One of the comments on my blog this week was from a woman who works as an escort in Spain. ‘I found your blog’ she wrote. ‘I work for an escort agency in Europe and would be very keen to collaborate with you. Please let … Continue reading Escorts, hookers, call girls, me
I stood up to kiss ‘A’ hello.
Hug her actually; I am the hugging kind.
‘Oh my gosh you smell delicious,’ I said.
She really did, her perfume divine.
‘Oh dear god you too,’ she whispered, burrowing her face into my neck.
We clung on to each other for a bit longer than we should have. Like, maybe a whole five minutes longer.
A great hug. A tight hug. A very close hug.
A pressing against each other kind of hug.
And then we sat down on either side of the table, surrounded by friends.
Our friends who were a little bit drunk.
‘Hey girls, what about a threesome?’
We both laughed, smelled each others necks again, held hands, giggled and then came up with every excuse in the world.
‘No, we don’t want to mess up the friendship.’
‘Ah can’t do it, we have to work tomorrow.’
‘Dammit I’m keen but I had my hair done today, no way I’m messing it up.’
‘Midweek’s not great, also I haven’t worn my best underwear.’
We all carried on talking, drinking, arm wrestling and then hours later, it was time to go home.
Hugs and kisses all round, goodbye.
‘A’ and I kissed and hugged again, both of us were thinking – should we, should we maybe, we kind of wanted to, why not, this would be a first for me, not so sure for her, but hey…
One of the guys called out – ‘Hey girls, wanna give that threesome a little bit more thought?’
We looked at each other.
‘Sorry Boys. Nope. No way. No threesome.’
But we did hug again.
And smell each other again.
And carry on kissing…
Because I’m too cold to have sex, and also apparently lazy, I’m spending a lot of time under a blanket with a fabulous pile of books.
My laptop’s next to me too, so when a blog on Sex Positions popped into my inbox I immediately put my book down and paid serious attention.
Thirty eight positions, I read. Quite impressive. I wondered how many of them I knew. Or had maybe tried.
The first four were pretty cool and actually, no surprises here. Missionary, doggy style, etc.
Then I got to number five.
First sentence. Face sitting can be very hot.
Yip, I thought immediately. Hot. Sweaty. Like, his crotch in your face and you can’t breathe and you’re already so damn hot and now you’re going to get even hotter and dammit it’s boiling in here and pass the water, fan me, it’s a heatwave, a drought, oh god a heart attack, I’m dying…
Of course as I read on I realised they didn’t mean hot on fire hot. They meant sexy hot, oh my gosh hot, this is so damn good hot, oh yes shove your crotch even deeper please now oh more more god so hot hot I’m coming.
I never got to number six. Sadly I knew these positions were not for me.
I closed my laptop and went back to my book.
A sweet romantic love story. Much safer. Much cooler.
Much easier to cope with.
N.B. Number three also had me like fuck no. And – I glanced at number eighteen. What, how, where is her body?
Violet. Have you booked for the theatre yet?
Oh god, no, sorry, forgot, I’ll do it right now. Right now, sorry.
Of course I didn’t do it right now. Because I am scatty as fuck and I never write anything down and I keep it all in my head and I don’t have a diary and I forget everything all the time.
And my brain is a little like a marshmallow and maybe it’s the internet and maybe I’m starting menopause because I’m also moody BOOM BANG KAPOW but I’ll never admit to either of those things and don’t you dare either, so I think it’s just that I’m scatty.
I’ve always kind of managed. Except lately, when I seem to be starting all my emails with Sorry I’m not usually like this, and OH GOD and OOPS and ARGH HELP FUCKIT FUCKIT FUCKIT.
So today I wrote out my first To Do List.
I took a deep breath. Found a gorgeous piece of paper, picked out a beautiful pen, pulled in my chair, sat up straight, wrote the date on top and then:-
SOMETHING THAT I COULDN’T READ
SOMETHING ELSE I COULDN’T READ
GLUTEN FREE WHAT NO IT CAN’T BE…
And as I got through everything, except the writing which I knew I wasn’t going to do anyway, I felt a kind of smug satisfaction coming over me.
It wasn’t from the sex. It was this great feeling of accomplishment.
Strike one. Strike two. Strike Three.
Except I just remembered I forgot to book the theatre tickets because oh god sorry I am not usually like this, I’m going to do it right now, promise.
But oh my gosh I can’t because I can smell burning and dammit goddammit argh I’ve left the pizza in the oven, the oven’s on fire…
Sorry. I’m not usually like this.
N.B. The pic may not relate. I kinda forgot what I was doing.
What could possibly go wrong when a group of women go away for a weekend?
Nothing. If you plan well.
If you don’t plan well, it could be a disaster.
T arrived to fetch me. The weekend was a celebration for her birthday.
You got the directions, she asked?
Nope, I said. Thought you’d get them.
Ah, okay. No problem, D will have them.
D didn’t have them. Neither did S or K or J or…
We googled the directions. It took a while.
As we were about to leave I remembered I hadn’t picked up the quiche. My lunch contribution.
Oh please just go via xxx so I can pick up the quiche, I asked.
Shit, T said. I also bought a quiche.
D said she too had a quiche.
Who has breakfast, I asked. Dinner? The second dinner?
Anyway. We finally arrived, albeit a little bit late. Seven women, seventeen bottles of champagne, three quiches, zero flashlights.
We had no idea there wouldn’t be electricity, said all of us.
Which was odd given it’s all over the website, but ANYWAY…
We opened the champagne. We went for a walk up the mountain. We left the kitchen door open. The monkeys got in. We semi sorted out the mess. We swam. We opened more champagne. One of us may have peed in the pool. All of us may have swum naked. We took pics and admired each other’s bodies and showed each other our perfect tits even though they’re not so perfect anymore.
