It’s been a long journey to here

Today, on the 23rd of August, I’m writing this after spending the entire day so far sifting through my old blog posts. This is as good a time as any for some reflection and analysis.

I’ve been at this writing business for a while, you see. And my life and career have undergone numerous changes over the years.

Hedonist6 on Blogspot

Back in 2012, I had a little blog over on blogspot. Some of those ancient posts are still available here on this brand new website. They’re my history and I can’t part with them, so I’ve decided to take them along into this new phase of my life.

Those days were a tumultuous time in my life and marriage. If you’re curious, check out the following posts:

These are the humble beginnings of my writing journey. I started as many do, autobiographically.

Hedonist Six – Quality Erotica (or so I thought)

But I swiftly moved on to fiction. With the release of my first story, Ladies’ Day in the autumn of 2012, my fate was sealed. I would be an independent author. And I have been ever since.

My books from this time include:

  • One Night Stand (I think my first story, Just for One Night, was expanded into this novella)
  • Beautiful Stranger (evolved from that first story, Ladies’ Day)
  • Just Another Day at the Office (currently being reworked, for re-publication in October 2019)
  • The Rebound List (The first quarter of this book is included as the story Virgin, in Gratis: Midwinter Tales)
  • Only a Taste (the beginning of which is the story, A Day in Brighton, which is part of Gratis: Summer Fling)

For a few years, I was content writing these stories I loved, under the weird (and I think, wonderful) name, Hedonist Six. I was never a bestseller, and that didn’t matter to me, because I loved this new creative outlet I had found.

Lorelei Moone – Shifters, baby!

But come 2015, I was ready to up my game. I was ready to take this writing business more seriously, and try my hand at something that I thought could give me both creative satisfaction as well as some monetary success.

A brand new pen name, Lorelei Moone was born.

Under the new name, I published a whole bunch of paranormal romance novellas, organised into four main series:

I did quite alright with these books, and I’m proud of everything I’ve achieved as Lorelei Moone. I still write under this name today.

Hedonist Six – Spectacular(ly underwhelming) Relaunch

During 2016, I decided to look at those old, unloved books, languishing under the name Hedonist Six. I had grand plans. I would take everything I had learned about publishing and marketing, and professionally rework and re-publish all my existing work and hopefully capture a larger audience for them. I did relaunch everything. I got new covers and updated my descriptions. I built a mailing list using giveaways and swaps with other authors. And I basically broke even on my investment.

It was hard that those books which I began my writing career with were not getting seen as much as I wanted them to. I had good reviews, so I was reasonably confident that readers liked them once they found them. But I could not get these books in the hands of enough new people. This failure would put me off writing contemporary romance and erotica for years to come.

L. Moone – Time to grow the F up

I’ve come to the conclusion that during all these years, (seven years, coming up in October or so), I made one crucial mistake. I wasn’t being real enough. This old blog I’ve ported across to the new website was as real as I’ve ever been, but I’ve always hidden behind an abstract sort of a name. Going forward, I’ll be doing no more of that.

Another part of the same mistake was that I launched my paranormal romance books as a separate “persona” from my original work. Lorelei Moone and Hedonist Six were always completely independent from one another. Hardly anyone knew I was the person behind both of these “authors”. That wasn’t fair to anyone, least of all to myself.

You see, I want to be able to openly share my activities and my life with the world. But I can’t do that, if I have to hide what I’m writing, simply because it fits under my “other brand”.

2019 is the year that I put my old pseudonyms behind me and emerge as myself. This is the year I become open about all of my writing, not just the books you happened to come across first.

From now on, my paranormal and contemporary romance titles will be connected. This website will serve as the new home for my blog. And if Facebook et al will let me, I’ll combine my social media accounts as well. I’m done confusing the issue, and look forward to simplifying my interactions with the world. Most of all, I’m done hiding.

I’ve already updated a few of my books on Amazon, changing the author name from Hedonist Six to L. Moone. Next up, I’m tackling an old project that has been pending for years. My first novel, Just Another Day at the Office has been unpublished for years (I think probably 2016 or so), because it needs a rewrite and a good edit. That’s what I’ll be working on during September 2019. My planned launch date is the 7th of October.

And I could not be more excited about it.

Happy Monday!

This Monday morning, I feel refreshed. I may be at work, and have a ton of stuff to finish this week, but things feel right. It helps that I’m basically on my own today (a colleague who never speaks barely counts as company), so the peace & quiet is refreshing.

For those of you who don’t follow me much on Facebook, I’ve had a very trying few weeks at the day job. It’s been so busy I barely know what to work on first, and as a result my personal life and I suppose my writing has suffered. On Friday, I was so fed up with it all, I abandoned my long to-do list and went home at 5 sharp. I didn’t care anymore. If I stayed late and finished everything, there’d be more to take its place by Monday.

