September 2007 Archives

It's been a strange (strained?) old week. Trying to fix things is never easy, especially when it's all so loaded with emotion. It takes time, apparently, and I do feel a bit like I'm sitting here waiting. For what though, I'm not quite sure. At the moment, a shag would do. I can't even remember the last time we fucked (not that that's saying much with my memory, but I do know that in the week the boyfriend's had off work, we haven't mixed bodily fluids once). Not his fault - not really mine either. There is just so much distance... a distance that I'm sure would be shortened with a few good sessions, but I feel that we need to connect in other ways first. Deal with the problems.
Maybe sex is part of the problem... it's just so hard to know. What to do, what to say, where to start... I don't even know how to feel at the moment. I'm frustrated (that's probably the sex thing), and anxious about where we can go from here, if anywhere. It doesn't help that he isn't great at communicating things to me. Yet again I'm wishing he had a blog. Yet again I'm wishing he was more like Tom, or Odysseus, or Richard, or any of the other men who write so honestly and openly about their feelings and desires. To be honest, sometimes I wish he would just read them. I've found alot of comfort in reading about others' experiences, realising that I'm not alone in feeling this way or wanting that thing. Maybe that's what he needs... he talks to his vanilla friends about things, but they don't understand, and that probably confuses him even more. Of course, this is all speculation, but some kind of support is vital when indulging in alternative (sexual) lifestyles. It really is. And he doesn't have that at the moment. Just like I didn't when I first started playing around with D/s.
It was overwhelming. I had desires that I knew my friends would disapprove of. Why would I want to be smacked, tied up, humiliated? What is sexy about any of that? Perhaps I need a therapist? Perhaps I don't have any respect for myself? I heard all this and more, from people who were my friends, and having nobody to reassure me that I wasn't the only girl in the world who got off on this stuff was fucking difficult. I struggled for a long time, tried to fight it, tried to be more "normal". Then I found all these BDSM resources on the web, and what a fucking relief that was.
The boyfriend knows these resources are out there. He knows there are blogs and forums and tonnes of information at his fingertips. This is what frustrates me even more, and reinforces my biggest fear: that he isn't really into it as he would have me believe he is. Maybe I shouldn't be so pessimistic, but I just can't help myself. From day one I wondered if we were sexually compatible, and nearly four years later, I'm still wondering the same bloody thing.

Oh fuck it. I don't know. I'm going shopping.

Tonight I threw a pint of lager across a busy west end pub, glass and all. It was... liberating. I want to do it again.

I've been in my new house for almost a year now. A year! And what a year it's been. Arctic Monkeys bought a new album out. I saw them live. I saw The Killers live too. On Thursday I'm going to see Milburn (picked up their new album yesterday, and it's a corker). I've had MMF and FFM threesomes. I've had sex on the streets of London, in Travelodges, in gay hotels, and on cam. I've spent a ridiculous amount of money on toys and sexy undies. I've been dogging. I've broken a Ford Mondeo. I've read books. I've taken a shitload of photos, and had a shitload of offers. I've seen alot of cock. I've met some very strange and interesting people. And I've learnt much about me. It's been exciting, traumatic, challenging, time-consuming and downright fucking expensive.

I'm not complaining. God, no. I just wish there was more time, and more money to do more, buy more, see more.

And I wish I had (or could afford) a boudoir. A luxurious room in which I could relax and indulge myself, and pretend I'm in some kind of sexual heaven. A sanctuary. My sanctuary. A room that filled me up with all kinds of warm. A room that was easy - no - kind on the eye, and soul. A room that I could "entertain" in on the very rare occasion I manage to get rid of all the kids.
But alas, I do not have such a room. What I have is a place to crash, which isn't the same thing at all. The sexiest thing about my bedroom is that it has a mortice lock on the door. It's bare, it's lifeless, it has magnolia walls for fucksake. Ok, so it's a step up from my last bedroom, which had a chronic case of mould, but still. Magnolia. In my bedroom. And it ain't just the walls. The floor is bare. the bedding is ready for the bin, and as for the soft furnishings.... what soft furnishings? I suppose this is the price I pay for having what can only be described as "a life". So busy shagging and crying and buying flesh-coloured dildos, that not once have I thought about paint, or cushions. But given the choice of Dulux or dildos,... well, it's not much a choice is it?

