OK, I'm sorry, I've been crap and not posted anything for ages. I feel guilty - no, really, I do, and I'm not even Catholic. But it's been yet another month of intense activity, involving:
a) A day on a porn set, watching a woman go up to men on the street and ask if they'd like to take a gorgeous blonde up the arse. Most of the men ran away, terrified. I've written the full experience up for issue nine of Scarlet so I won't give too much away. However, some highlights of the day included measuring one of the male star's members (there are times when I really hate my job...) seeing another man boasting a ten inch long by seven and a half inch girth beast, and then chatting to his wife, who he works with, about how she takes it (apparently 'it's just a normal cock to me now.') I hope for her sake that they never split up as going back to reality after that may come as a shock. Then again, not nearly as much of a shock as the average woman - myself included - would get if they unzipped some bloke's trousers to encounter a penis that big and scary. Trust me, I saw it. Even soft, it was intimidating. OK, I admit it, and, had he not been married, a bit of a challenge.
b) Four days break in Devon. It was utter bliss. I was staying at my mum's timeshare, which is right on the beach in the middle of nowhere (well, compared to London) There's a pub within about 10 mins walking distance and a couple of restaurants (though when I was there, they closed at 9.30pm) but other than that, it's just nature. And surfers. In terms of perfect holiday destination, it ticks all my boxes. Particularly given that there's a swimming pool on the timeshare complex, so I got to feel all virtuous doing twenty lengths of the pool every day. Given that my usual exercise regime is Mon-Weds - go from flat to office and back; Thur-Sunday - walk from my computer to my kitchen and back again on coffee runs - I was pleasantly surprised that I could manage twenty lengths without dying. Then again, there was the incentive of the jacuzzi (sadly, it didn't come ready-stocked with surfers) which I let myself relax in only after I'd done my lengths.
I decided, after four days of getting up painlessly in the morning, going for a swim and feeling fantastic that life by the sea would probably be much better for me. Sadly, there's no decent internet connection round there yet, so unless I can get a sugar daddy by the sea then it'll remain a pipe-dream (and I know I'd be bored out of my mind if I was being supported by a sugar daddy. Not to mention that they tend to go for gorgeous young twenty-somethings rather than mouthy greying thirty-somethings. Ah well, just have to become a millionnaire and become a sugar mummy instead. If it didn't sound quite so twee.)
c) Returning to Scarlet and playing catch-up after the time off (even a few days makes a massive difference, promise). Luckily, we've got two fantastic new work experience people in, who are making life much easier. They're incredibly bright and easy to work with; it's great seeing a new generation of sex positive women out there. And it's exciting times too. We're already planning for the first birthday issue, which seems really strange. On the one hand, it feels like the magazine's been going forever (in a good way). I find it hard remembering a time when Scarlet wasn't a major part of my life. On the other, it seems like hardly any time since I was first sitting in a pub with the publisher coming up with ideas for how we'd put a sex magazine for women together.
d) Writing more of the frienship book. I'm now a third of the way through it and can see the light at the end of the tunnel. Which is fortunate, given that I've only got until the 30th June to get it done. Scarily, it's already on Amazon which only serves to remind me that I must get it finished. And soon.
Added into it all, my wisdom tooth decided to make itself unpleasantly known. Every time it starts sulking, I can't help but think 'surely this should have happened years ago?' I guess I was too busy reviewing sex toys to pay attention before (reviewing, wanking, same deal. Well, actually, not the same deal. Have you got any idea how hard it is to have an orgasm when you're simultaneously having to record exactly why it is that said toy is giving you an orgasm. Is it the clit stimulation? The way it strokes the G-spot? The sensation against the pubic mound? Does it, in fact, have anything to do with the toy at all or is it just that you're ensconced in a particularly sordid fantasy about that guy you've just met who has the cute smile. OK, the stunning bulge, but it could have been the smile...) Then again, I still tend to spend my spare time indulging in masturbation - taking my work home because there's no way I can do it in the office - so why my wisdom tooth decided to make my life hell and take my mind off the task in hand is beyond me. But it did.
End result: I went to the dentist for the first time in ten years. Yes, I know that's bad and I should have gone on a regular basis over that time. See, yet more Catholic guilt (maybe my mum had something going on with the vicar - do they have vicars or are they called something else in the Catholic church? - that she never told me about) The dentist prodded my teeth and said scary-sounding things like 'tooth one: errupting' and 'tooth two: collusive' I'm sure she said collusive anyway, though the only thing I could think that it was colluding with was the dentist, when I got the bill for £40, when all she'd done was clean my teeth (which I'd already done that morning so I reckon I should've got a discount) and prod around a bit, before writing me a prescription for antibiotics and some gel stuff to make the pain stop. Yes, the prescription was great and did its job. But as I had to pay £9.30 to the pharmacist for it, and I'm pretty sure that she only wrote three words on the prescription pad,but charged me £5 for writing a prescription, that makes her word-rate £1.66 per word. That's more than I get - and I write for a living. And it wasn't even spell-checked.
So, after the dentist prodding around, my wisdom tooth decided to take offence and my face swelled up like a hamster's. I was in constant pain and had to cancel a trip I had planned, which was gutting because escaping London is a good thing - the Devon fix reminded me of how much I'm a country girl at heart. So, I've spent most of the Bank Holiday lying in bed, wiped out by the antibiotics and unable to speak because my face was too swollen. The antibiotics also meant I couldn't drink: being unable to speak or drink removed half of my raison d'etre. And as I couldn't write (I was in too much pain while awake to focus on anything other than finding painkillers) or have sex (come on, swollen face is hardly an attractive look...) that was most of the rest of the d'etres gone too.
But today, I woke up in bliss. The pain had (mostly) gone, the swelling had died down and I could both write and speak. As such, I've spent the bulk of the day alternating working with chatting to mates. I've managed to get up to date with the various book proposals I've been asked to write, as well as getting enough of my friendship book written to no longer feel my stomach swirl at the mere thought of it. Tomorrow, I have two choices: plough through more writing so that I might be able to take a weekend by the seaside sometime soon, or spend the day relaxing so I get some semblance of Bank Holiday. I hope that I wake up motivated enough to go for the former. But taking a break is nice.
Posted by emilyd at May 01, 2005 11:04 PM