Graceless

I revealed a bit about myself here a while ago.

It was all about my little square of muslin I've had since I was a kid. I always have it with me when I'm painting, which is the absolute most important thing in my life. It has a lot of sentimental value to me as well...

Anyway... I was reading another blog.

Seems the blogger in question wipes his not inconsiderable bottom with his bit.

So that was nice to know.

I mentioned a little brush I had with the police and I also mentioned I have a friend who is one of those very piggy wiggies.

She took me to task, and she questioned exactly WHY I was pulled over by the fuzz.

She was quite insistent I fill in any gaps I may have inadvertently left... just in the interests of fairness and accuracy. She was adamant it wouldn't have been random.

OK... there was one thing that may have encouraged the pulling by the fuzz.

I had just been calling Huey in a lay-by.

This may have been due to the remnants of a bout of food poisoning, a piece of bad cucumber in my sandwich, travel sickness or more likely, just a naturally occurring incident of chunk blowing.

I left it out not to deceive, but for the mental well being of my readers.

Not everyone has sexual fantasies of being horfed over by a laydee.



Now I'm off for a meal in a real restaurant in London.

Earlier this evening my hairdresser friend came round and we shared a bag of chips and a jumbo sausage.

Then I wondered aloud how wise it is to dye hair extensions.

So now I'm slightly lighter.

Yesterday I had a dose of down-in-the-dumpicity and a friend of mine said that instead of hanging out on a cock board, or working, or drinking in the pub, I should go for a drive in the country.

"Oh ha ha!" I cried "You know I don't have a car. That's right. Kick a girl in the flange when she falls awkwardly wth legs akimbo, why don't you?"

That's a lie. In truth I said, "Are you offering to lend me your car?"

She hesitated a brief second, which told me she wasn't convinced, but apparently decided to risk it, as she said, "Sure."

Before long she was on her way to work in a taxi, black mobile phone at her ear, black laptop on her... lap, and leather attache case, a black one, open on the seat.

Oh.. we hugged and cheek kissed before she left. That's the closest to sex you will get today.

Before hardly any longer, I was stood with my pink lunchbox in one hand (it contained a cheese and cucumber sandwich and a carton of pineapple juice and some salt'n'vinegar crisps) and keys in the other.

In my purse I had her credit card (you have to imagine my eyebrows wiggling up and down at this point).

Brrmmm brrmmmmm went the car.

First stop... petrol.

This was why she had given me her card. To fill 'er up.

It took a LOT of filling. It went on for ages! The thing is she has a black card, and I did think a black one would be better for such a mammoth filling job, but she had only entrusted me with her gold one. (The black one apparently opens doors to ... well even heaven.)

So. Tank filled. Almost a hundred fucking pounds! Obscene I call it.

"Thank you Miss Xxxxxx"

!!!?????

I wondered what happened to the "Cheers love!" that I normally get when I am in some hired banger.

And I wasn't even in my posh frock! I was wearing trainers, the white ones, no socks, baggy jeans that were cut off mid calf, and a rainbow coloured man's vest that I had tie dyed myself. Plus reflective sunglasses so I could pretend to be cool. My sexy long black hair (insert rolling eyes emoticon) was all tied up and over to one side.

.... all of which may have led to a later episode.

I'd eaten my lunch. I'd had a pee behind some bushes, I'd parked up and had a walk through the woods, discovered some very strange music on the cd (which was oddly compelling) and was generally feeling a little more at peace with myself. The only downside was the nettle sting. No... just on my leg.

I was driving home.

And I was pulled by the fuzz!

BOOM BOOM. (Insert another rolling eye smiley thing.)

All the usual questions followed, with a lot of early emphasis on "How old are you really?". That was cleared up when documents were shared.

I should probably confess I do have certain issues. I also have a very good friend who is one of those policelady types, but in general the uniform pretty much pisses me off. The contents are, I am aware, just human like the rest of us.