I thought once I get home, sit in front of the TV, complain about how tired I am and fall asleep by about 10 pm, I’d have two days of nothingness in front of me. Two days of sitting around, letting the hours pass by, before heading straight back into work for the last four days before a much needed holiday. That didn’t happen. This is probably a good moment to explain that I am boring as fuck in real life. So is the hubby. We usually don’t go anywhere and an “active” weekend means we’ve done a bit of home improvement or taken a vehicle to be serviced.

Instead, the hubby suggested something crazy and out of character on Saturday. We should go clothes shopping. To illustrate just how insane it is for him to consider such an activity, nevermind to be the driving force behind it, allow me to give some examples of his attitude towards shopping and clothes in general:

  1. He NEVER throws anything away: some of his clothes actually belonged to his dad. 
  2. He is terrible at making decisions, in the rare event that he does buy an item of clothing, he generally can’t choose which colour to go for, so ends up with both.
  3. Online shopping was invented specifically for him so he doesn’t have to go out and deal with other shoppers, or inconveniences such as having to walk from shop to shop.
  4. He’s picky and never likes anything anyone else buys for him, but will generally wear it anyway because it’s a better option than having to go out and shop for himself.

So yeah. After I had already tired myself out trimming the hedge in our front garden (a convenient excuse to be outside spying on our new neighbours, who were just moving in – yep I’m one of those people, apparently), the simple phrase “I need some clothes.” got me disproportionately excited and off we went. Four hours later, our feet ached and we were on the way back with more stuff than I ever expected anyone to buy in a single shopping trip. It seems he caught a bit of holiday fever: the urge to go out and buy new outfits specifically to wear on holiday. And it’s contagious, because now I’ve got it too. 😛

Still feeling all enterprising and stuff on Sunday, we took the cruiser out for a lovely ride through the countryside. Amazing how sometimes a weekend of rest can make you feel more drained than one spent out and about. We’re travelling to Italy on Good Friday, and I’m hopeful that a similar thing will happen throughout the holiday. The plan is to mainly just see a lot of places, there’s not much room for downtime until we’re back on the 27th.

BTW: I’m not going to be online much from the 18th until the 27th, so if you’re going to get in touch during that time, please don’t think I’m ignoring you.

My Boring First Time

Since a fair proportion of my thoughts involve the subject of virginity, I figured it’s only fair to share my own first sexual experience. It’s possible I’ve mentioned it before, actually I don’t really remember and can’t be arsed to search through my older posts, so here goes…

In a time, about a decade ago, and a place which was in a different country from where I am now, I was 17 and somebody’s (online) girlfriend. We had known each other (online) for about one-and-a-half years and had met I believe twice before. I’m sorry in advance, it’s been a while and the details are very blurry.

The first time we met in person I was 16, and he was 21, and we made out and fooled around a bit but there was no sex-sex. The second time, at his place, there were too many parents and other such people around to be able to get away with anything much. My memory is trying to tell me he wasn’t that interested anyway, didn’t see the need to hurry and might’ve even liked the idea of waiting, but I’m not 100% sure now.

I on the other hand was not (and still am not) known for my patience.

So, upon seeing each other again around the time of my High School Graduation, we were messing about a bit in my bedroom and I decided it was time. Rather than jerk him off or doing a sort of strange dry humping type thing, I wanted to know what the real thing would be like. I don’t recall being particularly turned on, just sort of curious.

“Let’s try it,” I said. “If you don’t want to after that, we don’t have to do it again.”

He sort of shrugged and mumbled something about thinking we were going to wait, then agreed and I took my panties off.

After climbing on top and trying to figure out what the right angle would be (I’d practised with a vibrator before, but that’s different), I soon figured out a way and the initial stinging went away pretty quick too. I rode him, he came, I didn’t, and it was overall alright.

A little while later we did it again and that was also OK. Then we had a shower together and my insides were on fire and I wondered if that burning feeling would ever go away.

It did by the next day, so we did it again, and a few times later I figured out how to make myself cum. If anyone’s taking notes, he was quite slim, I was as well, and him sitting with legs crossed with me on top, grinding into him while hanging on with my arms around his waist did the job at the time. Sadly, now that I’m not so skinny, any sort of thigh fat gets in the way, plus the hubby’s thighs are quite muscular, so that technique no longer works. Thankfully others do.

I always found it quite amusing that at 17 I lost it at the same age as my mom (yes, we talked about issues like this). Though to this day I wonder if her experience was more exciting. I should probably ask her next time we’re downing wine in front of the TV and expect a blushy, awkward, response in between coughs that starts with: “Why do you have to ask me stuff like this?”

There may be people reading this now, thinking “OMG that sounds boring as hell, don’t you regret it? Sure, he was your boyfriend at the time, but don’t you wish your first time was more… special?”

No, I don’t really care. My virginity wasn’t precious and it didn’t need to be guarded with my life and handed only to my knight in shining armour. And let’s be clear here, that guy was no knight of any sort.

