Thirsty work

Hello everyone,

first order of the day is to say hello to my lovely new readers, who have joined me on the recommendation of Mr London Street, who is rapidly becoming the Paul McCartney to my Cilla Black.

Speaking of Cilla Black, I remember hearing once that she had her handbag stolen and when the coppers got hold of it they called her up to come down to the station to identify and claim it, she did so. But there was a problem for Cilla, in that the handbag in question contained a large motorised dildo. Cilla was too ashamed to admit it was hers and so didn't get her handbag back.

Can anyone veryify this?

Anyway, I'd like to point out to my new readers that I don't only write about matters masturbatory, it just happens to be a little project of mine that suits my current financial and social circumstances. It's a journey of exploration, that's all, and one that I will leave behind when the 100 days is up. And I'm not only going to write about this stuff, I'll deal with other issues along the way too. I guess what I'm saying is that there's more to me than wanking. Take a little look back through the archive if you don't believe me, you'll find all sorts of stuff.

Anyway, there's not an awful lot of detail to share about the weekend's entries into the diary of Project Onan. Apart from the fact that, if necessary, you don't need much time (so long as you've got the back story plotted beforehand, natch). Saturday I sorted myself out early doors; it was all quite practical really. There was a bit of an interruption when the radio came on automatically and I was put off by John Humphrys interviewing Nick Clegg. Humphrys can really kill a vibe. Anyway, I switched the radio off and got back to a time when I was getting the tube a lot and this woman kept rubbing herself up against me every day. She was really attractive and I was really excited. I couldn't bloody believe it. I didn't dare to think she was using me for a cheap thrill until it had happened on two separate occasions. After that, I started making sure I got on the tube at the same time each day, and always managed to stand next to her, in the same place. Not once did she make eye contact, and that made it all the more erotic.

I can only use the first bit of that memory because I found out later that she had a prosthetic leg, and hadn't even noticed that we were touching. If that person's bottle of champagne hadn't accidentally smashed against her leg, god knows how far I'd have let it go. In the event it looked for all the world as if the limb was bring christened like a ship.

Am I the only person ever to get a stiffy because of a prosthetic leg rubbing up against me on the Northern Line? I seriously doubt it.

Sunday was a bit of a marathon. I got cramp.

Anyway, all this is by the by, because I was reminded of something that happened to me when I was about 14. Being an only child I had my own bedroom; it was just me and mum. I had a Philips midi-system that was my pride and joy, with a twin tape deck and a turntable and tuner. One of the things I realised as I lay in my room listening to my Bruce Springsteen tapes was that at a certain volume I could hear Mum approaching down the hall, but she couldn't hear what was happening in my bedroom.

For a 14 year old boy, this piece of information serves only one purpose. There was no lock on the door and I needed to know when I could use my private time wisely. More than once I was almost at the point of no return when I heard the familiar creak of the hall flooboards and I had just enough time to whip up my slacks and adopt a posture that suggested I was just listening to music.

Anyway, one time I cranked up the stereo, set the trousers and pants at half mast, lay back and embarked on a typical adolescent journey. It was absolutely magical, no two ways about it, and I was transported completely. However, when I opened my eyes, the first thing I saw was a pint of orange squash and a pile of freshly laundered clothes on top of my chest of drawers. They hadn't been there when I started, and that could mean only one thing.

In my haste I had misjudged the stereo volume and not heard Mum's approach. And, Mum being Mum, had not run away in horror but had realised that what I would be most in need of when I was finished was a drink and some clean pants.

I was bloody mortified, though. I couldn't look her in the eye for two weeks and I didn't touch it during daylight hours for a month. We've never spoken about it and I sometimes wonder if we ever will.

If we do manage to rebuild our relationship, perhaps I'll tell her how much I respect the practical way she dealt with it.

Peace

ND