Here I stand on the precipice of a yawning chasm. I’m about to jump off the metaphorical edge and leap to my death. Will I be reborn a pariah of the geek community, or will I be forgotten like so many other dweebs that didn’t quite get it right?

Today I will address a topic that’s a little taboo. A topic that’s sat neatly just outside the periphery of popular culture. Star Trek and comics. Video games and roleplaying. The Big Bang Theory and Hackers. Geek chic is finally here — it’s cool to be a geek — but only for the boys. The geek girls are there, but they’re hiding, quietly biding their time. I’m not talking about those exhibitionist thrill-seeking cosplay geek girls that are obviously very much ‘out there’, I’m talking about the female equivalent of basement-dwelling male geeks. The female roleplayers, the non-bearded types that can speak Klingon or Quenya.

This guide would not have been possible without Heather and Eleni, both exemplar geek girls from the blogosphere. I’d also like to thank my platonic, real-life relationships with geeky girls for giving me an insight into how the female geek mind works.

Girl geeks exist, they’re multiplying, they’re becoming bolder and they have a plan.

Why geek girls are absolutely the best thing on this planet

Except for a younger Lindsay Lohan or Britney Spears, geek girls are possibly the fairest of God’s children. When he wet his hands and fashioned the clay mold that would be used to create geek girls, he sat back with a content sigh and took a day off to celebrate such perfection.

I’m not talking about the freaky faux geek girls that are exhibitionists appealing to and feeding upon the weak and wimpy male geek populace. While geek girls might not be overflowing with confidence — much like their male counterparts — what they don’t have in brawn and balls they make up for with kindness. Geek girls are incredibly understanding. As I covered in my previous articles, geeks are interested instead of interesting. They are more interested in your well being than their own. It’s this basic trait which explains most geek behaviour (and one I will talk about in a future entry).

Live and let live

A geek girl, much like a geeky guy, is interested in whatever you want to share. In other words, geek girls aren’t clingy or needy. Geek girls have more important things to worry about than who you hung out with tonight, or if another girl was present. A geek girl would expect you to be interested in which game she’s playing, and which love interest she went for — the calloused, vile dwarf or the strapping, brave paladin.

Geek girls make great friends

Girls in general tend to have more of a ‘’social nature’ than boys. Couple this with their geeky tendencies and not only will a geek girl make a good girlfriend, she’ll be a good friend.

As an added bonus, if you get one of those geeky girls with real life girlfriends (as opposed to virtual ones, which they’ll have quite a few of), be prepared (and pleasantly surprised) to come home on a Friday night and find a bunch of girls in pyjamas watching old episodes of Buffy or Firefly. Or open your bedroom door and look out, if you’re not the going-out kind of geek…

Perhaps most importantly, a geek girl appreciates your foibles and rolls with it (she has issues too!) She’ll probably even learn to love your cuter oddities and gently encourage you to fix the creepy ones — like, really, stop collecting your toenail clippings and cease archiving your  Lindsay Lohan newspaper clippings.

In many relationships, the partners are completely disinterested in one another’s work or pastimes — not so with geeky relationships! — in theory, a geeky couple could probably avoid ever going out and meeting other people, or making new friends because they get everything they need from their friend and partner. In fact, that’s what a lot of geeky couples do…

Geek girls are exceptionally, um, interesting in the bedroom

If you’re a geeky guy, imagine all of the depraved things you’ve thought about doing to a girl. Dressing her up in a Japanese school-girl outfit. Princess Leia roleplay. Chewbacca roleplay. Cosplaying a 12 year old from some anime series.

Now… make sure you’re seated comfortably and your clothing is loosened… geek girls will let you do it. Of course, some might not let you penetrate them with prosthetic tentacles, candles or cucumbers (hentai…) but chances are, a geek girl is quite happy to go along with your weird, freaky fantasies because she’s fantasised about them too. The flip-side is of course (and most would say this is a good caveat) that you should be prepared to dress up as Han Solo or Jabba the Hut. And you should have a big, shiny lightsaber. With lots of battery power.

Previously mundane tasks can be steamily hot with a geek girl

Imagine organising your comics; with a girl sitting on your lap, bouncing. You could be cooking dinner, and she’ll crawl into the kitchen, grovelling before her slave driver, begging for her next meal. How about, every time she kills you in a video game, you owe her an orgasm? And vice versa. Button bashing has never been so romantic.

I’m not sure if Wii Fit calculates the calories burnt off during sex, but it’s worth a shot, right? Maybe that Wiimote controller fits… no, never mind, that’s a nasty, sacriligious thought. Don’t leave me, Princess Zelda, I didn’t mean it! Wait, it has a vibration function…

Great value for money

I almost went with ‘geek girls are cheap’ but I figured that might’ve been misinterpreted, even if it’s true. Unlike their vain, materialistic boring sisters, geek girls put an equal value on virtual and real goods. To a geek girl, a redesign of her website is more romantic than a box of chocolates. An animated e-card featuring your own awful singing voice is infinitely more sexy and loving than a bunch of flowers. Why take her out for dinner when you could stay home, order some Chinese food and serenade her with a new Guitar Hero song you’ve been practicing? Cheap AND infinitely more intimate.

A physical representation of love still goes a long way with geeky girls, but it’s certainly cheaper and more fun to please a geeky girl than a normal one. A signed first-edition Neil Gaiman book (and accompanying audio CD) will go a lot further than some jewellery… and you can read it too! She might give you odd looks if she catches you trying on her jewellery.

Finally, geek girls are really damn keen

Though shy and unassuming in real life, it’s very easy to get ‘in’ with a geek girl: rapid-fire email, seedy instant messaging or a romantic forum war — it’s all good!. She’s probably not going to walk up to you and suggest you go out for a drink somewhere — that’s just not how geeks operate — but chances are she’s incredibly eager to hook up.