There had to be a first time, and I’m glad it was consensual, that’s all there is to it for me. It might’ve been better if I’d been madly and passionately in love with the guy. But really, the first time is going to hurt and you’re not going to be particularly good at it. The second time it gets a little better, the third, fourth, fifth times perhaps you’ll start to see the point of it. Or not, I’m pretty sure I got over the novelty of it pretty quickly- with him, anyway. I have zero patience for regrets and what-ifs.

I think when you’re with someone compatible enough and you do find that passion, you’ll have an awesome experience anyway. And if it isn’t your (boring) first time, at least you’ll have the frame of reference necessary to know how great it was, plus you’ll know what to do. Sounds like a double win to me.

I Get Shy Talking About My Writing…

I Get Shy Talking About My Writing… And it’s not why you think.

Right, you’re reading this probably because you’ve read my stories and after that might’ve followed me on social media or happened upon this site. Chances are we know each other at least loosely, indirectly. I have zero self awareness on this issue, so I’m not sure if you’d find what comes next surprising, or if I am way more obvious than I thought…

The idea of telling people what I write about makes me feel weird and icky inside. I get a sort of ticklish sensation right above the stomach, sometimes higher up in my chest, which grows into an uncomfortable pressure of varying intensity. This sensation tells me that I’d like to just say what I’m about to say, but preferably not while I’m still standing in front of you (whether literally or figuratively).

I’d like to find the right words, write them down and leave you a note. Then I could run away while you read and understand it so I don’t have to deal with any feedback or risk getting nervous and blurting it out all wrong. These instincts are very inconvenient in a time when writers are supposed to be their own best spokespeople; I can’t afford to end up in a crowd and answer the question with a whispered: “Oh, just some stories, no big deal. Tell me about yourself instead!”

I’ve tried saying I write Erotic Romance which is true enough, but doesn’t feel quite right to me. Another possibility is to say I write ‘Romance with sex’, which is essentially the same but makes me feel like I’m about to be misunderstood and lost between the imagery of rapey alpha male knights and innocent maidens with heaving bosoms. I’d like you to understand, I really do, I just don’t want to have to open up enough to make it happen.

It’s not the sex. I don’t really give a shit about the fucking, the crude language, the cum stained sheets or used condoms that might feature in some of my stories (Mental note: must include cum stains in a future story, that would be hilarious); these things don’t embarrass me. Sex is easy, fun, quite acceptable even.

What gets me tied in knots is that I write about people who are real to me: strange, awkward people with fears and worries and hang-ups that often don’t even need to exist. Secretly, I like them better the more fucked up they are, which to me is quite a horrible thing to admit because it reeks of Schadenfreude. Then I try to justify it by giving those same people a happy ending with lots of fireworks along the way. My absolute favourite thing in the world is to watch (and write about) an underdog ending up on top.

Is that strange? Probably not, if one is to believe expressions like “everyone loves an underdog”. So why do I worry so much about how people will react? I’m not even that bothered about the sorts of people who think the character in question is weak and would prefer a confident type who swoops in with all the answers and the Great Handbook of Sexual Technique memorised beginning to end. Quite the opposite: what worries me the most is for someone to come up to me and say: “What made you think you could take a person / scenario / characteristic like this and use it for entertainment and profit. You’ve made me look and feel like an asshole because of it. How dare you!”

I think it’s because growing up I’ve always felt like an underdog myself. While the popular kids would reject me, I could count on solidarity from the other “outcasts”: I was never truly alone. And it would be a tragedy if something I did made another person feel worse somehow, even if it was unintentional. I’d prefer if it were the opposite actually, but that would make me sound all pretentious, so rather than admit to that, I’d prefer to sit quietly in the crowd, observing and keeping my thoughts to myself… Unless I have something funny to say.

The Sales Guy

As soon as I opened the door, I knew that divine intervention had caused me to agree to our meeting. Utter perfection, my age or slightly under.

His green eyes stood out in his boyishly handsome face, complementing his medium brown hair. He kept a beard that was hardly more than a stubble, but it suited him so well that the effect could only have been intentional.

I stretched out my hand, waiting for his.

“Hi, I’m ***, thanks for coming by.” I think I managed a friendly, non-lecherous smile.

“Hi,” His hand held on to mine just long enough to make my heart skip a few beats.

My attention turned to his broad chest, perfectly filling out his grey suit as though he was the only one ever meant to wear it. Although a tie would have sharpened up his look, I was grateful for the slightest glimpse of what remained hidden beyond the unbuttoned collar of his shirt.

I wondered if it was mainly the mystery that was getting to me. Although I can most definitely appreciate a gorgeous man, the vast flow of shirtless models on my Facebook feed never affects me quite in this manner. Even if most are undeniably handsome, I tend to blame it on them not really being my type.

Technically speaking, neither was this guy. And yet I found myself giddy like a schoolgirl on the inside, while pretending to be the capable professional.

The meeting room was unavailable, so we had to make do with the occasional seating near the kitchenette. He took a seat while I scurried off nervously to find a business card to give to him.

To be honest, I needed the moment to compose myself anyway.

