This week has mostly been about having utterly rubbish sleep patterns; working until 4am, lying in bed watching TV until 6am, trying to sleep, giving up at 9am, deciding to 'do things' for the day, making a cup of coffee to drink in bed, waking up seven hours later with coffee cold next to the bed, feeling guilty about doing nothing all day, trying to catch up by working until 4am and repeat. Yesterday, I managed to sleep *all day and all night* which was crap even by my standards - not to mention disconcerting, given I'd thought I'd have a quick doze at 10am and woke up at 8pm wondering where the day had gone - or rather, why it was dark outside when my sleep-fuddled brain was convinced it should be absolutely no later than about 1pm - and going back to sleep.
Anway, as I had so much random insomniac time, I spent a load of time reading. Raced through The World according to Mimi Smartypants which was dead funny and even more fab because it was born out of a blog, which just goes to show that writing about your life online can result in getting published. Actually, it was mostly fab because she talks about sex loads, drinks to excess and witters on about minutiae. Her theory on M&Ms is inspired (and I won't go into it here because then you wouldn't have to buy her book, and you should because it's funny.) However, she also uses the word blather, so words may have to be had.
The thing that's particularly good is that, having really enjoyed the book, I can now go and read updates on her site. So it's like a never-ending book. Luckily, it's random and blathery rather than plot-driven, because otherwise I'd be frantically clicking on the site every day trying to find out what happened to the character who surfaced on page 36 and then didn't do anything else. As it is, I know that they probably got drunk and woke up hungover.
Other than Mimi's book, I've also got half way through The Best Awful by Carrie Fisher - a very funny book about being bi-polar (bi-polar is the new depression, by the way. No-one is just depressed any more, because that just entails wearing black and trying to slash your wrists and lying in bed being smelly and feeling sorry for yourself. Bi-polar, by comparison, is about doing all of those things but then also having bursts of uber-activity and being all hyper and shagging the planet/taking too many drugs/doing other things that are supposed to be all 'cool' and 'wild' but manage to feed back into the depression in a 'higher the highs/lower the lows' kind of way once you fall back down to earth. And before anyone gets on their high-horse and tells me not to slag off people who are mad, I'm speaking from experience here; I've done the bi-polar thing. before it was fashionable and everything. Hence noticing when it overtook 'depression' as the 'madness-du-jour'.) But I digress. Carrie Fisher is actually bi-polar and is thus justified in writing about it. And writing about it very amusingly and accurately too - at least, judging from the first half of the book which is all I've read so far.
Other than reading (am sure I read other stuff too this week, but I can't remember it so it can't have been very good) I finally got round to testing the orgasm machine.
I'd been putting off testing it because I was nervous of drinking the 'electrolyte' drink that you have to have first to open up your nerve endings or some such thing. I was particularly perturbed because, in the accompanying brochure, the drink was bright blue. The only drink that should be bright blue is a raspberry slushy and, given that the orgasm machine didn't come with a mini-slushy-maker, I figured that this wasn't what the drink would taste like.
However, at 5.30am when you've exhausted everything you possibly can (except for replying to emails or tidying the flat which is what you should be doing but, hey, displacement activity is *the* activity to be at nowadays) testing an orgasm machine seems like a good way of spending time.
So, I read through the leaflet that goes with it and managed to terrify myself that I'd end up electrocuting myself and be found, corpse twitching, in a month's time, still attached to the orgasm machine. Which would be a fitting way to go, but nonetheless, not my idea of fun. So, having made very, very, very sure that my skin was dry and the wires were in the right place (not going across the heart because that's a very bad thing) and read all the contra-indications (there's a whole booklet of them) and figured I was probably safe (OK, some of the contra-indications are designed for idiots; 'Do not use while washing hands, showering or bathing'. Given that it's a machine that sends electrical pulses through your body, that *would* seem pretty obvious. But my favourite contra-indication was 'The Slightest Touch is not intended for use on people incapable of expressing their thoughts.' Backing up that it's designed for use by women, I guess...) I got ready to use it.
First, I drank the electrolyte drink - which turned out to be neither blue or nasty tasting. Then I attached the *incredibly* sticky pads to my inner ankles. Finally, I turned on the machine until I could feel a tingling and pulsing in my ankles.
And then I waited.
And waited.
And waited.
OK, there were a couple of clit-twinges but I was pretty sure they were psychosomatic.
I turned up the machine.
The pulses in my inner ankles got more tingly. And, as my inner ankles aren't really up there in 'top erogenous zones', I remained unaroused.
So I waited.
After about ten minutes I started to feel a mild tingling in my thighs.
And that was about it.
After another ten minutes, I gave up and went for a traditional non-electrical-pulse assisted wank and it was far more satisfying. The machine *is* supposed to take up to eight attempts to hit the spot, so I'll give it another couple of goes before writing it off. But at the moment, I'd stick with the Jessica or the Bingo (or even the non-battery-operated Rock Chick) if I want some assistance with my orgasm - or a way of killing time whilst insomniac.
