Lucy's Bedroom

Intermission

One step forwards, two steps back. The hormone pills might be having a positive short-term impact but I got the results of my tests yesterday and it’s clear that the solutions previously discussed aren’t going to be sufficient and I’m going to need an operation instead. I’m OK, but I don’t think I’m going to write for a while. A bit of the bounce has gone out of me.

Play nicely while I’m gone and don’t trash the place.

Waterloo Station

Today’s medical progress report is that the hormone pills are doing their thing and I’ve finally stopped bleeding. Or, as D put it, “Hmm, so you’re back in the land of the fucking, are you?”

Well, we’ve certainly tested his theory extensively over the last 24 hours. Up against the wall in the shower; on my hands and knees on the bedroom floor; bent over the kitchen table; on the sofa during Match of the Day and in the disabled toilets at Waterloo Station. Have you been to Waterloo Station? It’s enormous. By the time you’ve walked from one end of the concourse to the other you should actually be in Belgium. There’s absolutely no way I was going to make it that far in my currently febrile state without stopping half way for some cock.

D made me undress completely, watching me strip off each layer until I was down to my knickers, which he peeled off himself, watching them unstick themselves damply from the folds of my pussy. He balled them up, inhaled their scent and then slowly pressed them between my lips, prodding each fold of material inside until only a frill of black lace stuck out from between my lips, fluttering lightly as I breathed.

Then he sat me down on the toilet lid, my bum pulled towards him, my legs up in the air and hooked around the disabled rails on each side, my shoulders and neck propped against the cold cistern behind me. I wriggled awkwardly in this uncomfortable position and he gave my thigh a stinging slap.

With a rough thrust, he slammed his cock in my cunt, my whole body jerking as I grunted, muffled by my knickers. He set off briskly, pounding me hard and fast, his hands cupping my tits as they bounced, then squeezing them, pinching my nipples as he leaned in over me, thrusting until our bodies slapped together, my cunt squelching wetly, my thighs slick with juice.

I tipped my head back, laying it against the top of the cistern. In this position, each thrust from D’s cock bumped the top of my head against the wall, banged the back of my neck into the edge of the cistern. But I didn’t move, didn’t want to move, didn’t want to lose the throbbing in my head that echoed the racing of my heart and the pounding blood in my veins and in my clit. My eyes unfocused as I gazed at the fizzing strip lighting overhead and I listened to the dim, distorted noises of the station concourse in the distance.

D hunched over me, sliding his arms around me, half lifting me, burying his face between my tits as he suddenly hammered faster, gasping as his cock twitched and spat spunk into me. He let go, dropping me clumsily back down, I grabbed hold of the rails to keep from falling as he sprayed my belly and tits with hot gobs of spunk, squeezing the last drops onto my clit.

He slumped back, sitting on his heels, gazing at me in silence for a moment before his face split into a grin and he began to shake with laughter. “You dirty, dirty girl!” He bent and lapped his spunk from my clit, kissing and tonguing it while I squirmed and moaned softly.

Standing before the mirror, wiping dried-on spunk off my tummy with crumpled up paper towels, I listened to D behind me, having a piss. He stood pressed against my back , his arms around my waist to wash his hands, soaping my tits clean and then dabbing at them with more paper towels until I started giggling and batting him away.

He slipped out first while I got dressed and when I finally emerged, a bit light-headed, I was pleased to see him holding an entire box of Krispy Kreme donuts, which quite frankly I think I earned.

International Fetish Day

Apparently it’s International Fetish Day today. Not that there have been parades and street parties but some twit of an MP called Ronnie Campbell (remember the name, because you’ll never hear of him again) has made himself a laughing stock by publicly supporting the event until someone explained to him what ‘fetish’ means. Apparently he thought it meant ‘worry’. (And I leave it up to you to decide on the suitability for office of a man who makes a big jokey thing about International Worry Day as banks face a further collapse in confidence and Israel drops phosphorous bombs on Gaza.)

