(Can you believe there’s no ‘Alliteration Is Demented Society’ yet? Perhaps I should found it, to stop the rampant meme-use of alliteration across the blogosphere. Though, I would call it the  ‘Abolition of the Abject Abuse of Alliteration Association’. Just for ironic kicks. Even if the acronym isn’t quite as good.)

This was actually going to come yesterday (Time-Warp Wednesday), but April 1st just happened to fall on the Wednesday, so I quickly had to fabricate a hoax suitable for the occasion!

Now brace yourself. This might come as a shock to some — and I hope I haven’t broken any more hearts – but, putting my finger on the proverbial nub, I’m afraid to say the fact of the matter is, I’m not gay. An overwhelming abundance of facts might lead you to believe that I’m lying — that I’ve jumped back into the proverbial closet, not quite ready to face the music, or my father’s face over fudge sauce — but I assure you, I am straight. As straight as an arrow fired from Artemis’ bow; or perhaps from a cherub’s bow — but into the heart of a woman, not a man. I like sticking it in women. Believe me, I’ve tried both, and women are just plain better; warmer, tastier and infinitely more pliable.

With that little embarassing fact out of the way, I welcome you to Time-Travel Thursday. Please follow me as I take a trip down my often-emo and angst-ridden LiveJournal memory lane. I was going to start from the beginning, but to be honest I ran out of patience reading back through page after page of geeky, inane drivel. Turns out it only goes back to when I was 19 — I thought it went back much further! I was hoping for some juicy, self-hating nobody-likes-me entries from my mid-teens, but I’m afraid they’re all from the end of my first year, after the Lesbian Encounter — an encounter that hardened me considerably (emotionally).

Though, there are the journals of a few of my past… girlfriends… that I could have a leaf through to check if there’s anything particuarly juicy about me which I can post next week.

Let me tell you a story… — March 19th, 2005

As some of you may or may not know: I quite like cheese.

My love of cheese didn’t really make itself quite so pronounced until I came to university however. That first time I ever visited Tesco, the supermarket, looking for a ‘fix’ of cheese. “10 varieties of cheddar! 5 ratings of strength and maturity!” I squeaked excitedly.

I remember that day as if it was yesterday – yet it was over 2 and a half years ago.

So, the weeks passed, I sought harder and stronger fixes of cheeses. I stuck mainly to the soft French cheese and English cheddars. Camemberts came and went; de meaux, unpasteurised brie came, and left with a little bit more of a smell.

Grade 3 cheddar became Grade 4 which in turn maxed out at Grade 5. I branched out to Irish cheddar, Canadian cheddar.

You name it, I’ve had it. From Havarti to Emmental to Chaumes.

I thought that I’d tried everything, that I’d never find a harder, more exciting cheese.

Until…

My life is now complete.

And thus concludes this week’s fantastic insight into the life of final-year university student, Spring 2005.

I was going to ‘analyse’ it, but I figured it’d be a lot more fun if I simply answer any questions that pop up… so do your worst! (There’s actually a fun story about me, cheese and my first year at university — a goose egg one, but still one that needs to be told!)

Plus, anything that makes you look at that truly atrocious photo for more than a few seconds must be a good thing.

This week, on my epic travel through time — or, as the case may be, LiveJournal — I’ve tried to piece together a few fragments of my first relationship.

I was young (well, eighteen is youngish, right?) OK, fine, not young… but sexually immature and unawakened!

As with most girls that later became my girlfriend, she hit on me. As I’ve alluded to in the past, I’m not all that confident when it comes to actually making a girl mine. I’m good with the banter, the outrageous flirtation and the extended, torturous eye-contact. And then… I clam up; sweaty, shaky, nervous.

We’re walking out of the pub, or club, or cinema, or friend’s house. We’re outside: if she turns one way, she’s coming back to my place; if she goes the other… I go home alone, again. She stops and looks up at me. I stop and look down at her.

‘So…’ There’s a certain amount of nervous shuffling. She looks into my eyes, and then down at the ground. Shuffle, shuffle.

‘See you around?’ I stupidly walk away, alone.

That same scene has been repeated throughout school, college and even university. To this day, every girl I’ve dated has ‘made the first move’. I just don’t have the balls. Anyway… (contemplative pause)

I’m feeling all squishy and exposed. I better get on with the actual purpose of this post: my first girlfriend.

The following is an entry from her journal.

Sunday, Sunday… — August 11th, 2003

Was far too sleepy to write last night! Had a busy day *grins*

I was supposed to go to a garden party, but it finished earlier than expected so I didn’t go in the end. But, instead, I went round a “friend’s” *glances at Seb*!

Watched some of the earliest series of Malcolm in the Middle and then I managed to drag him into the pool at about 9.30, it was freezing but soooo worth it, it was very…. exhilarating!

I had a really goooood night, was lots of fun!

Anyway… back to today… Monday!