Oh hark at me. I watch some brain-draining "home improvement" show, and I come over all Linda Barker. I start thinking about colours, and mood-boards, and functionality, and budgets, and "swatches". I start to want a bedroom that is tranquil and sexy and and... coordinated, dammit. I think "ooh yeh, accessories", and I think I like that idea.
But it's hopeless. I'm hopeless. What makes a room sexy? Candles? Satin sheets? Fluffy cushions? Flowers? The lingering scent of patchouli? Plastic mattress protectors? Red lightbulbs? Shag pile carpet? Mirrors on the ceiling? Me sprawled on the bed in fishnets and fuck-me boots, heh?
I need some inspiration. I need to stop thinking about cock.

Female ejaculation. I always wondered if it really existed, and if it did, were these women who squirted as they came some kind of freaks? I'd never seen it in porn (never looked for it either, mind... was too busy looking for good D/s stuff. Ha ha.), and in my imagination, I just couldn't imagine it. Piss. That's probably what it was.
Then one day, I'm sitting on my bed. Kind of reclined, legs apart, knees bent, playing with myself. Like you do. Thinking about whatever I was thinking about. Getting more and more turned on. Playing harder. No toys, just fingers. A couple on my clit, and a couple inside me, rubbing on my G-spot (and why is that never in the same place twice? I swear it isn't. No wonder men have trouble finding it.). Faster, and faster, my mind lost to some no doubt utterly depraved fantasy. It was one of those really intense sessions, where you just get completely carried away with yourself, and I was. And then as I could feel the orgasm rising up through my feet, my legs, my cunt, my tits, my head, I kind of felt like I wanted to piss. I was still rubbing though, in exactly the same spot. And it just kept building and building and building. And then. Bang. I came. And as I did, something rushed out of me. Wet. Warm. Coating my hand, and soaking the sheets beneath me. And it felt like... what I imagine it feels like for a guy when he comes. I often felt like I could explode with pleasure, and actually doing that seemed like a very natural conclusion.
I looked at my hand, thinking "did I just piss myself?". It didn't look like piss. Not quite as watery. it didn't taste of anything, and I didn't know what piss tasted like, but I'm sure it would taste of something? And i did need a piss right then, which kind of suggested to me that I can't have actually just pissed myself, or I wouldn't still need one, surely? And then I had a lightbulb moment. "Bloody hell, I think I've just squirted!", I exclaimed to myself, and then wondered if the puddle on the sheets should be quite that big.

It was huge. The size of a small ocean, at least.

And that was it, after that. I wanted to squirt every time. It became like an obsession (see post below!) with me and the bloke I was living with. He wanted to see it, because he didn't believe it, and I wanted him to see it, because I didn't believe it either. There must be a technique. What did I do last time? Oh yeh. Two fingers there, and two fingers there. No, not there. Up a bit. Down a bit. A couple of millimetres to the left. Oh yes, right there. We tried over and over again, with no luck, and his face the first time he managed to make me cum like that...it was a fucking picture. His mouth fell open and his eyes popped out of his head. It made me laugh.
And it happened quite regularly after that. For quite a while. And then suddenly it stopped happening. Can't remember when exactly, and I certainly don't know why. Much the same as I don't know why it started.
But this year has seen something of a squirting revival. It happened during my first MMF. Right in the boyfriend's mouth (I'm surprised he didn't choke to be honest). Then it happened when I was sitting on my rock-chick. And then it happened the other day, when I was sitting here having a "cock" moment. And then it happened the day after. And the day after that. And every day since. I don't know why. It could be the technique, the position, the level of arousal, or something else entirely.
But anyway. It hasn't happened today. My research continues.

I obsess about things, it's true. I obsess about people, about my feelings, about sex, about everything really. And I'm no different when I'm playing with myself either. Always obsessing. Using the same fantasy/mental imagery for weeks and months at a time, every time. And at the moment I'm obsessing about "cock". I really am.
I think I wrote somewhere once about how unimpressed I was with cock shots. How they did nothing for me at all unless they came (excuse the pun!) with a body attached to them. Well, fuck all that. I want cock shots. Actually, that's not entirely true. To be more precise, I want cock, but in the absence of cock, I'll have cock shots. Please.

I'm saying cock alot. This is how obsessed I am.