He might do well to reflect on his enthusiasm to support the fetish community at the same time as his party in government…well, I can’t put it better than today’s Guardian:

‘People with certain fetishes now face the prospect of becoming victims of the government's sustained assault on civil liberties. In a knee-jerk piece of headline-grabbing, ministers have introduced a law on ‘extreme pornography’ which comes into force this month. Rather than targeting the exploitative, abusive and bullying elements of the pornography industry, the law is aimed at sadomasochistic images regardless of the context. So low is the barrier that if taken literally it could lead to a couple who take a photo of their consensual (and legal) sexual activity being arrested for possession of that photo.’

Personally, I don’t need a special day set aside to celebrate any of my fetishes but to get into the spirit of things, D and I both tried to think of a new fetish each; something with a curious and perverse appeal that we’d never actually got round to doing but might be prepared to try today.

This isn’t as easy as it sounds, because most fetishes are perfectly idiotic. I couldn’t come up with anything. After a lot of thought (during which he drew beetles on my knees with blue biro) D came up with a novel use for a can of whipped cream which I have immediately and completely ruled out.

My Intellectual Nadir

Today, I’ve…what have I done today? It’s been rubbish. I’m wearing a pedometer because I’m being sponsored to walk 100 miles in 4 weeks for North London Hospice. After only one day I already hate it. It seems to double count stairs and shook itself back to zero when I was on the bus (which will teach me for getting the bus when I’m supposed to be walking 100 miles). I should have invested in a proper pedometer and not relied on the one I got free with a packet of Walkers crisps.

I bought a book about cupcakes.

Sorry, I had to stop typing there for a minute. Have I finally reached my intellectual nadir? Books should be thrilling, stimulating journeys into adventure and emotion and the stuff of other people’s lives. They should make the past sing and the future glisten enticingly. They should open our minds and our hearts to change and invention. They should not be about fucking cupcakes!

Deep breath.

I bought a book about cupcakes because D has been hinting that this a direction in which my baking could profitably travel. I know they’re screamingly fashionable at the moment but they leave me cold because they’re slathered in buttercream, which is the devil’s work. Still, I diligently made cupcakes – chocolate ones with peppermint buttercream and chocolate chips. D came home from work, ate four cupcakes without pausing to breathe, kissed me stickily on the cheek and sprayed me with crumbs as he mumbled, “I love you”, then lay on the sofa holding his tummy and complaining that he wasn’t very hungry. So I’ve eaten two lots of Spaghetti Puttanesca and now I feel sick too.

I’ve just Googled Spaghetti Puttanesca to check the veracity of its origin as ‘whore’s spaghetti’ before making a rather plodding and obvious joke about it but in fact I’ve come up with the much more interesting fact that in the 1950s, brothels in Italy were state owned. Presumably this made the prostitutes civil servants. I wonder if they did everything in triplicate.

An estate agent has sent me particulars for another house in the same street as the last rejected one. This one’s brighter and in better condition and I wave it excitedly at D while he pretends to be asleep. Finally he opens one eye, peers narrowly at the particulars and points out that the bathroom is downstairs. He then unromantically points out that there’s another house in the pile of particulars on the market for not much more but with a big kitchen, and one more bedroom and bathroom. It’s next to the park, close to the High Street, we could move right in. And he’s right, but golly it’s ugly on the outside. And I know I shouldn’t mind because you don’t spend your time looking at the outside of your house, but I do mind really. Sulkily I pout, “What do we want four bedrooms for?” and D looks at me steadily and says, “Babies,” which rather takes the wind out of my sails.

A Tight Little Ball Of Tension

I was too bewildered by yesterday’s hospital appointment to write about it. Honestly, if you locked a committee of people away in a dark room for six weeks they couldn’t come up with anything more confusing than being a hospital out patient.

It started when the revolving door didn’t revolve and I had to go in through the ambulance bay even though there was no sign to indicate that this was a possible or desirable course of action. My ward was on the third floor but I wandered aimlessly for ages before I found the (unsignposted and hidden behind a puzzling stall selling handbags) lift. The ward my letter told me to report to was closed and so I had to randomly go to several other wards until I found someone who told me, “Oh yes, it’s been closed for a while now, all the letters are wrong.”