Geek girls have probably spent the last few years dating the standard jocks: the sporty types, the guys that are only interested in her looks, the men that think it’s OK to date her and kiss other girls. With that avenue exhausted, geek girls are looking for geek guys. In fact, a geek girl will probably leap at the opportunity to date a geek guy — it’s a marriage made in heaven, and they know that — so they’ll probably make it really easy for you. They’ll do what every guy loves, the holy grail of boy/girl courting: they’ll make it obvious that they like you.

Thanks for reading! Perhaps, if you’re a geeky girl trying to attract a particuarly stubborn guy, send him a link to this page. If you’re a guy reading this, and you’re still single… what’re you waiting for?! Go and buy some tickets to the new Star Trek movie, equip some long, pointy plastic ears and see what happens!

This continues on from my brief introduction to Poland, which actually turned into a bit of a history lesson, oops. I’d been invited to Poland for a weekend of excess: food, women, alcohol and video games. It would soon be apparent though that Polish food is a bit shit, and their women are veritable cesspits of disease and damnation.  At least the video games and alcohol were OK. I’ve scattered a few random photos of mine from Poland throughout this entry, don’t try to make sense of them — they’re completely unrelated, but pretty!

When I’d boarded the plane in England it had been sunny, warm, breezy. I’d been promised lovely weather — continential Europe, when it gets warm, gets really warm. I’d been promised a lot of things actually and the weather was going to be the first of many broken promises. The door to the plane opened with a hiss as the pressure dropped instantly. Snow. Frackin’ snow blew into the cabin and into our faces. We’d been promised sun and warmth! If we wanted precipitation, we’d have stayed in England.

Mike met me after I’d collected my bags. ‘I thought you’d sound more British.’

Seriously, do I really not sound British? 24 years — a quarter century, next week — of speaking English. The Queen’s English. And a Canadian, a fellow member of my Queen’s Commonwealth said I don’t sound British?! Not one to punch my host in the face — always better to do that on the way back to the airport, after they’ve kept a roof over your head — I let it lie. Britishness is in the heart anyway, right? In the crumpet-shaped heart…

We headed outside to his car, trudging through a few inches of sludgy grey snow. After slighting my accent, I made sure he carried my bag — it’s good to remind the colonials who still rules the Commonwealth roost. His car was a race-tuned BMW M3 (a really fast car). My face cracked into a grin. ‘I haven’t got around to putting winter tires on the car yet, Seb… so it might be quite a wild ride back to my place.’

‘We hadn’t anticipated quite so much snow…’ REALLY?

So we skidded and careened our way along the crappy Polish highways in an automotive example of Brownian motion. Mike’s car was pretty crappy too. The dash kept falling to pieces, and the rubber seals around the doors ‘needed to be fixed, but last time I sent it to the mechanic, they kept the car for 8 weeks without fixing it.’ Poland is not a highly functional country. It’s drab and grey. Driving through the slippery streets of Gdansk, we turned onto the road leading to Mike’s flat. Street after street of poorly-maintained concrete apartment blocks. They had been painted once, just after being built, back in the 60s — there were traces of pinks and greens and baby blues — but since then they’d just been left to dilapidate and wallow in their own crappiness. Gdansk was probably quite pretty once, but not today.

Fortunately, Gdansk belongs to the Tricity of Gdansk, Gdynia and Sopot — the latter two being both a lot more charming then Gdansk and not quite so… drab. Sopot is where we would spend most of our time: eating, drinking and carousing. Sopot is where we spent hundreds of pounds on sushi and saki, where we entertained the company of beautiful, chisel-cheeked Slavic beauties and where I threw up for only the third time in my life.

It started, as these things do, with an idea. In a group of guys, that idea isn’t usually very intelligent or sensible: ‘Let’s get naked and run around campus!’ or ‘Let’s inject our testicles with fish paste and dangle them in a hungry pool of piranhas!’ — men are not the most deep and meaningful creatures at the best of times, but when you get 2 or more of them trying to agree a course of action by consensus, there are only so many possible outcomes.

‘Let’s get DRUNK!!!’

When the English, Irish and French settlers headed over to North America, did all of the enthusiastic people go with? Put an American, Canadian and Brit in the same room and it’s hard to believe they all came from the same common genetic line.

‘Sure… let’s get drunk…!’ That was me, trying to echo Mike’s enthusiasm. The last time I’d got properly drunk was on my 20th birthday, at university, 3 years ago. That was also the last time I’d been sick, and I’d avoided alcohol abuse since.

As an aside, what gives with having to drink everything that’s bought and placed in front of you?

‘I’ve had at least half a litre of spirits and a bottle of wine… I’ve swilled and gargled 5 shots of Aftershock… I’m on my last legs. When you’re tall like me, you have a long way to fall if your legs give way… ‘ (Read the linked Aftershock Challenge — alcohol and the membranes in your cheeks/under tongue =  nasty)

‘But… I’ve just paid money for this drink!’

I knew that a night in Sopot would be the same deal, and there was absolutely nothing I could do about it. Apathetical drunkenness. Drunkenness Induced By Benevolent And Generous Host.

‘Can we at least get some food in our stomachs first? There was that nice sushi place…’ Forever the Jew, I can spot a good restaurant from well over 200 yards.

That nice sushi place turned out to be awesome. A tiny little exclusive restaurant with 15 stools placed in a circle around a central food preparation area. In the middle stood 3 proper Japanese sushi chefs — I have no idea what they were doing in Poland, so don’t ask. Perhaps some Poles had kidnapped their families, who knows. Each one served whoever was sitting in front of them — you pointed at an item on the menu, and they prepared it, right under your nose.

