember what he said, but I do remember his answer was so pathetically laughable; merely a flimsy excuse to fuck.

I’m evasive. I tell him, ‘sometime in the future, maybe.” Still, he presses me for a time, a day. I don’t give in.

We exit the walk about and walk towards Piccadilly Circus so we can both catch our respective night busses. We’re walking and then suddenly he turns and pins me against the wall. I can feel his cock pulsating against my leg. He kisses me and then kisses me some more. “I want you Anjelika.”

I feel my pussy getting wetter. I was now officially horny.

We continue walking. I realize that I need to use the loo.

“I’m walking back to the office to use the bathroom,” I tell him.

“Oh, I have to use the bathroom too.”

“Quelle coincidence!” I say ironically.

“No, really, I do,” he insists. Whatever!

It takes 20 minutes to walk back our office building. I go in first. The office is silent and empty. The lights are out in the women’s bathroom. I pee, then wash my hands and check my make up to see if it’s okay. What the hell? It’s midnight and I look fabulous—or at least as fabulous as I will look at this hour.

As I walk to my desk I past the board room. He’s standing in the doorway of the board room urging me to come in.

“I’ll be back in a couple minutes. I have to go to my desk,” I tell him.

I continue on to my desk. I had received an urgent e-mail on my Blackberry from one of our producers in California. I need to send some files to her before the end of business day in LA. I send the files that were needed. I answer a few more e-mails. I check my MySpace page. I play another game of Brickbreaker. Then, I get up and go to the board room.

I open the door and there is Phil Petrol standing before me completely naked.

And his cock is massive!

Wait

Wait

It’s 7PM and I’m sitting in my office waiting for a guy to call me. Is that pathetic or what? I should be out there living, feeling doing- not waiting. Not waiting by the phone in hopes that my plans will pan out.

I should be grabbing the bull by the horns and taking charge of my dating / social life. Instead, here I am, like in idiot sitting in my office waiting for a guy- and a married guy at that. I haven’t mentioned this guy before, He’s a work colleague. Today he asked me out in such a casual way that it could hardly classify as an event – let alone a date. I call him Phil Petrol...

I can hear Wanda now saying, “Get out of there. Go home. Go Swimming. Go look after your little doggie, but do not wait for this guy to call. Have you not learned anything from the BFE debacle?”

And yes, I’ve learned SO MUCH from the BFE thing. In fact, I'm pleased to share one of the I’ve learned. Perhaps this is common sense, and perhaps I should have probably already have known it, but last weekend I really realized it.

On Saturday evening I had net sex with a married guy. The DG, for those of you keeping track. I like the DG. I like him as a mate. I respect him as a former colleague. I like his attitude about life. I also fancy the pants off him! And the fact that he bares a more-than vague resemblance to the BFE probably helps as well. I frequent think about him tying me up and eating me out. He’s definitely someone I want in my bed. And we’ve fooled around before, but nothing major.

During our netsex session he was telling me how there are some positions and activities that he wants to try with me. I realize now that this is all talk; all fantasy. He doesn’t want to leave the safety net of his wife. To him, I’m like that one flavour of ice-cream at Baskin Robbins that you say, “One day I’m gonna try that” but ultimately you don’t because you don’t want to betray your favourite standby flavour. (Vanilla, most likely).

The thing is, I like him. I like him a lot. And to him, I’m a savoury sweet—once he’s had his taste, he’s had his fill and he’s gone. If we ever did end up having sex it would mean so much more to me in my head than it would to him. To him, I would be the girl he fucked.

I think that was my key mistake with the BFE. I liked him too much. I wanted him, and he wanted sex. Perhaps if we had a meeting of the minds things would have gone smoother. Of course I fooled myself to think that I was only in it for the sex – but as women can we really do that? Is it possible to ‘just fuck’ and feel nonchalant about it?

Men have a way of cutting off that emotion; that emotion that says, “You are a great fuck and you’re someone I could care for at some point” But I find it incredibly difficult. This is something that I am just realizing now.

It’s 7:50 now and my gut tells me to grab my Oyster card and hightail it out of here; that there is no good to come of this situation. I should go home now, while my dignity is in tact. Or I could possibly suffer the indignity of being stood up.

On the other hand I’ve already applied my lipstick. If I don’t go out, I just won’t know what I’m missing.

What would you do?