Upon my return, he handed me his card from his leather conference folder. I knew I had to make an effort to listen to his sales patter, just in case he’d ask a question at the end of it. But I found myself yet again distracted, this time by his hands and his slender, perfectly manicured fingers.

His skin was flawless, but around his wrist I could see the beginning of a very impressive looking tattoo sleeve. I wondered how far up his arm and muscular shoulder the ink went. Whether the bad boy side of him would come out to play in a more intimate setting where the constraints of professionalism would no longer exist.

My short dress rode up nearly to the top of my thigh when I adjusted myself and crossed my legs. His eyes darted downwards just for a moment, making me quite pleased with my choice of outfit for the day.

He asked me about our industry and where in our business we might require his freight services and I tried my best to appear professional. Aiming to answer sensibly while the rational part of my brain was on autopilot.

But I’m a bad liar. And so was he.

While he spoke, I was mesmerised and involuntarily biting my bottom lip. I kept looking into his eyes which seemed to sparkle while he lost his train of thought and fumbled over his words. He caught himself and kept speaking, in response I continued to feign interest.

With a bunch of colleagues just around the corner, and two cleaners furiously working away around us, our meeting did not last very long.

I had nothing much to offer him in terms of business potential, but it was by no means a waste of time.

“If you ever need anything, just call me. I’m based nearby.” He took my hand once more, squeezing it slightly.

“I prefer to do business face-to-face rather than just on the phone.”

“Completely agree,” I responded while lingering on his amazingly deep eyes.

“It was lovely meeting you.” He smiled in a way that suggested he wasn’t just being polite.

My knees noticeably weakened, I returned a similarly revealing smile before seeing him out.

While I walked back towards my desk, I couldn’t disguise what had just happened. My ever-attentive colleague saw it all written on my face, prompting her to charge for the window in order to catch a glimpse.

When she returned, she gave me a nasty look.

“Next time, at least let me bring tea or coffee, al right!” She scolded.

I didn’t respond, just sat and stared at my screen.

“Say, can’t we start shipping more stuff…” I said, absent-mindedly, fidgeting with his business card.

The boss looked up, with a confused frown on her face.

“I want him to come visit again…” I continued.

While both of them chuckled, I couldn’t help but wonder if he’s on LinkedIn…

Xmas Dinner with the Crazies

For those who follow me on FB, or I speak to on a regular basis, you will have noticed my blind panic at the prospect of having people over for a fancy meal on Christmas. I thought I’d post an update, since Christmas is now properly over.

Overall it went well, everyone seemed to have a good time. The food was utterly demolished by the end of it, as was the rather excessive (according to my mother) wine supply.

Family gatherings are a time for catching up and of course gossip. Especially this gathering had a lot of that, mainly because it was the first time my mother and my nephew met. My (half)sister and my mother haven’t been in touch for over 20 years. Therefore it was also the first time my mother and my (half) brother-in-law met but there wasn’t much conversation there. Partially because they didn’t understand a word the other said.

In any case, I’ve always been aware that my family, whether from mom’s or dad’s side, are a bit challenging and nutty. I know everyone says this about their own family, but I’m serious.

To add to the bizarre nature of the situation, we had the opportunity to drag up much told crazy stories and proudly demonstrate our combined insanity in front of two outsiders, friends my sister dragged along.

After putting my nephew in charge of wines – after all, he’s the snob who wouldn’t let me buy them in Aldi and insisted on picking out quality bottles himself with his 40% wine shop staff discount – I only had to take care of the food. The Christmas Goose was a great success and people ate with abandon.

It was a mixed bunch, a mash-up of cultural backgrounds and nationalities (and varying English skills). Funnily the only Englishman at the table was my nephew, who got plenty of shit for that from the rest of us. But that’s OK, he can take it. This was exactly the point where I was thankful for not inviting the next door neighbour as well, as this would have become very awkward very quickly.

Out of the 8 people that somehow managed to squeeze themselves around our 6 person dinner table (two on each head), it was mainly my mom, sis and nephew doing most of the talking.

Upon having cleared some empty dishes I come back to the following exchange.

“Oh but your dad left that gun in my wardrobe!” says mom.

“Really?!” sis asks, before waving to her friend in a sort of *nudge nudge, wink wink* this story will be awesome kind of fashion. “Please do tell me what happened!”

I sit down at the table, while my nephew just looks at me with a raised eyebrow. The story of the gun is well known in our family; an AK-47 which my dad carried for protection(?!) while doing video coverage for a news agency during the 1967 Six Day War in Israel. One which he then proceeded to hide in his camera bag and smuggled home to Europe, upon being air lifted out by the British Forces. Fuck knows why. I’m all for souvenirs, but an AK-47?

“Oh yes, he kept it all that time, from 1967 right until he died in ’89. At my house. I got rid of it then.”

By now, the Alpha males at the table (everyone but my nephew, he’s more of a Beta male) are realising that family stories in our house are a lot more interesting than they were expecting.

Mind, we are not a family of gangsters.

