Was pondering the types of sex two people can have.
There's so much scope when it comes to sexercise. It's not like running on the treadmill day-in, day-out and there's only one way you can run: forward. And with formidable stride.
There's the gentle shagging on the rug type;
There's the take me on the countertop where I'm not wearing underwear but am wearing a skirt type
There's the let's have sex in this secluded rock pool type
There's the is everyone out of the office yes they are let's take advantage of the scanner surface type
There's the get on me in the passenger's seat type
There's the hell look at this view let's may hay on the bonnet type
There's the public-private enterprise under a park bench hidden by foliage type
There's the I have no time for foreplay missionary bang bang type
There's the sit on top of me and ride me like a showhorse in the Olympics type
There's the spank my ass like you're my Std 4 teacher and I mean it type
There's the you dress up like a nurse and I'll dress up like a doctor type
There's the let's make love in the club on the couch on the table on the bar on the floor on the barcounter type (but you usually have to be an r&b star called Usher to pull this off without getting arrested)
There's the touch me like that one more I'm going to pull you across the table and have my way with you type
There's the I'm taking a shower, you want in type
There's the hang on you're not wearing doondies that's a pleasant surprise type
There's the this bath isn't enough for the two of us but let's try type
There's the I'd like reinact the scene in Legends Of The Fall type (before he goes mental and dies)
Basically, there are a multitude of ways to fornicate. I'm just saying.
On another topic, been getting a lot of questions about the characters in my book.”Who is that person?” “Is that person that person?” “Is that person real or not real?”
And my favourite: “That person thinks that this person is that person.”
And other variations thereof:
“Is it true that this person is actually that person?”
“My mother read your book and wants to know if hat person is that person or this person.”
And the best really:
“Am I this person?”
“Is that me?”
“Is that me mixed with a bit of that person?”
I can't remember which person is which anymore, myself. In fact, is anybody real? That is the question. Well, that's my story and I'm sticking with it.
The Dove stayed over last night, so I could help her with some work. She's a funny sleeper though, generally doesn't sleep at all and came through from the couch in the middle of the night but couldn't fit into my bed – so had to sleep on my study floor.
“Why didn't you just get into my bed?”
“Because you were spread out like Christ on the cross. That's why.”
She had crafted earplugs out of cottonwool balls which she'd stuffed into her ears so to block the sound of the traffic out. And sang It's Too Late To Start A Braai to it's It's Too Late To Apologise in the shower this morning.
Yes, sometimes I miss having having a flamate.