Life is the game of infinite choices. A field that you can wend your way through a billion times and still stumble across patches you’ve not seen before.

Every quick-running or slow-walking step alters your route through the field, through life. When you stop to smell the blooms of beauty, pause a while beneath the boughs of a tree or simply lift your head and eyes to the skies and smile, these experiences change who you are. They don’t change you but they affect your senses: you are born looking through eyes of pure clarity but with age comes fettered, foggy vision.

It’s not that the field is different. It just looks and feels different. The field itself changes very little, in ways that are predictable. The framework of existence brings periods of pestilence and death when the lush emerald greens of life all but vanish, but it also  brings new births, explosions of new energy. There are always seasons of bountiful growth when the booming burst of life seems to oust even the most die-hard spectres of dark pasts.

In the space between there is balance. It is among and between the spurts of life and rubble of death that we walk. It is right here and now, where we breathe and live and smile and survive that we make decisions about how we live our life; how best to cross that field, one step at a time.

What path should I choose? Will I let divine covenant or the winds of fortune guide me, knowing that every step I make will alter my ultimate destination?

If it helps, there are no wrong moves and only one rule, one obligation: I must make it to the end. I must survive the infinite game of life. How well I survive is only limited by my zeal and imagination.

Live life. Enjoy, relish and savour its tumultuous twists and turns: it’s meant to be fun!

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After yesterday’s deep-and-meaningful entry I feel it my duty, as your charismatic host, to break the pensive and thoughtful atmosphere. That’s another thing you might’ve noticed: I like to mix things up; I love keeping people on their toes. I revel in blowing the dust off and sparking far-flung reaches of your brain into frantic activity. It’s also about my own personal enjoyment though: variety is the spice of life, right?

And you have to admit, you have no idea what I might do next.

Without further ado, the results of a photo session from a sunny Spring (Summer?!) afternoon!

A pretty good start. Especially the slightly-quirked eyebrow and pursed lips.

I should explain the next strip of photos: I have a friend called Abi and she recently initiated me into the Way Of The X. Where you make an… X… with your fists/hands. It’s cooler than it sounds. Really, try it. Anyway, this is seven quick photos taken in succession, of me doing THE X. If you don’t get it, that’s fine — just marvel at the facial expressions.

That’s a little weird, I admit…

The thing is, I’d be lying if I said if that was my first attempt at capturing THE X. In fact, it took me about half an hour to ‘nail it’. That means there’s a lot of out-takes. Like… 200 of them. Here’s a small sample, just to prove that I am capable of some truly awesome facial expressions (and you ain’t seen nothing yet!)

Julia Roberts has got nothing on my mouth.

Constipation.

Channel the rage, Sebastian. CHANNEL IT.

… Um… some kind of… Jewish Shylock? Or… something? I don’t know.

A rare example of me actually smiling! Well, about to smile. I cracked up at my father, who insisted on crashing my little photo session…

That’s it for now. The next time you see my expressive face, I should be in a doctor’s jacket for Ask Me Anything on Friday — and if you have anything on your mind this week, ask me!

Unbeknownst to the horde of Americans that have been staying at my house over the past two weeks, I’ve actually been chronicling the state of the downstairs shower.

Boys are probably well aware of ‘Female Toiletry Multiplication Syndrome’ (FTMS) where, magically, one shampoo bottle magically divides itself, over night, into two bottles the next day. This process continues until, eventually, your entire shower is full of damn bottles. Everywhere you put your foot: bottle! And that’s if you’re lucky. When the razors and loofahs start dividing you’re in trouble…

Obviously, with six girls under one roof, this problem is exacerbated. Not only do you have shampoo bottles, there’s conditioner. And exfoliators. Defoliators! (Is that even a word?)  Razors, lotions, sponges… and even some shower gel!! But, of course, being the sensible girls that they are, they shared just one shower gel.

If only they’d shared the other products too…

A timelapse sequence from the past eleven days now follows.