And as strange as this may be for a cock-loving slut like myself, I've never really obsessed about cock before. Not like this anyway. I'm fucking dreaming of cock, for fucksake. Cock. In me. In someone else. In no-one. Just show me the cock! (Now! Grr!) Even the word does it for me. Dick just doesn't have the same effect at all.
And perhaps even stranger still is that the cock doesn't even need to be real. I've just got off on a stunning photo (that I'm obsessed with, that I wish I could show you) of a woman I know wearing a strap-on. Do you not think that's bizarre? It's a fucking dildo, and I'm sitting here frigging myself stupid over it. I don't do that with my own dildos.
Come to think of it, I haven't even been using my dildos. All this obsession with cock, yet I'm using my fingers and not my toys. I have one in particular that is very realistic (apart from the fact that it's purple), with veins and balls and everything. Very nice it is, feels great, and yet I haven't even used that. Perhaps if it wasn't purple...

Oh no. Now I want (read: suddenly must have) a flesh-coloured dildo. Help!

I've been back in dodgy webcam chatrooms these last few nights, giving all the boys a cheap thrill (5 quid odd a month is pretty cheap, no?). Little do they realise that I probably get a bigger buzz out of it than they do.
I know some (snobby old cows) are going to look down their noses at me for allowing myself to be "objectified"; whatever. I like being "objectified". It's my choice. I'm not being manipulated into it. I'm not being exploited. I love being watched. I like my body being admired slash gawped at in a sexual way. I like the lewd thoughts that run through their heads when they're watching me, even though most are too busy with their hands to type them out. Occasionally one comes along who's a little more sophisticated, who will whip up a nice little fantasy for me. Help me on my way. But in general it's "show us ur tits", "do u show?" "play with your pussy", and oddly enough "stand up plz", which I never took to be a sexual act, but there you go! But I know what they're thinking. I can see it on their cocks. I like nay love to see them get hard. It just fills me up with all kind of fuzzy happiness, me being the attention hungry slutface that I am. It's like virtual dogging. All the cock, and none of the spunk down the door.

What?

All this modern technology, I thank you. I thank you for the digital camera; until it's invention, I think I only ever saw one "home-made" photo of a cock. Obviously my memory is largely buggered by drugs and booze, but I distinctly remember the photo. He wasn't even hard - I guess that's how it got through Bonus Print? Until the invention of the digital camera, I'd never been snapped naked. It was like, one of the first things I did when I got my hands on one. Ooh, a self timer! Take a photo of your tummy! Your tits! Your bum! Show the world! Because it's better/safer than doing it in the street! (But not more fun than doing it in a carpark.)
And so it progressed. And then earlier this year, I bought my first ever webcam. Not because I wanted to show my long lost mate who now lived in Outer Mongolia my new hairdo, but because I wanted to go dogging, and shagging on cam seemed like good practise. As well as a good outlet for my exhibitionism. I just never anticipated the confidence it'd give me. I mean, I've never been the shy or retiring type, but.
Have you noticed I don't even moan about my small hardly-there tits anymore? Thank the webcam. Or thank the perverts watching my webcam. Either way, I have - for now at least, and oh dear I do hope it lasts now I'm about to say this - no body issues. At all.
I think it may be a first.

I have so many desires, so many questions, that I have to stay where I am, in this fucking strange old world I've immersed myself in. There's no going back, not now. I couldn't. I would always be thinking about these desires, and this freedom, and resentment would set in, just like it always has. I have too much to feel, to do, to see. I have threesomes to have, and sex in front of strangers and sex with strangers, and what about that gang bang and a sex club or two?
I want to grab it by the raging horns and drown myself in it all. I'm greedy for it, impatient even. Like I've wasted so much time and effort trying to achieve.... what? This fucked up dream of monogamous bliss that is not and never was my dream anyway? it's fucked up, and I've been screwed by it. And now there is a chance for me I just want to get down to it. Bring it on.
No, I haven't yet had to experience the side of swinging that the boyfriend has experienced. I've had what I suppose is laughingly called the easy ride so far. I've had the most sex, and none of the jealousy (well, hardly any). But this is the thing. I fucking want it. I really, really do.
I want to prove to myself that I can do it, that I'm not just being a selfish bitch. I have to feel at least some of what they've felt in order to understand and learn and I don't know. Maybe I can't really have any "freedom" until I've sat on both sides of the fence. Until I've given what I've taken. Perhaps that masochistic little slut inside me wants to be tortured. All I really know for sure is that I have these fantasies, born out of anger and rebellion and shame, and I don't know - fear? - and although they subsided briefly while on one of my earlier wobbles, they are back now. Pushing themselves to the forefront of my mind, making me think about them, making me think up ways to make them happen. Wondering about the details. Will I watch? Will I join in? Would I want to join in? Do I just want to be ignored, really?
Could I handle it and get off on it? Does it matter if I get off on it or not? Truth is, I really don't know (there's a theme emerging here...) - be they better or worse, the reality is never the same as the fantasy. But I have to know. I do. it's gone too far in my head. Just like everything else does.