Finally directed to the correct place, I sat in sole possession of the apparently abandoned ward, alone except for the pile of confidential patient files left sitting on the reception desk and the television tuned to Loose Women at a volume that could make fillings drop from your teeth. As time ticked by I obsessively checked my letter several times to make sure I had the right date and time. A doctor walked by and ignored me.

At ten minutes past my appointment time, a receptionist emerged from a previously unnoticed door at the end of the corridor and waddled at the speed stalactites form down to the reception desk. She ignored me at first and spent some time faffing around with a pot plant and her Tupperware box. Then she made a couple of personal phone calls before looking up at me, blinking in startled wonder, as though she’d never seen a patient before. “Oh, do you have an appointment?” she asked.

“Yes and my letter says it was twenty minutes ago, I’ve been here a while now but there was no one here” I replied in a big rush, using that special ‘tight’ voice you get when you’re trying not to sound cross. She made another phone call. “Your half past is here.” So it turns out that not only was the ward wrong in my appointment letter, but so was the time.

So the NHS has worked its magic once again. I started the day in a relaxed and accepting frame of mind, ready to have my tests and find out what’s wrong. But now, through a combination of idiocy and carelessness, they’ve wound me into a tight little ball of tension.

And this is how I feel when I go in to see the doctor. This is not the doctor who’s named in the appointment letter, but that no longer surprises me. I am however surprised that there are five people in the room, four of whom no one bothers to introduce to me. They lounge around, listening to me being interviewed about the intimate details of my reproductive cycle (and incidentally answering all the questions I’ve been asked on four previous occasions – yes, I’m still allergic to penicillin, thank you). I consider making a point of this rudeness but refrain because I’ll only make myself crosser and I can feel myself starting to tremble a bit. So we go straight on to the ritual humiliation.

I wee in a cup, and put on a theatre gown that doesn’t close at the back. Then it’s up onto the chair with my bum hanging off the end and my feet up in stirrups while I screw my eyes up under the blazing glare of the overhead lights. It turns out that the role of at least one of the mystery people is to hold my hand during all this and periodically ask me if I’m alright. I’m not really.

They insert a tube to fill me with water for (mumbled reason I didn’t quite catch) and that goes OK in a humiliating sort of way. But then they try to insert a camera to look inside my womb and that doesn’t go OK, as signalled by me beginning to scream (“Are you alright, dear?” “Other than the screaming, you mean?”)

A consultant is sent for. He sits down between my stirruped legs and begins fiddling with the camera, then remembers his manners and introduces himself. There is a muttered conversation between consultant and doctor, much of it obscured by me screaming.

The upshot of all this is that I have an uneven thickening of the lining of my womb and this is what’s causing the uncontrollable bleeding (and the pain when they try to dilate the neck of my womb). Essentially my body is recognising the thickening as a foreign body in my womb and doing what it would do in a natural miscarriage. There are two possible treatments for this. One involves a balloon filled with hot water to cauterise the lining of my womb and the other is the insertion of a coil to slow-release hormones. My attention is grabbed by the whimsy of being cured by balloon – it has a pleasing, party-trick feel to it – but the consultant recommends the coil and, given my histrionic performance, recommends doing it under general anaesthetic.

So I’m back to waiting for another appointment letter.

I’ve actually got a hospital feedback form on which they invite me to ‘tell us how we’re doing’ but I don’t know where to start. I’d need a whole stack of them to tell them all the things they’re doing wrong.

Cheeky Blow Job

A bit perkier again today, if not entirely better, the meds are clearly having an effect. After yesterday’s exertions I sleep until 11 but then so does D and he doesn’t have my excuse. I feel well enough to wake him with a cheeky blow job.

I love blow jobs, have I ever mentioned that? If I could earn the average national income (after tax) sucking cock I’d definitely do it. Maybe I should start charging D? Innocent of my commercial ambitions, D lies back with his hands behind his head as I sprawl between his thighs, my finger and thumb wrapped firmly round the head of his cock as I suck on his balls, letting them slip from my mouth with a loud smack of my lips before I slide my tongue stud up the length of his shaft. The muscles of his belly twitch and his thighs tremble and I wriggle the tip of my tongue into the slit of his cock before swallowing it, rubbing it against the inside of my cheek.