But, it gets better! There’s a moat of of water between you and the chefs, with little boats in it, each one carrying some kind of side-dish. I sat and watched in awe as the little boats made their way around the restaurant. You don’t want to know how much it cost for that single, appetite-whetting mouthwateringly delicious tiger king prawn that floated by on a little bamboo raft. Or the next one. And the next.  In fact, after I’d taken 4, the couple sitting to our right started to get a little angry when no prawns had made it past me for 10 minutes…

Anyway, this story is about when I got drunk, not how I spent way too much of my host’s money in a snobby sashimi sushi saloon. We finished up our food, polished off the large bottle of aged red wine and headed down to the club.

The club was… cosy. It was only about 20 feet across — 5 meters — but it was deep, and on 3 floors. The ground floor was just a bar, the middle floor had some heavier rock music and the top floor was the dance-like-a-spastic cheesy-euro-disco zone. It was April, off-season, but this place was obviously the most popular club in town: shoulder to shoulder, nut-to-butt, gropefestingly jam-packed — FULL. Really damn full. We shouldered our way through the busy ground floor, hoping to find more space upstairs and guess what? It had a spiral staircase.

I guess fire regulations don’t exist in Poland — or at least, they’re not enforced. A 3-storey club, with perhaps 1000 or more wild, passionate Poles, all ascending and descending a tiny, wrought-iron spiral staircase. One thousand drunk and angry Polish people (and even a few Mafioso-looking types that everyone made way for). Making my way down that staircase at the end of the night, drunk out of my mind, struggling to put one foot in front of another — not even sure which feet were mine — is not something I want to repeat… ever.

A drunken stumble across town (cobbles are really not the best friend of the woefully inebriated) and a 5 minute drive later (Mike wasn’t drunk, I swear…) we arrive at the flat, me considerably worse for wear than him. He’d been giving me his drinks, instead of drinking them himself. Bastard.

‘I think I’m going to be sick, Mike…’

He just grinned at me. The cretinous Canadian cockmongler just grinned at me. ‘The bathroom’s over there.’

If you’ve ever seen the toilet in student accommodation, you’ll know that they’re dirty enough to cultivate at least three bacterial conurbations.

‘I think you’re getting close to recreating the conditions required for the genesis of multi-cellular organisms, Mike. This is pretty primordial down here!’ My voice was muffled and slurred, what with my head being almost fully in the bowl of the toilet. [I wanted to work in a joke about being pissed out of my head here, but I couldn't quite make it fit...]

‘What?’ I’m obviously more intelligent than backward backwater Canadians, even when drunk.

‘Never mind, come and hold back my hair…’

Sushi really doesn’t taste great the second time around, even the posh stuff. Mike and I came out of the weekend worse for wear, but closer friends than before.

Last week I requested that you ask me anything. Looking at my mail, I’d say we have a good range of topics for today. Please, if there’s something on your mind, a question, a problem, don’t hesitate to ask. Some questions have had their grammar altered a little, but otherwise they are untouched. If I use politically incorrect phrases it’s either a) trying to be funny or b) I don’t know I’m being politically incorrect (in which case, do correct me).

Dear Mr. Seb, I am 49 but have not started the menopause. Can I still get pregnant at my age?

A good, easy question to get started with! You are sorely lacking on detail — do you want to get pregnant, or are you asking if you can go on one last flight of reckless fancy, sleeping with all and sundry, knowing you’re safe from pregnancy if not from STDs? Your hormones are running rife, spurring your middle-age horn into overdrive one day, and complete disinterest of sex the next.

From a purely mechanical standpoint you can get pregnant until you’ve been a full 12 months without a period (and thus without ovulating). If your periods are simply irregular that’s not the same as menopause — that’s just the build-up, the peri/pre menopause — and you can certainly still get pregnant during that time (but it’s still very difficult).

For more information talk to your doctor, or visit one of many sites or newspaper stories on the topic.

I am a self-injurer. When life gets tough or I get stressed out, or even when I’m bored, I find sharp things to dig into my skin. This is generally viewed as a problem. But that is not the problem or situation for which I am seeking your advice. Generally speaking, when other people find out about this side of my life they begin to take precautions: watching what they say, qualifying statements so as not to upset me, and so on. One of my friends has asked me TWICE now if I am into S&M; I have never experienced it, so I couldn’t really say one way or the other.

Anyway, I was bored today and decided to do a bit of research. The Sadomasochism article on Wikipedia was rather helpful actually, and I got a fairly clear picture of what S&M really encompasses. I think I could totally get into that. It would definitely be the pain side of it all as well, not so much the humiliation. But pain, definitely. So being that I have a… condition, an illness that most people are terrified of, how would you suggest that I bring up this subject to a lover? Bear in mind that said lover would be rather concerned about my injurious tendencies already and may be averse to inflicting pain upon me. Please help, Dr. Seb.

Sincerely,
Confused in the Padded Room

Now this one’s trickier. My first reaction was: find a lover that’s also a self-harmer. That’s probably the simplest if not the most healthy solution — you’d probably end up cutting each other in more and more creative and intricate ways until you end up looking like Amy Acker from Dollhouse or one of Hannibal Lecter’s victims, but at least it’d be a consensual and you wouldn’t be hurting any ‘innocents’.

I think it depends on whether you like self-harming or whether you’ve identified it as a problem and want to stop. A loved one — a partner, a friend, a family member — can certainly help you regain a sense of self. They can acknowledge and empathise with your physical and mental pains, both of which can go a long way to rebuilding your sense of self-worth. Remember, pain tends to disassociate you from ‘yourself’, and continued self-harm will probably result in you ‘drifting away’ from reality — self-mutilation might seem like a temporary fix, a fleeting detachment, but it’s certainly not a permanent solution to problems you might be experiencing.

