Date: Mon, 26 Sep 2016 13:26:11 +0200
From: alongweekend@gmail.com
Subject: Reed em and weep Ch 3

6 March 2008

Things I like: garlic bread. Proper stuff, French loaf, sliced into rounds,
with garlic and herbs and butter in between, wrapped in foil and then baked
to a beautifully tasty, drippy, garlicky unhealthy fabulousness. We had
some with dinner last night, for no reason I could see. Usually it comes
out when we have finger-food and snacks and that at parties and/or events;
not complaining, though.

I am becoming gayer, it seems. Hard to believe that just two years ago I'd
never really considered it, then suddenly bam! Hard for hard-ons. I have
yet to really broach this subject with anyone except you, Diary, so mum's
the word for now, yeah?

Still, the reason I am saying this is because last night I was unbelievably
horny and I may have actually gone through with it, the thing I've been
threatening to do for ages and although everyone on the internet says it's
completely normal, I can't imagine reading about it in a Men's
Health. Maybe the readers' submissions in FHM, sure; Bizarre definitely,
but until MH carries it I won't be convinced. Of course you know what I
mean, don't you? In case you don't, well, bad luck. Still, bitter, slightly
salty with a hint of boiled chicken and a bit like household bleach; Jik,
to be precise.

At least what I assume Jik tastes like – I've never tasted bleach, I
don't think. Apparently, according to dad, I did have a few mouthfuls of
that other cleaning standard, Handy Andy, as a kid before Mom stopped me;
the lemon one which itself looks not unlike cum, really. Cum or come? I
prefer come, if I'm honest. Anyway, was the guzzling of a bit of Handy Andy
as a tot something of a foretelling? Parents, watch out for your baby boys
– they might catch The Gay from a bottle of lemon-scented scrub.

Still, it was in the shower and I had the raging horn while trying to
decide whether I should be manscaping or not, since it appears to be pretty
common these days, and so I had to take matters in hand and as The Moment
of Truth approached, a stupid fucking bird flew onto the windowsill and
scared the living piss – well, come – out of me. Usually I aim it up,
up and away and really fire that shit out but I got such a fright I stopped
after breaking point and just ended up dribbling into my right hand. Not
exactly a five-star orgasm, either, and a waste of a perfectly good
buildup, I thought. "But hey – make the best of a bad situation," I said
to myself. It took a bit of nerve to actually do it, though – it wasn't
exactly warm by the time I finally went for it, but I'm not sure that would
have made it better.

I don't know whether I could do it again, mine or someone else's. Later I
couldn't sleep, so I wrote a poem:

MM, do you manscape?

Are you bald like a stone on the beach?

Or are you natural like Greek yoghurt

Your bum a little fuzzy like a peach.

That is a perfect metaphor for

Your butt, so firm and untanned.

If I can't put something up inside it

Could I hold it in my hand?

And while I'm at it, MM, would you swallow?

This awesome display of latent literary talent demonstrates why I am
majoring in Chemistry.

It's Thursday and I don't have a big prac this afternoon. Paolo, who works
across the bench from me in Chem pracs (there are 4 spaces on each bench; 2
on either side), has invited me and a handful of interested others to have
a kick-around at lunchtime in the hope that we can put together a team for
the indoor football league which starts up next month. New people to meet!
I am looking rather forward to it.

-C