There’s a new Woog & Berry poddy up in which we discuss, at length, the parlous state of my sex life in comparison to my ah, needs.
So things have just been travelling along as they do. There are family realignment papers to be signed so that is a development. Not unexpected but confronting all the same. I keep thinking to myself, just like that.
But something that has crept up on me is a pining for physical contact. Oh sure, a bit of hot sex would be grand
fuck I need to get laid but it’s more the physicality of a relationship. The enveloping hugs, the hand on the knee, yes the dry hump in the kitchen as you’re trying to get dinner ready, their smell.
I may start crash-tackling friends’ husbands just to sniff them and get some male pheromones on me. You’re all warned.
The online dating fiasco is ongoing. I am so half-hearted about it and largely only engage with it for ridicule purposes so I’m not sure why I’m surprised and a little dejected that not one man has contacted me. OK, three have but the less said about those the better. I think I am pushing shit up a hill being fat, forty with four kids and a dyke haircut. I mean, who am I kidding.
Here, let’s listen to Elle King and some banjo.