Now sadly I have two things I find I have to say to the ladies and gentlemen of the police force... or service as I am told I should say. Make up your own joke about being serviced and/or forced.

The first is, "Are you going to beat me up?". This usually goes down OK. A joke is enjoyed and banter is exchanged. As it was this time. Of course, I always make sure the follow-up "You fucking Fascist cunts" is said under my breath.

The other is, "I've got no drugs."

Over the years that hasn't gone down so well. One time in particular when I was asked why I brought the subject up...

"It was a joke you fucking moron."

Amazingly that led to me being arrested for, I assumed, having no drugs.

But back to yesterday...

I confess to a stutter. I can mostly control it. I can also let it run wild...

They thought I was nervous. (Insert etc etc.) I admit it was to mislead and misdirect. And confuse. (Tough task......)

Anyway, all things considered, checks had to be made, "Oh, so we know you then miss.". Phones were called, "So she has your permission then?".

And finally "You can go."

"OK. Apology accepted."

Then the quiet word, come on most of you have had it. This time mine was..."You just want to drive off now don't you, young lady?"

And I did. I may be arsey but I know when to quit these days.

And that was it.

See... I'm not all sweet and innocent. (Insert shoving truncheon up cozzer arse smiley thing)








Final thought. Big powerful ones really ARE better.....

I'm not sure if I have mentioned this before....

I live in a flat, and there is a window that, especially at this time of the year, usually grabs the exact amount of sun to be pleasant and warm, without being oppressive.

I like to climb up on the window sill, and sit and draw and watch the world go by. I am aware this makes me sound very sad, but on the other hand, ya boo sucks to all you fat arses who wouldn't fit up there.

Oh let's do some porno...

Her face tipped slightly forward, her long black hair hung over her face, her large round limpid brown eyes stared dreamily out across errr.... Watford.

She wore a thin white cotton top. Her small pert breasts pushed against the material, as if straining to get out and be fondled by a man with big hands. She wore no bra, and her nipples were erect from the spring air breezing in through the open window.

She wore green shorts. Her smooth long (for a short arse) legs otherwise bare, except for rolled down white socks, and big clumpy white and green trainers.

Her knees were drawn up, her pad resting on them.

She had no pimples, but she did have a vagina.

Anyway... most people can't see me, except for friends who know where to look and wave "Hi".

As an aside... there is a dear old guy who walks by most days, and if I am up there he waves to me and says, EVERY time, " Hello missy! You'll fall out of there one of these days!"

Then he laughs! Which seems totally inappropriate.

Like a moron, I wave back and call down, "I know!" and laugh as well.

Back to the point..

Today there was a woman in a car. I don't know what sort.

Just a normal woman I think.

She was wearing a bikini top.

She stopped her car.

Took her bikini top off.

And put a t-shirt on.

So I saw her titties and everything.

It was really quick but honest I saw 'em!

Yes. I won one. And for the record I wasn't drunk. A little merry perhaps.

I had no idea it was worth the effort, this winning lark.

It's like a little orgasm.

The victory dance, should you have read Mrs T's fanciful blog, wasn't at all unseemly.

It was as follows...

Touching of alternate elbows while twirling the index finger of the other hand.

Then turning and smacking one's rear, while chanting, "Kiss my arse you looo-saah."

Then a face on waving of arms in the air and lifting alternate knees out sideways and rocking from side to side while chewing the lower lip.

Then a pointing in the face, accompanied by an appropriate, "In your face. You didn't expect that."

It finishes with a small boy leaning out his bedroom window and calling down, "Is Aunty Grace drunk?"

A couple of times recently I have been asked about painting. Normally this is to humour me, or to get in my knickers, but just in case these questions have indicated genuine interest, here's a sex free blog.

