Lists are a wonderfully lazy form of thinking. Their very nature means you can think of a very loose theme, jot down the first n things that come in to your head, and release a perfectly formed bulleted gagpile ino the world.
Which is read by a small, but dedicated, following of three boys.
Now, boys are lovely. I get on better with boys than I do with ladies. Ladies, lets face it, are unpredictable, overemotional, and understand makeup - three accusations that are rarely levelled at me. I enjoy their company, we make the same kind of jokes, we have the same oddly categorised way of thinking (see earlier posts for details of my freakish boy brain.).
But - and here's the rub (as it were) - I don't, as a general rule, have sex with boys. At least, not in any meaningful, let's get brunch, maybe a movie kind of way. It's not that I dislike having sex with boys. It can be quite fun, provided they're presentable, and don't
1. have the annoying habit of pushing on the top of your head rather than asking nicely
2. reek like the bottom of an ocelots' sockdrawer.
I just choose not to, because I don't really fancy them, so it's ultimately a hollow, unrewarding, and mostly unenjoyable experience. (And often chafes.)
So... and the point is coming (as it were) - there's an interesting double bind between liking and hanging out with boys, and not wanting to get anywhere near their sexual doings on any terms other than your own.
Because, correct me if I'm wrong, most boys seem to think about fucking you at some point.
(Lee, pass go, collect £200.)
Where am I going with this? Well, I don't think I've ever sufficiently explained to anyone other than another straight-acting lesbian the weird discomfort that happens when you get the first tiniest inkling that a boy might have been thinking about you... like that. Because it just doesn't occur to you that given random boy z might ever think about you as desirable, any vague intimation that a boy might be vicariously latching on to your sexual antics is like being hit in the face with a kipper.
You instantly smell something fishy.
I'm sorry I posted a throwaway comment about blow jobs in an endearlingly lazy list. It was done for comic effect, m'lud. I know I overshare all kinds of details about my sexual life with all of you, and that I'm singlehandedly destroying the mystique of the construct that is woman, etc...
But really, it was just a blowjob. In a dark nightclub. At 4am. With a complete stranger. And my lady wife. For a giggle. I was egged on.
So how come all of my dear readers emailed me almost instantly demanding more details? Hmm?
There was a point here. Oh yes. Lists - they get you in trouble. Actually, filing anything into neat little categories is gonna get you in trouble, lets face it.