Shower gel, shampoo and conditioner. Sensible.

More bottles of the same stuff? WHY?!

Obviously, after three days, some shaving needs to occur.

Another girl realises it’s time to shave! I wonder if it’s like ‘pack mentality’ — one shaves and they all shave.

Oh… my… God. The pink sponge. I thought I’d hit the mother lode when this beauty turned up. It made all the waiting worthwhile.

Two remaining girls seem to have remember that their legs are probably getting a bit hairy by now. Also, some pretty blue bottle whose contents I enver did ascertain…

Someone’s obviously had a bit of a tidy-up. A few more bottles arrive. Exfoliator maybe? Not sure.

MORE bottles. Now some baby oil in the bottom right? Or baby shampoo? And some hair treatment stuff.

Out of frickin’ NOWHERE another razor! Wait, no, three more razors. Someone obviously likes — or, by this stage, needs — a sharp blade.

Like gremlins they are… multiplying… By this stage, it was very hard to actually take a shower. I’m not a small guy, and finding somewhere to put my feet was a challenge.

…

And the worst bit is that I only just realised that one of the girls has finished my shampoo. Women! Gotta love ‘em… right…?

For those of you that read this blog on a regular basis you’ll know that my mother likes to comment. In fact, reading my blog is part of her ‘breakfast routine’ — she can often be found with a cup of tea and pastry in-hand as she reads my blog in the morning, her face displaying a terrible, nervous grin as she discovers yet another disgusting fact about her ‘beautiful, first-born son Sebastian’ (that’s how she introduces me to friends).

Every Thursday morning, like clockwork, she yells up the stairs: ‘That’s not true is it Sebastian?!’

And every time I answer with a noncommittal ‘Maybe… now where’s my coffee?’

Basically, my mother and I have a very close relationship. We talk about almost everything. She’s not quite as smart as me, but she’s a lot brighter than people give her credit for! She’s funny, though not generally witty, but occasionally she pulls out a good one. And that’s what this story’s about.

As always… for more TMI Thursday stories, check out Lilu’s infamous blog!

I’m going to tell you the origin of our ‘Embarrass Each Other’ game. It’s a very self-destructive game but just too damn fun to give up. The basic idea is simple: try to embarrass mum/Seb as much as possible. Normally this is achieved by talking very loudly in public places: theme parks, supermarkets, malls, that kind of thing. Teenage boys have a lot of things they’re embarrassed by and, believe it or not, so do ageing women!

So we’re at the supermarket on Saturday, buying food for the week. It’s very busy. We find ourselves in the ‘toiletries’ aisle, home of shampoo, toothpaste and… objects of a more private nature.

“Hey, mum, don’t you need to pick up a pregnancy test? What with all those random guys you’ve been sleeping with…”

I start off quietly, low-key. One old lady turns to look at my mother disapprovingly but we ignore her.

“Shall we check if they have those special condoms for people of a smaller, midget-like stature?” She’s louder. A couple of teenage girls turn to giggle at me. Low-blow, mum.

“What about those adult diapers? You know, those nappies that you can wear to prevent ‘embarrassing moments’. They’re just over here I think…” No more Mr Nice Guy. Right in there with the incontinence pants. We’ve often joked that my sole purpose in life is to look after her when she’s older and less… in control.

“Oh, look, they have special razors for that unibrow of yours! AND you can use it when you finally get some facial hair! Two birds with one stone!” (OK, so I was a late bloomer…) — I don’t think she realises just how loud she’s shouting, but people at both ends of the aisle have stopped to look at us. Even those paying for their food and the staff have started watching us.

“Ahhh, look! THE THRUSH CREAM! FOR THE ITCHING! Really, anything to stop you whining about that damn burning sensation!”

My mum pouts and falls silent. I’ve won; not without taking a few blows, but I’ve won, that’s what matters. I’m smiling like a smug idiot that’s just won the Special Prize. People are looking at me as if I’m dribbling down my front and walking with a limp usually reserved for limb-dragging quadriplegics.