Someone asked me what products I use. My preferred medium is oil, and the paints I mostly use are from Scotland. They are called Rembrandt Premium Artist Quality Oil Paints. Depending on the colours they are from about six pounds to twenty pounds a tube. There are 120 different colours, and I try to always have a couple of each. And this is why I drink cheap cider. To be honest I indulge myself, and it may not be necessary to spend so much on paint...

As for the surfaces, there's far more variety. If I am painting commissioned work, then I use heavy 70mm canvas, The cost depends on the size I'm commissioned to paint, but maybe thirty or forty pounds. The frame depends entirely on what is wanted by the client. If I'm painting for myself,then it depends on what I want to convey. Canvas, acrylic, cotton, linen, cardboard, stone, pottery. There are no boundaries.

I'm sounding quite financially obsessed for an arty type, but the questions did revolve around practical costing.

Brushes. Hog hair for work. I have loads of brushes. I buy them from all sorts of places, from twenty pounds for a hog hair quality brush to a few pence from a jumble sale because it takes my eye. Though I always have a few old favourites that I use a lot, until they start going bald. For my personal stuff I paint with a variety of materials, not just brushes. Whatever seems right for the job in hand.

I have two cameras. The main one now is a Sony digital SLR camera which cost me around three hundred pounds. I used to use a 'film' camera, and developed the photos myself, but convenience has won out over the slightly better results. I think the difference is minimal, and maybe imaginary...

I'm no photographer, but I take photos of subjects, in particular people, I paint. For when they aren't there....

And a piece of muslin. This was free, given to me when I was 14. It's about eight inches square, cream coloured originally, and when I paint I stick it in my pocket, or in the waist of what I am wearing, or wherever is appropriate. When I paint, I sometimes stop (so I am told) and step back, and wipe imaginary smears of paint off my hands with my treasured piece of muslin, as I stare at my work.

Every night everything gets a totally unnecessary wipe. Every Friday night, or afternoon if I'm out on the pull in the evening, the muslin is lovingly washed ready for a new week.

See... there really was no sex.

Not only does my fellow blogger Dawnie have a fine pair of breasts, in an established non-lesbian way, but she is also clever, warm and funny.

But today I want to address her interest in the length of the ones I do.

She claims I have long ones. And I suppose it is true, There have been some long ones. One very long one in fact, it was a lot of fun to do I'll admit.

I think she was referring to my most recent one. It was quite long. Not my longest though. Far from that.

There have been some short ones too though. One very short one in fact. I don't think that time was finished to my satisfaction.

I think for Dawnie, like all of us, the long ones stick in (the mind) more.

I think sometimes the English translations in my head don't mean the same in USA as they do in Watford.

And sometimes I think Eric misunderstands me deliberately.

Graceless, wrote:
Not an ounce of fat on him. Not an ounce. Better yet, he wasn't all muscled either.

ericdb. wrote:
Glad to see your coming around to the more muscular bodies as well.

So to be more clear... he had a fit hard body without being all bulgey muscle. You'll never trick me into thinking big muscles are attractive! I am nothing if not consistent.

ericdb. wrote:
I always knew you liked ninjas, shame I couldn't be your first ninja.

Who said that HE was???

I was recently chatting with one of my friends about the self satisfactions she does on her underopening... with her fingers. I was strongly considering asking her for some direction, to see if I could do it on mine.... due to getting no penis pokes for ages.

Then this happened...

Most of you who read this will know that every Wednesday I weakly join in various activities with some youngsters. They tolerate me, it's great fun, and it gives me handy 'nice person' points in case it turns out God exists after all.

This week, in fact now I think about it, last week, some kind of free mini-display had been arranged with a group of martial arts experts, who have been putting on exhibitions in various parts of the country.

I'll swiftly get us past the obvious...

I, as ever, volunteered to be martial arted. I was lobbed about a bit, covering my head and bringing up my knees until someone realised that "No, she really doesn't seem to be breathing properly at the moment."

Someone else opined, "She shouldn't be gasping like that surely."