To be honest, I don’t know if you are trying to stop — it sounds like you’re not — or if you are just trying to tell your lover: This is who I am. Deal with it. In which case, I doubt a caring partner is going to be understanding of continued self-harming. If what you really crave is pain (most self-harmers aren’t in it just for the pain, though), S&M is indeed available. Bear in mind that any relationship that revolves around dispensing pain and being humiliated is going to be unlike any other relationships you’ve had.

There’s a world of difference between pain and humiliation though — they’re not inexorably linked — and if spanking and pinching and hair-pulling is enough for you, I’m sure you can find a boyfriend or girlfriend with a domineering streak to keep you satisfied!

For more information there’s a good article on understanding self-harm by the British mental health charity Mind. AskMen has a great article about spanking, which might help you satisfy your need for pain and arouse you at the same time! And if you’re really interested in BDSM and want to get started right now, ALT is the main ‘alternative’ online adult personals site.

The goldfish I have at work is a slob. I purchased him on a whim because I thought he would be entertaining, which he is. He loves David Bowie, and whenever Bowie comes on the radio the fish dances to him. However, the goldfish who shall remain anonymous (we’ll call him Rick [Astley? -S]) is a total slob! He swims around with a fire-hose turd hanging out of his ass most of the day, and now his shit is starting to stick to his fins. I wish the little bastard would just clean it off. I clean his bowl weekly, he has plants to rub it off with, but I think he just does it to irritate me. What should I do?

Sincerely,
Pissed in the Pacific Northwest [Come on, I said anonymous... -S]

In my experience, dealing with animals effectively always comes down to physical and visual stimuli. Some animals can be trained by sound, but I don’t think you can train a goldfish by whistling. Maybe one day we’ll understand fish as well as we understand dogs and you’ll be able to buy ultra-high frequency fish whistles; one day. Until then, I suggest one or two options:

• Hook up two wires from a nearby power socket, run them through some kind of switch (available from your local hardware store) and simply dangle the two ends into the tank. Next, print out a photo of a goldfish.Now, whenever your fish has neglected to ’shake his fin’, hold the picture up to the side of the tank and flip the switch. This is equivalent to Pavlov’s famed doggy/ringing bell experiment. It also has the added bonus that if you fail to condition the fish into looking after its hygiene, your cat (or your friend’s) has something to look forward to at dinner time.

• The other option is far more sinister; a whole lot more Godfather. For this one you need at least two goldfish, so go and buy another one before you start. Got it? Great. You need to force-feed the second fish a solid diet with lots of fibre, one that will encourage lots and lots of poo production. Then, when the shit starts squeezin’ out, turn the pump off — the water must be totally still for this to work. You’re aiming for a long turd: a turd long enough to tie into a noose. Optionally, to speed up the process, you might opt for holding the fish with one hand and squeezing it firmly with your fingers. When you’ve cultured a suitably stringy shite gently tie it into a loop, placing it carefully around its neck.

  
  This will act just like a goldfish voodoo doll. Chilling. If that doesn’t scare your disgusting beast  into wiping its ass on nearby plants, I don’t know what will.

If you have a question for next week’s edition of Ask Me Anything, go ahead and ask me. Remember, it’s completely anonymous! This is your chance to get something off your chest or find out the answer to something that’s always niggled at you! Or maybe you just want to tax me… meanies (you know who you are).

Another Thursday, another dose of too-much-information. Hit up Lilu’s blog if you want more! This one though is one of my favourites, and one I’ve never actually talked about in public. I hope my friend forgives this little tale about bodily fluids gone wrong.

Once upon a time I had friends. The real type. I would speak to them on the phone for hours, we would hang out after school and play video games, or go down to the park to watch girls. Nowadays I don’t have real friends — I have friends that I talk to regularly of course, just not face to face, and not over the phone. Friends like you, in fact. Eventually I’ll run out of stories to tell, I suppose, and then I’ll have to make some more real friends. But until then…

This one’s about a chap called Tim. I have a few stories to tell about Tim as he was a very interesting fellow; not always in a bad way but prone to moments of weirdness and insanity. He wasn’t a great friend of mine either, but for a variety of reasons we would often end up sharing the same space. We certainly got on fine; he was a friend, but not one I would go out of my way to hang out with.

After a party, I ended up sleeping on the floor of his bedroom. I’m not great at falling asleep, which means I’m normally the poor sod that has to try and fall asleep while someone else snores noisily. That was no different. There I lay, on the floor below Tim’s bed and looking at the lamp beside his bed, wishing fruitlessly for sleep to take me.

He certainly seemed to be sleeping soundly, if the snoring was anything to go by. At first I thought it was just a bump in his blanket, an unseemly fold placed at just the wrong place — or right place, if you’re a hormonal teenager. I giggled.  Or maybe, on closer inspection, it was his knee…? I shrugged and turned over, trying yet again to leave the waking realm.

Thankfully, the snoring ceased soon after. But then a rustle and the clink of the bed springs as he redistributed his weight and got comfy again. I opened one eye a fraction of an inch but was surprised to see him looking down at me. He didn’t react, so I can only assume he thought I was soundly asleep. He hadn’t seen my partially-opened eye in the dark.

He looked to the bedroom door to make sure it was closed, and only then did he slip his blanket off revealing, you guessed it, an erection, a turgid penis, a boner — it certainly was not his knee. For a moment I held my breath, hoping that he was just a little hot; praying that he was just getting a little fresh air before he went back to sleep.

But then he went for it. His hand grabbed his man meat and started thrashing up and down and sideways in that violent, unceremonious fashion that only teenagers have mastered. His hips lifted, thrusting his penis and pelvis to new heights. A groan escaped his lips. I wanted to shut my eyes but I’m half-ashamed to say… I couldn’t. Like watching a car drive faster and harder until a crash surely seems inevitable, I was morbidly mesmerised — I wanted to see it through to its conclusion!