And then my girlfriend appears. She waltzes down the aisle, unaware of the drama that’s just unfolded. She stops at one shelf and picks up a pack of extra-small condoms. She stops again and picks up a tube of thrush cream. Only then does she notice my mother and I.

OH SHI–

My friends are going to kill me for this one. They’re going to hunt me down and kill me. They’re going to be justified in doing so, too…

I think we’ve all scrubbed this particular incident from our collective memories. In fact, if you’re not quite ready for a truly awesome mental image, you might just want to visit Lilu’s blog for other, less-disgusting but still too-much-information stories.

Looking back, I think we always tried to justify it as ‘one of crazy things you do, and never, on pain of death, never, ever talk about again.’ Like when you’re out partying and you get too drunk… and you do something you regret… like screwing a heifer (not that I’ve ever done that before oh no) — only in this case we weren’t drunk. Not even a little. Sober, completely, utterly, intravenous black-as-a-starless-night coffee sober.

We slithered and squeaked and shoved each other across the sticky-wet plastic with nary a trace microgram of alcohol in our blood.

Peter once tried to bring it up with an innocent grin, a misty-eyed glimmer of mischievous recollection playing across his visage: ‘hey guys remember that time…’ And then he saw our faces. We were all staring at him, anger and pain oozing from our sorrowful, regretful eyes. He soon shut up. No one has mentioned it since.

Until now.

Enough time has passed. Geographical and emotional distance has squeezed its way between us. We’re no longer close. Maybe this story will be enough to bring us back together — maybe  it’ll remind my friends of the good times we used to have together; maybe they’ll just descend upon my house to lynch me…

It all happened on my 14th birthday…

It was raining. Heavy, but not unkind, horizontal rain. It was May and warm.

My birthday parties were always quite special, y’see. I always went one step further to make sure they were memorable or different from everyone else’s. A little gold nugget in everyone’s party bag, half-pounder burgers at McDonalds with a whole fleet of Ronalds to entertain us, entire ice-skating rinks rented out — special — and this time… this time I had rented a bouncy castle!

From my vantage point here in the present, 11 years later, it looks so innocent, so pure, so damn fun. How wrong I was…

Bounce. Bounce. Bounce.

It was all going so well. We had played musical chairs. We had eaten our jelly and ice cream. And now we were bouncing.

The rain was getting harder. We were getting wetter. Pitter-patter on the plastic and our skins, both quickly slick, slippery.

Can you tell where this is going yet..?

Gentle, friendly shoves gradually moved towards aggressive trips and flips. We climbed the squidgy, pliable walls and performed Moonsaults and Flying clotheslines.

I think before anyone had quite realised what was going on, we were wrestling and writhing there on the plastic. Grappling. Tugging. Flipping.

Then… for some reason… I took my clothes off. It just felt like the right thing to do. I was young, wild, fancy-free.

And then everyone else took their clothes off.

And… that’s the end of the story.

Is it a bit sad that my favourite bit of this photo is actually my hand at the top? It almost perfectly mimics Michelangelo’s David. Michelangelo wanted his David to exemplify the human form — he wanted his David to be perfect. Now, I won’t go as far as to draw all of those associations to my good self… but apparently I have quite nice legs. A few girls have said so now, over the years, including a few dancers! They can’t all be wrong.

This photo was meant to have me frolicking in our proper formal garden, the one with all the fancy hedging — it was meant to be full-frontal nudity, but blurred, with me in the distance, obviously having a lot of fun.

But it was frickin’ cold out and my original idea required a lot of set-up. Oh, it was raining too (you can see a few drops of rain stopped mid-descent if you look closely). So yeah, I stripped off, grabbed my mother’s Crocs (yes, they’re not mine!) and did a quickie. A quickie photo.

[More disgusting (but probably not as naked) too-much-information can be found over on Lilu's blog.]