Alcohol Makes Me Horny

Date #9 The Fish Returns

Date #9 The Fish Returns

I don’t know if you could call it a date? It was uber casual. Or even an outing? We stayed in. But I had a second meeting (if that’s the mot juste) with the guy from work hereafter known as the Shark. See Fishing from the Company Pier

After grabbing some Indian Take-away we headed back to my flat. Even though I was starving I was happy to put my hunger on hold so I could feel his tongue on my clit again.

I sent the dog packing. I closed the door to the lounge, turned-off the TV, sat on the sofa and spread my legs.

The Shark unbuttoned my jeans and pulled them down just below my knees. He pressed his nose against my pink-laced panties. I felt the warmth of his breath on my clit. He took a breath and then exhaled on panties. He slid my panties over to the side and began licking my pussy.

I had spend the weekend wondering why he’s come into my life. Ultimately, I believe that everyone we meet in a significant and/or emotional way is meant to teach us something. I kept wondering what his place was in all this? What will I learn from him? What is he going to teach me? What is the purpose of meeting him?

Maybe there is no higher purpose? Maybe it’s just fucking? Maybe as a woman I feel the need to arbitrarily justify wanting to have sex with someone I’m attracted to? Maybe I’m trying to put some cause or meaning to it because I’m tired of having sex that has no meaning? I don’t know. These are just things I’ve been pondering.

I came three times before we ate and once more afterwards. Whilst eating dinner we sat on the sofa and watched The Secret Millionaire. He cried at the end and it really touched me.

Even though the Shark and I have only been acquainted quite recently it seemed that our relationship has blossomed into part friend, part mentor, part lover and part father figure. It’s all very cosy. Very nice.

Still there’s something about him that scares me, but I really, really like it. And I’ve never been one to run from danger.

Valentine’s Day Disasters of the past

Valentine’s Day Disasters of the past

I know in my previous near-death post I said I wasn’t going to beat on about how Valentine’s Day sucks, but since I know that some of you live Vicariously through me, I’ve written about some of my V-day disasters. I’ve even given them ratings: 1, being not so bad and 10 being completely fucking disastrous.

2006 London. "No Acknowledgement of Valentine's Day"
Whilst Dating the BFE I received nary a phone call on Valentine’s day. Flowers or chocolate, I should have been so lucky! As far our relationship went it was almost as if Valentine’s Day didn’t exist. He just called it, “Tuesday.” Keep in mind we had spent the better part of the month fucking like bunnies. There wasn’t a room in his house where we hadn’t fucked. So the Valentine’s day blackout took me totally by surprise. I later found out he spent the day trying to romance his wife. I guess he was attempting to convince her to go back with him. At the time I was livid, but now I just admire his chutzpah.
Disaster rating: 8 out of 10 broken hearts.

2005 London, Soho. "Best of the Best"
After 6 month of being girlfriend & boyfriend, The Ex and I went to a Japanese restaurant that I picked out. I picked it solely because the clientèle were Japanese. Is that wrong? During dinner he handed me a Valentine’s Day Card. I don’t remember anything about the card, but he signed it, “Best.” Not "love", "luv", or even "lurve." That was like a slap in the face. On the most romantic day of the year the best I could get was “Best.” Then he asked if we could split the bill. We later got into an argument about how he never makes the effort for me. He was a really shitty boyfriend, but now he makes a good friend. I guess this is one of those cases of clouds and silver linings. Still, when it happened, I was pretty bummed out.
Disaster rating: 6 out of 10 broken hearts.

2004 Brighton "HPY V-D 2U"
Was very casually dating this guy, Trevor. He sent me a Valentine’s Day text. Was that supposed to be romantic?
Disaster rating 3 out of 10 broken hearts.

2002 Sydney / Glebe "No hay banda"
I had started seeing this girl. Let’s call her GingerVegLez. The thing about lesbian relationships is that sometimes I can’t figure out if the girl JUST wants to be friends or if it’s more? Anyhow we got to the point where we were always hanging out, so I figured she was into me. And I was kinda into her. We made plans to spend Valentine’s day together. She asked me out, mind you. So I bought her a gift. A vegetarian cook book. And I wrote something nice on the inside cover. I don’t remember exactly what I wrote but I suppose it was quasi-romantic. We went to a quaint romantic restaurant. Then we went to see, what I thought was a romantic movie, “Mullholland Drive.” As it turned out, I had never seen a David Lynch movie before. For future reference "Mullholland Drive" is not the best initiation with Lynch. I really didn’t enjoy the film. I couldn’t figure out what it was about. Later we went back to GingerVegLez’s place. Even though we slept in the same bed, she spurned my advances. It turns out, she just wanted to be friends. Had I known that, I wouldn’t have paid for dinner, the movie and bought a gift. Even though that pretty much finished us off, weeks later, she had a house party. When no one was looking I took back the Vegetarian Cookbook that I bought her. I mailed it to Kiki in New York. GingerVegLez sent me an e-mail a couple days later. The subject of the e-mail was: Cookbook. Do you think I even bothered to read it? I just hit delete and deleted her out of my life.
Disaster rating: 5 out of 10 broken hearts.

