I'm single. I'm relatively young. Well, 32. I'm in good shape. -Ish. And when I wear decent clothes, women stare a bit longer and don't have that look of pure horror as if they're staring at Satan's emissary on Earth (anymore, finally.)
And of course sex is fun. Plus sudden, random, vaguely anonymous sex is brilliant.
So I've decided to become a rampant slutmeister, starting right now. Never dawned on me before, that.
I've discovered Girl With A One Track Mind, about a young lady from my neck of the woods who unashamedly shags a lot from a thoroughly post-modern Feminist perspective, natch, and now has a book of her blog out. (See also Belle De Jour for a similar story, except this lady charged for her services. Oh, and could also be fictional.)
So. Here comes lots of sex for me, brilliant. And the de rigeur book deal. I guess ever since Greek potters realised their tankards of voluptuous maidens getting spit-roasted by bearded men outsold vases with zig-zaggy designs, sex has always been a great selling point. 'I Hate The Earth' is now a repository of anger, loads of shagging, and general livin'-the-high-life. I'm sure I'll eventually tire of all the London glitterati after-whatever parties and mountains of pure Colombian snuff doing the rounds, and the cocktails, the models, the orgies and five-somes and swingers' parties, and more gak, and DP and BDSM and AA (?) but as long as I document everything in full detail with my own wry cynicism, I'll be laughing.
And here we go.
Lots of sex.
Oh fuck this. I'm going to Tescos to get a pizza. It's shit being male with strawberry blond hair.