I was going to write about books today, but my mind’s on other things. Perhaps after I finish reading Pratchett’s latest (Nation) I might write some kind of mini-review. Ironically, any book reviews that pretend to be intelligent and ‘deep’ tend to be completely unreadable… I should probably avoid doing that.

(Which reminds me, this year’s Bad Sex Awards were recently announced: http://www.literaryreview.co.uk/badsex_11_08.html, well worth a read, if you find my blog entirely untitillating… which is unlikely, but one never knows what kind of readership one has…)

Ah, screw it, I’ll give you some choice excerpts from the Bad Sex Awards 2008. Who needs to write quality prose when you have tripe like this available:

“…but he didn’t know what name to call her. ‘Mrs Rougement’ was the name he had always known her by. God, she was antique, but here they were. Her face gleamed with his jism in the spotty light of the motel room, there on the far end of East Beach, within sound of the sea. The rhythmic relentless shushing returned to their ears. She laid her head on the pillow and seemed to want to be kissed. Well, why not? It was his jism. Having got rid of it, there was an aftermath of sorrow in which he needed to be alone; but there was no getting rid of her. ‘Call me Sukie,’ she said, having read his mind. ‘I sucked your cock.’”

Yeah. That was the most PG-13 passage I could find, too.

I’ll stop with the excerpts now, lest my blog become un-worksafe.

Okay, ONE more.

“At last, she could no longer control the world around her, her five senses seemed to break free and she wasn’t strong enough to hold on to them. As if struck by a sacred bolt of lightning, she unleashed them, and the world, the seagulls, the taste of salt, the hard earth, the smell of the sea, the clouds, all disappeared, and in their place appeared a vast golden light, which grew and grew until it touched the most distant star in the galaxy.”

Really, if you want to read some more, you’ll have to do it in your own time… preferably alone.

It’s kind of hard to draw myself away from reading it, to write this, if I’m totally honest, but I’ll try.

I went out yesterday to try and take some photos, but they didn’t come out all that well. Sometimes the eternal grayness of England can be a little annoying. Then the clouds have an annoying habit of only dissipating when it’s almost twilight — I haven’t seen the sun since I took those photos, actually. I guess it’s even worse up in the Arctic circle, where they only have a few hours of daylight in the winter. Maybe they don’t have the greyness though…

That reminds me! I was invited to Norway! To … um… see some fjords! I think they have some pretty girls too, and lots of oil. And fjords; many fjords. They’re meant to be rather pretty though, and I’m sure they look all glassy, magical, crystalline and blue in the spring. EasyJet can probably get me there for the same price as a sandwich from an airport departure lounge. Reminds me of the time I spent about 8 euros on a tall glass of orange juice in Istanbul airport (en route to Antalya), a meager 40 times more expensive than the 20 euro-cent glass I had in the seedy, stinky, characterful back-streets of the Bazaar.

I think the thing I loved most about my trip to Turkey was Thermessos. I arrived at the bottom of a rather large hill (mountainous by my woefully understated natural-phenomenonish British standards), where a guy in a hut was quite obviously sleeping, whiling away the hours. I poked him gently until he awoke. I tried to communicate that I wanted to see Thermessos, the mighty, unassailable city! The city that Alexander the Great failed to conquer! He simply pointed up a rocky, mud path. That’s tourism in Turkey. A 2 mile mud path up a steep hill… which finally spits you out at the ruins of an ancient city that once had a sizable population. There’s something about standing in an almost-complete Roman theatre, one with 10,000 seats, and singing as loud as you possibly can. It was contrasted rather starkly by a trip to the Colosseum in Rome, which was jam-packed with thousands of tourists. Rome only really exists in its current form to facilitate tourism, it seemed.

Time to finish reading the smut… (Check out the one that features a character called Sebastian…)

The fated words spoken to me by the smallest (and cutest) girl I have the pleasure of knowing – Serena. Well, she used to be cuter, when she was smaller… now she’s all teenage and stuff. But back then, she was cute:

(It was fun to find the picture again… it’s one of my earliest film-camera photos)

Anyway, it’s a long story, but we ended up acting together in a little comedy skit. Me, my cousin (who’s 6′8″, 3 inches taller than me — about 200cms, for those metric goons out there), and a couple of little girls. The basic premise was that we were a freak show in a circus (’The impossibly tall men’, or something), and they would swan around our feet and look up at us, gawking and improvising: ‘You’re mighty tall’, Serena said to me (and she’s Scottish, so you just have to imagine how cute it sounded).