Keeping a gun in your girlfriend’s wardrobe is not considered normal behaviour. In fact, my mother is the most rule conscious person I know, to this day I find it shocking that my dad managed to smooth-talk her into having a weapon in her house, in a country with extremely strict gun laws. (Just to explain this to any Americans reading this: by “strict gun laws” I don’t mean paperwork’s a pain in the ass when getting a permit. I mean you CANNOT get a permit, because guns are banned. Even something seemingly silly like pepper spray is completely illegal.)

“Oh my, what did you do?” 

“Well, of course I phoned the police.” 

I hear a sigh of disbelief and horror from the Alpha male corner, this was not what they were hoping for.

“That must have been an awkward conversation.”

“Not really, I phoned them and said: ‘My partner has just passed away, and in his things in the wardrobe I found a Kalashnikov. What shall I do with it?’ The policeman didn’t believe me. He laughed at me as if I was a nutcase and told me: ‘Why don’t you bring it into the main police station and we’ll deal with the matter there.'”

“No, you didn’t give it to them, did you!” One of the Alphas exclaims.

Mom continues.

“Actually yes, I did exactly what the man had told me on the phone. I packed up the gun, and the ammo, and went to the police station and handed it to them.”

“You should’ve seen their faces!”

Maybe you had to be there. But this story is always a winner, even if I have already heard it many times. Funnily on this occasion the story didn’t end there. The “let’s show off how crazy we all are in front of people we’ve never met before” act continued on to:

“Of course after that your grandmother handed me some knives.”

Me: What?!

“Yeah, she said, ‘Here, hand them to the police, they’re illegal weapons.’ So I did.”

While I’m sitting at the table pondering why my 90 year old grandmother had big ass knives in her possession, sis helps out.

“Oh, you are aware grandma spent some time in jail?”

Me: WTF???

And that started a whole new story.

As I said. Insane. Every single one of them.

Holiday Spirit

I’m glad, no relieved. One more thing on the huge to-do list can be ticked off. But, because nothing ever is, it wasn’t easy to get to this point.

Christmas trees.

I love them, and I’m a bit of a snob really because I insist on having a real one or none at all. If you think that’s bad, you ask my mother. She doesn’t even allow fake lights near her tree. Or baubles & tinsel. Apparently all three are “vulgar” and should be replaced by felt & straw decorations, real candles and lametta.

Anyway. On Saturday, after a long, tiring day of playing mechanic’s little helper, I went looking for a tree. One that would be big enough to fill the empty corner of the living room. In addition to being a Christmas tree snob, unfortunately I’m also part Dutch.

My little Christmas tree hunt didn’t get off to a good start. The large garden centre I had planned to go to first closed 2 minutes before I reached there. I honestly didn’t consider that 2 weeks before Christmas, they’d close at 5:30pm on a Saturday.

Nevermind, I had my phone with me for directions. Nearest B&Q, Homebase, whatever. At least they should still be open! So upon finding a Homebase, (and getting lost twice on the way), I was welcomed by the promising sight of lots of little trees in pots at the entrance. I started looking around for one that would be big enough. Until I saw the price tag and nearly had a coronary. £39.99! For one that didn’t even reach all the way up to my tits. Obviously, I left empty handed (see above part-Dutch reference).

By Sunday afternoon, my luck turned. Of course I had already collected some decorations, bought a few new ones, decided on a colour scheme etc. So by the time we got the tree home, I couldn’t wait to start decorating. The theme was going to be simple, classy. Dark blue, gold & white/glass.

This enthusiasm was of course met with manly disinterest and eye rolling.

“I don’t get the point of Christmas trees. You take a perfectly nice tree, kill it, and put gay shit all over it. Don’t expect me to help!”

After I had finished, this attitude had changed ever so slightly.

“Why don’t you put on the purple ones as well?”

Fair enough. I like blue & purple together. Once the lights were on, it really started to look like something too.

Followed by: “Why don’t you put the red ones also?”

I refused.

And then the phone rang, mom calling in for her weekly chat.

And while I was on the phone, sat in front of the tree on the floor, trying to explain to my mother how to do video chat on Google plus (the horror), something odd happened.

The alpha male got up from the sofa, looked into the box of unused baubles and scratched his head for a bit.

Placing the first one took a bit of consideration. The next one and the one after went on much quicker.

By the time I looked up, the tree stood in its full multicoloured splendour; blue, purple, gold, red, pinkish red and the lights were on. There went my classy colour scheme, but oh well at least, it’s cheerful.

(In case you were wondering, no, after 30 minutes on the phone, I still couldn’t get mom to understand Hangouts in Google plus. So we gave up and used Skype instead).

Response upon remarking that OK, it does look nice with all the decorations on:

A shrug and: “Look, it’s a phallic symbol with a whole lot of testes on it. Told you it was gay.”

Well anyway, I figured the best possible finishing touch wouldn’t be tinsel because that would be waaay too much but instead some gold beaded garlands.

I thought it looked pretty nice too, but sadly it was not to be. He vetoed my suggestion immediately.