1999 New York, Downtown, "Brazilian Nuts"
I was dating this Brazilian guy who was into tantric sex. He got me all worked up on February 13. He got me all wet and all worked up but then refused to fuck me. He wanted to tease me. He said he wanted to see how close he could get me to cum, then pull back. Yes, very cruel. He had an amazing tongue. I wanted his cock so badly. He actually got me on my knees begging for his cock, then he said no. And he said it so effortlessly. We said good-bye by kissing near the Flat-Iron building on 23rd street. He said he’d be back on Valentine’s day to finish what he started. Valentine’s day came, but he didn’t. And neither did I. In fact, I never heard from him ever again. Eduardo are you out there?
Disaster rating: 7 out of 10 broken hearts.

1993 Schenectady, "Garfield"
My first boyfriend, T. He was on the high school basketball team. Not my high school, but a rival school. He just happened to be playing against my school on Valentine’s day. I showed up for the game supporting the Rival School. Not really a good move in a small town. To make matters even more embarrassing, I bought him one of those huge 2-foot Garfield Valentine’s day cards. I gave him the card after the game. The next day, he dumped me. My little 15-year old heart was torn to pieces. Coincidently, I bumped into him 6 years later on the corner of Broadway & Mercer. He actually had the nerve to ask why I hadn’t been in touch?
Disaster rating: 9 out of 10 broken hearts.

And in case you’re wondering what I’m doing tonight, I’ve got a hot “date” with Wanda. If you have any Valentine’s day disaster stories you want to share, e-mail them to me, and I’ll read them out during our next podcast. me@naivelodnongirl.com

Candy from Strangers

I had a ‘Carrie moment’ yesterday.

“I was just entering my safety zone when there he was, my emotional equivalent to the big crash of ’29 - Aiden” – Carrie Sex and the City. Season 6, “To Market, to Market.” When Carrie runs into Aiden with his newborn son, Tate.

I had a moment like that yesterday. It wasn’t exactly the same but I’ll have to spare the gory details for my own sanity. And if you follow this blog regularly, I’m sure you can fill in the blanks yourself. It’s weird, no matter how hard you try getting over someone, boom! Coincidence strikes and there they are staring you in the face.

Although my night wasn’t totally ruined, it was tinged with sadness. I wasn’t my usual happy self.

On my way home to Canary Wharf, a random girl on the DLR offered me some of her chocolates. I know you’re not supposed to take candy from strangers, but the gesture seemed so gracious, so comforting. It was as if this girl was tuned into my own sadness; as if she understood on some level what I was going through. So I accepted. (And if these are the last words I ever write, clearly I’ve been poisoned!)

The lesson Carrie took away from her run-in with Aiden was that if she and Aiden could survive their relationship crash, then there’s nothing that she can’t bounce back from. I wasn't so optimistic at first. But things are looking up and now I feel the same way.

Oh also, not that this is pertinent, I ran into David Walliams and got a nice text message from Mr.MusicBiz. So the night wasn't completely without merit.

(Part two of, “I Fucked him up the Ass” coming tomorrow. Sorry!)

Anal Sex Education

It's the 1-year anniversary of Naive London Girl, the Podcast! Wanda, Anjelika and Suzanne chat about: Blow jobs, Dating, Relationships, Anal Sex, Iain Lee and find Mr. Right.

Suzanne Portnoy
http://www.suzanneportnoy.com
Her new book, "The Not-So Invisible Woman" and "The Butcher, the Baker, the Candlestick Maker"

Edited and Produced by Mr. Charming.
(With sincere apologies to RTR)

Backpedaling with Mr. Charming

Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays and all that Jazz.

This is our last podcast of 2007. We're back on January 15th with some new episodes. In the meantime the feed will be filled with several classic episodes from 2007.

Also, January 2008 marks the 1 year anniversary that Wanda and I have been podcasting. So I'd like to thank everyone who has tuned in. THANK YOU!