At 196cm, I am indeed mightily tall. The sad thing is, my cousin dwarfs me:

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(He’s going to kill me for posting this one, I think… it’s a long story… Actually, it’s not as long as he would’ve hoped, but I’ll still spare you the details) That was taken about 5 years ago, and he’s grown since then. Scary, huh? (The height, not the dress.) I think I was being Orlando Bloom in that photo, thus the odd facial hair. I have a nice picture of me with a rapier somewhere actually… I might post that some time.

What was I saying… ah, yes, I’m tall. We’re not sure to this day how I ended up quite this tall — apparently I have some tall cousins, but they are a fairly distant relation. Perhaps I’m just a sign of things to come: Darwinism, survival of the fittest, has been slightly circumvented by our standards of living, and our ability to work around disabilities. In the olden days, tall people probably couldn’t fit into caves, or perhaps they had their heads bitten off by rabid monkeys. A bit like short people probably couldn’t run fast enough, tall people probably weren’t desirable, back in the day.

Nowadays though, tall men have it good (a rather windy link, but worth a read, if you’re a single woman looking for a strapping young, tall gentleman…)! There’s tons of research showing that tall men are simply more desirable than shorter men. Shorter men also tend to be more jealous in general. I guess they just know that I’m packing an omnipotent .50cal, while they’re stuck with their inadequate 9mm.

I have to admit, I don’t think I’ve seen any more action than my shorter friends though. I seem to be more successful when it comes to situations where the odds are against me though. I can’t recall a time I’ve failed at the seduction… That might not be my height, though. I’ll withold final judgement until I find a nice short woman with child-bearing hips.

Being tall has its other advantages though. I mean, I was never without a football team at school. The fact that I couldn’t (and still can’t) run meant nothing, because I could cover the entire goal with my lanky limbs. I can also slam-dunk in basketball without really leaving the ground, just by standing on my toes.

The best bit is I can see down a girl’s top, without her realising, because I could easily be looking at her face. The marvel of angles…

Tonight my cousin, one of the few people I am close enough to consider ‘a friend’ — and there aren’t many of those, as I’ve said before — called into question my sexuality.

Attractive but hairy and short cousin (definitely a Beta male, compared to my Alphaness): “Have you got a girlfriend yet?”
Seb: “No…”
Cousin: “I’m starting to seriously worry about your sexuality.”
Seb: “Just because I like musicals, and wear pink pashminas doesn’t necessarily make me gay. Just confident with my sexuality. There is a difference you know, big boy.”

I mean… what’s the rush? Sure, if you’re female, and you have some kind of ticking biological clock (why do girls run out of eggs, while men can continue churning out those wriggly little bad-boys well into their 80s?), there might be some urgency to the whole procreation thing; but as a man, am I meant to feel that every girl I meat (er, meet) is the partner I’ve so desperately been seeking to create my genetically-superior Uber Race? Okay, so I’m not blonde, nor am I blue-eyed, but Hitler didn’t necessarily get it right. Maybe that’s why he tried to exterminate my ancestors — he knew that from the ashes, a 6′5″ brutish beast would arise. A monstrous male so potent, so indomitable that he felt a world war was necessary to remove any chance of his blood line persisting –

But I digress. If my cousin is to be believed, I’m gay, so any chance of me making babies is pretty damn small. Sorry mum. Sorry ladies.

Now, I’m sure you’ve seen pictures of me on this blog. I don’t look gay. You’ve also heard me; do I sound gay?

So what’s the problem?

I certainly get on better with girls than boys, which is odd (and I don’t really know why — other than the things listed above, I don’t really share any common ‘female’ interests). Perhaps I’m lucky to have known a couple of girls that have appreciated geeky, cool things as much as me. They’re both in America now.

So, why do I get on better with girls? Why does my cousin think I’m gay? I think our long nights spent in tents, in the middle of cold, rainy fields, snuggling for warmth have biased him.  But no, seriously, it’s because… I’m girly. I’m camp.

I like musicals. I own around 200 recordings, from the 1950s through to today. I was listening to Guys & Dolls earlier, and then I sang along to Wicked a few hours later. My second trip to the USA was actually a 5 day jaunt to New York City where I somehow crammed 6 musicals in. Is that gay?

I have long hair (OK, it’s short right now, but it’s been long for years!) I have a pink hair brush too (a big, lovely flat brush that slides silkily through my hair). I have been known to tie my hair into pigtails, ponytails, pineapples. I remember the day I asked a girl in my class to show me how to braid my own hair (it never stayed in… apparently I didn’t do it tight enough). Does that make me gay?