“Fuck, we’re not those, they look like anal beads. For elves!”

I give up!

True Love and other Myths

Before I start, I’ll admit that I may be feeling a little bitter as I write this. I’ll also admit that “a little” may be an understatement. But I do believe that nowadays we live in a world where love and relationships are so over hyped that it would be impossible to achieve the supposed ideal.

1. True love lasts forever
No. I don’t buy it for a second. Yes, you may see couples who have been together their whole lives. Sometimes even first lovers who have never been with anyone else. But I don’t for a second believe that they never have their moments of doubt and despair. In my opinion it would be impossible for two people to always feel love for one another. I’m sure even the most “perfect” couple has times when they just want to murder each other in a spectacularly violent fashion.

2. Soul mates
Nothing short of drinking too much tickles my gag reflex like the phrase ‘so-and-so and I are SOUL MATES!’. Really? Another one is ‘we finish eachother’s sentences’. Ugh! The world is a big place, and people vary so much in tastes, character, outlook, that I simply cannot believe that there is this one person out there who matches me perfectly. The best we can hope for is some overlap to make every day life run smoothly. Maybe some shared interests and similar religious background (or lack thereof), just so you don’t fight every time you settle down to watch some TV, or discuss current affairs. But the world is simply too diverse for two people to be exactly the same. And if that was the case, it would be incredibly boring also. Which leads me onto my next point;

3. Happy couples should do EVERYTHING together
Oh god no! If you’ve found someone you enjoy spending time with, don’t go and ruin it by spending every waking moment with them. Doing everything with them, involving them in every one of your tedious daily affairs. When I was young, much like everyone else, I had received my fill of ‘they lived happily ever after’ fairytale brainwashing. Therefore I never used to understand when my mother advised; ‘You know it’s good for couples to have different jobs. What would they talk about if they already spent all day together at work?’ It may have sounded unromantic to the young me, but it’s true. Nothing gets boring quicker in a relationship than not having your own identity.

4. You never keep secrets from your partner
Judge as some of you may, I think there are good reasons to keep secrets. It might be too presumptuous of me to assume that a lot of people have deep, dark thoughts and fantasies that they fear nobody else might understand. But it certainly can be the case. Not telling your partner, doesn’t mean you don’t love them. Also not every fantasy is meant to be acted out, some are much safer locked away in the depths of your mind where they cannot hurt anyone, especially your other half. While it’s relatively easy to give your body and your heart to someone, giving every one of your thoughts is in an entirely different league. Not everyone can hope to achieve this ideal, so there is no reason to feel bad about it.

5. When you love each other, you’ll never look at anyone else, think about anyone else, do anyone else
Wouldn’t it be nice, to be such a selfless and pure person. Never plagued by curiosity about what it might be like, on the other side of the fence. Fine, during the honeymoon period when your hormones are going wild for the other person, perhaps you won’t glance at the attractive waitress at the restaurant. Or appreciate the perfect physique of the barista serving up your morning cappuccino. But as time passes, so does that insane obsession with your other half. Love may make you blind, while you’re newly in love. But sooner or later, your eyes are wide open. And personally I don’t think there is anything wrong with looking around, watching porn, having horny thoughts or dreams about others. Depending on your own moral compass and any agreements between you and your partner, it might even be ok to act on such feelings.

In my opinion, true love is being able to accept that the other person isn’t perfect, isn’t all you’ve ever wanted, but they’re yours and that’s enough (mostly). And no matter how much you want to clobber them over the head with a cricket bat every so often. Once you’ve calmed down, you return to them and retain the ability to make each other smile.

Not Enough – III

Note: Please read 1 August 2006, Not Enough – I, Not Enough – II first to get the full story.

“History is written by the victors”
Sir Winston Churchill

3 August 2012. I wonder if I can will the situation in my favour by continuing to write about it. Perhaps this way, I can force a happy ending for us. Either way I’m going to try.

Today’s Friday and I’m very glad indeed. Soon we’ll have the weekend to ourselves. We’ve been working on an old motorcycle together, trying to change a few bits and pieces; seat, tail light, indicators… I’ve never done anything like it before, but it’s nice to be actually involved instead of watching others do similar things on the Discovery Channel.

The day passes, nothing much happens. Except the delivery of my brand new tail light. So I come home triumphantly carrying the light, excited to try and see what it will look like on the bike. He’s already home of course, his office is only 10 minutes away. As I come in, he gets up and walks towards me, muting the TV. The look on his face is hard to place, sort of uncertain, insecure.

“We did it today, lunchtime.” He looks worried now, waiting for me to react. It’s obvious what he means.

I don’t know what to say, I try looking at the floor, fighting back the tears. Damn it why do I cry so easily! Today?! I’ve hardly had time to think, to get used to the idea. I thought I had time…

“I’m sorry. You’re upset.” He hugs me, his arms enveloping me completely. I can’t move, so I just stand there, arms hanging down by my sides. “If it upsets you so much, we won’t do it you know.”