The hip thrusting and fist-pumping were rhythmic in their movement, quicker and angrier; I thought he might tear it off, to be honest (I learnt in later years that the male penis can withstand quite a stretching, and beating.) After 10 minutes he started panting. His back arched. Two more decisive, piston-like tugs with his right hand and he shuddered, the orgasm quickly gripping his entire body. His feet twitched, his free hand clenched and he bit his lip as he came. He shot a single, long stream of white, warm goo from the tip of his penis. It felt like it took ages, slowly arcing through the air gracefully, taking its time, picking its target.

It actually moved damn quickly.

Splat.

‘DUDE! It’s in your fucking EYE!’

I quickly leapt to my feet and looked down at Tim’s naked body, his war-torn, victimised cock red and fast becoming flaccid. I looked at his torso where a few spatters of semen dotted his chest. Then my eyes found the sticky trail that began at the base of his neck and followed up over his chin. Across his lips, along the curve of his cheek and finally to the ejaculate that pooled in his right eye socket.

‘Seb, stop staring and pass me the box of tissues.’

This won’t be a complete backstory, but it will fill in a few big gaps. It includes and expands upon bits from my childhood entries and the ‘about‘ page. This should illuminate my scattered, eclectic writings on this blog. This should spread light on themes that you may’ve noticed and upon which I will now elucidate. This post is actually celebrating a ‘blog milestone’, though in true, chronically-understated British fashion, I shan’t say what that milestone is. Enjoy this revealing expose of inner Sebbiness; I’ll be hiding in the corner over there.

* * *

As I forced the last piece of LEGO into position with a snap I decided then that I would be an engineer; I was only five at the time and didn’t know what the word meant, nor what they did. The only thing I knew was that making things — crafting intricate constructions from simple, constituent parts — was fun. Really damn fun. You start off with a box of bits and amorphous blobs leftover from previous creations, and you can make anything! Well, almost anything, as defined by the rules and mechanics of LEGO blocks.

It was those rules, those axioms, that interested me the most. My parents will tell you that I was never a huge fan of using my hands — I was never the kind of kid to make rickety tree houses or bird tables — they were just a means to an end: to discover rules! Hands were great at pulling apart and unscrewing video machines, toasters and televisions. I had no idea how things actually worked, but God-damn it was fun trying to work it out! I would look at the parts, at the wreckage of my latest interest, and try to somehow divine the magical rules that made them go.

As I grew up my LEGO bricks turned into Technic cogs and Meccano struts, and thus my education continued: I learnt about physics and the inescapable force of gravity; torque and various structural designs to nullify its effects; the fun that could be had with elastic energy! Most importantly, I learnt about the two forces that dominate our current understanding of the world: chemical and electrical energy. Heating mixtures of chemicals and watching in (pained) awe as they exploded into my face taught me the wonders of cause and effect; reactions. Adding electrical motors to my constructions added life. And that was the key: I’d finally found out how to make things happen.

Enter my first computer at the geriatric age of eight (I was spoilt, some might say). This is probably where the tale should take a dark and oppressive turn for the worse but fortunately… it does not! Unless you consider the abject horror and avoidance of all physical exercise, caused by continued computer use, a bad thing. Actually, that’s a lie: I enjoyed tennis and badminton, but only because my arms were so long that I could reach almost everywhere without moving. I won’t bore you with any more from my teenage years, but you can read my childhood entries if you’re really interested.

In short, my teenage years were… OK. Not great, and often introverted. I was bullied for being fat and far too intelligent. Fortunately the bullying didn’t impact my thirst for knowledge, but it did culture my antisocial tendencies. I don’t mean I went around throwing bricks through windows (I did this just once, when I fell in with some bad boys), I mean that I’ve been a hermit ever since. My teenage life wasn’t completely devoid of social interaction. I did have friends. But for example, the only parties I would attend would be those I couldn’t skip, lest I become a social outcast. Being social, for the teenage Seb, was an obligation.

Looking back, it was a sad, lonely way of living. I don’t know if it was caused by the bullying, or just my continued interest in learning. Y’see, I would be great company until I realised that I’d actually rather be somewhere else, learning how to make explosives or program a new computer language. The only friends I did keep were ones that had identical interests to mine, or were intelligent enough that they remained interesting to me. A bit of a pragmatic — some would say selfish — view of friendships. Again, I don’t know what caused it, but my thirst for knowledge compelled me to flit about from person to person and from book to book, devouring anything and everything that I stumbled across in my search for more data.

When you’re a teenager, mixing your friends up a little is a common occurrence — so what if one day you’re best friends with John, and Steve the next? Looking back, I guess that’s why no one noticed what I was up to. And I’m still the same today, though my years at university tempered my hermit-like tendencies and almost turned me into a social butterfly! Still, when it comes to friends — relationships that I nuture and tend to regularly — I still only have two close ones. The first, I talk to once a week if I’m lucky, the second I might see once a year, or less (does that make me a bad friend?) It’s not so easy to ‘bounce between friends’ when you’re an adult; when you’re a grown-up you can’t just chew, digest and unceremoniously dump your friends.

That’s why I travel and I guess… why I don’t have friends.

It feels lame to cite Fight Club of all things, but its popularity will help make my point: I like single servings. The people I meet on trains and planes are tasty enough to tantalise my taste buds without the risk of becoming dull or flavourless. I might only spend six hours with a friend made while climbing over ancient ruins in Turkey, but when you’re thrown into a similar situation together and share the same experiences, you learn a lot about each other, and you learn it quickly. Single, intense servings of personality; more than just a passing acquaintance, but less than a friendship. At the end we can both go our own ways; a single serving with no strings attached.