In this podcast Mr. Charming and I chat about:
- Winter blues
- Drug dealers
- Why guys don't call?
- 20 Questions with Mr. Charming
- Bikini Waxing
- Does Anjelika drink too much?
- Drunks are more fun


ANJELIKA: Sexually, what do you like in bed?
MR CHARMING: A hot water bottle.

Or click here to listen

How Long Have You Been Single?

Click here to listen

- Heather Mills & Paul McCartney
- Domestic Violence
- Pub Quiz
- Should you marry someone for a visa?
- Holding out for love
- Anjelika's lesbian date
- Satin Sheets and Asthma
- How Long Have You Been Single?
- "You Oughta Know" Alanis Morissette
- The X-Factor

WANDA: Once I've cum, if they guy keeps going it becomes painful. The orgasm can't get any bigger

ANJ: I think I know what you mean. After my big orgasm, then I'm like that

Click here to listen

Sex and Sensibility

In this podcast Wanda and Anjelika Chat about:

- Wanda's Holiday
- The Elephant in the Room
- Fall out and Anjelika's (lack of) sensitivity
- Hate Mail

WANDA: Anjelika, do you like me enough to shag me?

[silence]

ANJELIKA: No offense, Wanda...

WANDA: I'm beautiful! I'm big and beautiful! What are you saying?

Should you Shag your Neighbour?

Wanda and Anjelika chat about:
- Taboo Shagging Scenarios
- Should you Shag your Neighbour?
- How to be Sexy on TV
- Agony Aunt: Getting over Getting Dumped
- Wanda exposes her knickers on TV

The UK's #1 Sex Podcast
Naive London Girl
http://www.NaiveLondonGirl.com

Pussy-whipped or Lying

In this episode Wanda and Anjelika talk about:
- The on-going Iain Lee saga
- Post-orgasm love
- Valentine's pranks
- Minimum standards
- Wanda's attractive brother
- Hair that gets you laid
- Live Show Wed July 11

The Table that I Came on

The Table that I Came on

"I would rather not go
Back to the old house
There's too many
Bad memories"
- The Smiths

It’s strange how the simplest of things can affect you in a weird way. I feel somewhat traumatized by something that happened a few days ago that should be relatively minor.

On Tuesday I had job interview across the road from the a friend’s house. I called him after the interview – since I was in the neighborhood – and asked it he wanted to go for lunch. Since he was working from home that day, he agreed.

“Come on over to the house” he said.

Since I was only across the road it took me about thirty seconds to get to his place. There’s something creepy and stalkerish about arriving at someone’s house faster than they can hang up the phone. So I stood at his door and waited. I applied some lipstick and waited some more. After standing at his door for what seemed like an eternity (Actual time: two minutes) I rang the doorbell. I realized that was the first time I’d been to his house since last year we ended our relationship – or whatever you call it. It never really had the legs of a full-fledged relationship.

He opened the door to let me in and I just wanted to turn around and walk out. It felt too creepy. It felt wrong. I was now in another woman’s domain. I could sense it. And even though she wasn’t there everything in the air, in the walls, in the atmosphere oozed her. She wasn’t there physically, but her presence was everywhere.

My friend and I greeted each other in the vestibule of his house. The last time I stood in that very spot was after a horrible date we had. The sad details aren’t important, but I do remember standing in that spot feeling full of hope because moments before he said, “I really want to work things out with you Anjelika.”

I averted my eyes to the kitchen. I focused immediately on the kitchen table; the table we fucked on. He looks at that table and just sees a glass top. I look at the table and think about the night he lifted me up onto the table, pushed up my skirt, pulled down panties and ate me out. I came so hard. His tongue was amazing. How many dinners has he had on that table since then?

Everything in that house reminded me of ‘us.’

The stairs up to his lounge: He used to finger me as I walked up the stairs.

The sofa I sat on in the lounge: New from Muji last year we broke it in hours after its arrival.

The lounge chair he sat in: I remember giving him head in that chair and snowballing afterwards. There’s something electric about swapping cum from my mouth to his.

His whole house was peppered in bittersweet memories and I suddenly felt confronted with feelings I didn’t want to deal with. Not then, not at that moment. We only spent a few minutes in the house before leaving. After we exited he immediately made a phone call. For the next twenty minutes while walking to the restaurant waiting for him to end the call, all I could think about was being in that house. I wasn’t ready for the onslaught of feelings.

Even though we were walking together I felt very alone dealing with those feelings. It put me in a rather melancholy mood for the rest of the day. But what can you do?