What do I want? That fucking question. I hate it. I hate it because I never know the answer, never even know if there is an answer. Does anybody know what they want? Really? Most people I know are terminally unhappy with their lives - it isn't just me, I'm sure of it. But these other people. They make their choices, and get on with it. Unhappy or not. And I just stand there, rooted by fear.
Do I want what I've got? I don't know. I lay in bed at quarter past four in the morning and I think about what I have and if I want it and I think about dreams of broken mobile phones, and spilt tea, and strange bedding on my bed, and the ariel font in navy blue, and sex and kissing and crying and falling to fucking pieces. Did I dream those things, or did they really happen? Dreams are supposed to mean something, but surely not as much as the things that happen when you're awake? Spilt vodka. Broken fridges. Sucking cock in Soho on a Friday night. Tears and fucking and waiting for the phone to ring. The ariel font in a navy blue. Empty beer cans in the garden, tossed over my shoulder, just because I can. This blog. The entries I can't write because they are too personal, too much. Fishnet stockings and condoms. I've seen so much cock this year.
I think about all these things at quarter past four in the morning, because I can't sleep. I'm not sure I even want to sleep - the dreams are messing my head up. The line between reality and fantasy is a fucking blur and I'm starting to feel a little bit fucking mad. I thought that I'd changed my surround sound speakers on the pc last night. I was sure I did. But I get up this morning and the old ones are still there, and the other ones are still on the floor... and what the fuck? Another dream. I'm so hopelessly fucking lost. I am.
I want to write. But the words fail me everytime I try. Am i fucking kidding myself? I want to have a satisfying sex-life, but what the fuck does that mean? I'm never fucking satisfied. Do I want threesomes? One night stands? Do I want a boyfriend, two boyfriends, a boyfriend and a girlfriend? A whole little black book of potential fucks? I cling onto this swinging lark because I think it could be The Answer, but I'm hurting people I really don't want to hurt and I've made two grown men cry this weekend. I hate myself.
I blame my mother.

I love playing with my toys, whether I'm on my own or with a "friend", and some things I just couldn't do without. My glass dildo, for example. It is perfect in every way. It's weighty, it retains temperature, it's smooth, and it's 8" long. It also looks very pretty, and, as an added bonus, can be used as a weapon (try whacking someone round the head with one... it's fun!). And my rock-chick vibe is fantastic too - it gives me pleasure exactly where I want it, and because it's hands free, I can also pinch my nipples, pull my hair, have a fag, etc, all at the same time.
What I lack at the moment in the toy department, is a good anal toy. I don't really get the beads; they don't do anything for me at all until they're pulled out, and that doesn't take long or add anything much to playtime. Butt-plugs, I like, but I'm still yet to find the perfect one for me. I have three; a red jelly one that is a bit too jelly-ish, and also a bit too long for butt-plug purposes. I also have an inflatable butt-plug, which I was really excited about when I ordered it - and then it arrived, and it's so big without any inflation that it hasn't been anywhere near my arse yet. Plus, it's flesh-coloured, and that's always a bit dodgy in my book. And then I have my stainless steel butt-plug, complete with "jewel", which is the prettiest toy I've ever owned. It's small, heavy, looks great, feels "nice" and is perfect for wearing "out". But it's a bit too small to give me any real pleasure, so while it's my favourite anal toy at the moment, I'm still on the hunt for something better.
And that's how I happened to come across possibly one of the most stupid sex toys ever.

A butt plug with flashing lights.

To be honest, I only clicked on it because I thought I really was going to see it "in action". Now that I haven't, please excuse my ignorance but... what is the point? It goes in your bottom. And lights flash. And then? They want us to pay 25 quid for it?