Finally, we’ve arrived at the contemporary Seb, where I understand enough about myself that I can attempt to define my personal philosophy. ‘Attempt’, because it’s hard to name and qualify thoughts that, without scope or definition, have run around my head for 25 years. So bear with me as I try to put it into some clumsy words: I demand rationality, but not in the conventional sense. As humans, we are exceptionally good at being rational, but only within the confines of a working, true set of data. You can only be as rational as your education allows — if you have been told that the world is flat, it’s rational to assume it is indeed flat. But that’s not rationality; at least not for me. Most ’stupidity’, as viewed from an objective point of view, is (unsurprisingly) caused by a lack of education. The stupid person probably doesn’t know he’s being stupid though — in his head he’s just doing as he’s been taught!

Rationality, for me, is an absolute: not simply a given, limited set of truths taught through nurture, dogma or education.

Rationality, for me, is the neverending search for a body of knowledge so vast, so all-encompassing that, one day, will hopefully allow me to understand the workings of the universe, and those that populate it.

There we have it: one of my most secret and character-definining traits laid bare for all to see. I hope it goes some way to explaining how I look at the world, and ultimately what I write on this blog. I am, in essence, trying to get my head around everything; I’m pulling the world apart, screw by screw, hoping to find the answers. As and when I find them, I’ll be sure to share.

* * *

There are some fun photos to follow tomorrow. They were meant to accompany this entry, but now it seems inappropriate. If you want funny pictures, go and look at the ones of me as a kid…

No picture of me in a doctor’s jacket again! What a gyp! (Note the interesting derivation on ‘gypsy’ — never knew that!) You must be so disappointed in me yet again. But in my defence, this week’s been a really unpleasant mix of heat, humidity and stiflingly oppressive stillness. The only breeze is that which has been stirred up by the feeble fan that’s currently keeping my feet cool. So you get some angstily-answered questions this week and a re-used picture of me that you’ve probably seen before. If you’re not interested, go and watch my video blog from yesterday. Or go ask me a question!

Every question this week has something to do with love or sex or relationships!
(Sorry, I know it’s a bit over the top… but yes, now you know what my eyes look like… yay!)

Dear Sex-pert Seb, [This feels more like a tabloid each week, excellent -S]

I want to do something for my man which will make him smile every time he thinks about it… and I don’t mean baking an amazing cake! I mean something naughtier.

As someone who is obviously experienced in naughty things, what can you suggest?

- Sexless in Seattle

A juicy one to start with. It probably comes as no surprise to you, me being a man and all, that the only real thing I’ve been able to focus my thoughts on over the last week, during this heatwave, is… sex. I’m all hot and sweaty and so my thoughts inevitably drift to when I was last hot and sweaty. Not being the kind of person to do any exercise outside of the bedroom, my mind wanders to all of the beautiful women that I’ve made love to.

You came to the right person: Sex-pert Seb! I’ve read a lot of girl magazines (Cosmo, Marie Claire, etc.) over the years (I told you, I’m inquisitive) and consider myself a bit of a guru when it comes to this particular topic. The suggestions tend to vary from downright-weird to the hmm-that-sounds-quite-nice-actually but they nearly all revolve around one thing: oral sex (or cooking for him, misogyny be damned!)

There are a lot of variations, some more difficult and/or degrading than others — I’ll give you an easy one to start with: go down on him while he’s asleep, in the morning. It’s a very, very good way to wake up, I assure you.

For more information, search the Internet for the many guides on the topic, but here’s SexInfo101’s to get you started: Fellatio I – Basics.

Geek Master S,

I write to you in greatest secrecy because… because it’s about a girl that I like. But she’s a geek, so she might be able to find this if I give you too much information. Anyway, there’s this girl I like, but I don’t know how to make her love me! Or at least for her to take me seriously! She’s more of a geek than me. She likes all sorts of weird stuff like comics and TV shows with vampires in. I watched Buffy though, and that’s alright, but the rest… I dunno.

Anyway, my question is, how can I be the guy she wants? We are good friends right now, but sex/relationships seem like the last thing on her mind, but I must make her mine!

Live long and prosper (that’s what you geeks say right?),
Clueless Wannabe Geek

Ah, young padawan (that’s a trainee Jedi, from Star Wars), you have much to learn — but it is a good, ripe topic worthy of your focus! The geeks will inherit the world, if they have not already done so, and it’ll be a better place for it! Fortunately, I’m about as big a geek as it gets, so I’ll try to impart some useful knowledge that’ll hopefully a) make you a better person (more of a geek) and b) get into her pants.

First, you need to at least be interested in her and what she does (this is good advice for any girl, incidentally). If she likes vampires, you better start liking vampires, or at least try to read the latest Twilight book. Or invite her around for a Buffy/True Blood marathon. If she likes comics, ask her which super hero/universe is a good one to start with, and go buy it! For bonus points, accompany her to some kind of comic/geek convention and dress up according to her wishes.

As long as you’re interested, she should fall into line pretty quickly. You don’t even have to be an alpha geek yourself, she’d probably be more than happy with someone that doesn’t hush into silence her latest thoughts on the ‘continuity of Star Trek: The Next Generation episode 42′.

For more information, I have to refer you to my own awesome Geek Guides: Why geek girls are awesome (well duh), Geeks make good lovers (this is why you want to make her yours, trust me…)

Sebby-poo, [I got called this for a short period at school by girls. It was not a good time in my life. -S]

I think I’m gay… I like girls. I don’t know if it’s a problem per se, or if it will become a problem later on… but right now, I’m just a bit confused, you know? Is it a phase? Should I tell someone to get it off my chest, or will that only make it worse in today’s day and age? I guess that’s what I’m doing now by telling you?

I suppose I’m looking for advice, if there’s anything I should know. Some background info: I’ve had a few boyfriends but nothing long-term. I’ve had sex with one boy and it was… nice. Nothing special! I recently kissed a girl at a house party… we were drunk… turns out she’s liked me for ages though… and it did feel nice, leaving me wishing something more had happened!

