Señorita

Dear Dobson,

Have I told you lately that I love you?

Despite having accumulated many friends over the years, I have always believed you are the one who knows me best.  You may view this as a blessing or a curse, but from my perspective I definitely see it as the former.  If you were within arms’ reach right now, I would grab you in a headlock and reiterate how much ‘I love you, you little fecker’.  

Admittedly, you might shy away from such overt physicality given that I am full of Penis Grigio and spicy food.  I’m also having a Justin Timberlake half-hour on YouTube (an homage to your previous blog title), so there are many ways this scenario could play out...

‘Normal’ life has resumed and, as a result of this, I am currently seeking solace in the fact that Justin is going to “have me naked by the end of this song...”  My boys have returned home and my time with The Man is over until next week at the earliest.  It’s difficult to postpone desire; not only the lust driven brand of desire, but also the kind that leaves you wanting more time to simply be with the person in question, even if you’re only lying au naturel discussing 1970s TV theme tunes.

In part, I suppose sating those lust driven yearnings is where a vibrator comes in handy, though I will always maintain there's nothing like the real thing baby...

In the five years since splitting with my charming ex-husband I have managed to work my way through two vibrators.  My third is serving me well.  The first one frustratingly died on me mid-session, never to be revived despite spending a fortune on new batteries...  RIP #1.  The second death was a much more distressing affair.  I had settled down for a mid-afternoon wank and all was going well until I felt an obvious change in sensation; I paused and looked down between my legs where I spied two small pieces of pink ‘flesh’ lying on the bed sheets.  My initial and rather anguished thought was that my labia had fallen off, luckily however, what was actually lying on the bed were the two pink ‘bunny ears’ and not bits of me...  RIP #2.

I think it’s time to go and commend #3 for a job well done, alongside which, Justin’s going to “give me his heat”.  I look forward to that.

Frankie

I'm Bringing Sexy Back

Dear Frankie

I'm going to layer this blog like a Mary Berry Cake, or probably more like a Findus Lasagne.

First layer. Your enjoyment of your relationship. To most, this is a good thing. A wee gift from The Gods. A big 'hurrah' for you. A lucky man.

I know that that is not how you roll. Most of the time. I have learned that you may be searching for the self-destruct button.

You must not do this.

You must instead go back and re-read some of your blogs. Think about the negatives of not feeling this way. Also, don't read about couples on Facebook. We all know they are bastards. That Valentine's stuff gives me the dry boak.  What a waste of money and time. And mostly it's from people who can only function when told to, or show love through a shit teddy, cheap chocolate and a crappy card.  When the fuck did they gig to a packed house in town, or run a marathon? They don't do, that's why they pepper Facebook with that stuff.

Enjoy it all.  A fucking bus might mow you down tomorrow or some other clichéd death.  I am very, very happy for you.

Probably best to keep wanking though or we may lose our fan.

Which leads me nicely unto layer two.

Sexy.

I have been told that I am the fall guy to your dirty stuff on the blog, so I am going to sex this puppy up.  Here goes.

Ooohhh, that boiler is leaking. Dirty git. Better get a plumber out, eh?  Yeah, big old plumber. With tools.  Ohhh. When's he coming? Get it? Coming. Cumming. See what I did there.  What do you mean he's cancelled? But I swapped stuff at work to get back early and picked up the kids for this. I can't believe this.

Oh wait.  Spoiled that slightly.  Will try again.

Ooooohhh,  that's right, oooh yeah, oh hang on, my bingo wing is trapped, move, fucking move, ahhhh, ok, I'm fine, ooh right, so, hang on, that's the baby crying, get up, no its your turn...

Bollocks.

Layer three.

I can't write sexy.

I like 'sexy' and I am not a prude. Rude stuff makes me laugh, I am unshockable.

But dear reader I am unable to put it down on paper.  I guess it's a part of my life I like to keep private, even though I can voyeur with the best of them.  Everything else about me is laid bare, in my job, on here, in counselling, in my limited stand-up stuff.