I know where they can stick that idea.

I wrote this in June... 2004. Some things never change...

Polyamory. Now there's a word.

In it's simplest form, it means 'more than one love'.

I toyed with the idea quite often last year, for various and occasionally obvious reasons. To some degree, I guess I even practised it. And not for the first time either.The first time was when I was sixteen, when my boyfriend was engaged to another girl. The second time was when my girlfriend had a boyfriend, as did I.
Both times they were "real" relationships - different only in that they consisted of more than two people. Trust, honesty, communication, and all the other things that we expect in our vanilla relationships still existed. We didn't know it as polyamory though, even though looking back that is quite obviously what it was - back then it was more commonly referred to as "a weird set-up". A weird set-up that, as far as I could tell, we all enjoyed.

I enjoyed the variety. I also enjoyed the relaxation of commitment - it still existed, but in a much more liberal 'it's ok to love more than one person at a time' manner, instead of the very harsh monogamous take on commitment that "normal" people seem to constantly struggle to achieve and maintain. That kind of commitment that I don't mind admitting scares the shit out of me. In these poly relationships, the pressure I feel to be everything to one person - and to find one person who can be everything to me, was replaced with a form of intimacy and security that I've looked for in monogamy, and yet have never really found.

And doesn't the constant struggle with monogamy imply that maybe it isn't so normal afterall? Ok, lots of people do manage to stay monogamous .... but plenty more don't.
In both my long term (and "monogamous") relationships, the fella went off and found someone new to screw behind my back. And while I haven't done that (except for once, when it lead to the second time that I mentioned earlier), boredom and panic seems to set in after five years - boredom and panic that isn't alleviated by more adventurous sex, counselling, home improvements, or children. Maybe I've just been with the wrong people - or maybe I need something more?

Maybe I am polyamorous. Or maybe I'm completely normal, and we all feel the suffocation I feel when I think of spending my whole life (or what's left of it, anyway)loving just one person. Maybe I'm just disappointed in monogamy.

Or maybe I'm just not "normal".

Ok, so the situation at the moment is not a perfect one. I let my feelings take over, and I shouldn't have. I admit that. I asked for too much, too soon, and I admit that as well. But. I also admit that I'm not willing to give up on swinging. Call me an emotional masochist (again) if you like, but the allure of it is too great, and not just because I'm a horny little bitch who wants to have sex all the time. Yes, I can have all of my fantasies come true (probably... maybe... hmm, within reason), and yes it's exciting and all the rest of it, but there's more to it than that. Honestly.

I do like relationships. I like the security they give me, and I like having that closeness with someone... most of the time. And I can (just about) put up with the lack of personal space. But what I really don't like is the lack of freedom, because it makes me feel trapped, and also the inevitable frustration that sets in soon after the boredom does. It's always the same old thing with me, every single time. And when the boyfriend tells me (as plenty of others have) that there isn't any such thing as a perfect relationship, it just makes me more determined to swing. It's not commitment I'm scared of, it's monogamy - all that temptation you have to resist, all those sacrifices you have to make, all those fantasies that will never come true, all the fucking monotony of it all. Why do I want to put up with all that for a relationship that's never going to be perfect, and is going to end just as soon as resentment starts to kick in (and believe me, it will)?
I'm not trying to say I want to have some kind of "permission" to have affairs with other people, and still come home to the boyfriend. And I'm not saying I want to shag anyone I like whenever I like, either. I just want us both to have more freedom than a traditional relationship gives us, because traditional relationships don't work for me - that much is obvious. Nevermind that traditional relationships seem to involve a helluva lot of adultery these days; everyone seems to be at it, don't they? But secrets and lies are just bad bad bad, and not my bag at all. I want us to be honest, and open-minded, and, well... swinging.
It isn't easy, no. Not for either of us. And especially since I decided to make it as difficult as it could possibly get, heh. But it still isn't any harder than monogamy, and with all those extra benefits to be had, it's worth trying to work it all out. And hopefully, we can... I want a gang-bang, dammit! ;)

I'm so in love with The Killers' album, Sam's Town. I've played it so much over the last few months, and I just love it more and more with each listen. I feel like it's my album, like it was written for me... does that make sense? I do wonder though if I might be a bit of an emotional masochist (no shit!) because this album makes my heart ache in the same way that certain men do, in a way I can't even begin to explain. I listen to it and my skin tingles, and then my chest starts to hurt, then tears well up in my eyes, and I just don't know why I love something that hurts so much...