I love the colour pink. I have pink shirts, pashminas, jackets, hats and scarfes. Whenever I go out somewhere, I think I should wear at least something that’s pink. But then look at this way: I love a girl that’s wearing pink. Baby pink, hot pink. Naked, with a pink blush covering her cheeks, her stomach. Luckily my ex-girlfriends have all been fans of pink too. Or quickly become fans…

Musical theatre is easier to defend — it’s complex music. I like complex. Simple is boring (this goes for people too!) The standard composition of verse, chorus, verse, chorus all but disappears in musical theatre; instead you are treated with themes and reprises. Characters can have their own chords, or even their own notes. The music itself tells the story of the moment, rather than the lyric — the lyric becomes more of a dialogue between the characters, often driving the story forward. Some musicals are almost entirely song-driven, so this is of course the case! The music leads you towards other planes of emotion — the sudden plunge of violins propelling you down a path, a sad path, a romantic path. An easy example here is ‘Something There‘ from Beauty & The Beast. The song is incredibly simple, and the lyric is mostly spoken, but the music is what really tells you what’s going on: they’re having fun, they’re rolling around in the snow, they’re getting more comfortable with each other, almost intimate. In just 2 minutes, you have a damn good idea of how these two (seemingly) disparate characters came together.

That’s what I like about musical theatre. It’s harder to listen to, and I certainly don’t get much work done while I have a musical playing, but there’s just so much more to appreciate! If you can see past the often overly-trite and simple story-telling from the lyrics, the songs take you on a ride, much like a very well engineered album by one of the greats (like Bruce Springsteen). Just try to remember that the lyrics have been shoe-horned into the music: the full orchestral music, as opposed to pop music where the lyric is what seperates a hit, from a truly great tune.

If you were wondering, before I move on from musicals, the title of this blog is a line from Avenue Q, a musical that you must ALL see! How can you resist a musical starring muppets? Muppets that have sex with each other, no less.

Now, I must remind you to cast your vote on the poll! You have until Tuesday. I would just like to thank the cruel bastards that voted for the Eastern Europe/Slavic option. Thanks. Don’t take advantage of my generosity next time!

I know that only moments ago I was in Serbia, and days before that I was in Turkey, but now cast your mind’s eye north and west for I have magically appeared in the lovely and tiny city of Amsterdam in the Netherlands! There, surrounded by 4 concentric half-circle canals is the largest city and constitutional capital of the Kingdom of the Netherlands.

Curiously, the government and supreme court are not in Amsterdam — they’re over in The Hague (there can’t be many cities in the world that start with ‘The’, can there?). Amsterdam seems to have retained its title as ‘capital’ after some random clause in the constitution that states that all new kings take the oath and are crowned in Amsterdam. Anyway, at a ‘vast’ inner-city population of 700,000, Amsterdam is the commercial and cultural capital of the country.

This quaint, little city derives its name from the river Amstel, which it dams. Back in the 13th century some enterprising villagers had built a bridge with a dam across the river. Then in some letter from the ruling Count at the time, he exempted the villagers of the ‘Amstel dam’ from paying a toll on their own bridge and thus Amsterdam was born! Now the city is a massive multitude of ‘amstel dams’ crossing beautifully maintained canals that were originally built in the 17th century, a time considered to be the city’s ‘Golden Age’. The canal system obviously made transport (and trade) to and from the city incredibly easy.

Gradually slide your viewpoint forward 300 years and today the same old warehouses still line the canals. The canals are still very much in use, but by tourists. Or locals taking a  relaxing Sunday afternoon boat ride after lunch. Or for romantic, at-dusk boat trips with your loved one. Or by a bunch of drunk World of Warcraft players drinking Rosé and calling each other by their in-game names (obviously not us, I’m just giving another common example of the denizens you might find floating around — or in — the Amsterdam canals).

You might be able to work it out from the picture, but if you can’t: Amsterdam is incredibly small. Without the advantage of an aerial photo, I didn’t realise until the end of my first day there; I had walked across the entire city, seeing many of the sights, in about 8 hours. The fact that it’s tiny makes it incredibly endearing though.  Having been to Venice this summer, I can now relate it to something: it’s like Venice — only larger, more organised and a lot cleaner.  Trees line almost every street and a canal punctuates your traversal of the city every few minutes.

Unsurprisingly, it’s an incredibly laid back and pleasant city to stroll around. Even when the going gets tough and you’re starting to struggle over the bridges (I kid!), it’s one of those cities that has at least 2 or 3 street cafes every 100 meters, all overlooking a canal and smothered in that lovely, dappled sunlight that only trees can provide.

