Just another day.

Its Friday again, last working day of the week for some. Remember the days when the only thing that kept you sane was the thought of that big fat wage packet that was shoved into your hand on a late Friday afternoon. And the thought that later on after a hurried tea and a bath you would be taking part in the age old custom of leaning on a bar trying to look cool, or displaying your latest moves on a sticky dance floor?

Those were the day’s ehh? You could keep track of your money then; you knew to within a penny where you stood. These days it’s in the bank. Out of the bank, other people have control and all behind your back. For all we know whilst we sleep there could be hoards of people utilising our money to make yet more money and sunning themselves in the south of France on the profit they make, after putting our pittance back of course. On reflection I think that is what happens, oh well easy come easy go.

No, Fridays are not the same anymore; there is no run up to the weekend for me. Just the same old drudge that makes one day run into another. My life is bereft of fiscal landmarks. I mourn not only the Friday wage packet, but also the dreadful feeling on waking up Saturday morning after a night’s shenanigans and rummaging through my pockets to find I only have four pence left, that and a lump of chewing gum wrapped in an unused condom.

Going out isn’t the same anymore, where once you could strut your stuff and play the mating game, now the best that you can hope for is a booty call from a female friend as desperate as you are. I paint a glum picture I know but its not really that bad I suppose. Trouble is though the years take their toll on the body, the mind is as agile and as gutter based as it was when bursting through puberty and ready and willing to accept any sexual challenge thrown its way.

Oh well youth is for the young, it’s a bleeding waste though they have no more idea what to do with it than I did when I was young. Life is a separation of the two most important components that make up the ideal sexual gig. On one track you have, youth, energy and strength. On the other track you have knowledge, technique and experience. Both are travelling in different directions, for a brief moment they cross each other’s path and it all comes together brilliantly. But before you know it one is behind the other and getting further away with every passing day.

Friday’s motto: Don’t waste your time looking back, because you have missed the bleeding train.

Keep it to yourself.

A friend called round the other night for a drink and sympathy, she got the drink but very little sympathy. Its not that I don’t care, I do, but we have these conversations at least once a month.
And its beginning to wear a little thin, she will sit there sometimes crying, sometimes just angry and relate yet another tale of woe from her catalogue of sexual adventures that she considers to be genuine relationships.

For some reason she is convinced that granting sexual favour to any bloke she encounters will guarantee her a long and lasting meaningful relationship. Despite my educating her to the ways of men and despite pointing out that she has been disappointed time after time, she insists on doing it her way.
Now this would be fine if she were to realise that a booty call is just that, a booty call. And if she must invite men home after a night out clubbing then expect no more than a kiss on the cheek before he goes through the door in the morning.

“Men are all bastards” she wailed. “I phoned that Kevin up at work and when I told him it was Sandra, he said Sandra who and he had only left that morning, The bastard“ I told her that women could be bastards too, being a bastard is not gender specific. We are all capable of behaving badly given the opportunity and the excuse, and inviting someone home for a night of sex does just that. It couldn’t be plainer, your not saying, “Get to know me, come to like me” and perhaps take the relationship further. Your saying “Lets go to my place for a bonk”.

I don’t think she really listens, her latest escapade involved a night out where she met Kevin and after a few drinks and a totter round the dance floor they made their way post haste to her house. The inevitable of course happened and whilst she was still lighting a post coitial fag he was having it on his toes through the door, “Which he didn’t even shut” she complained.

I do have sympathy for her, I really do, she is a nice person, has a great personality apart from her promiscuity (Who am I to judge) and is a very pretty some might say desirable woman. But when she ignores advise by people to be a little less outgoing shall we say, and allow a relationship to develop before trusting her virtue (What there is left of it) to a man, she still she makes the same mistake over and over again.

She calmed down a bit, wiped her eyes and took a sip from her drink, “I need a hug” she simpered. I moved across and gave her a hug, “Why can’t the guys I meet be more like you?” she said. I freed myself from the hug and returned to my seat, “Perhaps if you were to actually look for someone with the qualities that you find attractive, rather than just going for the nearest bloke, you might have more luck” I said a little desperately. I say desperately because I knew what was coming next, and she didn’t disappoint me.

“I don’t want to go home, can I stay the night” she bit her lip. I hate it when women do that, my resolve melts, but this time I managed to fight it. “Yes you can stay, as long as you don’t mind sleeping on the couch” She wasn’t happy, I could tell, but it would hardly have been right to take advantage of the situation especially after reading the sexual riot act to her.

When I woke up next morning I decided to make us both a hearty breakfast, take the day of and treat her to a ride out into the country. We could have a meal at a country pub and perhaps I could explain things to her in a gentler way than I had the night before. But she was gone and the bitch left the door open.