And then we sat under the wild olive trees and sang Happy Birthday. We ate red velvet cake. We licked icing off our fingers.
And off the knife.
And somehow the knife, very very sharp and glinting in the sun, became the talking stick.
And we had one of those conversations where everything comes together. We stopped talking about eye cream and wrinkles and tummy tucks. We stopped talking over one another. We started on the real stuff. About us. Our fears. Our thoughts. Our dreams. And our loves.
We’ve been friends for years, all us girls. We talk. But there are things we leave out. Things that seem too scary to voice. Secrets we keep. Stories we don’t share.
We shared. Somehow the knife, the stick, made us courageous. We were honest. We bared our souls. We shed some tears.
We respected one another’s words. And we trusted.
As the sun went down the light changed. The sky turned a beautiful pink. The air smelled like vanilla. It was perfect. We listened as the crickets started chirping. We listened as the baboon gave their final night calls.
And we listened to each other.
Without judgement, without advice and without agenda.
We just shared and listened.
And then the monkeys came back into the kitchen and there was a bit of pandemonium and it was pitch black and it was funny and we were laughing and we were crying and they got away with the quiches and nobody really cared.
We still had champagne.
We lay on our backs and sipped and it grew quiet and we whispered a little and looked at the stars.
And knew we had love.
Tons of it.
Advice for a girls’ weekend:
Check who’s bringing the toothpaste
Zip up your tents
Buy fruit if it’s on your list
And milk, coffee, tea, sugar, eggs, bacon and chocolate
Talk. It helps.
Remember other people want to talk
And that some people are shy
Talk very quietly if you wake up early
Drink water in between champagne.
And know that you’re all in it together.
Lindani is in The Waterberg. We stayed in the Molope Tented Camp which is divine. It sleeps eight, is self catering although you can order meals, totally private, completely delicious and very well priced. Three and a bit hours out of Johannesburg.
‘Violet, how many men have you slept with?’
This question, completely out of the blue, came from my best friend forever, the prude.
‘It’s none of your fucking business,’ I replied.
But then, I couldn’t resist.
‘Oh, what the hell, let’s count.’
I remembered the guy that I’d lost my virginity with, the gorgeous (sleazy) Moroccan in Israel. He’d taken me to his little house, thrown a red scarf over the bedside lamp and helped me do what I wanted to do, with great ease. He was so good that I hadn’t noticed the dirty sheets or used condoms in the bathroom.
My two girlfriends were with me in Israel and we all lost our virginity on the same night.
To different men!
That was a long time ago and we’re all still good friends. It’s a real bonding thing, having sex for the first time in next door rooms.
And then I thought about my encounters after that. The one night stands while travelling through Europe, the bumbling relationships back home, the waiter, oh my the waiter, the experiments, the one much older man and the game ranger, oh dear sweet goddesses I remember the game ranger.
And the idea that all these sexual encounters meant something.
It was easy, back then, to mistake sex for love.
After that – marriage and a different kind of sex and intimacy – and then, sadly -divorce.
More new bumbling relationships, more one night stands, definitely more experiments. Which are all a lot more interesting when you’re older.
Although it is still easy to mistake sex for love.
The memories brought some tears.
But they also brought back amazing moments. Because you know, each encounter did mean something. Each one brought a bit of growth, new experience and a whole lot of new emotions.
Also – I remembered the name of every single guy.
Of course, I ran out of fingers and thumbs and had to get pen and paper for my list. And I insisted she made a list too.
I’m delighted to say, her list was also pretty damn long.
What I loved most is that there was no shame. Just fabulous stories of Sam and Joe and Assad and the guy with long hair whose name I can’t remember and the Dutch guy and the French guy and oh my god that guy in Egypt and the fireman and you know what, I think I may have to find the fireman again.
And also, to know that there will still be more. Maybe not too many more because it would be nice to find love again.
Which I will keep looking for.
As well as, I imagine, making a whole lot of new mistakes along the way.
The Rugby World Cup has started and I’ve realised it is definitely going to affect my love life.
No-one is available for anything except sport.
The bars are overcrowded with men drinking beer and yelling at the television set.
Men who ignore women.
Men who are irrational and men who yell insanely when you walk in front of the television set.
Men who have forgotten what it is like to bath, shave or even go to work.
But actually, none of that matters.
Because we women have taken over!
It’s us girls who are totally into the World Cup. We’re the ones sipping cocktails and keeping our eye on the ball. We’re the ones getting pissed off when our rugby conversations are interrupted. We’re the ones yelling:
‘SIT DOWN DAMMIT MOVE AWAY YOU’RE BLOCKING OUR VIEW.’
We’re passionately talking loose forwards, hookers and flanks. We’re getting heated over penalties, rucks and knock ons.
And we’re emotionally following France, New Zealand and South Africa. Especially Number 2, 12 and 7.
We are in fact most intense about Fiji’s Number 11, Nemani Nadolo.
As well as Wallaby Will Genia and All Black Dan Carter.
We’re loving watching these huge men, these muscular men, these men with their incredible six packs and tattoos running fiercly down the wing, ball in hand, hair flying in the wind. We’re loving their tight shirts and teeny shorts and bulges in all the right places.
We’re kinda enjoying objectifying these glorious men and we’re really sorry we’re doing it.
But it’s a little like what men do to women in sport.
And it’s such fun.
Viva le World Cup Rugby 2015, Viva. And come on SOUTH AFRICA!!!!
Wallaby, Israel Folau.