OK, so I now feel officially like a 'media wanker'. Last night, I went to a dinner party. A woman I know is in the process of moving to Spain and the whole thing's been filmed for a TV show. She had to invite a load of mates round to do the 'introducing idea that she's moving to Spain to friends' segment of TV show. We don't actually know each other all that well - we met a couple of years ago back when she was producing the text-in sex, love and relationships TV show I briefly presented for Friendly TV (before they turned into 'tits out TV' - I know my place and getting my tits out just isn't something that would impress any viewers - on which note, I had a diss the other day that made me laugh as much as want to punch the bloke - 'nice nipples, shame there's not more weight behind them'. Last time *I* wear a strappy top.) However, she and I had got on really well and had beers a couple of times which meant she was justified in inviting (in her words) 'her sexpert mate' around. I know my place so put together a bag of sex toys and condoms to take with me along with the bottle of wine so that I could 'play to type'.
Now, I didn't know quite what to expect. Part of me was thinking it'd be full of 'Oh Tarquin, pass me the mirror' type TV-tossers, and part of me was hoping for some fit blokes. As it was, I was wrong on both counts. There was one bloke (albeit fit - but perfectly matched to another bird there - though whether they could see it through the bickering, I'm not entirely sure. There was no way I was going to remotely make a play for him when I'd either mess up something that could clearly develop into 'a good thing' or, indeed, crash and burn horribly) to the six women there - and everyone was lovely.
The media-wanker moment came when I had to go into another room, where I was part of a group being filmed, to do a radio phone interview. Luckily, everyone there was relatively media so didn't think that I was further up my own arse than the star of 'Anal self-fisting III'. Or at least, if they did, I won't find out until the TV show airs and I can find out what they were saying when I left the room.
As the party progressed and alcohol flowed, coversation got lairy: at one point a girl there suggested that everyone should question me about sex tips. To give you an idea of the level of drunkenness, while questioning me, they had to hold onto the vibrator (switched on) which was all a bit 'Hen Party' but, luckily, the questions didn't go on for long. The first woman asked how she could find her G-spot, I explained and all of a sudden, all the women there were talking about whether or not it was possible to come from doggy-style sex and were exchanging positions tips. I wandered off to get out of the sex chat and ended up blathering to a lovely musician and his wife, who'd turned up mid-way through, about pretty much everything apart from sex.
After that, we headed to the pub, then all piled back to my place (an ill boyfriend at the hostess's house negated drinking at her place, and mine was the next nearest) More conversation was had and I was dead chuffed to make some great new friends (three people mailed me today to arrange drinks, so it wasn't just that pissed 'I love you. No, really, I love you' bollocks. One of them is the most staggeringly gorgeous woman I've met in a long time who wants matchmaking, and utterly fails to see how desirable she is; another was a top lairy but sweet bird who I gave some lube to and wrote to me to report back on its success, and another was a fab musician who's way dirtier than her website would suggest.)
All in all, a lovely evening - though the lack of blokes means that I'm facing Valentine's Day with no hope of romantic dinner out and all that stuff. OK, realistically, I've got way too much work on for it to be a feasible option (radio day with 15+ interviews tomorrow daytime, then editing Scarlet copy when I get home, then subbing copy in the office on Tuesday, along with random features to fit in somewhere along the line, and the proposal for my next book to flesh out.) But still, I'm a crap romantic type bird, and it would be nice to have been asked.
I was blathering to various male mates about setting me up with their mates/generally whining about the lack of boyfriend thing (don't panic - I'm not going to turn into some crap Bridget Jones type complaining about needing a man. This post and the last are clearly PMT-induced) I asked all of them if they had any mates they thought could be right for me. One mate said his opening line would be to tell his mates I'm a pornographer - not helpful in the 'no, really, I'm a nice girl' impression that I'd want to give to a potential bloke (not least because men tend to assume that I'll go threeway on the first date and bukkake party by date three). Another one (bless him) said that anyone who bothered to get to know me would realise that I'm a nice bird who gets things done and is passionate about her beliefs, which is dead sweet - but sadly, he didn't know any blokes who would fit the bill. And the third said that he had been thinking about it and most of the blokes he knew would be scared shitless by my job. However, he is inviting me along to his poker night, which is all-male and offers me a chance to meet blokes without saying what I do for a living (it *is* the first question that most people use as small-talk so it's way harder to evade in a pub situation), so that's looking promising. Now all I need to do is learn to play poker.
But, whinging about this nonsense aside, life is good. I guess I'd better get back to work.
Posted by emilyd at February 14, 2005 01:45 AM