And now, the entry I made on the same day, about an hour later:

*rubs eyes* — August 11th, 2003

So very, very tired.

But what a night.

TV-watching, canoodling, late-night swimming pool romps, a bit more canoodling.

I must say, I’m quite enjoying this.

I don’t think I’d be able to wake up at 7:30am, not after tonight…

Time for some music, chatter and maybe a TV episode or two…

That was a fantastic night.

A little analysis/back story: Malcolm in the Middle! I obviously noticed very early on that comedy was the best way to a woman’s heart. I am also eternally grateful that I have a heated swimming pool — without it, I might never have ‘got the girl’. If I hadn’t got the girl… well, I think my life at university would’ve been very different indeed. It was this first little success that fuelled my future relationships. In fact, it was buoyed up from the confidence of this relationship that, when the next girl invited me back to her place, I accepted. That was the girl that turned out to be a lesbian.

The first girl dumped me for a guy with a car and who shared her love of anime (which is, incidentally, why I hate anime — now you know!)

Next week, on Time-Travel Thursday… before the first girlfriend — my first, adult crush.

(I probably shouldn’t tell this story, because I don’t think the girl in question knows all of the details… but… well, let’s go for it — it’s about time she knew all of the details anyway! If after reading this you know who it’s about, please keep it to yourself.)

It all begun at Irish Dave’s house. My brother in geeky, flaccid arms. My technical crutch throughout university. And perhaps most importantly, my TV-watching ’simulcasting’ buddy (remind me to explain it another day). That was an incredibly geeky sentence, sorry. The basic gist of it: Dave’s my friend, and that’s where this story starts: In his kitchen, with some fresh coffee brewing. I’m in my student coat (much like a flasher’s coat) and I’m greasy, and dirty. We’re there to work on a university project,  so you can imagine my surprise when a beautiful, elfin girl waltzes into the kitchen.

‘Hi.’ The first thing I notice, as she greets me and Dave, is her lips. She has amazing cheekbones, too. I’m a sucker for cheekbones and little, pointed noises. She has blue eyes, and freckles — but she’s a brunette, not blonde or ginger. Put simply: she was, and is, beautiful. We chatted, and drank coffee. We met a few more times at Dave’s, and around campus but we were never anything more than acquaintances.

Weeks and months passed until we finally met again.

‘Hi, Sebby.’ She gave me that little, ever-so-slightly-shy pixie-like smile and my heart melted.

In the intervening months, I’d had a chance to reflect on just how much I liked her. My self-esteem at the time was still very low, and I’d completely missed the give-away signs that she liked me. We’d been sitting in that kitchen, and she’d been giggling, and grinning and scooting closer to me… but I’d been oblivious; completely, goddamn blind. I’d been hoping for weeks to bump into her, so I could talk about my feelings for her. I sorely wanted to broach the subject of going out somewhere together.

And that’s when I wrote this journal post:

(no subject) — June, 2003

Okay, so I had a beautiful blog entry written, and then IE decided to die.

It was about dreams, and their significance, and what last night’s dream meant about me, [The Bagel Girl] (the girl I’m currently rather attracted to), and Becky (the girl I’m sharing a house with next year — but we’re only good friends).

Other than that, not much has happened in the last few days.

I also spoke to [The Bagel Girl] three times yesterday. Which was ver’ cool. Seems she might be coming to Alton Towers on the 18th, too! (And staying at the B&B with us… *giggle*)

God, it’s been AGES since I last fancied someone. It’s quite a nice feeling

Firstly, check out that ghetto smiley! How old-school was I? Secondly, Internet Explorer? Pre-Firefox days… ew. We actually held a Firefox launch party at university — that’s how cool we were. Seriously, seriously geeky… but cool! The entry doesn’t make much sense on its own, and I wish I’d spoken more frankly and openly in that journal so that you’d be able to make more out of it. It’s enough to trigger my memories though, so I’ll continue the story:

This is where the tale takes a sad, unexpected turn. She didn’t swoon right there and then, and ask me to take her back to my cave. She’s not in my bed behind me, nagging me to finish this entry. We didn’t live happily ever after.

She didn’t even come with us to Alton Towers. The fact of the matter is, she had found another boyfriend. But I didn’t give up, oh no.

The next year of  my life was spent working my way further and further into the ‘friend zone’. I cooked for her, and took her to the cinema. I invited her around to watch her favourite TV shows, and massaged parts of her that friends really shouldn’t see, let alone touch. But at the end of the day, we were only friends. We spent hours in my bedroom, on my bed, watching X-Files, curled up under a duvet. Close friends, but not close enough. Not once did I get a single damn stolen kiss.

I finally went for the sucker punch. I made tiramisu — the God of all cakes — hoping it would seal the deal and maker her mine. But no, she remained loyal to her boyfriend.