I’ve given a brief, pan over the city, as if you’ve just flown over the rooftops of Amsterdam. Now zoom in closer until you see a motor boat, calmly sliding along the canal. The boat is filled with giggle-snorting geeks, drinking wine and beer, feasting on snacks and the lovely summer sunlight. We phoned a pizza parlour 30 minutes ago, telling them we’d soon be pulling up outside to pick up some pizzas. Stopping outside, Rogier, our host, leans in through the window and pulls out a stack of pizzas, brandishing them like some kind of weapon, ‘Dinner is served, gentlemen!’

Turning the corner, our mouths drop open; and no, not to eat the pizza. We’ve just entered the red-light district of Amsterdam. ‘Why are you gawping, Seb?’ Rogier asks. ‘There… are… naked ladies… standing in windows…’

‘Yeah, but these are the ugly ones; they bring the hot ones out at night,’ he says with a big, knowing grin.

‘Can we hang around until it gets dark?’ I ask, trying to hide the pleading tone of my voice.

So we try to stretch our pizza and Rosé out as long as possible, until the sun finally sets. Sure enough, the wrinkly prostitutes are slowly replaced by cute, lithe young things with nary a wrinkle in sight. The old biddies shut their curtains with a sly smile, and were replaced 15 minutes later by a younger, go-faster models. It was almost like watching one of those time-lapse morphing videos — you don’t really see it happening, but over time the area just became… prettier. And a whole lot busier.

Like most of the crowd there, we were only window-shopping. Occasionally you saw a man knock on a window, step inside and the curtains drawn. Unfortunately, the ‘we’re only here to look, OK, lads?’ didn’t last long. Things were about to take a turn towards the more sinister.

Welcome, Neo… to the real world. Er, The Banana Bar. The wide-eyed innocent types (which I was pre-Banana Bar) among you are probably thinking ‘Ah, a tropical-themed bar.’ Well, kind of. First off, it’s in the red-light district, so every girl inside is automatically naked. Secondly, you can buy everything in there, for the right price. Booze, dances, sex — just reach into your pocket for a wad of Euros, and you’re good to go.

But most importantly — and the reason I was really there — their name isn’t just for show. There are bananas. The girls wield bananas. I wish I was talking euphemistically here; watching a ladyboy’s junk swing around while he/she dances would’ve been a lot more pleasant. No, these are real bananas. You really do think with the ferocity that these girls plunge down upon their bananas that they’re only really satisfied when they’re armed with a banana for a sex toy. Standing up or spread-eagle on the bar. Bent over on the table in front of you.

I think I’m possibly the only person that shuts their eyes, sighs wistfully and feels their pulse quicken while peeling a banana.

Next up, the raw herrings of doooom!

In my effort to discover yet more good music I downloaded the entire Earth Wind & Fire discography. You probably know a few of their great hits like ‘September’ and ‘Boogie Wonderland’ (and ‘Fantasy’ and ‘Boogie Wonderland’!), but this is just a tiny fraction of their vast wealth of awesome songs. They’re often described as a delicious fusion of… well, everything that exemplified the 1970s: Disco, soul, R&B (the good kind) and occasionally some African ‘world music’. And their songs are LONG too — they go places! None of that 2-and-a-half-minute-radio-wankfest that many bands succumbed to from the 60s onwards.

Anyway… Soul and R&B have the same kind of underlying tone and story: sex. I’m not talking entirely about… you know, fornication, but that does play a big part; especially for bands like Boys 2 Men where all they ever sing about is sex (go watch the ‘Honest R&B Song‘ if you haven’t seen it already). And where they want to have sex. Even the occasional song about their favourite positions… chrikee! But, as I was saying, this kind of music is about sex — men, women, their interactions. It’s about people, I guess, as they find themselves, or God (often God with the black Soul groups). Actually, I guess it’s called ‘Soul’ because it appeals to your soul… which is a spiritual thing, right?!

Sooooo… All this soulful and rhythmic music actually got me thinking. It actually… got me a little horny. Randy, baby. So, as you might’ve guessed from the subject of this post, I’m going to talk about SEX!

I’m sure most of us know where we are and what we’re doing once we get into the sack; hell, we can do almost anything in the bedroom and get away with it. Something magical happens when you have two naked people in a bed. You’ve already pushed through most of the barriers and inhibitions — the courtship, the embarrassment of early fumbles and awkward silences. Then that moment finally comes: you kiss. Not one of those normal kisses though — that passionate kiss. The kiss that speaks volumes; that lingering kiss that you just know is going to lead to sex.

Before you know it, you’re fumbling with each other’s clothing and trying to get naked as quickly as possible. You’re trying to navigate your way to the bedroom without losing your lip-lock (there’s probably a term for that kind of thing — Siamese Lovers, or something). Then you’re in bed, either under the duvet, or above, contorted into some kind of twisted meshed embrace where you can’t tell which limbs are yours.