But that's me, isn't it. I never want the easy ride. I want a psychologist, I think.

I've got this energy beneath my feet
like something underground's gonna come up and carry me,
I've got this sentimental heart that beats
but I don't really mind that it's starting to get to me now
Why do you waste my time?
Is the answer to the question on your mind

Seeing them at V festival was amazing. It was, without question, the highlight of the year for me. Fuck the threesomes, that was the best sex I never had. And I'm glad I shared it with the boyfriend, despite all our problems, because our mutual love of this album is about the only thing we have in common now... no, that's not the reason, really, but it could be. But The Killers do somehow manage to sum up all the feelings we have, all the things we've been through... if I never ever saw him again, they would always make me think of him, and him only.

I know if destiny's kind, I've got the rest on my mind
Well my heart, it don't beat, it don't beat the way it used to
And my eyes, they don't see you no more
And my lips, they don't kiss, they don't kiss the way they used to
And my eyes don't recognize you no more
For reasons unknown

Shall we just say that I'm stuck between a rock and a hard place, and leave it at that?

And no, that isn't an euphemism. Unfortunately.

There is good sex, rubbish sex, and sex that is just so fucking intense it blows your mind for days and weeks afterwards. And that was what my first MMF threesome was like; I came home the next day, unable to walk properly but with the biggest smile on my face ever.
The run up to that night had been... frustrating. We'd been trying to find a suitable third person for a couple of months, and all we'd come across so far were uglies, idiots, and disappointments. But then there was this guy, not the sharpest pencil in the box, but he had a good body, and he was up for it big time. So up for it in fact that one wet Friday night, he drove the 400 miles to meet us at a hotel bar. We hadn't even spoken to him on the phone before that.
I was a bag of nerves that day. I'd tanked myself up on coffee and Red Bull, and talked nonsense to anyone who would listen. I painted my toe nails. I dyed my hair. I had a long soak in the bath, and shaved. And then I cut myself, in a most embarrassing place, and panicked that it would ruin my night of slutfuckery. And then I wondered how the night would go. Would I really go through with this? Was I really going to meet a stranger for sex? How was it going to feel with two cocks in me? What if he thinks I'm ugly? What if I don't look sexy enough? Should I wear stockings and suspenders? Isn't that what swinging women do?
I couldn't sit still at all. I kept checking my hair, my make-up, my reflection in the mirror. I had a beer. And then another one. And then we went to the bar, and had a couple more. And we waited. Nervously.
And just as we started to wonder if we'd been stood up, there he was. My nerves evaporated immediately, probably because he was more than a little nervous himself, so I set about being funny, smart, seductive. I stroked his arm, I kissed him when the boyfriend went to get more drinks, and I asked him if he was sure. He asked me if I was.
And then the three of us were walking back to our rooms, together. I had a guy on either side of me, and it felt a bit... weird. But not as weird as when we were all sat on the bed, drinking. Suddenly I thought "I want a threesome", leant forward, and kissed him. Within moments, I was naked. And so were the men. And while I had my tongue down his throat, the boyfriend was behind me, eating my pussy out. Then I had this guy's cock in my mouth, and the boyfriend's cock in my cunt. I had two sets of hands on me, and my whole body was tingling with lust. I don't think I'd ever been so sexually charged. There was heat rising off my body, from in between my legs, from my mind, and all I could think was "cock". I sucked, and fucked, and was called a "slut", and fuck me harder, please.
There were so many positions, and so much cock that it became a bit blurry after the first orgasm. I was lost in the moment, enjoying every single thrust of it, and coming like the proverbial train. We stopped for a cigarette, and then we started again. And it was even better that time. I gagged, and choked, and moaned, and squirted in the boyfriend's mouth without even noticing that I had done it. I was pulled this way and that, I had fingers in my pussy, in my mouth, in my ass, on my tits, in my hair... it was sizzling, and I sizzled, as I was fucked out of my brain over and over again.

Just writing about it makes me wet. Just remembering how much cock I took that night makes me want to take more. And just recalling what I slut I was makes me smile a very dirty smile.