I did get free gymasium sweet tea. (Ew.) The social worker in charge asked me, "Why do you always volunteer to do everything?"

"You could stop me." I replied. She pulled a face that looked a bit like the moving eyes one in the chatroom.

The truth is I hate not doing something because I can't.

Getting things off high shelves, painting rain falling on shiny metal, getting male attention when my hot best friend is around, having orgasms outside four inch dinkles.... all irresistible attractions. (Though I have overcome the last... and to be fair to myself, mastered the second.)

But to the point...

When the torment began, the perpetrator, who was the exhibition leader, had to hold me very close. I think he had to. His face was close to mine. He had blue eyes. Pale blue. And a very kissable mouth.

Then while I was bouncing about I was vaguely aware that he had a very hard body.

Long story short... he asked me out to dinner to make up for "Almost killing you" and not realising "How delicate you are". I refused but invited him back to my flat to see my drawings.

It's not a cliche if I say it, because I have some to show you understand...

Two days later he turned up at 2pm as planned. I'd checked my pits which were fine, and I'd swiped a quick flannel between the old flange lips in case he turned out to be one of the 99.9%.

One of my friends was bringing her children over for me to babysit at tea time, and a man was coming to look at my oven that afternoon as well. There are no euphemisms in that sentence.

Dirk came in. We will call him Dirk, for that was not his name.

He saw my paintings against walls and sketches on a table.

"Oh." he said. "You really do have drawings."

"Of course" I replied, then I understood why he sounded ever so slightly disappointed. "It's OK. We are having sex though."

He laughed nervously. And blushed.

I told him I was sure he did this sort of thing all the time.

He laughed nervously again. And to his credit admitted he did.


Then he said, remember he is a martial arts expert... then he said, remember I'm a 26 year old, five feet, 6 stone 12 pound weakiing.... then he said.....

"You're a bit intimidating though."

That was one reason why I decided to blog about this.

Anyway.....

Time being an issue, I suggested he got his kit off. His confidence returned quickly, and I soon saw why.

Dudes and lasses... this was one hot guy.

Not an ounce of fat on him. Not an ounce. Like a frickin' Olympic swimmer I tell you. Better yet, he wasn't all muscled either.

(Considering he was blond as well as blue eyed you could say he was firm but fair........)

So... we done some things and some stuff with our bodies, and a good time was had by... well me. He was most skilled. He may well have had a good time too...

Oh, for information purposes, there was no time for measuring, but his dong was well above average without being remarkable.

Then I sent him to get some pineapple juice from the fridge...

Which he did. I saw his cute little bot bob off out of the room.

Then I heard my door knock.

Then I heard it open.

Then I heard voices.

Then the juice arrived.

"Some guy is repairing your cooker"

"Oh OK... you're naked".

"Yeah."

"Oh. OK."

So I put on a t-shirt and went to see the man who had come to look at my oven.

"It's only the clock." I said

"Oh right. Your husband didn't know. So I was checking everything."

"He's not my husband, he only came over.... for.... some..." and then I aborted.

And for the second time that day a man was laughing nervously in my flat.

That's it really. A porn film would have had him joining in with us. But no. My life isn't a porn film.

He did his business and sidled off.

Back to my bedroom and Dirk is having a wank, "While I was waiting for you".

I told him the afternoon's entertainment was over.

"But what about this!"

"Well, you can finish yourself as long as you use a tissue."

"Can I watch you dress?"

"Whatever."

So he did what he had to do, while I did what I was doing.

Then he left, saying "I'll call you."

"No you won't."

"Seriously, I swear I will."

"No. Honest. You won't."

"I will. What's your number?"

"You see?"

And I closed the door.

Then it was quiet for a while.

Then he called out, "Oh. OK."

Which made me laugh so much, I opened the door and took his. (His number, not his door, He had no door.)

Then not long after that my friend arrived with two more males.