Talking about boys.

Talking about boys. That’s what I’ve been up to.  All the time.

It was great when limited to one fresh as a daisy female friend. We would drink cocktails or coffee and moan about this subject. They are disposable, our careers and friendships would run perfectly well without them, but what’s the fun in that?

Life would be so boring without them, right?

The problem is when the boy-talk sneaks into the places it shouldn’t occur and spoils one’s professional or sex life.

For a couple of weeks I’ve been moaning about it to my sculptor, the photographer and giving daily updates to my mum.

Updates on nothing.

The worst crime the ‘’boy talk’’ committed was sneaking in between my orgasms on Monday. The Biker Guy listened patiently and even gave me some advice.

-When next time he looks like he really wants you to kiss him just do that.

And so we kissed and then we made use of his bed again.

I believe I may come across as a hypocrite to some people, but I’m truly not. I’m an idealist.

Even though me and Biker Guy haven’t seen each other for a year and finally met again,  turns out we still have this deep level of physical intimacy that makes nothing (apart from anal) off limits.

I feel like the same kind of bound on the emotional field starts to form with Sam the Fabulous Photographer.

Over the years I’ve met plenty of people that I could screw brains out. Just brains I mean.

I’m this kind of incurable dreamer that still believes that one day I will discover all those values in one person. So my pussy, heart and brain won’t have to get  torn apart that often.

But I grow tired and slowly reaching the level of not caring that I care.

Talking about the boys. I’m so done with it.

Photo by Sam Goodridge