I think this week I’ve taken more photos than any other period in my life — other than when I’m travelling of course, but it’s not really comparative. When I travel, my camera’s nearly always out — this week was my first taste of what being a working photographer might actually feel like.

The whole ooh-I’ll-just-grab-my-camera thing was obviously aided in the most part by the snow we’re currently experiencing. And the winter sun… my God, the winter sun. I assume the spectacle of the low-angle sun has something to do with our latitude — we’re fairly far north here, so in the winter, when it’s late, the sun hits the sky at a very slight angle. The colours, the pastel hue, the glorious gorgeousness that results… well, just wait and see.

Then, after that, we have the pretty girl that I’ve mentioned a couple of times. I finally turned my hand to available light portraiture, and God it’s fun, and really, really hard. You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to try it! (Photography’s a bit easy, y’see, so I yearn for anything that can spice it up a little!) I’ve taken a few photos of people in situ over the years, mostly family and very close friends, but never a proper session — just me, my camera, and her. When I arrived she hadn’t even got dressed, or done her make-up. So we chatted. I had some idea of how the patter would go. I’m good with people; charismatic, good at instilling reassurance, safety. But this was my first time, so I really had no idea what the frack to do. I kind of knew what was expected of me, a bit like sex in that regard, but I had no idea what she would do, or how it would actually play out. How about this? ‘Er, yeah! More of that!’ How about if I do something like…? <click> Props? Shall we try props? Smoking? <snap> Change of outfit? ‘Sure, I’ll just make some tea…’

And so it went. If I was using my film camera, I would’ve churned through quite a few reels. 2 hours passed way too quickly; and not once did I say ‘yeah baby, yeah!’ despite the temptation. I think I got very lucky with the model; I’ve been thinking about making her my muse. Every artist needs a muse, right?

An eclectic mix of photos follows, but I believe you will find every single one of them both delicious and easy on the eye. Each image has some notes attached; just hover over them.

(Yes, the pink you see on the horizon was even more beautiful in real life. Are you jealous?)

(I’ve been working on my black/white conversion, as you can see.)

* * *

This is just a small sample — I surprised myself with just how many good photos there were from just two hours of chatting, faffing and photographing. There’s a couple more (my favourites) up on Facebook, and I’ll probably throw some up on Flickr over the rest of the week.

I guess the obvious question is: who wants to pay me for a PHOTO SESSION?! In the comfort of your own home! You make the pretty (?) while I make the tea!

There’s a very specific period of my teenage life that I remember fondly. I was about 13 and not yet set apart from my peers by height or sharp wit or beard. I was smart, having been bumped up a couple of classes, but the bullying hadn’t started yet. It was just a twelve month period, but I think we had more fun that year than any other that followed (at school anyway, university is something else entirely).

This is a story about me and the boys. The year was 1997 and we were 13. Out of a class of 12, seven of those were boys and six of them had grown up together since kindergarten, aged 1. To say that we were close would be an understatement — we were basically brothers.  We were almost inseparable at school, always perfectly in-step and full of rapid chatter as we moved from classroom to classroom, laughing at jokes we could guess the ends of and finishing each other’s sentences.

Despite our closeness, we were still very different from one another. Some of us were academically brilliant while others simply did enough to get by. I wasn’t a chatter-box back then, but I did always raise my hand in class — I was that kid (though to be fair, I did always know the answer). I wasn’t particularly playful either… but my friends were! They were complete pranksters and always up to no good! And I always stuck at the focus of the damn crossfire.

There’s a strange kind of loyalty between childhood friends. Or maybe it’s just the fact that children are capable of firing and forgetting. When you’re 13 you can pull your best friend’s pants down, but don’t try it when you’re 31.

What I’m trying to say is, as the shy, unassuming, genteel member of the group, I was always the butt of their jests, jibes and practical jokes. I could tell you a lot of stories from that year. I could tell you about our out of bounds adventures or our scary dungeon-crawling experiences beneath our Victorian-era school building. The problem is… I’d have to ask them for permission first. A lot of the stuff is probably quite illegal too, in hindsight (it’s not really a consideration when you’re a kid), so I should probably stick to just the boner-related humour — well, except one childhood erection story that I can’t tell you until two people die.

