Shouldn't my biological clock be ticking by now?

I'm twenty-eight and a half years old. So I'm no spring chicken. All I see around me are people with offspring. Naughty, noisy, snotty nosed children. When I see a woman walking past me on the street pushing her over sized, three-wheeled stroller am I supposed to stop her and stick my nose in and say "Aww, how sweet. Your baby is beautiful"? I don't want to. My gut reaction every time I see a lady with a pram, is to cross over to the other side of the road to avoid the whole situation. I am not interested in children. I don't care what your little angel does, what they eat or how much they poop. I'm just not that kind of girl.

I'd rather have grown up conversations relating to the news of the world and celebrity scandals. I'd rather talk to my non-breeding friends about the hot guy she pashed over the weekend or about the bargains she picked up on her recent shopping trip. Children do not interest me one little bit.

Some of my friends from high school - males as well as females - have begun the whole procreating thing. Some started not long after we left school, others have waited until now. All I see and read on facebook are updates like "My kid is so cute, today he asked Mummy......" and "Today little So and So took her first steps." It makes me wonder what made them suddenly decide they wanted to become Mothers and Fathers. Was their first born an 'accident'? Were these children planned? If they were planned, did a switch in their brain flip and put them in 'Mumma Mode'?

It makes me wonder if the switch will ever flip in my head. Right now I'm finding it hard enough to get a regular root, let alone find a decent enough bloke to settle down with and start a family! I don't have the time, energy and money to look after myself and a dog, let alone to bring up a tribe of children. And let's face it. A few of the men that I have been with in recent years are married and some have children. I am their escape. An oasis if you will.

There is one exception to my rule of child hating. Two really. They come in the form of my cousin's two kiddies. Little Miss that is just over two years old and the Little Dude that just turned three months old. Those kids melt my heart. It might be because they are related to me, so I feel that family bond with them. It might be because they are both the cutest kids I've ever seen. These kids should be models! If I've had a bad day all I have to do is go and spend an hour with Little Miss and her paint set, play dough or help out by getting splashed to death at bath time and I have a smile on my face and my worries from the day have melted away.

I'm still not so keen on the Little Dude, I find him a bit boring, and he spews a lot. Though I am sure that when he gets a little older and stops vomiting on me, I'll get more joy out of him! I love those kids, but even spending time with them, two kids that I adore - does not make me clucky at all. One of my girlfriends - who is my age and single - has a one year old nephew. She gets clucky just by mentioning his name. I don't get it.

Maybe there is something wrong with me? I'm sure by now - as my eggs are slowly turning to dust - I should feel something. I don't. Perhaps I will someday, but for now, I'm just happy being me. Twenty-eight, single and living life large in Melbourne town.

The Great Man Drought of 2010

There was a six month and three day period of time after Round One with the Gentle Giant that I had nobody to release my sexual frustration on. It was mainly was due to my lack of faith in the male half of the species. I had tried so hard to get the attention of The Gentle Giant earlier in the year only to be shunned and not spoken to when he found himself a gal. A call or even a text to let me know that he had moved on from little old me would have been nice. Instead I got the silent treatment. Sometimes not knowing is worse than knowing, because you hold on and hope for the best.

My apprehensive attitude towards attempting to find a new bloke was getting me down. I was starting to think I had lost my mojo. I thought I was never going to get laid again. My mind was playing out little scenarios in my mind of my vagina withering away to dust and blowing away in the wind if it didn't get used soon. The first three months were the toughest. My brain and my body wanted so much just to jump on any semi decent looking male I saw. But no matter how many times I tried to send out the "Hey, you're cute. Let's fuck" vibes I got shot down. I was starting to climb the walls with my horniness. People with shares in Duracell were loving me. I was about to hit the six month marker and I was over it. I was not interested in sex. I wasn't even flying solo anymore. Until one day, curiosity got the better of me, and I logged onto the dating website again.

I had a recent message from a boy who was new to Melbourne from Perth via Launceston. The Traveler and I sent a few emails back and forth, exchanged numbers and play a little bit of text ping pong for a few days. We worked out that we both had been through very long droughts and concluded that we should break the drought for each other. We agreed to meet up at a bar near his place, so if we didn't feel a spark there would be no awkwardness like "Gee, is that the time? please get out of my house." We'd just go our separate ways from the bar to our own homes. Nothing ventured nothing gained.

