Maybe it’s a sign that I’ve spent too much time in East London over the last couple of years, but I really like the exposed brick wall opposite our bedroom window. I’ve been thinking for a while that it would make a good backdrop for Sinful Sunday photos, and I’m sure I’ll find a way to make that happen at some point – today though, it was so lovely and sunny outside that I couldn’t resist trying out a couple of simpler shots.
(tl;dr – we’re having a pre-wedding shindig on Thursday 10th August for our blogging/Twitter friends, and you’re all invited!)
As many of you know, Livvy and I have already set a date for our wedding later this year. We’ll be tying the knot down in Hampshire at the end of September – six months next Thursday, in fact. It means that preparations are very much in full swing, and we’ve made pretty good progress over the last few weeks. The marquee is booked, Liv’s bought her dress and shoes, we have a colour scheme (or so I’m told)…things are roughly on track!
One thing we haven’t yet finalised is the guest list, and that’s not going to be easy. Getting all our favourite people together in one place? Hell yes. Telling a handful of friends or family members that we simply don’t have room for them? Ugh, no thanks. Figuring out exactly where to draw that line – and who falls either side of it – is the painful little sting in the tail of what is otherwise a very enjoyable process; one I’m not looking forward to tackling when the time comes.
Your body is a wonderland
Your body is a wonder (I’ll use my hands)
Your body is a wonderland
You’re fast asleep next to the open window when I step silently into our room. The duvet is heaped in a pile at the foot of the mattress, and your naked body is lit by the soft glow of the desk lamp above you. You look small and almost impossibly pale, stretch-curled out on a black ocean of bedsheet, head only just clinging to the edge of a pillow. There’s enough of a breeze to lift the hairs on your forearms, and I think about covering you back up again – but I can’t. Not yet. I need to look at you first. I need to drink you in – to stand in the doorway and fill my already-overflowing heart with this perfect image of you sleeping naked in our bed – because baby, you are stunning.
Every year, I enjoy reading through all the other Meet & Greet posts in the run-up to Eroticon, and every year, I agonise, hesitate, and generally grumble about writing my own. But here we are again, and so here it is!
(P.S. If you want to know a little more about me, you can check out the Q&A posts I’ve done to mark various blogging milestones, as well as this 2016 profile piece from Fuck.com)
NAME (and Twitter if you have one)
Exhibit A (and @EA_Unadorned). I’ll tell you my real name at the conference – only Tabitha Rayne gets to call me ‘Mr A’ to my face.
How do you like your eggs in the morning?
I like mine with a kiss!
It’s now 11 days since I moved in with Livvy and her flatmate, and already it feels like the best decision I’ve made for a long time. There are practical benefits, of course: my rent has halved, we no longer have to endure the Northern Line in order to see each other, and it’s brought an immediate end to all those interminable and dull logistical conversations about where to stay on any given night.
Beyond that though, the whole thing has just made me unbelievably happy – even more so than I was already. I’ve always had a complex relationship with happiness. For a long time, I wasn’t sure I really deserved it, and as a result I was suspicious of anything that felt like a genuine opportunity to better my emotional lot. I sabotaged relationships, shied away from commitment, and maintained a wary distance between my own life and conventional, nuclear, 2.4-children domesticity. These last few years – pretty much covering the lifetime of this blog, in fact – have seen that slowly start to change, and I’m now in a position where I at least believe on some level that I can love and be loved in this way.
Maybe I’ll come back to that another time.
Palermo in August is no place for a German Shepherd. That’s what I tell myself as I pass the poor, panting Alsatian in the driveway of my hotel, stretched out in a thin patch of midday shade. Truth is, it’s no place for a fair-haired, pale-skinned Englishman either – especially one who’s forgotten to pack a hat of any description – but there’s a certain masochistic joy to swatting aside common sense and heading off to explore my surroundings.
After all, I’m only here for 48 hours. Barely time to scratch the cultural surface of any city, let alone one that combines hard, brooding machismo with a cheery, almost slapstick chaos. As I wander the narrow streets and busy markets, I see the two butt up against each other – never more so than on the roads, where scooters zip through impossible gaps, cabbies hammer their horns, and middle-aged men shout across at each other in an elaborate, exaggerated drawl.
For my birthday two years ago I ran a mini writing contest, in which I asked people to send me their experiences of – and fantasies about – birthday sex. Judging it was great fun, though not nearly as enjoyable as actually reading through the various submissions.
Since then I’ve pretty much sworn off running competitions – judging may be fun, but it’s also pretty stressful – and until this morning I wasn’t planning to do anything special here for my birthday this year. That’s when I remembered this piece of paper.
I lived in Poland for 10 months in 2013-14. It was one of the happiest and most rewarding periods of my life. I’d like to say it was also one of the most challenging – it’s always good to push yourself, after all – but the reality is that my time in Warsaw actually felt very straightforward.
I didn’t need a visa to work there, nor were there any restrictions on my movements. I could rent a flat, pay taxes, and access healthcare, without any barriers beyond language and the occasionally daunting Polish bureaucracy. My friends were English-speaking Poles, the odd expat Brit, and a whole bunch of fellow Europeans, drawn to Warsaw by its openness, its optimism, and its thriving economy.
And now for something completely different…
I absolutely loved Richard Osman’s World Cup of Chocolate and World Cup of Crisps (and honestly, whoever is responsible for that Wikipedia article also has my everlasting respect). Furious, passionate arguments over the most trivial (yet delicious) of subjects? Check. Intensely geeky, draw-based statistical analysis? Also check.
What comes next though? Should the people really be left hanging for another 8 months, till the next round of chocolatey goodness??
I say no.
If imitation really is the sincerest form of flattery, then consider this my official homage to the Osman format. Because right now, and with only minimal hesitation, I give you…