But you must be brave and soldier on.  Sex it up for me.  Except I know that it ain't sexing up. It's actually you.  And that's what makes you so darn fab.

Dobbers. x

Consternation

Dear Dobson,

It happened last night and it has terrified me. 

As you are aware, my dear friend, there is a certain someone I have been spending a significant amount of time with.  Yesterday evening he took me out for dinner.  He’s the kind of man who opens doors for you and helps you with your coat even though you're not a septuagenarian.  He is thoughtful, attentive, has a wickedly dry sense of humour and is easy going.

Post-dinner, whilst lying wrapped in my lover’s arms I felt a stirring which was nothing to do with sex or fucking.  It was a warm, hormonal surge which prompted me to press myself further into him, he responded by tightening his well-defined arms around me.

Each time I see him, the fondness I feel for him intensifies a little.  We’re not talking the ‘L’ word but these old familiar feelings – the ones which have led to so much hurt in the past – are certainly making their uncomfortable presence felt.

I am deeply concerned that my cynical writing style will be affected by the presence of emotions and the like.  Help me Dobson, you’re my only hope... 

Frankie

PS.  Having monopolised our blog for so long, I now refuse to write any more until you have made an entry.  Fnar.

Happy Valentine's Day

Dear Dobson,

Yes, it’s Valentine’s Day…  Something I had stealthily managed to avoid until early this evening when I made the fatal error of logging onto The Book of Face.  It was rammed with statuses (statusi?) and pictures of what all the joyous couples out there have been up to.  I’m glad they’re all so happy and that none of their vile display is a desperate ploy to convince their singleton friends, as well as themselves, that life as part of a couple is SO much more fun!

Cunts.

As a result I had to log off and have just spent an hour intermittently wanking whilst watching Crimewatch.  This led to me contemplating that perhaps my postman had been robbed or assaulted today and that he did, in fact, have a full sack of Valentine’s paraphernalia for me.  I shall never know.

Still, it is almost tomorrow when all those couples will be able to revert to quietly loathing each other once more.

Frankie

The Arrival Of Apathy

Dear Dobson,

I am sure you could look back on your many years of teaching and nothing would come close to the huge surge of pride you, no doubt, felt on handing out green pens to your class for self-evaluation...  I get the feeling green wax crayons might have been more appropriate?

The thaw of the Ice Queen is changeable given the cold north easterly winds we are currently tolerating.  I remain unsure as to the best course of action; ‘To feel or not to feel?  That is the question.’  Part of me knows from previous experience that if you open up and allow someone in, it can be a wonderfully enriching and fulfilling adventure.  Conversely, past endeavours have also taught me that the business of feeling can leave you exposed to hurt and heartbreak.  I will think on’t – and perhaps witness the joyful resurrection of the '4am Terror Club' in the process.

On a shallower note – the place where I am happiest – I am relieved to have found the perfect frock for my next gig.  A veritable gift of a dress; it flatters, it’s stylish, it reeks of jazz and I will be able to wear my pearl necklace with it, which will certainly bring a smile to my face.

It’s only just 10 o’clock and I’m already thinking of retiring to the boudoir for some literature and light masturbation.  There are worse ways to spend a Tuesday evening.

Bonne chance with the inspection tomorrow.  Tell them I think they’re cunts and you’ll go far.

Frankie

Be Still My Throbbing Hand

Dear F,

I do enjoy the drivel so worry ye not. I too have a sore hand, but from marking.  Marking, marking, always marking.  I knew it was the beginning of the end when I was made to stand at the doorway of a drama room and give out green pens for self-evaluation...

How is the thaw going doll?  At time of blogging I know you have a gig tonight. And next week. And a visitor from afar. And a potential bloke. And an unresolved musician issue. Plus course. I am impressed with the magnitude of it all...

Can't wait to see you. I may reblog tonight. Supposed to be looking after Mia and marking and getting ready for inspection on Wed. Oh and a gig. FFS.

Big love.

Dobson