I persevere.

And move on.

Tunic

Tunic

The view from my hotel room is stunning. A little bit of paradise. I’m sitting out on the balcony with the laptop on a small side table. From here I can see the sea. It’s high tide and the brown murky waves crash over the rocks rhythmically. Behind me there’s a mountain with houses stacked on top of each other like Legos. There’s a road that wraps around the mountain. The sounds of traffic interrupt the waves. Then occasionally you can hear a stray dog barking. I’m blasting Sonic Youth from the speakers of my Powerbook. “Tunic” has got to be one of the best songs ever.

Last night was a bit of a difficult night, but I soldiered through it. It was the first time in 3 three years that I cried myself to sleep. It’s times like these where I need my dog.

I woke feeling like shit. I couldn’t really sleep. The bed, was very comfortable which made not sleeping even more annoying.

Emotionally, I haven’t quite been though the ringer. Yes, I’m okay, but I feel, I dunno. Like I’ve had the wind knocked out of me. When I used to a gymnist there was one time where I was doing a round-off. It’s sort of like cartwheel. Anyhow one day I slipped and landed flat on my back. The landing didn’t hurt but there was this awful feeling bellowed from my gut. It was like being punched really hard. I dunno. It was like a nervous pain.

Anyhow I’ve had this nervous pain all day. Is there a name for this? It can’t be anxiety, can it? I’ve got this really nervous tension in my chest and it’s really fucking me up. I lost my appetite.

OK, just called a friend of mine who’s an expert in these sort of things. He confirmed it’s anxiety. He told me to take .5 of some sort of depressant. Wish I had some valium now. Maybe I’ll go on the hut for some. God, I used to be Straight Edge.

Today was a wasted day. There wasn’t enough sun to go get a tan. It wasn’t hot enough to go swimming. The sky wasn’t clear enough to go up to the mountains. With every fibre of my being I felt like I had to get the hell out of Rio. My efforts to book a flight out of this city were all for naught. The language barrier is difficult. I won’t bore you with the details but I basically have to go to the airport to buy a ticket. I’m trying to get up to Bahia to visit a very sweet, very beautiful yet very flighty friend of mine. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind me saying this but she is away with the fairies! (But she is ever so sweet!)

It’s really hard to characterize my trip here. And for personal reasons there’s some stuff going down that I can’t mention. I’ll just say for now that it’s character-building stuff. Hello Euphemism!

I know everything will be fine in the end. But when you’re in the tick of it, it’s quite hard to get some perspective.

There are No Single People in Ikea

There are no Single People in Ikea

There is nothing that exacerbates the gulf between the things I need and my current lack of resources quite like Ikea. I was determined not to make this trip to Ikea the soul-destroying experience that it had been in the past.

After picking up Doggums from the crèche I drove there. I know that I'm not going to fit a lot in my 2-seater car, but there was stuff that I need for my flat. I feel so unsettled that there's so much to add to the flat. And the only furniture I've bought in 5 months is a waterbed, coffee table and sofa.

I feel like I'm living like a student and going to Ikea makes me feel so inadequate.

The vast majority of people in Ikea seem to be there for good reasons. What really freaks me out is that everyone at Ikea is there as part of a couple. There are no single people in Ikea. I swear I saw people laughing at me when I arrived alone – in a two seater car, no less.

The only single people at Ikea are recently singled people. The ones that have been dumped and now need to find a new place to live and new furniture in it. But there is no on there like me, you know, permanently single.

And then when you walk around Ikea you see smiley happy couples everywhere inside. They're sitting on the sofas, they're examining the settees, they're opening cabinet doors and taking measurements in the display kitchens. If there was one word to describe them it would be smug. They're so fucking smug. Oh they've finally made it in life. They bought a three bedroom terrace, Chelsea tractor and now all they need is the perfect furniture.

Buying furniture on your own is a completely daunting experience. First of all I know that I can't put any of this furniture together myself. When I look at a bookshelf or a wardrobe or anything with more than 4 screws I get all flustered. I know these items are things that I need but trying to figure out how I'm going to put it together is like doing long division in my head!

Secondly, I know it can't fit in my car. So that means I have to have it delivered. But they only deliver between 9 AM and 5 PM . Excuse me, I work! No, there's no one who can be there for the delivery. No husband. No boyfriend. I don't even have any unemployed friends that can help out. Sure, I could take the day off work, but that would add another £500 to the cost of the furniture. And let's face it, if I had another £500 to spend I wouldn't be at fucking Ikea.