But the most painful thing is — the bit that repeats and resonates throughout my life — she liked me. For a month, after we first met in Dave’s kitchen, she liked me. She wanted to go out with me and kiss me and do despicable, unmentionable things with me. When we next met, that raw, bright flame had been extinguished, never to be be rekindled, no matter how hard I tried.

We were just sitting there, a year later, in my kitchen and enjoying each other’s company. She put another piece of bagel between those lips and chewed in silence, thoughtfully.  After a while, she originated quietly:

‘You know, Sebby, I liked you. When we first met, I liked you a lot. I wish you’d done something about it.’

She finished chewing, put her plate in the sink and went back upstairs to my room. I was dumbfounded.

…

That’s enough for now. I’m actually mentally exhausted from recalling and reliving that period of my life. I apologise if the story doesn’t make as much sense as it should. It’s odd: the story is so incredibly vivid, in my mind; but I can’t seem to get it right, on paper. I want to write more on the subject, because I have a lot of fun stories to tell about me and The Bagel Girl, but they’ll have to wait for another day, when I don’t feel quite so morose and I feel I can do them justice!

I still wonder what life would’ve been like, if I’d had the balls and self-esteem to ask her out, back in Dave’s kitchen. If only I’d noticed she had the hots for me. We got on so well..

Hm… now I’m a sad Sebby…

Next week, on Time-Travel Thursday… something more positive and happy!

This follows on from last week’s entry where I told the sad story of my first adult crush. This story picks up from about 2 months before my first long-term girlfriend, and is a lot more fun than the story of my crush. You probably don’t know what I looked like back then, so I’ll start with a photo taken in the summer of 2004, a couple of months after this particular story. Don’t be hating the sunglasses; they weren’t mine. Other people’s sunglasses tend to gravitate towards me because I look quite cool — I don’t own a single pair!

It was February. It was cold and rainy. But this was university! And we were young! Weather is so unimportant when you’re young, dumb and full of cu– Anyway, I digress. The point is, at university, no matter the time of year, girls wear almost nothing. As one of the biggest fans of girly-girls — I love dresses, skirts, frills and strappy tops and PINK — university became 3 years of pleasure. 3 years of sitting in one of the main squares and skirt-watching. My best friend and I actually used to go and park up outside a local sixth-form college (16-18 year olds, for the non-Brits) and girl watch.

(Is that lecherous or fairly healthy behaviour for men? Don’t answer that one, I’d rather not know.)

I love skirts. They don’t even have to be short, though it obviously helps my crippled male imagination if they are. For me, it’s all about the flowery flowy flounciness that comes with cute and light clothing. A long, prettily-patterned summer dress can be as attractive as a mini-skirt. If you boil it right down, men love skirts because of the ease of access. I’ve actually lifted the skirts of a girlfriend’s dress over her head so that she couldn’t see and then… done things to her that I shan’t repeat here. That was hot.

So, that’s lesson number one: if you want to get into my pants, try wearing a skirt. Those militant jeans-wearers aren’t completely out of the running, they just better be damn awesome jeans — or a mighty fine figure better be eye-poppingly obvious through examination of your denim exoskeleton.

Lesson number two is: if a drunk girl in a short skirt asks you to carry her home, unequivocally and without allowing your brain a moment’s thought, say yes.  Read my journal entry from 2004, and I’ll carry on where it left off.

Chivalry, huh, my arse… — February 2004

Well, that’s the last time I carry a girl from the Underground [the university's main night club] to her house… about 500 meters.

All because she was hideously drunk, all over me, offering sexual favours of all sorts and wearing a rather pretty, short, hot-pink skirt.

Ho hum.

Thank God for honour and chivalry, eh?

And to top it all off, she had 4 friends staying over for the weekend. 4 very drunk friends…

Anyway, starting from the beginning… Marc and I decided to go out and have fun. We’re fast becoming going-out buddies. We thought we’d just go out, look cool… see what happens, that kind of thing. We get to the bar. Order our drinks. Strike a pose. Watch the women go by… Becki, Marc’s crush from last week is there… She doesn’t even make eye-contact with him. She’s obviously playing hard to get…

So, insert a brief foray into Mondo [a smaller nightclub], and then an extended stay in the Underground and you pretty much have my night, wrapped up in a nutshell.

But you’d have to gloss over the stagger back to the South Courts [her house], and the party that ensued, with Marc, the five girls (Becki and her friends) and I. Mad, I tell you.

Luckily they were drunk, really. Otherwise I might have done something I’d regret.

I mean, they all changed into their pajamas. At the same time.