Help me! Am I gay or straight or just…

- A Confused Girl

Well this one’s tricky and ‘are you gay?’ is a good place to start. Sexuality has always been a contentious topic: is it genetic? Nurtured? Instilled by popular culture? The prevailing theory at the moment is that it’s a big mix of nurture and nature — your genetics and hormonal balance might play a big role in it, but so does your upbringing and experiences. No one really knows to be honest (no doubt we’ll learn more about it in the next few decades now that homosexuality is becoming ‘OK’ in modern society). The only real measurement of gayness is: do you feel more attraction (in the full sense — mental and physical, ’till death do you part) to other women? If so, then you’re gay.

But that’s OK!

It’s quite important to remember that being gay does not lock you into various stereotypes and mannerisms. You don’t have to cut your hair short and adorn yourself with tattoos. You don’t have to slap on some lipstick and make out with other girls in clubs (though you can do either if you like). You already have a potential girlfriend lined up, which is good; she can show you the ropes, and you won’t have to wander into the treacherous and seedy world of ‘gay bars’ to experiment. Talking of experimentation: who knows, it might turn out that you’re not actually into girls after all. Perhaps you’re simply curious about things, or you’re out of a disaffected relationship with a boy!

Most of all, don’t worry. Being gay is more socially accepted now than ever before! That doesn’t mean you’ll fit in everywhere, especially in mature or religious communities, and you must accept that their point of view on homosexuality is as valid as yours, and a lot more entrenched. Life as a lesbian might not always be easy, but the important thing is that you’re happy and able to be yourself.

The gymnast:

I know he looks young but he’s actually 21! They all look stupidly young here. Even the girls…

I took this photo while we were stuck up a mountain waiting for fog to clear — it had been clear on the way up, but fog in the Faroe Islands has this way of very, very rapidly blanketing everything in sight. Here the visibility’s down to about 100 meters but it got down to about 5 meters a few minutes later…!

It’s not a great photo, but you get the idea!

My other host (they’re kind of sharing me) looks like this:

While we were waiting for the fog to clear he scouted ahead. Somehow he ended up on top of that rather large rock (there was no easy way up there but these crazy mountain-dwelling Faroese always find a way…)

I just realised I can’t really say any more about them without asking permission first, so you’ll just have to do with two photos.

Wandering around the streets like a drunk viking tomorrow! Can’t wait. So far all of the carousing seems to be done almost exclusively by men. I hope there are girls there tomorrow…

This is a story about young love.

Young, embarrassing, sticky love.

Love that we thought safely hidden by the shadowy embrace of a moonless night. How wrong we were…

(An old photo of mine, taken during a blue moon)

You probably know, if you watch the news or have a friend that rejoices in telling you useless, geeky facts, there’s a very big meteor shower occurring right now: The Perseids! If you get a chance, go outside and look for them. It’ll peak at around 100 shooting stars per hour (though by the time you read this, they’ll probably have passed — so do it next year!)

(For more TMI this Thursday, hit up Lilu’s blog!)

This story takes place almost ten years ago, in August, during the Perseid meteor shower. I was 18 and drunk and dizzy with the affections of a certain girl. She was 15 and perky. And lavishing me with lingering looks and touches. It was only a matter of time before things got out of hand.

We barbecued and she laughed at my little jokes. We strolled at dusk through beautifully-lit woodland and she walked beside me, catching my eye and smiling. And when the night’s festivities were finally through and we settled down on the castle’s lawn to rest and sleep, she lay very close to me.

By most measures we had a romantic night that could only lead in one possible, carnal direction… right?

Wrong.

I failed to tell you that this was a party. We were 20 friends having the night of our lives.

I failed to tell you that she was also in a relationship. With my cousin.

But I was young and horny… and she was even younger and even hornier… and you know how I have a thing for pretty young girls…

So there we are, under a blanket, surrounded by a big group of our friends.

We’re all looking to the heavens and counting shooting stars. Occasionally someone tries the classic: ‘There! Over there!’ which of course, by the time you’ve looked, it’s gone. Minutes pass, meteors perish with a dazzle and our chatter slowly dies down as the magic becomes mundane. Sleep begins to take hold when her hands suddenly fine mine.

A firm grip and a meaningful, deliberate squeeze that speaks much more than a spoken word ever could.

My fingers trace teasing, tantalising designs on her palm and wrist.

Her body moves fractionally closer but the tiny increase in body temperature is palpable.

My fingers continue their gentle slide along the smooth underside of her arm.

Her breath warms the side of my neck and then, as my fingers lightly tickle her she shudders, her head dropping to my collar bone.

My hand moves from her shoulder and up her neck, under her ear and she bites me, she bites my neck hard.

My whimpering is only just audible but of course I look around, nervous that we’re being watched, that someone might’ve spotted us — but no, everyone seems to be asleep or looking at the meteor shower. Her bite has become a soft kiss and yet again I can feel her hot breath on my neck. She shakes — with nerves? — as my hands encircle her waist and pull her closer, my concern for eavesdroppers and voyeurs diminishing by the second.

Her body pushes closer and I can feel just how hot she is. She squirms as my fingers tease her waist and hips. With a hard kiss on the lips I smother a moan as my arm and hand and fingertips slide yet further.

Craving her flesh I hastily pull down my pants and undress her with my spare hand until she’s almost naked; bare enough that neither of us feel restricted. My fingers then find their mark and she rolls on top of me, her body convulsing, her hips grinding against mine.

This was a stupid move for an obvious reason: I’m fairly certain our foreplay had been heard already but our friends, in a moment of true Britishness, had decided to ignore it. But that wasn’t all. When I’d rolled onto my back there’d been a quiet click, a terse snap. Our small and sweaty under-blanket world was instantly illuminated in blinding white light. Someone had brought a huge torch, just in case of emergencies.