When I feel him getting close – his breathing growing ragged and shallow, his hand cupping the back of my head – I slither away, roll him onto his tummy and lick down the length of his spine, nipping his bum with my teeth and fluttering my tongue against the rim of his arse. I cup his balls from behind and lick lightly along the crack of his arse while he buries his head in the pillow and moans.

I spit on his arsehole, pushing my saliva into it with my tongue, over and over, probing a little deeper each time until my mouth is dry. Then I slide my hand up from his balls and press a fingertip into his hole, screwing it slowly in, knuckle deep. He groans, half rolling onto his side, his cock bouncing free and slapping my face.

He lets out a yelp as my fingertip brushes against the bump of his prostrate and his cock jerks angrily. He digs both hands into my hair, forcing the head of his cock between my lips and urgently hissing, “Don’t stop!”

I circle his prostrate mercilessly, sucking sloppily on his cock and lifting my gaze up to watch him, still lying on his side, his back arched and his head thrown back, teeth clenched and the tendons on his neck taut. I begin to frig his arsehole faster and he groans out, “Oh fuck, yes, you fucking bitch!” and he forces his cock deeper into my mouth until I’m fluttering on the brink of gagging.

Then his whole body tenses against mine and he grunts loudly, his hips jerking and his cock twitching in my throat as it begins to spit out spurts of cum that I gulp down greedily.

Afterwards we laugh embarrassedly. I’m still not feeling very sexy in pyjamas and big knickers and we’re both feeling a bit awkward that this is a one-way bargain as I’m not up to receiving any attentions from D in return. Instead, I float with him my idea that I should charge him for blow jobs and I wonder how much he thinks that one was worth. He scrabbles on his bedside table for the change he took out of his pocket last night. There’s £1.27 and a sherbet lemon. I take the money and unwrap the sweet, and popping it into my mouth, I start sucking again.

A Light Flurry

I was unexpectedly feeling a bit better today so I got dressed and went shopping. It’s bitterly cold and there have been flurries of snow – but light ones, not enough to make you put up an umbrella – which was quite atmospheric as I walked down the great sweeping curve of Regent Street. I’ve been to Liberty’s sale (discounted knitting wool – did I tell you I can knit?) and Fortnum & Mason (Indian Peaberry coffee and a comedy shower cap covered with rosebuds). So, nothing I actually needed, but I’m trying to do my bit for the economy.

I also went to the National Gallery to see their exhibition about Renaissance Portraiture, which was a wee bit disappointing as all the works were from their permanent collection, just re-hung and with a new audio guide. Still, I suppose one shouldn’t be too sniffy about being able to stand 18 inches away from Titians and Holbeins. But it was a step too far really, and I’m dog-tired now.

D’s gone to the theatre without me to see Derek Jacobi in Twelfth Night. I’m very jealous. Some friends of my stepmother had a spare ticket and asked me to go but I’m not up to it. D heard me on the phone turning it down and started waving his arms crossly at me. It hadn’t occurred to me that he might want to go but it looks like last year’s forays to Taming of the Shrew, Loves Labour’s Lost and Hamlet may have lit a spark in him. Now I suppose I’m going to have to go on taking him, which is irritating because he’s big and he takes up the armrest and all the leg room.

My appointment letter from the hospital arrived in my absence and they’re seeing me on Monday, which is nice and quick.

Weirdly Hormonal

We’re at a bit of a loose end in the evenings right now. In the normal run of things, we’d be fully occupied with pornographic role play, baby oil, brutal thrashings and me swearing because I’ve got spunk in my eye. Last night we ate toasted tea cakes, played Scrabble, went to bed at 9.30 and fell asleep almost immediately. We have in fact become our middle-aged selves and it’s shocking how suddenly that happens when you strip away the possibility of sex.