…

First, I should explain the difficulties of carrying a girl in a short skirt. There’s simply no where to put your second hand. So, on her pert ass it goes. Hell, she didn’t seem to mind, and neither did I. I dragged out those 500 meters to her house by walking very, very slowly. For the record, that’s as close as I’ve ever come to abusing a drunken girl. I hope she wasn’t that drunk actually, as we did have a bit of a ‘moment’, with her there in my arms, blearily looking up into my eyes, my nervous, sweaty hand on her buttock. Anyway…

Secondly, and this is where it gets a bit messy (try to keep track!): Becki was the best friend of the girl that would soon become my first long-term girlfriend. I actually got close to Becki before I later got close to my soon-to-be girlfriend. In fact, I might have ended up with Becki, if she hadn’t crushed so hard on Marc, my housemate, and a slew of other beach bums! It was a very complicated 2 months which I don’t remember all the details of (so I shan’t repeat them here, in case I get things wrong), but let’s just say ‘Love Triangle’ doesn’t even begin to describe what was going on. I think, individually, I slept with Becki, my girlfriend-to-be and Marc and there was even some three-way action at one point. It was all a very confusing period, and I’m very happy with how it ended — and how my first proper relationship begun!

That whole mess somehow ended up with me in a happy, healthy relationship that would turn out to last for the rest of my days at university. She wasn’t a geek, but that didn’t stop me from turning her into one. I didn’t want to completely geekify her — I wanted her to continue wearing those tiny skirts and strapless tops. I did manage to get her to dress up, but not as a character from her favourite anime or sci-fi film. Actually, she didn’t like anime at all (phew!) She had a rather awful (you can imagine the grimace on my face…) habit of turning up at my house in just a long coat and lingerie. Damn her.

The rest of that story’s for another day though, next Thursday perhaps!

Please note how I refrained from taking advantage of five (5) girls in the smallest almost-there pyjamas that I’ve ever been fortunate enough to witness. The whole drunken-girls-trying-to-woo-me would be a recurring theme throughout university. If only the sober ones had tried…

Today, Tuesday, is the first of a few limited-edition one-off ’specials’. You know, like those episodes of Mythbusters where they go to Siberia, or borrow a bunch of high-grade military weapons. Each of these specials will focus on a particular aspect of I, Sebastian, normally featuring some kind of retarded dressing up.

You see, being a roleplayer and an actor, and having a mother that is also an actor and a massive, charismatic extrovert, I often end up in some pretty ridiculous predicaments. In a tutu, as Tinkerbell, or a fluffy bull-body suit as Nana the Dog. I’ve been cowboys (both gay and straight), a mouse in Cinderella, an extra from Dirty Dancing and, yes, I’ve been a pirate.

Quiet a few times, actually. I like wearing eye-liner, what can I say? Actually, I like the attention I get from girls when I wear eye-liner. I’d also be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy the occasional camp dress-up (most men would be lying if they said that!) Since Pirates of the Caribbean I’ve had 3 chances to get out the smock and saber and taken advantage of every of them!

My first time… (dressing as a pirate)… was in 2004  just after the first film, back when the world was only talking about two things: ‘Isn’t Johnny Depp dreamy? I didn’t think I could love a camp drunk, but in his case…’ and ‘Cor, Orlando Bloom’s a bit of a girl, but damn… he’s cute.’ In fact, about 90% of all girls had a poster of one or the other on their wall. Not one to squander such potential pulling power, my first attempt at Orlando Bloom as Will Turner:

As you can see, I only managed a rapier that time — not quite the right kind of sword, but it did the job, as you can see from the rampant blonde attack. She was moving so quickly that she actually got in and out of the frame in the time it took the photographer to press the button. Drive-by kissing at its finest. This is also one of the very few photos with me wearing glasses and smiling.

Next, we have a fairly generic pirate. This was around the same time that I discovered eye-liner and started wearing it at every possible opportunity; well, whenever I was home alone, anyway. I wonder to this day if my mother noticed her eye-liner pencil going blunt without her use. Maybe she just kept it quiet, for my sake, and for my father’s blood pressure.

I actually wore my facial hair like that for quite some time — I quite liked it (and The American loved it, but that’s another tearjerker for another Time-Travel Thursday), but turns out I looked a bit old and, er, rapist’ish, so I finally stopped trimming my beard like that last year. I still think it’s pretty sexy though…

Finally, we have the new and improved Will Turner that I sported yesterday evening. I gave you a teaser yesterday, but now I’ll give you the other two photos… with a waistcoat and saber, the real deal! Eye-liner, waistcoat, slicked-back hair AND, most importantly, a big frickin’ phallic saber representing my overwhelmingly potent masculinity.

Christ, I think that’s quite enough photos for one day. I’m feeling all self-conscious now. Don’t tell me I messed up the make-up, please girls… my fragile ego just can’t take it.

Tomorrow, assuming the weather gets better, I should have coverage of Eric’s judicious winner-deciding ceremony. It was meant to be today, but it ended up pissing down; Eric doesn’t like rain, y’see…

I had planned a fantastic post today about immortality (as one does…) but as I sat down to type it out, my mother called up the stairs:

‘Don’t forget, it’s your birthday tomorrow!’

Thanks for reminding me, mum.

‘25! That’s a quarter of a century! A third of your life, GONE!’

You can shut up now, mum.

