A Play About Pieces of Faeces (but not like that...)

I have had a couple of conversations recently where this blog has been mentioned.  I keep this going primarily for my own amusement, but I do have an ego. It’s always mildly thrilling to think someone else is enjoying it too, rather than me just mumbling smut to myself like some sort of horny drunk on the night bus that nobody dare venture too near.  Seriously, someone in Burkina Faso has read about my ex-sub’s cleaning shenanigans? How astonishing!

In one of the conversations it was suggested the blog may be misnamed; that it should instead be called “We Didn’t Meet Again”.  That does seem to be the punchline to many of my stories and gave me a good laugh.  I also like the subversion of the Vera Lynne-esque message.  We’ll meet again?  Not bloody likely mate.  That’s taking doing your duty to entirely unwarranted levels; I’m not exactly a lie back and think of England type.

So many of my more random meets have been such glorious shitshows that they do tend to prevail when it comes to my anecdotes.  I can't help it; who doesn't love to hear about a massive shitshow that they aren't party to?  So many of them are just great stories to tell.

I genuinely do prefer a longer term fuck-buddy type of arrangement, but there’s no particular amusement in the story of how C came round one Saturday after the Liverpool game and had sex with me for the 47th time.  To be sure it was highly enjoyable, but it doesn’t make for thrilling retelling.  Maybe if social distancing continues much longer I will run out of the livelier stories and will resort to those, but given how infrequently I’m currently posting (due to a combination of lack of time and an increasingly maudlin tendency to my reminiscences) I don’t see that happening for a good long while.

So the given name stands and I shall try in future to tell more stories that don’t end with one or both parties flouncing off in a huff.  Until then: enjoy the shitshow!




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