That word

It causes more problems than it solves, that word.

Sends senses off on a wayward wind, tumbling free. Followed closely by my emotions. No rhyme, no reason. An end to rational thought, contemplation, considered and rational belief.

Thought I’d been in love before. Clearly not. Just goes to show, you can never be too old to fall, and fall hard.

No one has ever had such a profound effect on me before. I am at a loss to adequately describe it, if I’m honest — which as a wordsmith both by trade and in my soul, does not sit well.


Believe me, he says, incredulously. If i didn’t want you around, you would know.

It’s not enough, I retort. I need to hear it. I am not capable of functioning until I hear it from you.

You really don’t know? he quizzes, arching an eyebrow and fixing me with a look. Clearly this is a big surprise to him.

I pause, wondering how best to illustrate the tsunami of raw emotion that has crippled me to my core of late. While he was not the sole cause – I am not quite as pathetic as this post is making me sound – he did, however, generate the biggest fallout. Emotional concussion, if you like. Why? Fuck knows. It just is what it is.

Deep breath: inhale.

Babe, I cried. I fucking wept. On your brother’s shoulder. Like a babe in arms. I had convinced myself and no rhyme or reason could convince me otherwise.

He smiles, engulfs me in the massiveness that is his gloriously sexy frame. Brings me in close, kisses me on the forehead, then lifts my chin so our eyes meet.

I’m not scared to say I love you. And I do, be sure of that.

I well up again, but this time with joy.

I know you. I trust you. 

I go to kiss him, he smiles and jokes around, holding me away from him until he finally acquiesces, and I lose myself in him.

It’s just… I thought it was understood. Between us. Mutual. 

I thought you knew. 





I write when I’m inspired.How-to-Stay-Inspired-5-Steps-for-Writers

Usually, this is as a result of a meeting and its rollout consequences. Rare is it that there isn’t a catalyst for a piece.

Yet here we are.

It’s been a dry week. Desperately dry. Sheet-twistingly, lip-bitingly, knuckle-gnawingly dry. And yet, lubricant has been provided in the course of some (temporarily long-distance) correspondence, about the nature of the what, where, how and why of he and I.

Dammit, he writes a sexy game. He gave me food for thought, which set the cogs a-whirring, and then he delivered a parting shot that pulsated through me like so much sexual electricity.

It was enough, quite enough.

Words do it for me. Spoken or written, the power of the pen is almost as mighty as the power of the [insert body part here]. Anyone who cannot string a thought together in an effective manner doesn’t impact on my life at all. There’s simply no place for them, no slot. In terms of everyday, asexual/vanilla friendships, that also largely holds true, although not in the same way. For some reason, in such cases, I’m more forgiving.

Why yes, I am a literary snob. Would you like fries with that?

My life and relationships could easily be described using the Facebook idiom “it’s complicated”, but I’d rather not. The connotations are so negative. My life is complicated because it doesn’t conform to any regular dynamic. I know I have readers who will instinctively understand far easier than others — but either way it’s irrelevant. There’s a reason that the majority of what I write is non-specific with regards to who it concerns, and the nature of my connection with that specific person. This is my haven, my space, the writer’s desk of my soul.

That you care to join me here is my privilege and honour — and I am ever and eternally grateful.