‘By the time I was your age, I was married and had you!’

I shut my door, sat down and… pouted. How am I meant to think philosophically about immortality — the soul, your mind, infinity — when my mother’s busy reminding me of my own, pesky mortality?

‘I expect grandchildren sooner rather than later, Sebby.’ Somehow, her nagging had penetrated my door. Remind me to buy some high-density foam with my birthday money. To soundproof my room. Though, I could probably smother her with it, too; and no, not in ’smothered in cream’ sense — I’m not Oedipus.

And so it is with anger in my fingers that I bash out this blog entry. I’m not old damnit. I have plenty of time to get things done, to find the next love of my life and to spawn a son suitable for inheriting my universal empire. Oodles of hours and a slew of centuries — however you measure it, it’s still time, a slave destined to bend to the wishes of its master: us. Mark my words, friends: we will live forever.

Laying aside that particular topic, I have a bunch of fun photos to share with you, to celebrate the first 25 years of my life. But first, as with all living things, there was a birth. I was born after 48 hours of labour, by Caesarean section (fitting, considering my aspirations), to a rather tired mother. I was almost called Dominic (of all names, why Dominic?) but thankfully my mother’s crush for Sebastian Flyte in Brideshead Revisited prevailed. I can’t imagine being called Dominic now; it’s hardly the name of an intergalactic imperator.

That’s me, a month or two old — it’s hard to tell, because I was a huge baby, 10lbs or more (remember, ladies, 48 hours. 2 days of labour). The Brits will recognise the gesture I’m making; the rest of you will just have to believe me when I say it’s a fitting flick of the fingers. Looking through our Hall of Fame (we have a corridor dedicated to our old photos), I hardly recognise myself until I’m about 2 or 3. New-born, I look like my mother — a year or two later, I start to look like my father. By the age of 4, I’m a bit of both but a new ingredient has been thrown into the mix: cuteness.

It’s kind of sad to realise, looking through the hall of fame, that I’ll never be as cute as that again. I peaked at the age of four. Perhaps my mother is right — perhaps I do need to find a wife as soon as possible. Perhaps, as each day ticks by and another year is sliced from my mortality, I’m getting uglier. Ugh. Oh well. I’ll just tell every girl that I meet that I actually look just like the photo above, if I shave it all off. That’ll work.

Things got a little wonky after that, and I shan’t be posting pictures from my teenage years again. If you really want to see what I look like, go and read my childhood entries. Warning: I look a bit like a girl.

Moving swiftly on, from the androgynous Beatles-lookalike stage of my life, I bring you kicking-and-screaming to my 21st birthday!

I’m having more fun than it looks, I promise. I’m just making it quite clear that the bits of foil stuck on my face were not my own doing, and they kept falling off into my food. Japanese food deserves better than that, damnit! Fun side-story: the phone being looked at in the background has naked photos of my ex-girlfriends on, and they’re just about to find them. And one of them was my girlfriend at the time (hah, that’ll teach them to pry!) It’s also the phone I eventually lost on a bus, making some guy (or girl) very lucky indeed… sorry, girlfriends. I’m sure they can’t identify you from that angle, anyway.

I’ll finish with a photo from my last summer ball — the final event in the university’s social calendar — with what seems to be a very happy girl in my arms:

It’s shocking how much I look like my cousin, but that’s another story for another day! By the time you read this, I’m probably in bed, trying to catch a few fleeting hours of sleep before my mother bounds into my bedroom to celebrate the passing of yet another significant milestone in my life. Twenty-one, check. Quarter-century, check. The next must surely be ‘get married’… Or will thirty come and go…?

It’s not too late to send me a birthday present! I accept almost any form of gift/keepsake including, but not limited to: book token, personalised poem, (un)used underwear, cash or banker’s draft.

Variety is the spice of life. A phrase used all too often by parents and grandparents, normally when something doesn’t go quite right. ‘Ah well, you didn’t get the girl and you ended up with a bruised knee, eye and chin AND a rash on your ass BUT… you know, variety is the spice of life!!!’

(Old people always talk with multiple exclamations, especially in emails…)

What the phrase really means is that doing things differently is the key to keeping life interesting. Don’t always drive the same route to work. Don’t always buy the same food while shopping. Watch a new TV show, read a new genre of book — whatever, just mix things up. There is more than one way to skin a cat — a really damn morbid phrase from the 1800s (I guess when tanning was all the rage — but did people really wear cat fur?) — but it’s true!

And with that mention of furry animals, I have the perfect segue: my love of dressing up. Last month, The Pirate Special. This month: The Animal Special. ‘Animal’ is a loose classification. Let’s call it ‘non-human dress-up’. I should also warn you that in the following photos I am actually depicted as a furry, a race of dorks despised by every other kind of cosplayer and convention-goer out there.