And then that magical moment occurs… you can do anything. You’re both stripped away, mentally and physically. Your bodies are extensions of one another. There’s no peer pressure, no prejudices — you can just do whatever the hell you like.

I think that’s what I love the most about sex: the intimacy. Intimacy actually describes that moment perfectly — it means ‘to become familiar with’ and ‘innermost’. You’re both there, becoming very familiar indeed, baring everything, even your innermost secrets and desires.

There, I’ve shared what sex is like for me. That’s why I don’t have sex with just anyone — I want it to be special and intimate, damnit! Why not write about what sex is like for you, if you have a blog?

I wanted to share one more thing with you: a flow chart for dialogue during sex (from FlowingData). I never have a problem finding the right things to say during sex, but I understand it can be a problem for couples where one person has more experience than the other. Maybe you’re uncertain if you’re making the right noise; is that a grunt of pleasure, or pain? Perhaps you’re just not very talkative during sex, and you want to improve in that department. Dirty talk during sex can be very saucy, let me tell you! When a girl talks dirty to me… well… it ain’t pretty. But that’s another topic, for another day.

I was rubbing and scrubbing away at my vast, expansive body. I’m in that semi-catatonic just-awake state that I’m sure you’ve all experienced; you know, when you wake up up after just 4 hours sleep, and while the idea of going back to sleep sounds lovely, you have to be somewhere, or do something.

So there you are, teetering, only just standing upright under the jets of water. You can feel sensation slowly returning to your feet and your hands. You’re having a glorious moment; you’re coming alive!

It’s around this point, the point where I’ve become sentient yet again, that my brain kicks in. I slowly come to realise that, yet again, I am doing one of the most boring things in the world. Ever. Showering (and shaving!) are probably the two things I despise most in this world. Ethnic cleansing? Pretty bad. AIDS? Awful, I agree. But being obligated to shower and shave 300 or more times each and every fucking year is akin to having your testicles injected with fish paste and dangled in a hungry pool of piranhas.

I’m sorry, I just can’t even begin to imagine what showering will be like for me in 60 years. ‘Oh, hello there Mr Leg, are you enjoying this as much as me? We’ve only done this twenty thousand times before…’ I really and sincerely hope someone will have invented some kind of ultrasonic cleaning device shakes the dirt from me while I sit here in front of my computers. Contemplating the alternative, a life resplendent with 20 minute bouts of terminal boredom, my brow furrows as I fathom just how many days I will have spent showering, by the time I’m 80. I drop the soap.

It takes about 15-20 minutes a day to shower and shave (a conservative estimate — I’m huge, remember, it takes time to get into all those nooks and crannies), if you multiply that out, assuming 300 showers a year, that’s 100 hours. That’s over 4 days a year I spend doing basic personal hygiene. If you assume you’ve showered since you were 5, by the time you are 80 you will have spent 308 days showering and shaving. ALMOST A GODS DAMN YEAR OF YOUR LIFE.

So, I’ve become sentient and self-aware, and I’m thinking: Shit, I’m showering… yet again… isn’t this fun. And then I thought to myself: What if I was a girl? I would have to exfoliate, and body scrub, and depillate. I’d probably be spending 30, 40, 50 minutes a day making myself presentable — every frackin’ day!  If a woman spends twice as much time as a man making herself look pretty, she’ll probably have spent 2 years of her life in the bathroom, by the time she’s 80. 2 years. Sweet Moses.

Can someone please think of a way to remove this incessant, never-ending drivel from our lives?

Anyway, I started thinking about women, in the shower. No, this isn’t leading where you think it is — scrub your mind! No, I was washing my ample bosoms when I suddenly thought: Why do men have nipples? I mean, I’m not complaining, obviously — you have to love it when a girl goes to town on your nipples — but really, why do we have them? Just for sexual gratification? To provide a way for evil kids to bully you? (’nipple/titty-twisting’ occurred at your school too, right?)

I kind of knew the answer already, but still I did a little research. It’s the standard stuff — we all start off as girls, until testosterone kicks in and we sprout a penis and our ovaries become testicles. Nipples are there from before we start generating testosterone, so we get lumped with them for the rest of our lives. I did come across one fairly-funny thing though — male breasts can still make milk. If we get a jolt of oestrogen, our mammary glands can become functional! We could breast feed!

I’ll end this now, before some wise-ass feminist suggests men should stay at home and look after the babies, while the mother goes out to make money, and sleep with the secretary.

