Bite of Love.

Here is my erotic short story;

Michelle arched her back, pressing herself up into Paul with passionate force. He responded immediately, kissing her harder and faster than even before, his only pauses punctuated by his ragged breathing. Michelle's hands explored his body and his explored hers, but the connection they felt now was more than physical. They longed to express what they felt inside.

Paul could stand it no more, he had to take things further. He pulled away from their kiss and began to transfer his attention elsewhere. His lips brushed her earlobe and she gasped audibly. His tongue traced a path downwards, settling on her neck. His kissed gently at first. Then he applied a massive amount of suction, bursting the blood vessels that lay just beneath the skin. Disgusted, Michelle slapped him and threw him off her. "What the fuck are you doing, you sick animal? Why are you trying to hurt me?" She then stormed out, slamming any door she came across.

Love bites aren't sexy. If you think they are, then you're wrong, or you have some very particular tastes. Very few people find enjoyment in administering injuries and no other injury has quite the same sexual connotations as a 'minor haematoma' on the neck.

The desire to 'mark' out their territory is an understandable one for any kind of jealous or proud lover, but in an age of extreme social networking and regular, wide-reaching Facebook relationship status updates, is skin damage really the most appropriate way to show the world what's yours? And, although it may have been pretty cool to have had one when you were 13, it's been quite a while since I've seen a love bite anywhere but discreetly nestling behind a scarf or hidden under thick layers of make-up.

And it's not surprising that people often go to considerable efforts to hide their love bites. Parents, friends, strangers in the street; they all seem to find it obligatory to provide comment and ridicule for even the smallest of marks. The possibilities for awkward moments are endless, especially as most people refuse to believe that love bites can be anything but evidence of your sexual deviancy.

All this surmounts to one thing; love bites are funny. There's no denying it, awkward moments and comedy go hand in hand, especially when given a healthy sexual twist. So this is what I say: Give A Love Bite. Maybe to a friend, maybe a lover or even maybe sibling or parent (ok, maybe not.) Challenge society. Sport your love bites with pride. When questioned over them, explain them truthfully, or even just smile smugly, I don't care, as long as you do your bit.

The love bite revolution starts here.

Why are you talking to me; I'm neither interested or interesting.

Gone fishing.

Apparently Pembroke College, Cambridge, aren't quite as keen on me as I once hoped they might be, and have decided they'd actually not like to let me in at all, thankyou very much. However, they did think me worthy of being placed into the 'pool', which seems tome to be some kind of big scrapheap of applicants' files, piled up in some darkened room at the end of a damp corridor deep in the bowls of Cambridge, where the other colleges can pick and choose over those that are left, looking for tasty tasty academic left overs.

(For those a little confused by how the whole Cambridge application process works, it goes a little something like this; as Cambridge is made up of around 30 or so individual colleges, you don't just apply for a subject, you apply to do a subject at a particular college. Your chosen college then get to accept you or deny you straight off or, as in my case, place you in the pool to be 'fished' by other colleges as they please. Pembroke was my choice, but I, sadly, was not theirs...)

After the building tension in the run up to recieving my offer/rejection letter, I read that I had been pooled with a sense of deflated disappointment. Not because I hadn't recieved an offer (I haven't ever realistically expected to get in), but more because I'd have to wait even longer for this whole thing to be resolved.

According to my letter, I should find out within the next couple of days what my fate will be, for better or for worse. Two of my friends who had been similarly pooled have now been 'fished' (and rightly so), so my chance at the moment are looking pretty slim, but by narrowly missing out, at least I know I wasn't entirely stupid in applying to Cambridge as some people thought I was. Not quite the large 'FUCK YOU' to those that laughed at me as an offer would have been, but some consolation none the less...

Interruption complete.

Call me Ishmael...

So, basically, I thought I better get into this whole blogging deal. Information revolution or endless annoying ramblings, however you see it, the whole world seems to be writing its own blog these days, and being as ever the trend follower that I am, here is my own attempt.

This is more to encourage me to do a bit of actual writing more than anything really, two years of messing around with numbers and avoiding History essays in college seems to have left me with the inablity to string together more than a few sentances together in written form, so I am quite prepared for this blog to go totally unread. In fact, I am almost completely expecting it to go unread, as I currently have no plans to link this to any of my various other online profiles, nor to tell any of my friends or associates about this.

The idea of me, in essense, writing entirely to myself has just given me a mental picture of some little twelve year old girl keeping some kind of secret diary. As I kid, I presumed everyone except me kept some kind of record of their inner most thoughts and feelings. I always wanted in, but I was always too lazy to pick up a pen (something which seems to have stuck with me...).

Rather than childhood crushs and bitching about siblings, this blog's content is most likely going to be a random collection of my thoughts, writings and complains. If I ever actually get round to buying a digital camera, I may even stick some pictures up, so who knows what wonders might yet grace these pages...

Interruption over.