With the preamble out of the way, let’s begin! It was a history class, and I had just stepped outside the room to talk to the teacher in private. I’d been a very naughty boy and she wanted to squeeze an apology from me — something she knew would be difficult. After a few fruitless minutes we both trudged back into the classroom, she with a frown on her face, and me with a grin.

I sat down.

A chorus of giggles erupted from behind me.

The teacher turned from the blackboard and the diagram illustrating the fall of the Roman Empire to see what a bunch of boys were giggling about. I too tried to turn around.

But I couldn’t. Because they’d glued me to my damn seat.

‘Shit, I’ve been glued to my chair’ isn’t really the first conclusion you jump to in such a situation. Let’s face it, it’s not the kind of thing you really expect, even from your prankster best friends. So of course, instead of thinking rationally, I just tried to turn around with even more force.

Rrrrrippp. There went the seat of my pants. Glue, warm, sticky glue was now pooling in, on and around my smooth, hairless… bits. I still wasn’t free either; I was still very much stuck.

By this stage, the guys behind me were in hysterics. The girls to my right were also staring at the desk, my chair, my pants. They were waiting to see what the teacher would say, before breaking their boring and sensible decorum.

Now, don’t ask me to explain the next bit. It doesn’t make sense to me now, and it never makes sense when you’re a teenager, but, yes, my fragile, nervous body decided that it was perfect time for a boner. Boiiiingggg!

Thank God I’m sitting at a desk or this could be a lot worse.

I smile nervously at the girls and try to shuffle a little further under the desk. It’ll all be over within a few minutes. Well, except for the glue. Shit, the glue.

Noooo, the teacher’s walking towards me…

‘What’s going on Seb?’

Where do I start… ‘I’m, er, stuck.’ A nervous grin — mine, not hers.

She looked down at me, cowering behind my desk. She must’ve misread the weird mix of tortured emotions displayed on my my face. The following act would never — COULD never — be forgotten. Twelve years later and what she did next is still indelibly scarred upon my subconscious.

She pulled back the desk with all the aplomb and fervor of an amateur magician.

‘Ah-ha–!’

A choked cry of alarm — from her, not me.

‘JESUS CHRIST!’

There I sat, my skinny teenage todger bursting forth from within my torn, sticky, glue-caked pants.

Unable to move. Exposed to the entire classroom. The only real saving grace is that I was 13 and not 16, or it would’ve been a lot messier.

Don’t worry, I’m not about to get all holier-than-thou. I’ve had my share of one-night stands; not lots, but enough. I’ve swung, hung and even bunged… but it was in the name of and under the guise of research!

Personally, in my humble opinion, casual sex isn’t all that. I can see the temporary appeal of rampant, lights-out knees-over-your-head action. But to me it’s like fast food: gorge yourself and there are repercussions. You can do it occasionally, but even then is it worth the indigestion afterwards?

And that’s what it comes down to, casual sex: is it worth it? This is my scarily-objective, cold-and-calculatory mind spinning up again. Checks and balances, measurement and sanity checks: you have to ask yourself, just before you unzip and stick it in — or lift up and bend over – is it worth it?

I’m not going to make this a lesson on the perils of sex. I’m not even talking about STDs or STIs! I’m just talking about complications. Try as we might, we can’t lower sex to the status of ‘team sport’. It’s involved. If we could blow our load and get off by playing football, we’d just play football. Without trying to school you all, I just don’t think it’s healthy (mentally, if nothing else) to screw everything with a pulse. I don’t want to sound like a prude, but it’s my belief that we should all value these fantastic collections of skin, bone and miscellaneous organs just a little more.