For those of you that don’t watch enough Simpsons (and you’d be forgiven for stopping around Season 10!), or simply want the source of one my favourite phrases, take a look at this:

Right, with the derivation out of the way (I love etymology), I can now continue: my sex drive has re-emerged. Banished to a dark pit of deprived despair a couple of years ago he has finally reared his angry, chauvinistic head; and he’s eager to catch up on everything he’s missed — he wants to find out what’s been hap’nin in the world of coitus in specific, and penetration in general.

I think my re-kindled interest in sex has a lot to do with my current infatuation with 60s and 70s Motown and Disco music. It’s so sappy in places; love, sex, devotion, spiritual empathy: it’s all there in droves. I have no idea if they were really happy, but they sure paint a picture of an eternal, lush, golden summer. Listen to some Isley Brothers, or Diana Ross & The Supremes, and you’ll quickly know what I mean.

I guess the infinite energy pumped out from their their music, plus the affections (and the rather explicit situations my vivid imagination has recently put me in) of a certain cute girl were enough to stoke the proverbial fire of passion and lust.

I’m literally bubbling over with affection now. If you allow me a moment of crudeness, I simply can’t wait to stick it in something.

Perhaps more interesting than the return of my sex drive is the question that most red-blooded males are no doubt asking right around now: Where did your sex drive go?!

It’s a good question, one I think I can answer. Having once been the ‘5 times a day’ guy at university (my poor girlfriend — the morning-after walk into university was always funny), and recently ‘once every 6 months if I’m lucky’ I’ve seen both sides of the spectrum: Raging, unabated erections versus long, cold winters of discontent with nary a bulge to be seen.

Where did it all go wrong? Well, after my relationship at university I certainly needed a break. I like the company of others, but I certainly prefer spending time alone. I do tend to grow bored of all but the most interesting people (that’s a topic for another day), so it was nice to finally get away from university and spend some ‘quality time’ with myself. Obviously though, sitting on my own in my room or outside on the grass reading a book isn’t really conducive to meeting a girl and having wild, passionate sex.

Then there was the gaming. The long, never ending hours of gaming. From sunrise to sunset, gaming. I’m not sure if there’s a medical answer to this one, but I certainly felt less alive. For the longest time it was all about my ‘gaming essentials’ — my eyes, my hands, and my quick thinking — I’d all but forgotten about my meaty lovestick. And so it continued, for 18 months, until The American came back into my life.

I don’t want to re-hash the story too much (I kind of need to wait for my memoirs before I ‘dish the dirty’ on this one), but let’s just say that my senses were fully revitalised when she waltzed back onto the scene, into my arms, and then into my bed. During this time, I managed to play video games and maintain an erection — surely I’d just hit the motherlode?!

It wasn’t to be, though. As quickly as she had reappeared, she disappeared again. As did my throbbing purple-headed Indian. Poof. Like Leviathan sinking back into the deep, dark expanse of my sexless soul.

It was such a system shock, losing the girl that I’d chased for so long. That was about 18 months ago though and today I am happy to say it seems I’ve finally found the ability to create, flesh out and indulge in lustful thoughts again. Watch out, ladies!

Goodbye celibacy; hello sexual intimacy, how I missed thee.

I know it sounds like a treatise of utmost, contemporary importance, but actually it’s just a recap of a few things that I’ve been up to in the past week, and what’s to come.

If you’re an avid Sebite (OK, perhaps it’s too early to go and deify myself) you’re probably well-aware of the what’s to follow… but it wouldn’t do any harm to read all about what’s hapnin’ (too much Marvin Gaye!) here on my blog.

First of all, I am still running a fantastic competition that everyone should enter. It’s free to enter, you just need to tell me what you’re most passionate about. It can be good, or bad, or ugly — just something that really gets your juices going. The prize is some original art which I will lovingly craft for you, using my awesome photographic skills, which you will be able to use for your blog, or avatar, or… for anything really! If you still didn’t enter, enter now.

Next, and probably most importantly, I made my debut on YouTube. Not one to pander to peer pressure, I decided that if I wanted to video blog with 3 weeks’ worth of facial hair… I damn well would! Forsaking my razor, shampoo and sanity, I filmed 3 chapters of a ground-breaking and revolutionary drama, Day 37. Follow a hairy, cross-dressing Brit as he slowly loses his sanity after falling into a subterranean bunker. If you missed the link, HERE’S ANOTHER (after watching chapter 1, check out 2 and 3… it gets better!) 200 people have watched me lose my sanity and don a leopard-print spandex shirt… don’t you want to see what all the fuss is about?