“What do you mean ‘we won’t’? You did or you didn’t?” I push him back, looking at him, eyes narrowed. This time it’s him avoiding my gaze, I don’t know what to make of this at all.

“Well?”

“I thought you didn’t want to know details… That maybe it would help if you weren’t sure.” This time he’s looking at the floor.

“Yeah but I didn’t want you telling me in a half-assed manner either! Now you started talking, you don’t get to be vague about it! Either you fucking did or didn’t, which is it?” I feel myself getting annoyed now. Why is he playing around? I try to calm myself down – deeply breathing in and out.

“We did… I can’t keep secrets from you.” His voice sounds small, scared. “Please don’t hate me.”

Well at least that takes care of the uncertainty I was feeling, over whether he’d go through with it. That ship has now sailed. He went through with it. Tears are properly streaming down my face now but I’m hardly making a sound.

“You told me about the 25th. And now you’ve done it already. I thought I had time to get used to the idea.” I pause and press my face against him, waiting for him to put his arms around me again.

I dry my face in his T-shirt and pick up the tail light. I need to distract myself from this mess. The motorcycle is parked in the garden; I quickly walk towards it with my new light. Held against the back of the seat, it looks exactly how I had hoped, I connect it up to test if it works. He’s watching me as I press the brake and flip the light switch a few times. It must be showing on my face that I’m pleased with the result because he comes over and holds me again.

“You’re happy with the new light? Good.”

I don’t know happy is the right word to describe my feelings right now, but yes the light is good. I nod.

“We share so much together, please don’t take this personally. You’ll always be the one I love.”

He still has his arm around me as we go back inside.

There’s a sealed envelope on the dining table with his name on it.

“What’s this?” I pick it up to show him.

“Her wedding invitation.” He opens it as we sit down on the sofa. Saturday the 10th of November, 7pm onwards. As I’m reading the card I can’t help but feel sorry for her fiance. He has no clue at all.

“I guess I’ll be going by myself,” he says.

“What?! I’m not invited? She gets to fuck you and I don’t even get free food in return? Unacceptable” My sense of humour is coming back, that’s something.

“Though I could see how it would be awkward to meet her and her hubby-to-be. ‘Hi I’m the wife of the one your wife is fucking’,” I continue.

He pulls me towards him and we both lie down on the sofa, me on top of him in his arms, my head resting on his chest. He starts telling me absentmindedly about something that happened on his drive home, some speed trap nearby, he comments she may have got a ticket.

“You brought her here?” I’m a bit shocked; after all he’d said himself he didn’t want to bring her into our house. Looking around the living room there are bike parts, dust everywhere. “It’s filthy in here!”

He can’t stop himself from laughing. “Silly cow, THAT’S your biggest worry? That the place is dirty?”

I realise it’s quite stupid but I can’t help myself. I promise myself that I’ll clean up properly this weekend.

“You’re going to laugh some more.. I’m writing a book.”

“What book?”

“About this. I thought it might be a good outlet. Since I can’t really talk to anyone about it.”

“You can talk to me!” He seems hurt. Men!

“Yeah I can talk to you, but that’s not how it works! Women tend to talk about emotional stuff to deal with things.”

“So why don’t you talk to your best friend about it?” Honestly? He really doesn’t get it.

“Well I can’t. Not until I’m OK with everything. It’s not an easy topic and I don’t want to get into a conversation about what I should and shouldn’t accept and how you’re a mean bastard who hurt me.”

“Fine ok, that makes sense. Well if you think writing will help.”

I didn’t want to tell him. But I just blurted it out. But I don’t think I’ll let him read it, ever.

“You fucked up my whole storyline. I had 25 days to write about until it would happen. And you went and did it already!”

My remark seems to have amused him. “Sorry…” he says sheepishly.

For a few minutes I’m lying in his arms quietly. Surely, he didn’t do it in the bed like he promised me he wouldn’t… I look around some more, lift my head to look at him.

“The sofa…?”

He nods.

It troubles me a bit, but I lie down again and close my eyes.

“I’m getting used to the idea. But I can’t promise it’s not going to come back to bother me again.” And I can’t promise I won’t bring it up in snide remarks during arguments either. I let out a deep sigh.

He strokes my back and I relax some more. Emotions sure are exhausting. I close my eyes and start drifting away.

Keep calm, all hope is lost. 

Growing up and other embarrassments

For some reason I’ve been looking back on my teenage years lately. My poor mom had her hands full, raising a volatile rebellious version of me by herself and I certainly did not make it easy for her. She never fully knew what I was up to, until years later (over a glass or two of wine) I answered some of her more prying questions. But I suppose the things she did get wind of, were probably stressful enough at the time.

 My top 5 classic Teenage moments:

 1. Sex Ed.

I suppose I was about 13 when our school had a 2 day special Sex education programme. Many topics were discussed in a typical European manner; one where children are encouraged to be open and honest, the aim being to instill tolerance for all things different. After a particularly long discussion in class about what we can and cannot discuss with our parents, I felt liberated. Plus I was already quite rebellious with a “don’t give a fuck what anyone thinks” attitude. Upon coming home, I decided to strike up a conversation.