Without further ado, to start off gently, we have my friend and I dressed up (ish) as mice in Cinderella:

It was a bit of a rush job, thus the white pieces of cloth being the only actual part of our costume. But we looked funny amongst the kids, trust me. And we were meant to have a very simple costume, it was part of the plot (don’t question amateur dramatics, really…) Later in the show I realistically transformed into a horse for Cinderella’s carriage — amazing what you can do with a quick fade-to-black, cardboard cut-out and glitter.

On the back of my fantastic mice acting I was asked if I’d like to be in the next show: Peter Pan. By this stage, I’d already been Nana the Dog so I asked if I could be Tinker Bell. There was an uncomfortable pause.

‘Um… sure… but we’ll have to butch you up a little. We’re not sure if a guy playing a lithe, ballet-dancing fairy is really… you know, part of the show. But for you, Seb, we’ll make an exception.‘

And thus, I became Tinker Bell, fluttering around the stage with my long, flowingly balletic arm movements. Perhaps the best part about having a big Tinker was my ability to carry Peter around, instead of fitting him with a harness…

Note how I used my two years of ballet training to almost get onto the tips of my toes. He’s not a small boy either! Magic performed before the audience’s very eyes, MAGIC!

I fully expect to be asked to play Cinderella next year; I’ll be horribly disappointed if they give it to some stereotypically pretty blonde bimbo instead.

Finally, the cosplay that started it all: Nana the Dog. I was 18 — seven years ago now, Jesus — and naive. Oh so ignorant of the wiles my mother possessed. I was somewhere on campus, probably reclining on a sofa (that’s a tie-in to yesterday’s entry) when my mother phoned me:

‘Sebby, there’s a pantomime in a few weeks and we need more men.’ ‘Needing more men’ is a very, very common problem for amateur dramatics — it’s not unusual for a show to have only 1 or 2 old, greying impotent men and 20 women.

‘Sure… but I’ve got a pretty busy schedule at university…’ At that exact moment I had my hand locked behind my girlfriend’s head, holding her down. A busy schedule indeed.

‘Don’t worry, it’s not a very big part. Just chorus stuff.’ Notice the crafty subterfuge. Jewish mothers are sneaky. I fully expect my mother to forge my signature on a marriage certificate one day if she finds a ‘good, sturdy girl with fine hips’.

‘When is it?’

‘The day after your semester ends.’

And so there I found myself, rushing back from university, completely unaware of the sticky, synthetic-fur fate that awaited me. I knew the show was Peter Pan but beyond that I hadn’t a clue. I thought I’d be a pirate or perhaps a very, very large and exceedingly hairy Lost Boy. Maybe I’d just be standing in the wings singing; whatever, a local amateur dramatics group needed my help damnit, no matter the role, I’d give it my all!

I pulled up at the house and opened the front door only to be greeted by my mother rushing past me towards her car.

‘Come on! The show starts in 30 minutes!’ I started to protest: I wanted to eat, shower… shave!

‘Don’t worry.’ A mischievous twinkle in her eye. ‘You don’t need to shave.’

We arrive at the theatre with 15 minutes to spare and I’m pushed into the dressing room. I count all the pirates, Indians and Lost Boys; Peter, Hook, Tiger Lily and Tinker — they’re all accounted for — I glance around the room again, my gaze becoming frantic — all… but Nana. A large dog suit hangs from the wall. I stare at it, amazed by the success of my mother’s ruse. I notice a pretty girl smiling up at me with black face paint in one hand and some hair-ties in the other. Maybe it’s more of a smirk on her face. Yeah, definitely a smirk. I sigh,  accepting the imminent demise of my ‘cool kid’ reputation and begin to strip down, just 10 minutes away from curtain-up.

‘You’ll enter by crawling the length of the theatre auditorium with your cousin on your back. After that, just go with the flow.’ The director held me at arm’s length, assessing my get-up and make-up critically. Definitely the most minimal stage directions I’ve ever received before going on I thought to myself as stretched and limbered, preparing for my big entrance.

I guess when you’re a dog whose only lines are ‘woof’, ‘grrr’ and ‘purrr’ (it was pantomime after all) you can get away with just about anything. There’s something so incredibly unique about a 6′5″ beast zipped up in a fluffy dog suit with pigtails and one of his eyes painted black. I think the fact that I had my incredibly cute cousin on my back helped — sadly, only one photo exists of him riding on my back and I don’t have a copy of it. I must try to track it down!

The following image contains new and exclusive content of my head actually in the bowl. It’s a photo I’ve always wanted to share, but never found a suitable time to do so…

These are possibly two of the only photos with me actually smiling. That’s a bit sad.

Still, I can’t believe I didn’t score at the after-show party. Perhaps I should’ve taken the doggy suit off before flirting with Wendy and Tiger Lily.

