Wednesday, 8 May 2013

A Very Boring Post For Wednesday

So it’s Wednesday: a day that’s equidistant from Sunday and Saturday but also the day when things could take a turn for the better. Of course, they could also hit the skids so badly that the next thing you know, you’re being slammed nose-first into Friday and Thursday has punctured your lung. Let’s just admit that it’s a tricky day of the week and you ideally need a guide with a big stick, a keen eye, and who knows these waters well.

Lucky for you, I do know these waters and I’ve thought long and hard about what would make a good Wednesday post. I have a short story sitting here which I uploaded yesterday but didn’t press ‘publish’. Why the hesitation, you ask? I’ll be honest: my ebook sales haven’t picked up, despite my best perfume, red stockings, and flaunting myself topless across every place on the blogosphere where highly sexed intellects gather to discuss chromosomes. If people haven’t figured out if they want to buy my book by now, I’m pretty sure they won’t want another five thousand words of fact-filled fun erotica.

So, the short story is delayed but I also have a technology essay I’ve written about Ronnie O’Sullivan and Google Glass. I had hoped that I might interest the Guardian’s ‘Comment Is Free’ people but they never got back to me. I grant you that a snooker/technology essay might only interest a minority but I thought it one of the most entertaining 1500 words I’ve ever written whilst wearing a baby doll nightie.

Then again, I also have a cartoon about sex criminals I’ve drawn. I thought I could post that, except I then decided to dangle it before ‘Private Eye’s blinkered lid, so I better wait for the thumbs down before doing anything else with that.

All of which means I woke up this morning and realised shortly after breakfast that I had nothing to write about.

However, I wasn’t going to let you good people down. I thought I’d wash away the cobwebs with a hot shower. I quickly slipped out of my clothes, though my silk hot pants did cling to the moist inner surface of my warm thighs, and I popped off my bra, with two audible ‘pops’ no less! Then I hopped into the shower, turned it all the way up to sultry, and slowly began to lather myself starting with my natural 36DD breasts, one in each hand, clockwise with the left, anticlockwise with the right.

I’m sure you don’t want to know the details, although a funny thing did happen shortly after my milky white breasts were thick with lather. The doorbell rang! Now, doesn’t that always happen when you’re squeezing your breasts together and bouncing under hot water? I quickly wrapped myself in a hand flannel and rushed to the door, thinking it might be a postman. Sadly, it wasn’t. But I know… I bet you thought this story might get interesting. You imagined some big hunk of stud was about to walk through the door. Well, sorry to disappoint but it was only my neighbours, Inga and Frieda, two lovely girls from Sweden who are over here in London as part of a beach-volleyball scholarship.

Anyway, to cut a long story short: their shower hadn’t been working for days and when the building’s plumping started to creak, they realised what I was doing on the other side of the wall so they rushed around up to see if they could share my hot water.

What could I say? I’m not bashful and when I was training to be a nun, there was many a time we’d share a shower. I remember one particular night when three of us shared it with Father Mulroony, who praised us later for saving the convent nearly 23p in electricity, though he told us not to tell anybody because he wanted it to be a surprise when the bill arrived. Anyway, I’m a generous girl so I was only too happy to guide my two Swedish friends to my king sized shower stall. It was a bit cramped but we took turns sponging down each other’s long lithe and flawless body and soon we were like the Three Graces, except covered in more foam, more buxom, and involving some playful fun with a strangely bulbous rubber crocodile I’d picked up on my travels in the Far East. It was crazy silly innocent fun and I’m sure you’re not interested in hearing about the way we pinned Anita down and rubbed baby oil over her supple limbs and sort warm nipples. It was just three girls fooling around in a shower! Nothing to see. Nothing to tell.

After about half an hour, Frieda got tired of doing hand stands and using her private parts to impress us with her impression of a shaved Robert Redford, so we rinsed each other off, followed by a quick rub down with a towel and then plenty of talc. Pretty exhausted, we retired to my bedroom where I spent a good hour watching the girls trying on my lingerie.

But here I am going on about trivial things like lingerie when you’re probably crying out: ‘For God’s sake, Felicity! Get to the bloody point...’ You’ll want to know if the girls suggested anything particularly interesting as the topic of today’s blog post.

Well, it was when Anita who came up with the best suggestion. I remember, she was wearing my black stockings and was doing the splits to check the flexibility of my crotchless knickers when she mentioned Syria.

‘Why don’t you write about Syria, Felicity?’ she asked, although she does a better Swedish accent than that.

‘Yes,’ said Frieda, also with the accent. ‘And whilst you do that, we’ll wait for you in your bed. When you get back, we’ll show you how three people can sleep without any pillows whilst keeping their ears warm.’

Not wanting to disappoint my friends and knowing that I still hadn’t written anything for you today, I rushed back in here to take up Anita’s suggestion. And here goes…

Syria: it’s a humanitarian disaster. It really is. I don’t know what’s going to happen but I do believe it’s the kind of political quagmire in which any government would rightly fear to get involved. Can we trust the Russians to do the right thing? Can we afford not to trust the Russians to do the right thing? It’s a proper pickle. Make no mistake.

Beyond that, I really would struggle to say anything new. Middle East politics isn’t my specialty. Now I come to think about it, I’m beginning to realise that I’ve wasted your time. 1200 words written and points of interest: zero.

Didn’t I say that Wednesday can sometimes go badly wrong?

I knew Anita didn’t look right in those stockings…

It was the way she kept bending down and the suspenders kept biting into the soft flesh of her ample rump...

If you’ll excuse me, I’ll have to go and have a few harsh words to those distracting girls. And I’ll have my underwear back too, even if I have to threaten to spank them with my novelty silk pony crop.

Kisses.