“Mom, if I was a lesbian, what would you say?”

“What am I supposed to say. You are what you are.”

“Wouldn’t you mind?”

“No. Why are you asking?”

“Oh we had this discussion thing in school. About tolerance and stuff.”

….

“Mom, what do you think about oral sex?”

*spluttering, coughing noise*

“Err, you’re too young!”

“Yeah ok, but do you think it’s right or wrong?”

*awkward silence*

“Well, would you do it?”

*Mom turns bright red*

“That’s something everyone should decide for themselves.”

I never got my answer….

2. Extra-curricular Activities

I grew up in a small, boring town with about 100,000 inhabitants. As a result the town centre was particularly unexciting and had a poor selection of shops. But when I was 14 or 15, something exciting opened up, just a bit outside the normal shopping zone. Just a bit further from view, but it didn’t go unnoticed. Something with shiny latex outfits in the window, yet minus the seedy neon “Sex shop” sign.

Due to the lacklustre shopping avenues in our home town, of course us teenage girls would often take a train to a larger city nearby to do our shopping. One where dimly lit “Sex Shops” were nothing unusual. Those were scary looking from the outside though, the windows were darkened so you couldn’t look inside. And until you’d set foot in one you wouldn’t know what was in there.

So I’d never been in one.

This new, bright and airy shop with the kinky clothes was different and not so scary at all. Basically like Ann Summers in the UK, an entirely new concept to me at the time.

After noticing this shop on a previous trip to the town centre. One day I waited until the street was empty and ventured inside. I was a naive teen and a virgin. And I came home with my first little vibrator (the big ones just seemed physically impossible). Once I had paid I excitedly took the opaque plastic bag I was handed with this much coveted possession and left the shop. I was so over the moon that it didn’t bother me much that a builder loitering outside made a particularly rude remark. Not bothering with a comeback, I simply gave him the finger and walked off smiling.

 3. My 12th Birthday.

Not quite teenage, granted. But the story fits in as being fairly embarrassing.
Let me start by saying my mother wasn’t a nudist; far from it. But I wasn’t brought up to be ashamed of nudity either and it wasn’t until I hit puberty that I had any issues changing in front of her, and vice versa. So yes, this may seem shocking to some people but I’ve seen my mother naked. But during the previous few months something else new did happen. Mom had started dating. For the first time since my dad passed when I was just a toddler, it wasn’t just us girls.

On the morning of my 12th Birthday:

“Happy birthday, darling. What would you like for breakfast?”

“Meh.”

“What’s wrong, why so grumpy?”

“You woke me, you know.”

*Mom giving me the WTF raised eyebrow look*

“You, and your boyfriend! I woke up and heard something really weird. It was freaking me out. Like sort of howling.”

*Mom turning pink*

“I got up to figure out where the racket was coming from, opened your door…”

*awkward silence*

“How could you! On MY birthday!” 

That morning, after the first time her boyfriend spent the night, I discovered that my mother is a screamer. And my biggest worry was that she had disturbed my sleep on my birthday.

 4. Stern instruction

I was a bit of a late bloomer when it came to boys. Apparently being a Goth was a fairly effective form of contraception in my school. My first boyfriend therefore didn’t go to my school at all. In fact he wasn’t in school anymore. And he wasn’t in the same country either.

I had an internet relationship with a guy 6 years older than me starting at age 15. When I was 16, he finally visited. Bearing in mind that I had just picked him up at the airport by myself, by train, and we’d spent about 1 hour face to face in total, coming home to face my mother was frankly the least of my worries. (Just to clarify; yes she knew and she agreed that he could stay. Us Europeans are cool that way.)

So while she offered him tea, he went to unpack his stuff to take out the various gifts and things he had brought for me. Some of it was clothes, prompting mom and him both to cheer: “Try it on! Try it on!”.

No sooner had I stepped out of the living room and closed the door in order to change in the hallway, I hear mom put on the distinctive voice she uses when she’s trying to be an authority figure.

“Please, whatever you do, use a condom!”

“Err.. Ma’m.. we’re not..”

“Whatever, use a condom. I do not want my daughter pregnant. She’s only 16.”

I nearly died laughing in the hallway.

At that point, we hadn’t even had our first kiss.

 5. Busted

So as you’ve already read above. I had decided at around 15, that I wanted to try out vibrators. I was exploring my body and I really wanted to give myself an orgasm. One vibrator wasn’t quite enough, because it was a fairly simple one. I especially went back to the same shop and had them order one in that was different, waterproof.

I anyway love to take long showers, that day it was even longer. I experimented and did my best with the new toy. I didn’t quite cum but it was interesting. I vowed to try that again until I would succeed.

Later that same evening the conversation went something like this:

“May I make a request.” *grumpy expression*

“What, mom?”

“Don’t leave your… THINGS… in the shower.”

“What?”

“Your thing. Your fake PENIS.”

“Oh.”