Much like last week’s entry, this one definitely contains very adult themes — no pictures or animations this time though, so it is work-safe! The title is a little misleading, but you’ll have to read the entire story if you want to find out why. If I disappear from the Internet for a few days after publishing this, it’s because I’ve gone to hide in a corner, whereupon I will be blushing like a schoolgirl that’s just accidentally touched a boy’s willy. If you want more Too Much Information (TMI) stories head over to Lilu’s blog — but my story’s probably far more embarrassing than any of theirs.

The hotel room itself was nice enough, functional. A king-size bed: a little firm, but good back-support would be ideal for the kind of weekend we had planned.

It was all going so well until she pulled out the tube of lube.

‘It’s time, Seb.’

Time for what? My mind was racing, desperately trying to work out what I’d agreed to. Was this another case of me forgetting the little details? Women are so good at remembering. Had I agreed to do something and then conveniently filed it into the ‘Nag Me So That I Remember’ compartment of my mind?

She shifted her weight. She must’ve noticed my hesitation. I’d been very, very keen so far to try anything and everything — so had she! — but now I was sitting on the bed, staring at the tube she held in her hand. There was an impish grin on her face. An impatient-looking grin.

‘Ohhh…!’ I still hadn’t a clue but, by now, I’d learnt to just go with it, be decisive — there’s a big difference between rushing out at the last moment to buy your girlfriend a birthday present and actually forgetting her birthday.

‘Right… hand it over then!’

[I'm struggling to write the story at this point, but I'll continue on... -S]

I squirted a little lube onto my hand. Cold, slimy. What was I meant to do? Just rub it on? Sure, I can do that… On it went. Slippery. A little chilly too — menthol? Wow, my nervousness slipping away, this was going to be wild!

She sat back onto me — the Asian Cowgirl (don’t click!), apparently –  and… sure enough, the lube helped; a bit too much, if you know what I mean, boys. Before I know it, she’s bouncing around like a maniac, my biceps pumping like pistons. Faster, faster, DEEPER – penetration has never been this easy! In the heat of the moment I decide to go for one of my favourite moves, the back-breaking whip-it-all-the-way-out-and-then-thrust-back-in-even-deeper. I arch my back and push her upwards, escaping for just a moment. We take a collective breath and she grins at me over her shoulder. This is the run-up to the finishing line we’ve got to get it right. I pull down on her hips and thrust upwards.

BANG! Back in I go. But wait a second… this feels different. Really different. Tighter.

‘FUCK, Sebastian!’

I withdraw quicker than the head of a terrified turtle.

‘Shit, wrong hole! Er… not shit, I mean… er… DAMN!’

…

That was the end of that. Ironically, the lube was actually purchased with that purpose in mind! I think she’d anticipated a bit more warning and preparation. The lube went back into the bedside table drawer, never to be seen again…

But not the end of the story! Now the bad bit…

[Deep breaths, Sebastian... deep breaths...-S]

We’re in the shower now. It’s been two days since the incident and I’d all but forgotten about it. Heat of the moment. Controlling your penis isn’t easy at the best of times, especially not the tip of it, 8 inches away from the nearest cluster of muscles. Water under the bridge. What happens in the bedroom stays in the bedroom. Obviously though she hadn’t forgotten…

I finish rubbing the soap into her skin and rinse her off with the shower head, with a little teasing of course. I turn around.

‘My turn. Do me!’ So she rubs shower gel into my back, my shoulders, my torso. It’s slippery and soft and warm and wet. Her hands work their way down over my stomach to my hips and then she teases me with the soap, her hands, the shower’s jets of water. I’m getting quite into it when all of a sudden, out of fucking nowhere:

POP! Finger up ass. All the way up. My last virginity, taken ruthlessly and without consent. At least she’d lubed her finger first.

‘How’d you like that, Seb?’

Back in time again, to the beginning of my second year at university. The following action will actually take place in the same bedroom that would later be involved in the ‘Voyeur Mother‘ story. Again, Lilu’s blog has a bunch of other embarrassing Too Much Information stories, if mine doesn’t make you squirm enough — which I find highly unlikely.

I looked down at plastic, pink spheres, graded in order of size, neatly strung together to form a chain of ten. Someone had left them on the kitchen table — a present? For me? I tentatively reached forward to pick them up when one of my female house mates walked into the kitchen, looked down, the blood draining from her face.

“SEB! Stop!” My hand stopped mere inches from the purple balls. I turned around and looked at her. Her eyes were large, afraid and she stood transfixed, simply staring at the string of beads on the table.

“What…?”

“Th-th-those are… vibrating Thai love beads!” I recoiled and quickly scampered to a safe position behind her, peeking over her shoulder at the dirty, sinful orbs. “Love-what?” I was a late bloomer. I hadn’t a frickin’ clue what love beads were, or why they would be on my kitchen table. In retrospect, it’s even more shocking to realise that she knew what they were. She quickly told me what they were and what they were for. Ew.