Today, however, I wasn't allowed to be insomniac - or at least, I had to get out of bed whether I'd slept or not; I was doing a lunchtime slot on Joanne Goode's show on London Live, talking about 'nothing much in particular'. I was on with Paul Zenon, comedian and magician, so it ended up being a rather engineered conversation about sex and magic; ie, 'So, we're talking about magic here with Paul Zenon, and, Emily, sometimes sex can be magical - tell us about that.'
But it was fun way of spending a lunchtime, Paul and Jo were both lovely, and doing the show got me out of bed before 7pm, which makes today a rather more productive day than most have been this week.
Luckily, I did have some work to do this week, so I could justify my time sleeping/reading/testing orgasm machines (no, actually, can justify the latter anyway as that's work - did I mention I love my job?) by writing loads in the rare hours that I was awake. Had a big (3,500 words) feature to write for Men's Health, all about fetishes.
Obviously, this required research.
So I spent five days looking up 'watersports', 'bukkake', 'strap-on sex' and other such things online. Clearly, the majority of the sites I found were heavy on psychological detail and didn't contain 'cum-drinking-teen-sluts' or young ladies 'desperate for your piss'. Oh no.
I worry about what's now cached on my computer.
Other than that, had a minor moment of squealliness (OK, one that lasted about a day. OK, three days. OK, I'm still a *bit* squeally.) because my first non-article thing was published this week; the Lovers' Guide Lovemaking Deck - a pack of cards with 52 sex positions on them. I'd pretty much forgotten about it coming out, because I remembered that project as just being 'heavy deadlines and no time' but earlier this week, I got a load of packs through and they look proper and everything. There's a chance that someone might have it on their bookshelf, or next to their bed, or somewhere that isn't disposable. There's an equal chance that you'll be able to get a pack in the remainder bins at one of those 'all books 99p' kind of places but still, it'll be in a bookshop at least.
I got even squeallier because I signed my first autograph this week. I gave my flatmate one of the packs of cards and she said 'will you sign it for me?' Even though it was my flatmate, it was still really cool.
And I realised exactly how pathetic an individual I am.
So, it's Sunday night, my flat's a tip and I have a tonne of emails to reply to.
Clearly it's time to try the orgasm machine again.
It's been yet another one of those weeks where a million and one things happen and I just sit there, fighting the urge to clutch my hands to my head and duck as more 'life' whizzes over me. So, where to start?
Hmm, well, I now have a full-time - albeit short-term - porn star flatmate. She's decided that she needs to be in London more than she currently is, so is moving into my spare room until she finds a flat of her own that isn't obscenely expensive. I can already tell that she's the perfect person to live with me because not only does she bring me lunch and tidy my flat when I'm on deadline, but she also has an equally insane life as I do.
In the last week, she's got down to a shortlist of three to be on an MTV show (she's waiting to hear the final results) and started writing a book about what it's really like working in porn. I'm helping her sub it, but she's already a dream of a writer. She writes like she speaks, so it comes across really naturally and is dead heartwarming and all that kind of stuff. It's also good for my motivation; she's making her living doing porn and yet still found time to write more of her book than I did of mine last week (I have an excuse - I was writing articles for other people. But still, she managed to fit in *her* day job and still write so I've *got* to be a grown up and follow her lead.) On top of MTV and writing her book, the More mag feature I wrote about her is now out and she's had loads of calls from other mags/TV shows wanting to profile her. I'm dead proud of her .
Other than that, well, actually, it's been quite a glam week. Or at least, I got to fully indulge my author fantasies and spent a night at a book launch for the fabulous Lisa Jewel. It seems that my theory about all authors knowing each other is true. Going to the launch was like seeing the contents of my bookshelves morph into people. Or at least, a gazillion authors I love were there - and even better, they were nice people. The advantage of getting fanlike about authors rather than rock stars is that authors get way less adoration and so they're far more chuffed when you tell them that you love their books.
That said, after reading/loving her book, it was ace to meet Louise Wener and realise how utterly lovely she is. I was blathering to her and, after an extended very random and rambling conversation, eventually asked 'so how did you get into writing?' She replied 'I used to be in a band.' in *such* an understated way that it suggested she'd been in some band that played a couple of gigs in the local school hall, rather than a top 20 indie band who played Glastonbury and all the rest of it. I felt almost embarrassed admitting that I had her CDs when I was a student, because it seemed *so* not the done thing.
Met a load of other people whose writing I love, and over the course of the evening, conversation topics included porn (big surprise), group sex (ditto), open relationships (ditto), fame/public perception versus private perception of people, misogyny in the music industry, buying erotica in shops (back to the same old themes), deadline hell and random pissed blathering. It was fun - and there was free champagne which is always a good thing.
Other than that, the week's gone by pretty quickly and I've been mostly bogged down by work. I did make the mistake of reading 'Dave Gorman's Googlewhack Adventure' - not a mistake because it was a crap book, 'cos actually, it was ace, but a big mistake when it comes to really needing no more displacement activity whatsoever so thus getting sucked into Googlewhacking is really not helpful. I'd recommend that you read it and would tell you the ones I've found but I can't because:
a) It'd probably be dead boring
b) They'd cease to be Googlewhacks.