Penultimately, for the past couple of weeks, I’ve been taking part in a ‘photographic assignment’. This is basically a group of people that all take photos of a concept or phrase. ‘Watery Wednesday’, ‘Funny Friday’ (alliteration is sadly rife in such communities). There’s an awful lot of them, and they vary in quality a lot. Luckily the one I’ve been taking part in , Skywatch Friday is quite good! Not only do they garner bonus points for a distinct lack of alliteration and word play, my huge stocks of landscape photography tend to feature startling skies. I feel quite at home submitting my landscapes to be admired and pored over by discerning viewers (and, importantly, other landscape photographers!)

There have only been a few ‘That’s nice’ replies so far, which is good…!

I’ve also just taken up another, shared challenge: ‘Motoring Monday’ (…) I think it’s just going to be a one-off though, so I’ve created a new category on the blog for Motoring Monday, Skywatch Friday, and any other photographic assignments that I take part in. Feel free to visit it from time to time, if you want to see some pretty photos — they won’t turn up on the front page of the blog, or the normal RSS feed.

Finally, this week I regained my sex drive. Obviously that’s not really news that’ll stop presses, but it could become news, in the not-so-distant future! Hopefully not the ‘turn up on your doorstep 18 years later’ kind of news, either.

Oh, and because I love the picture just a bit too much (the picture, not myself, it’s an important distinction), I’m just going to stick it in again (!) for everyone to enjoy.

I still look like this, for anyone wondering. Walking around town today was interesting: those on the other side of the road all smiled at me; those I bumped into all quickly stepped away and begged Our Lord for protection…

Recently, my ego suffered a bit of a hit; I was dumped. My self-esteem, which has never been the greatest due to some bullying at school, was taken down yet another notch. It’s not something I should blog about though (those who follow my Twitterings will have some idea of what I’m talking about though!); I have never one to kiss and tell. Perhaps in a few years, when my feelings have been tempered a little and my nerve endings aren’t quite so raw.

I think the worst thing about being dumped is that it instantly brings back into focus all of the previous times you’ve been unceremoniously ‘let go’; no golden hand-shake, no pension — and most importantly, certainly no more sex.

I don’t know if it’s a ‘girl thing’, but when you’re dumped, why can’t the dumper tell you why you’ve been dumped? Why is there such a restriction of knowledge? It’s the unknowingness that is the most troublesome. When there are unknown factors, the human mind starts thinking; it starts formulating wild, implausible solutions to an unknown problem. Completely irrational scenarios are computed and rolled around in your head, each and every facet being analysed and fretted over — and then re-analysed and fretted over again!

I should probably be grateful that I’ve only been dumped and left in the dark twice. My first ever girlfriend (at the ripe old age of 18 — I was such a late bloomer) dumped me without even so much as a whisper of the reason. ‘It’s not you, Seb, it’s me.’  It was only a few weeks later that I found out she’d dumped me for a guy 7 years her senior; one that could drive, and shared her love of anime (I’d sell my soul to keep a girl I love… but anime? I have limits). At least I got a shag out of her before she dumped me, though… I guess I was too good to dump without one last orgasm. Used, and abused… my poor soul.

I want to tell you this story because on the flip-side, there’s also being dumped with too much information.

My next girlfriend was a great believer in full disclosure and as a result our relationship was passionate, if short-lived; like a firework! We’d not been dating for long, but I already knew every inch of her body; and she’d discovered bits of me that I didn’t even know existed. I was so blinded by the passion — the sex! My God, the sex! — that the lesbianism really was a curve-ball.

I knew she had a little bit of a history; those performing artist types always seem to have a history. Some were beaten and some were impoverished, and nearly all have experimented a little — or a lot — with the same sex. I guess it’s all about being dramatic and pushing the boundaries a little; exploring and poking at what really makes you you.

Looking back, I probably should’ve noticed, from the complete lack of boyfriends in her photo albums, that I was her first boyfriend. I was so blinkered and hormonal that when I added 1 and 1 together I somehow came up with 69. The fact that she was a Bible-toting and scripture-quoting strictly-religious girl also obscured her true sexuality from me. Christians are meant to be straight, right? That’s what the Bible clearly says! Looking back, we shouldn’t have been having sex before marriage either, hm…

But anyway, as I was soon to find out, full disclosure and a hedonistic lifestyle were going to quickly catch up with my poor arithmetic skills.

I was on my way over to her place for dinner. I had a lovely bunch of flowers and some bars of chocolate with me, for afterward (stealing a cube of chocolate from between a girlfriend’s lips is still one of my favourite ways to pass the time). I knocked on the door but strangely there was no response. I let myself in with my key (she liked it when I surprised her in the morning, before she was awake) and made my way to her bedroom.

It was then that I heard the whimpering. Quiet, measured panting, and whimpering.

I stood there for a while, transfixed. I put my ear against the door to make sure the noises were in fact coming from her room.