Skirting around the outside of the kitchen, holding onto the worktop for support, I made my way to the sink to grab a spatula and some washing-up gloves. “So why are they on our kitchen table?” I scooped them up, holding them at arm’s length. I teased my house mate a little with my beads-on-a-stick. She screamed and ran away. But then I started to think about things: if they’re not mine, and they’re not hers, whose are they? I quickly ruled out two other house mates — they were even more vanilla than I — which left just one other house mate. The dark horse. The sex pest. The one with an Asian girlfriend that looked about 12 years old. Philip, or Phil as he preferred to be called. It was all slotting into place: he’d just come back from a trip to the Far East and he certainly had all the tell-tale signs of being a bit of a bedroom odd-job.

If the kid-like girlfriend wasn’t enough, let’s just say that when I walked into his bedroom and found a couple of restraints tied to the head of the bed, I knew they weren’t for his girlfriend. And neither was the ball gag or spiked paddle, if the noises we’d heard in the middle of the night were anything to go by. Phil, it’s safe to say, was a bit creepy.

So with the spatula extended as far away as possible, the malevolently whiffy beads hung over the end, I walked towards to his bedroom and knocked.

“Come in.” I shuddered. I bet he’d used that line before, whispered huskily to his strap-on wielding pre-pubescent girlfriend. I pushed the door open and he quickly smiled. “So that’s where they are!” Another shudder as I drop them onto his bed and make a hasty exit, keeping my eyes to the floor, saying nothing. My house mate is waiting for me as I leave his room, her big eyes silently asking how’d it go? I shrug listlessly and head back into the kitchen to wash my hands and put the kettle on.

I thought that was the last time I would see anal beads. I was wrong.

…

This is where it gets bad. You probably want to look away now if you don’t deal well with visceral, gory imagery.

A few months passed. Life in the house went by with absolutely no talk of love beads, sex toys or any other kind of interesting apparatus. We even learnt, in time, to turn a blind eye on the Filipino sex slave that he’d probably drugged and brought back to England for his vile bedroom antics.

And then one, dark, stormy night I was sitting in the kitchen enjoying a particularly fine spaghetti bolognese — is there any other pasta dish at university? — when the phone rung. Ring. Just another forkful; perhaps someone else would come to pick the phone up. Fat chance I thought, cudding, chewing, ruminating on the pasta. Brring-ring, chew-chomp. I hate being interrupted by the telephone. It’s so presumptuous to think that someone on the other end actually wants to pick up and that they’re not in the middle of something else. Rrrrrring. I sigh and pick up the phone.

Hi. Is Phil there? It’s his mum. I need to talk to him. It’s an emergency.

I call out his name, no response. Louder, still no response. “He’s probably asleep” I say, sighing down the phone. Really, it’s an emergency, could you go wake him up?

Knock. Knock. No response. I push my ear up against the door. Muffled grunts? The noises of Phil waking up from a deep sleep? Still no response. Knock. Thump. His mother’s voice still weedling away in my ear please, Seb, wake him up, his dad’s just been rushed to hospital. I’m hammering away at the door now — maybe he’s not even in, maybe he’s over at his paedophilic flight of fancy’s flat. Screw it, I barge through the door, his mother’s whining finally pushing me over the edge.

“MmffphhHFNGgrng!”

Ball-gagged and restrained — his wrists to the bed, his legs to his wrists. Take a moment to get a good mental image — OK, are you there now, with me? — his legs were up along each side of his head, his body bent in two. His waxed, smooth ass fully exposed. Just visible, at the eye of the storm, was a hot-pink shiny hemisphere. A wire ran from his puckered orifice to the control box held in his nubile teen’s tiny hands. She was wearing tall heels and not much else.

As I walked further into the room his eyes bulged and looked to the phone still held in my hand.

“GrnngFFGNGFurgnmmpf–UCK, SEB! WHAT’RE YOU DOING?”

His girlfriend had finally unbuckled the ball-gag.

“It’s your mum. Should I tell her you’re busy?”

As I mentioned earlier, I’ve decided to highlight a ‘golden oldie’ blog entry that you might not have seen before!

I know this blog is hardly ‘old’, but looking at the stats, about two thirds of you will have never seen it! (It’s only 25 days into September and the blog has just broken 100,000 page views for the month — when this blog post first appeared, in March 2009, there were 40,000 page views a month.)

Today, the story I want to draw your attention to is my ‘dramatic reenactment’ of a true story. A true story of a man that fell head over heels into a disused nuclear bunker. This video diary, entitled ‘Day 37′ chronicles his hilarious, quirky and at times tearjerkingly sensitive adventures in the bunker, and how inevitably… he goes insane. (If you’ve seen the half-beard, but wondered where it came from… you are about to find out!)

Follow this link for the first chapter. The rest are linked from there. If you are of a sensitive disposition, or afraid of bodyhair, you probably shouldn’t watch (chapter 3 is the worst. Or best.)

I’m now going to cover myself in leaves for Monday’s 52 Weeks. I hope I can find one big enough for my private bits.