Anyway, writing beckons. Here's hoping this week is as much fun as last week.
Well, my squealliness about getting an agent managed to abate enough for me to get some writing done, which is handy, because this week I had to give every penny I have (and a fair few others besides) to the tax man. Cue phone call to my bank saying 'Err, I know it *looked* like I was quite well off but all that money has been taken by the government so pretty please can I have an overdraft extension.'
Luckily, it appears to be press-party season, so I can maintain a suitably champagne and cocktail filled existence whilst keeping my expenditure to a minimum. Next week, I've got the London News Review launch, the Haynes' Sex Manual launch, and a party for sex website Truffle.me.uk. Well, OK, in all likelihood there won't be champagne or cocktails at any of the above, but I'll have an excuse to wear my glittery shoes at least once, so I can live out my Sex and the City aspirations.
Indeed, PRs seem to be more than happy to make my life as comfortable as possible. Earlier this week, I had a package turn up containing Baileys, Sambuca and a shot glass, courtesy of Vielle, who decided to celebrate the launch of their new lube by sending out 'Slippery Nipple' cocktail ingredients to journalists. I approve of this method of PR.
I've also been sent a Slightest Touch orgasm machine (you attach it to your ankle and it apparently stimulates acupressure points to give you orgasms). OK, this won't actually save me any money because I've got a perfectly serviceable hand that can give myself orgasms, but it makes a change from the usual vibrators (though they're very nice too) - will report back on whether it's any cop once I've tested it.
Now, if only I can persuade my landlady, the gas board, the electricity board and the counci tax people that they should give me PR freebies, I'll be laughing. Sadly, I think the likelihood is slim, so I'll be having a seemingly glam existence then going back to a freezing flat and shivering. I'm even considering giving up smoking, partly as a result of those utterly icky (and thus brilliant) ads showing fat leaching out of cigarettes, partly because Dr Pam Spurr has been nagging me to give up for several months and partly because I found myself searching the flat for spare change today to buy a pack of fags and thought 'this is pathetic and deeply expensive.' OK, and I guess also because I know it's really bad for me and one in three smokers die from it but I love smoking, so that really doesn't seem like enough justification (addict, me? Course not...)
Anyway, as a result of scary tax things, I've been throwing myself into work to pay the bills. Had another article to do for the Star this week - this time on foreplay - or rather, sexplay, 'cos the word 'foreplay' impies you can only do it before sex rather than before, during , after or instead of actual shagging. It ties into this week's release of the Lovers' Guide: Sex Play video I wrote.
I've landed a new commission writing product blurbs for Firebox - first one, strangely enough, on a sex-related product.
And I've written a chunk of my book - though less than I'd have liked to because I've been reading as 'displacement activity', wherein I've sat at my computer thinking 'I really should write some of my book,' and then decided that it would be infinitely more useful to read a novel instead. Then tidy the house. Then order my shopping. Then eat some biscuits. Then sit back at my computer until I can think of other displacement activities (hmm, maybe I should write a book about displacement activities?) So, anyway, as a result, I've read the deeply warped Jim Giraffe, which is quite possibly the filthiest book I've ever read; not in a wank-material way (well, for me anyway) but the author, Daren King (who's actually really sweet and soft-spoken) manages to fit in almost every perversion it's possible to whilst appearing to write a book about a man haunted by a ghost giraffe. It's definitely surreal.
I've also learned a load of stuff about poker that I never realised I needed to know but was nonetheless fascinating, thanks to the lovely Louise Wener whe sent me a copy of her fab book The Big Blind (complete with an inscription saying that if I didn't like it, then actually, it was written by her mate Mil Millington and she just bunged her name on the front.) However, I loved it so she retains the authorship on that one. It's incredibly honest (admitting to the satisfaction that can be gained from a good session of nipple-hair removal) and dead funny, poignant and all those other things that make a good read.
Despite now getting closer to getting published, I still get all excited about talking to 'proper authors'. Given a choice between spending a night at the Oscars or a night at some London Book Fair authors' do, I'd choose the latter in a shot. Then again, that could be because it's infinitely more likely that I'd actually get to go to the latter. Realism in fantasy; who'd have thought it. Oooh, which reminds me of a fab new site BoutiqueBoutique that helps women make their fantasies come true.
But, digression aside, I'm beginning to realise how it is that all those blurbs on the back of novels come about. It would seem that every author in the world knows every other author in the world. So who knows, maybe I'll get jaded if I end up in the secret author clan. Though it hasn't happened with the sex world yet, so it's more likely I'll just be squeally all the time.
However, squealliness doesn't pay the bills so I should get on to working my way through the list of 'things to do' that I utterly failed to do this week; writing the positions guides for Loving Angles, subbing about a gazillion stories on Cliterati and replying to endless emails. So, it's Saturday night, it's 11pm and I have a night of writing ahead of me. I must be getting old, because the idea appeals way more than spending the night partying hard in some club. And at least I won't have to queue to get a drink.