I had to fit a professional athlete at work and he slipped me his number. I got a tattoo and one of the gangsters who hang out there asked me to dinner. I went to an industry party and nearly every single (and some not single) nerd there was flirting with me or trying to kiss me. Solider Boi is talking marriage. Papa is chasing me and bugging me for when we can hang out. Girls at work have started referring to me as the ‘hottest mum they’ve ever seen’ and buying the exact same clothes as me. The shop girl at the tattoo salon even calls me “The ridiculously attractive gypsy lady”. When I went in the shop today a few of the artists even tried to convince me to get free ink from them instead of Papa.

It hasn’t stopped lately. Every day something like this happens. It may seem like I’m bragging, but I’m not. I say these things because I almost don’t believe it myself. I want to document these events for the ww of the web so when it fades away I can look back on this moment in time and remember that there was a moment. A sexy, tempting moment, where I had ‘it’. Where my pheromones, or hips, or lips, or unassuming nature was what men of that period in time were craving. I don’t know what it is luring them in towards my dysfunctional self but there is something right NOW. Out of nowhere. If only I knew how to control it and make it actually benefit me in some way other than being able to get laid and possibly fed.

Whatever it is. I don’t believe or trust it. As fast and furious as it came on, it will leave. Like a tsunami of lonely men. Their aching bones crashing upon my shores and slowly rolling away. I know I am alone. I know I am nothing more special than the girl next to me on the bus or the chubby girl walking in front of me in the supermarket. We are all just individuals and maybe we all get moments in time that remind us not to undervalue our selves and our sex. Maybe it’s just a reminder for me that no matter if I am getting attention or not that I can always believe that I DESERVE to be popular lately.

Stop breathing Mr Cuntface.

There are more but that will do for today

Tumbling, falling, leaning on back. Laughter and smiles lining the walls. All the tension and grief taking a moment to rest, handing me safely over to him for one night, one night and a bit of a morning. Even his usual nonchalance pays attention for once and cradles me in his arms. He whispers soothing words about how strong I am. “You are doing amazing. I just want to make you feel better. Let me look after you tonight, let me be your happiness” and without fail he makes me laugh. We joke like school kids about the ‘hapiness injection’ he is going to give me. It won’t hurt a bit, unless I want it to.

I’m swimming in the thick, heady smell of tequila, weed and rolling tobacco and with interlocked fingers we float on by the past weeks. The tide taking us past Latin music, past mutual friends. We rise and fall bumping into his shaman, pushing off and just dodging ghosts in a hotel that make him groan in annoyance and make me bury my face into the side of his neck in aroused fear. “It’s not real!” He screams and we tip over the crest of reason and land on my soft juicy bed that tells us “I’ve got you. Just let it roll.”

Fingers that expertly roll joints and create art trace circles all over my lips. Which lips? All of them. All fifteen thousand lips covering my starving body. He wouldn’t consider stopping until he has paid attention to each and every set of open lips, a few times over. Sticky. Volumous. Huge. It’s a moment that tears through time and changes what I know of it. Takes me back to when I might one day be happy be happy. Being in the past, looking behind me and seeing him in the future with circles for eyes and wheels for fingers. Gears turning. Everything churning. Even he looks out of control, the vortex of eyes and he reaches across darkness to find me “Where are you? I need you?” and he pulls me towards his body. For what must only be two seconds stretches out for hours and hours and I scream until my voice is hoarse and my lips crack.

Suddenly he pushes me away. Is totally gone. It’s still and I am alone. Really? He found me just to leave me? No. He is there again with more treats for me to sample. He had just gone for one moment to find the treasures we want and need. We share them while the room spins and his medicines make me laugh, shake, and explode across all dimensions of me.

Even in the morning he is still there kissing the hundreds of mouths that cover my back. Kiss… Kiss… Kiss… “You always make me smile” he whispers and I don’t say a word… But I’m thinking “Same….”

I’ve always been fond of my breasts. Despite having babies I felt my breasts were perky, pretty and on the slightly bigger side for my stature. This theory was confirmed by friends and family showing me their small or saggy boobs and complaining. I’d look at theirs and think “Ok I’ll be honest in admitting my boobs look pretty good.” it was something I never really worried about.

A bit of a padded push up bra and suddenly I’m looking pretty busty baby. Smoke and mirrors. Drag in the suckers with a cleavage that smiles back welcoming.

Things are changing though. Suddenly. As though my body just read the fine print on my last birthday invitation and realized how old I really am. “What! What? You’re 30?! O we’re behind schedule! Commence mission no boob immediately!” Last summer I really noticed the difference in how my bikini fit. Photos of me seemed to be all bone and skin rather than full playful bosom.

Last straw of breast esteem burnt to a brown crisp, not unlike my nipples, this week. Sex in the mirror. Not my idea, but as you know I’ll go with the flow. It was all fine and I was on top. O. O. O. O. My god! Hideous. My boobs stared back at me looking like partially filled water balloons with sun dried tomato nipples. And let’s not even begin on how my gut looked! My breasts have left the building this week and left me with some badly made knock offs.

I don’t want to say I hate my boobs, but I certainly wouldn’t follow them on twitter.

I spend entirely too much time thinking on, looking at and discussing boobs. Just like a teenage boy it rarely results in feeling them though.

I have a thing where I like to wear very girly, pretty dresses and fix my face in pink hues when I go to get tattoos. Especially my big badass pieces.

I like coming in looking like a sweet little girl and totally standing out amongst all the black, and leather, and beards and heavy metal and girls who want to be tough. I like my floral or bright colored clothes. I smile. I giggle. I jump and clap my hands in delight. I’m cute surrounded by brutes. Perhaps this is why during a recent sitting I got asked out on a date.

Yesterday I lay there totally still and joking with Papa dressed in an adorable floral romper and ridiculously huge grey heels. “Aren’t you cute!” said one of the other bearded men that seem to always be in tattoo shops. I did feel cute and loved being sat next to the scariest looking guy covered in ink. He was getting something small on his wrist done. The second the gun fired up the burly dude turned green and fainted.

When he finally came too and had some coke someone said “That’s probably my fault. I thought you were a man not a pussy. This little girl here has more balls than you.”

I smiled ever so sweetly at the still off coloured guy and he hung his head. “I’m so embarrassed.”

Typical of me to ‘break up’ with someone I never ‘dated’. Labels. So many damn labels. Sticky labels that have way more staying power than office post-its. Titles that follow you and make people treat you differently. Update status. Is now in a relationship. Aww. Everyone likes this. Yuck!

I bought Soldier Boi lunch (his pride made it hard for him to say thank you) and we sat in the sun eating. Looking and acting like your average couple. No public affection but that type of comfortable familiarity people only have with family or long time lovers. We started discussing a sentence his brother had used “…for a girl who isn’t even your girlfriend…” like it was an insult. Like naming what we have changes anything about how we feel or what we do. Does our nameless love mean we care any less? Apparently. I’m strange and cold apparently.

Soldier Boi said he wanted to be able to say he was my man. Said it would mean the girls at work would stop flirting with him. I said I wouldn’t want them to. Flirting is nice. It’s harmless. It’s fun. He got upset.

That night I ended it with him. I can’t give him what he needs. Not now anyway. I hope he finds someone young and pretty and they have cute little babies. Maybe now I can stop having everyone think I’m some devil woman ruining his life.

I’ve lost so much lately yet I turn my face to the sun and search for that warmth.