And so I devised a system. I could get into trouble if I say when exactly I implemented this system — let’s just say it was a few years ago. In its formative months The System was just a way of controlling the hedonism — you really don’t get much work done if you’re performing the 8am Walk of Shame a few times a week — then later it became more… formalised. With my System the actual quality of sex improved. There is such a thing as bad sex, don’t listen to anyone that says otherwise! Bad sex is really, really bad.

Seb’s Sex System doesn’t discourage casual sex, nor sex with strangers, but instead ensures that you constantly push the envelope rather than settling for second or third (or fourth…) best. It does this with points and a sex threshold. You start by defining your idea of the perfect sex partner. Do you want a big ass? Small? Tall, short? Muscles, or cuddle-monster? Once you have the perfect archetype (which you are free to change as your tastes alter!) every potential partner is measured against this scale. The key to this system is that the point score must increase each time you engage in casual sex. Let me give an example, using (most of) my own scale:

Perfect Archetype

Physical: Short (5′1″-5′3″/150-160cm), large eyes (colour unimportant), small’ish breasts — ass is more important. Slender but not all skin and bones (I think we’d call this a size 8 in the UK, but in the US that’s like… a size 4?)

Mental: Has to be smart/witty, interested in her surroundings/inquisitive, talks quickly.

That’s the basic template. That’s 1000 points. But it’s not quite that simple: there are deal breakers, traits that completely change your outlook. For most people these are pretty similar, but let me list some of mine:

Deal breakers: Talks slowly, bad skin, smells bad, irritating laugh, habitual mannerisms (itching, nail biting, twitches, etc.)

Any of these traits/attributes immediately lower the person’s score by 100 points.

So you’ve found your prey…

What now?! Well, you rate them against your perfect girl or boy! This bit is subjective. For me, a girl that’s one inch shorter is closer to perfection than one inch taller. For you it might be the other way around. For every ‘increment’ that your prey/victim/target is ‘out by’, deduct 50 points. So if she had large breasts, I would deduct 50 points. Semi-flat ass, minus 50. A totally flat ass? Take 100 points!

Eventually you’ll have a total score.

The System

Now that you have a score for the lucky boy or girl, you simply compare that score to your last exploit. Only if the new score is higher do you sleep with them. Not equal! Not ‘almost the same’. Higher! If this is your first time, just remember or write down the score as it’s the starting point upon which your next encounter will be compared.

Extras and things to watch out for

As you’ve probably gathered, this is a very, er, analytical system. I realised the same thing after using The System for a few months! That’s why there’s a bonus round! Also known as cool things during sex. Until now The System hasn’t really been about sex — that’s what the bonus round changes. Without going into disgusting detail (maybe another time), you should add 25 points for every ‘ooh, cool’ sex act. Likewise, you should detract 100 points for every ‘eeww, not cool’ sex act. Update the previous total score with these new modifiers and commence your 8am Walk of Shame. Rinse, repeat!

It’s also worth noting that you can set a ‘baseline’ level if you’re new to the whole sex-before-marriage thing. Most people will just leap right into it, but in some cases (say, in a city with lots of immigrants or gypsies) it might be wise to stipulate a base threshold that potential squeezes must surpass. An easy-going person might be happy to start with girls or boys around 100 points. ‘Tight’ girls (and boys), those of you that like to think they’re a cut above the rest, probably want to start at around 500 points. Remember, there is a happy medium between promiscuity and chastity.

Best-case scenario you’ll have a lot of wholesome, healthy fun. You might even find the love of your life! At the very least you’ll learn a lot more about the world and how we interact with one another — important skills, in my opinion!

Instructions: Hit the buttons. Order doesn’t really matter, but most phrases are grouped into ‘types’. Also, visit Lilu’s blog for more grossness, after you’ve had a fiddle with my soundboard.

Tips: You don’t have to wait for one sound to finish before you start another. Also, you might want to turn your volume down a little…

(If you can’t see the Flash soundboard below, you need to visit my blog.)

By all means let me know of any particularly nasty/nefarious combinations that you can come up with. And let me know if you use it, er, in the bedroom too.