They were, and the panting was getting slightly erratic, and louder.

Uncertain of what to do in such a situation — this was only my second girlfriend, don’t forget, and certainly my first ‘no holds barred’ sexual relationship — I opted for the safe option. Going back to the kitchen, I called out her name.

‘Seb? Come in, we’re in my bedroom.’

I slowly pushed open the door. The image I was greeted with is still seared into my mind today. Two beautiful girls entwined in some kind of sexual embrace. The other girl was not quite as pretty as my girlfriend, of course, but she was still very easy on the eye. I couldn’t differentiate who owned each limb. My eyes danced, alight with delight, but not quite sure which body parts I should be staring at.

‘I thought it would be easier if I showed you like this, Seb’

Showed me what? That you’re still into girls? That you were never into boys? But you let me do things that no one should be allowed to do! WHY IS THERE A GIRL IN YOUR BED INSTEAD OF ME?

I had only recently watched The Exorcist, and watching this ungodly — but highly erotic — sex-act unfold infront of my very eyes, I was very, very tempted to bellow something sanctimonious at the top of my lungs. ‘By the power of Christ I compel thee to remove your tongue from that orifice!’

Being a red-blooded male, however, and not one to bite the hand that feeds, I decided to simply shut up and stare at their yummy, interlocked bodies some more. I’m told that I stood there for quite some time, licking my lips.  Sadly though, for them,  I actually turned and left them to it. I left her the flowers, but took the chocolate with — I was going to need some comfort food after that little event in my life.

To this day I still find myself wondering what my life would’ve been like if I had dived into that bed and been smothered with smooth, soft, lesbian kisses. You know that scene in American Pie where Jim is standing outside his bedroom, knowing full-well that Nadia’s inside, looking for action? That’s exactly how I felt, standing in the doorway, looking down at that landscape of lesbian limbs. Do I, or don’t I…

I believe I was her one and only boyfriend. She sampled the male race, and it was offensive to her tastes. Do you have any idea what that did, and still does, for my ego? I turned a girl gay. I think the only possible cure for that is to turn a girl straight, which I haven’t succeeded in doing yet — though that’s not for lack of trying.

Which reminds me, any gay girls out there up for a pleasant challenge?

But this story just goes to show that there’s a mid-ground between being told nothing, and being shown everything, OK girls? It also leads neatly into a rant on the hypocrisy and outmoded design of monotheistic religion…

(For the sake of privacy, and because I believe in our rights as humans to do whatever we damn well like, some details and the time line have been modified a little. It is still, in essence, true, despite how weird it might sound. To all you Christians, Muslims and other monotheistic worshipers. or members of any kind of church — keep on believin’! It is your right to do so!)

So as I covered yesterday: I turned a girl gay.

Hindsight shows that I actually turned her straight first and then gay again, but my ragingly hormonal and underdeveloped teenage mind at the time could hardly make sense of that. It was an experience, that’s all I can say really. Be willing to experience everything, Sebastian I tell myself. At least once, anyway; it’ll be something to tell the grandchildren if nothing else.

Having your loved one suddenly find God almost pushed me over the edge though.

‘Seb… I’ve found God again; I’m leaving for the seminary on Monday’

We had both just collapsed back onto my water bed — my king-sized water bed — with grunts of exhaustion and satisfaction. I thought we’d cuddle a little, perhaps play a bit of big-spoon-little-spoon… but no, it wasn’t to be. She turned her head to me, a glimmer of religious fervor sparkling in her eyes and spoke unto me those fateful, prophetic words.

You thought you’d had the classic ‘It’s not you, it’s me’ line? Well, try ‘It’s not you, it’s God.’ She didn’t actually say that, but she might as well have. The not-quite-wood I’d been secretly harbouring quickly dissipated into the dark folds of the bed linen, never to be seen again.

That must be the worst thing a girl has said to me after sex, just ahead of ‘Is that it?’

I know sex between two people deeply in love can raise you to other planes of existence and all that, but really… born again? Was that teary, wide-eyed rapturous look during sex actually her glimpsing God; rediscovering Him?

Was it something I did, or said? Did she suddenly have the overwhelming urge to find God when I grabbed the lube to prepare for a quick dash up the downwards escalator?

(That’s outlawed in the Bible, right?)

And so she left, to the seminary, her love redirected forevermore to the only other monumental force in her life and universe: God. She’s still there, the preacher-woman of some fortunate community. She has a lot of love to give, so I suppose it’s not surprising that she felt the need to find role in life where she could give as much as possible.

You are perhaps beginning to understand why I am slightly bitter towards organised religion, and belief in a single omnipresent and omnipotent figure.