Those that were still watching the meteors turned to look. Those asleep were woken by the kerfuffle. In a truly Austin Powers moment they all saw our mid-thrust silhouette. There were screams from the girls and cheers from the boys.

To this day, I’m told that my silhouette was very generous.

I’m not sure how to preface this one, so I’ll just lead with the goodies.

(Five years ago, 2004, in Wales at a festival called ‘The Big Cheese’…)

Those ears have a great story attached to them, which I will tell you one day, but not quite yet as it involves a very young boy that I made cry.  I have to work out a way to tell the story without making me look like a bastard.

OK, next, guess who this is:

(Last week, 2009, on stage…)

Recognise the ears?

Anyway…

In more important news (what isn’t more important than me dressing up in some kind of silken sarong and parading infront of an audience of hundreds?) I’ve done a little bit of springcleaning about the place. I finally got around to overhauling my ‘portal’ site: http://mrseb.co.uk. The old version was actually made just after the first photo in 2004 so I figured it was about time I updated it. It now has links to all things Seb, my blog, my Flickr stream, my shop on Etsy and, perhaps of more interest, a writing and photography portfolio.

The photography portfolio looks great, and if you want to show it to friends and family, please do so! Or if you know a magazine/newspaper editor… show them.

My writing portfolio is a little more nebulous as my writing style is still so new, so mutable. I’m improving and changing every day so I need to move bits in and out of the portfolio to keep it contemporary — but again, you might find it (and my experience) of interest. Also, if there’s something I’ve written (either on here, or if you’ve read other stuff by me) that you think ought to be in the portfolio, tell me!

Oh, and I forgot the most important bit! You can now be my  fan on Facebook. You probably won’t appreciate how hilariously uncomfortable this makes me, actually asking for fans. Unless you’re British, in which case you might understand. It pains me to the very core to ask you to be my fan. But as they say, you have to ask or you don’t get. So be my fan.

I’m going to go and blush in the corner now! I have Americans again this weekend. I’ll see you all on Monday, hopefully with most of my sanity in tact and a row of shrunken heads as trophies.

Imagine for a moment a world where clueless people remain silent; where those without working knowledge shut up and listen. A society whose people, instead of making wild, uneducated stabs, feels compelled to investigate, question and probe. Consider a culture that actually cares about the damage caused by ignorance and prejudice, to friends and strangers alike.

* * *

Once upon a time there was authority. I don’t mean in the policing or juridical sense — Rome didn’t have police, you know? — I’m talking of intellectual authority. If you had a question about childbirth you went to see the wizened midwife that delivered both you and your mother into the world. If you were ill, your only hope was if the sawbones had seen a similar case, or had a beaten, weather-worn hand-me-down almanac that described how to use leeches effectively. Slowly though, over thousands of years, authority shifted to the written and printed word; the professionals remained masters, but they could not travel the world as quickly or as effusively as books. Information became available, accessible, free — and both culture and science surged forward as a result.

Society began to revere the written word. For some reason, ink impressed on paper in the shape of words and sentences have immense weight and meaning. What you read about giving birth is suddenly more true than the wizened midwife’s decades of experience. A book says the world is flat and, in your mind, in an instant, the world becomes flat. It’s magical just how much credence the written word is given — people will believe the craziest things if they’re written down.

Whoompf! Religion.

Blam! Newspapers.

Poof! The Internet!

Authority still exists — somewhere — but its voice is muffled, drowned out by a sea of disinformation; information that gets propagated as wisdom because we simply don’t know any better. That’s what old wives’ tales are incidentally: something your great, great grandmother once read, assimilated as truth and then forwarded it along through the generations. Does masturbation really give you hairy palms? Is thirteen actually unlucky? No.

And therein lies the problem: knowledge is power whether it is proven true or not. Fallacy, slander and gossip — it is all, from the (unfortunate) recipient’s point of view, working knowledge. You read some juicy little factoid about a famous celebrity and… it makes you feel good. Chances are it’s not true, or only partially so, but knowing that little nugget of knowledge somehow makes you feel enlightened, powerful. “A lie gets halfway around the world before the truth has a chance to get its pants on” Winston Churchill famously said. There is a reason people peddle in lies and half-truths. There is a reason why newspaper editors ‘add one’ to death tallies or run with unnamed sources. And that’s the other, far more tricky problem: lies, if repeated enough by any kind of authority — a priest, a mother, a teacher — become truth. Cold hard truth that, within a generation, becomes wisdom.

We’re all walking around with a lot of data that we think is true. It’s a survival trait: our nurture is like gospel. And that’s bad when it overrides our nature, our experiences. We feel qualified to dispense these false truths to others.

‘You must have something wrong with your head’ we tell our friends and loved ones.

‘You shouldn’t do that, it’s wrong, it’s bad’ we say to our girlfriends and boyfriends.

‘How can you believe in that?’ we say to our friends with a differing faiths.

Anyone that’s mastered a field or subject will know that it feels a lot like peeling back layers of untruth — Oh, so that’s how it works! — that’s all real education is. It fills in gaps and rewrites what we’ve known and worked with for years. But it’s not easy. It’s no simple task to alter your entire vision of the world just because an encyclopaedia or wise man tells you to. How long did people hold onto the fact that the world was flat? That’s why false knowledge and data will continue to propagate through generations. We’re stubborn bastards.

Next time, before you pass along a piece of information, think about whether it’s actually true or not. If you’re not sure, go to the library and find out what the truth really is. At the very least you’ll be doing the next generation and tomorrow’s civilisation a huge favour.

* * *

Please excuse my use of the African American vernacular — dis, to disrespect –  but it was necessary. It’s altogether more punchy than ‘Don’t go insulting what you don’t know nothing about.’

This isn’t finished. Next I want to tie this into religion, prejudice and ignorance.