It’s a terrible waste. I’ve got a knicker drawer full of lacy little bits of nothing and industrial-strength sex toys, I’ve got lovely Christmas bondage toys we’ve never even played with and here I am in jogging bottoms and big knickers. D is making a brave attempt to deal with this but he’s finding it a bit dismaying that I keep wincing and saying, “No, don’t touch me there.”

I feel all puffed up and unnecessary. My breasts and belly are too tender to touch and I still want to sleep all the time. I’m taking hormone tablets, which will allegedly stop the bleeding pending diagnosis but they need some time to take effect.

Today I tried to soak in the bath for a while to ease the discomfort but as the bath water around me turned pink I started to cry – for no real reason other than that I’m weirdly hormonal. That’s how D found me when he came home. He made me stand up in the bath while the water drained away and he washed my blood stained legs. I was unembarrassed – I’m past caring – and I guess if we make it in the long term, there’ll be worse than this.

D’s cooking some kind of pasta bake with spinach for supper because he’s decided I’m iron-deficient. I’m wondering how little of it I can get away with eating and still strike the balance between expressing love through food and not vomiting.

Lynda has sent me a ‘get well’ present. It’s a hand puppet of a plague rat and it has cheered me up a little bit though I’d be hard-pressed to explain why. A week on Saturday we’re supposed to be travelling to Birmingham to take her step brother and sister (aged 11 and 5) to the panto so I hope I’m feeling a bit better by then. I love a good boo and hiss in the dark and when they say, “Are there any little girls or boys who’d like to come up on stage and sing,” I have to grip the arms of my chair extra hard and remind myself they don’t mean me any more.

The Malevolent Universe

What Nazi death camp doctor invented the speculum? Where’s he buried? Let me buy a ticket to Argentina so I can spit on his grave. People think that when children say they want to be doctors when they grow up it’s a laudable ambition. But there’s something sinister and emotionally numb about anyone who’ll stick a metal funnel up you and poke around painfully with a spatula, ignoring the fact that you’re crying and yelping that it hurts.

Yes, I’ve had a smear test.

Apparently, the thing I’ve got wrong with me that’s causing the sudden haemorrhage of blood is, “…Well, it could be lots of things really”, so that’s cleared that up.

I’m being referred to the hospital for a scan and a hysteroscopy (according to the leaflet that’s a camera stuck up my chuff, but I’m not to worry because it wears a little condom). And then, “We’ll see.”

More sensibly, the internet suggests hormonal imbalance, fibroids, endometrial polyps or pelvic inflammatory disease as possible causes before slipping in a quiet reference to a couple of different types of cancer. I may also have von Willebrand disease – and I like to picture von Willebrand in jodhpurs and riding boots, his Iron Cross glinting on his dress uniform jacket as he screws his monocle into his eye and swishes his riding crop impatiently.

Of course, there may be nothing at all wrong with me and this could just be ‘one of those things’ that a malevolent universe sends to torment women with periodically. TS Eliot’s wife, Vivien, suffered from constant menstrual bleeding and she ended up going insane. TS stuck her in a loony bin and didn’t visit her once. I asked D whether he would do the same to me and he said yes, but I like to think that’s because he wasn’t really listening.

I’m not really sure what this blog is about now that it’s not about sex.

Rejected

OK, this is getting silly now. I’ve reached a level of blood-soaked unwellness that has even caught D’s attention. (Like all doctors, D is oblivious to anything less dramatic than your arm hanging off by a single tendon.) He’s insisted that, as this is a sudden change of behaviour, I make an appointment to see my GP (and this is the other thing about doctors; in their own subject fields they know everything, outside their field they just shrug and suck air through their teeth, like car mechanics).

Meanwhile I’ve been lying in bed in a headachy fug trying to study but mostly sleeping. I got a rejection letter this morning from a production company that had advertised for junior editorial help over the summer, which would have coincided nicely with my summer holidays. I avoided sending them the work I’ve done most recently for the Manchester-based company (because it’s utter bilge) but I’d been hopeful some of C’s reputation might rub off on me so I’d sent the work I’d done for him, all to no avail. Maybe they rang him up and he told the truth about me.