We keep each other company. We stick together. We mirror and reflect off each other. We project onto each other. Our loves and our insecurities.

To feel as one.

That a futile endeavour. How can it ever be anything other than futile? We are not one and will never be. So we are always searching for THE ONE

ONE who knows us

ONE who understands us

ONE who loves us no matter what

ONE we can be with whoever we are

But who are we? And who is the ONE?

As I said before the perfect ONE would be us.

No ONE can know us better

No ONE can understand us better

No ONE can loves us more complete no matter what

No ONE we can better be whoever we want to be

But am I?

Am I the ONE who knows myself best?

Am I the ONE who understands myself best?

Am I the ONE who loves myself the most completely no matter what?

Am I the ONE I can be anything I want with?

Well, darling, that’s the million dollar question

Last night I dreamt of overflowing toilets on shaggy green carpets. And turds. A lot .. what’s that about.

Why doesn’t Lucifer on holiday in LA haunt my dreams instead? Is he not kinda hotter than a turd? Do I look for hot in my dreams? Seems that my wet dreams are made of bursting pipes and soggy bath mats … that’s for goals. I need to get my priorities straight some time. But then he is not straight. I find him weirdly unattractive. Too camp. Beautiful on the outside but something is missing … for me. And the ‘British’ accent can only get away with it because it’s LA.

Everyone is an actor.

Snap back to my insecurities …

Last night was another ass joke comment from Jones and I picked up on it. My ‘wanting to please’ radar. I have always walked the path of least resistance in order to blend in, not to stand out, not to offend. To be accepted and loved and ultimately protected. From early childhood for obvious reasons.

My African-ness was always subdued. Watered down. Made least auspicious. That’s why I get on with everybody. I don’t have a chip on my shoulder about my blackness and I always thought it was an asset to be like that.

But I thought I was on the right way to embrace it all. I love my booty, I honestly do apart from little hang ups which are attached to female behinds in general.

What ups are hanging around there?

Too wobbly

Too dimply

Too un-perky

Too pimply

Too big?

But actually I love my butt more than I thought. But am I only loving it now because someone says it is beautiful? I never lived it until all the black girls started shaking it out there on social media .. and suddenly it was acceptable. And accepted.

By me.

I love my ass grabbed. There is something inherently raw about the gesture. Primeval. Guys who do that have that wild streak in them.

Robert worshipped my butt. He would regularly tell me so with a deep sighgrowl. He is a gentle guy but when it comes to my ass he would grab it and savour the feeling. A gourmet. And true, he was big time into food. He was a chef so when he handled me I would feel like a piece of meat. And I loved it. I wanted to be slapped, turned over, seasoned and marinated.

I felt sexy.


Does Jones make me feel sexy? Does he savour me? When we had sex he kinda did. And I like the way he talked dirty. But that is not savouring … I noticed that when we are together in the evening we started to become a Netflix couple. Watching and then going to sleep. We used to spend NIGHTS fucking bit that’s out of the window now while he’s on his medication. Is there a slight bit of me who wants those times back? Yes! But would I want to go back to the old Alex? The drunk? Some of it.

I loved the rawness. The devil may careness. The disregard for convention. Just being in his room and being stupid and having sex and smoking cigarettes. Back then I was craving some normality. Now I am craving the craziness … funny hey?

I noticed that when I lie in his arms and watch something and I kiss him, he does the SIDE KISS: kissing while the other yes firmly on the screen.

That’s not kissing.

And it’s not savouring.

Jones also doesn’t go down on me often.

That’s not savouring either.

Jones only rarely grabs my ass or my thighs in rapture.

That is not savouring either.

This is what I seem I have. And when I nowadays feel like squeezing him or touching him, he jumps and says it tickles .. wtf is that about?

I want to savour him. I want to lick him and bite him and stroke him and suck his balls. But he won’t let me.

And I am being let too. Off the hook. Off the savour hook. Off the butcher hook.

It is starting to gnaw on me.

And it sucks.

We don’t even kiss properly. We side kiss. Oh god, I can’t believe I am saying this. Me, the Tinder Kissing Goddess.

The more I am writing this the more desperate I feel. I understand that Jones is going through a lot at the moment. A lot of things have changed. For the better I believe. A couple of weeks ago I was so absolutely over the moon and happy and grateful that he went into detox .. but what if he detoxed too much? What if he is too clean now?

Funny, he mentioned tonight that his mom is mourning her drinking buddy …

Am I mourning my dirty sexy fuck buddy?

Fuck yeah, I am .. I miss the mess. I miss the randomness, I miss being 17 and horny.

A piece of meat.

What now? What am I now?

A sandwich?

Omg, the more I write, the more wound up about this I get. Didn’t realise how much this is affecting me. I need sex. Badly. And I’m on my period. And funnily enough, I have the feeling that Jones is relieved. It gives him breathing space. From me.

It used to be me who was embracing my periods to get away from the endless sex. Now it is the other way around.

How ironic.

The least of a piece of meat I can be, the more I crave it. And the more I think about it, right he more in my mind it goes crazy.

I get a glimpse of how guys feel all the time. It feels like dark blue green fuzzy vibrating copper.

What do I want instead?

I want to be savoured. i want him to knead me like delicious dough and lick my fingers and bite my neck and squeeze the inside of my thighs and intimately examine and prod and adore and nibble my pussy and stroke it and smell it and slowly tracing every sweet detail with his tongue and listen to my sounds …

savouring being savoured.

I want him to find hidden sensations on my body and make me experience them for the first time.

I want to feel like I am all the food he wants and needs to sustain himself.

I want to feel like the most delicious exotic intoxicating fruit.

I want to feel like the most exquisite wine.

I want to feel like the lightest and most heavenly dessert.

I want to feel like the juiciest meat.

To trigger floods of saliva.

To make heads spin and minds go nutmeg.

Do I behave like expensive wine?

Do I dress like juicy steak?

Do I move like heavenly dessert?

Do I smell like intoxicating fruit?

Do I? Well, I better …

I dreamt that this fabulous tall Thai woman was living in the apartment above me. She had to go through my apartment to get to hers. It was London I think and I was cuddling with her huge red talking Macau, burrying my face in his feathers. And I was also at some point trying to pick out bits of fried salmon from between tons of oil and skin in a pan onto a bread roll and the oil was making it all soggy.

Really vivid dream and I told Jones and the only think he managed to say was ‘did I fuck her?’

He can be such a dick.

This is starting to puss me off.

You don’t want to puss me off, mate.

There seems to be this newly found confidence — more like re-found — in Jones I sense which makes him make dickish remarks. I don’t want that part of him. This can be en-toxed again for all I care. Am I just too sensitive?

NO! That’s what my Fairy Goddessmother wifie say.

I want to be intoxicating to others too.

Come on my ass, baby

The Goddess & The Dick

I need to talk to Jones.

Talking is important. I need to learn that.

My previous love affairs are probably in his head also. And his in mine.



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