Thirdly, if you're shopping at Ikea with someone else they can tell you if you're making a good decision or not. But now the burden of good taste now rests solely on me. If I make a bad furniture decision I have to live with it.

I think there's a secret Ikea conspiracy to convert people into buying wicker. I hate wicker. There are few things made out of wicker that I think are useful, yet every time I go into Ikea I find myself strangely drawn to the wicker section. Wicker is so suburban. Wicker is so bland. Wicker is so not me and I feel resentful that Ikea somehow trying to convert me.

But what I absolutely hate about Ikea is that it makes me question everything that I thought was good in my life because they have something newer and better. It doesn't matter if I thought I had a great sofa at home; at Ikea I can buy a whole room full of furniture that would match the sofa better. It doesn't matter if I thought I was cleverly storing away my clothes. They've got something that will store my stuff away even better. No matter what I have at home Ikea has something newer and better . And as I troll through the isles with twenty odd scraps of paper listing pseudo-Swedish sounding items that I'm somehow intending to buy I feel like a complete failure; that if the world ended tomorrow my life hasn't been complete because I never managed to buy and install the Läck shelf.

Why am I so drawn to a place that makes me feel so awful? Why do I keep going back if I always feel unsatisfied there? Maybe that's just how life is. Sometimes being able to feel an emotion is more fulfilling then being numb and feeling nothing at all.

Anti-One is the loneliest number. Theoretically speaking.

Anti-One is the loneliest number. Theoretically speaking.

There are lovelorn fools who think that there’s someone out there for everyone; and that your whole dating life ultimately leads you on a search to find, “the one.”

I, on the other hand, don’t believe that shit. Maybe there’s someone out there for a lot of people, but just not everyone. I would reckon that the split is 40:60. Forty percent of people will find, “the one” while the rest of us will meander under the belief that “the one” is out there, however, we’ll never find them.

The idea of the one is bullshit. It’s a race to find a husband. Why the race? If there’s ever a reason that I want to get married it’s because I love cake! The idea of a wedding cake is fantastic. Who needs the rest of the pomp & circumstance? I just want cake! I digress.

The race for a husband is perpetuated by the fear that if we don’t snag someone soon we may die or even become disfigured before ever hearing the words, “I love you.” And if it’s hard enough meeting someone with all your limbs intact imagine how much harder it would be if we were disfigured? Then again, it seemed to work out for Heather Mills (or not).

What I really want to talk about is the “Anti-One.” More cruel than “the one that got away’, the anti-one is the one you never had; the one you never a chance with; the one you lusted after and couldn’t get. The “anti-one” is the ultimate unrequited love (or lust) of your life. It’s the person you want physically and can’t have. It’s the person you want emotionally and you can’t have.

In a strange way, it boils down to quantum mechanics. Electrons, Protons, positive & negative charges. Anti-One always builds a wall around themselves. Think of it as an invisible force field. A line of force. You can’t go beyond a certain point or you get shut out. Despite the risk of being shut out you’re drawn in again and again. I actually know a mathematical formula for this, but I’ll spare you’re the gory details.

I’ve been thinking about the Anti-Ones in my life. There are three at the moment:

1. There’s the guy I can reach intimately but not emotionally.

2. There’s a guy I can reach emotionally, but not intimately.

3. Then there’s the guy with the intermittent force field. Sometimes it’s up. Sometimes it’s down. The cumulative effect is tantamount to being unavailable.

I have to ask myself, why do I put effort into something so fruitless? If the net result is always not being able to penetrate the force field, then why do I bother trying? The answer has come about after some long deep thought (psychotherapy):

Anti-Ones are clever. They know when you’re going to throw the towel in. It’s a sixth sense. Just as you’re at the point where you think, “Fuck it, I don’t care anymore.” They dangle a carrot in front of you. It’s the lure; the bait. It’s sometimes (badly) disguised as a promise. A false promise with the prize being entry into the force field. Or maybe it’s the false hope that you and the Anti-one would become intimate. E.G. the date that never happens. Or maybe he leads on emotionally. “I love you.” said without earnest. Generally, Anti-Ones will promise (lie) about anything in order to get their needs filled and keep you keen. Even if they’re not keen on you.

For whatever reason, Anti-Ones need us around. Maybe if we didn’t exist they wouldn’t need their force field. And maybe it’s that force field that validates their existence. I mean everyone wants adoration, don’t they?