In the afternoon preceding the 'meet' The Traveler sent me a text saying that he was looking forward to meeting me in the evening and gave me his home address "for the record". I thought that was sweet. It eased my mind a little. Meeting up with men off the internet, no matter how well I think I know then can still be dodgy. I told a friend the address so if I did end up back at his place, and for some reason I had judged his character wrong, and ended up dismembered in garbage bags dumped across the city, the cops would know whose door to knock on and ask questions. Not long after that text we decided to scrap going to a bar to just meet at his place.

I raced home from work to shave my legs and deal with my severely over grown pussy and under arms. Boy oh boy was that an effort! I had a shower, moisturised and threw on a dress. I'm not a girly girl, so it takes me about 15 minutes to get ready. a little longer if my tangled mane of hair has been washed and needs brushing. I threw a handful of condoms into my bag and ran to the car. Safety first.

I fired up the not so trusty Tom Tom, punched in his address and away I went. I parked out the front of his house, spat my gum out and proceeded down the sloping driveway. I got to his front door straightened out my dress and knocked. The Traveler opened it and welcomed me inside. I sat on the sofa and he opened me a beer. We began chit chatting about nothing in particular. We downed a second beer. We somehow as if by gravity, merged closer together on the couch. Then it was on like Donkey Kong. We went form first base to third in around 30 seconds before heading up the stairs to his room.

I was very surprised to see a very tidy room and bed complete with fresh linen. Nice work Traveler. Nice work indeed. I won't go into too much detail of what took place in said freshly laundered sheets. You're a clever cookie, I'm sure you have a good enough imagination to fill in the blanks from things I've said in previous posts.

Six hours later at the not so godly hour of 1am, I got dressed. The Traveler walked me to the door. We shared a goodbye pash. He opened the door and I traipsed up the driveway to the street with a spring in my step.

After a six month and three day sabbatical I was back baby!

Should one encourage an old flame to be rekindled? Part Two

I had deleted The Gentle Giant's number but somehow remembered the last two digits were 28. I received a text asking if I still played with my ropes. I said that I hadn't played with them for a while but when I did play with them it was super fun and he should give it a go with the missus some time. He wrote back that there was no missus. No missus hey? I thought to myself as images of naughty things rolled through my brain. He had my full attention again. I wrote back 'Maybe you should come and play ropes with me some time?' We played a bit of text ping pong and eventually came to the conclusion that he had too much work still to do for the day and I was tired. We left it at 'We'll play some day soon'. Whatever.

The next day after work I was super toey (nothing new there then) and decided to get the ropes out when I got in from work. I grabbed my red Japanese silk rope and un-wound the plait. I found the mid point of the rope and placed it on my spine, roughly where a bra strap would go. I began winding, twisting, threading and knotting around my torso, neck and boobs until I had no rope left. I was amazed with the outcome. After all, it was the first time I had really ever tied myself up. I had only ever practiced on my mannequin. I had the tension of the rope just right. Not so tight that I was going purple, and not too loose that they fell off when I moved around. I took a few cheeky pics on my phone and MMSed them to The Gentle Giant. I tried my hardest to tempt him into my boudoir... No such luck.

He seemed impressed, but not impressed enough to drop everything and pick up where we had left off earlier in the year. I had been given a second chance to show this boy who I really was and again, he was playing hard to get. Boring. I don't like games. Either you want to hang out with me and get to know me, or you don't. Simple. Don't string me along and waste my time.

The trail of the ropes went cold and a few days passed. I was on MSN like I am most nights and just happened to mention that I was going to Sexpo - a sexuality and lifestyle expo at Jeff's Shed- in the afternoon of the next day. I asked if he'd like to tag along and help me pick out some new toys. I was bluntly told he had too much work going on and he would not be able to make it. Luckily for me, one of my girlfriends - Sexi-Bum - is just as much of a sex crazed nympho as me agreed to accompany me to the event.

We were like two kids in a candy store! We ran around like we were high on sugar - squealing with glee at every new toy we saw at every stall. We walked up and down each of the aisles slowly taking in everything that was on offer. I knew what I had come for. A We-vibe II and a new dildo. I found what I was after not long after entering the expo and did not bother shopping around to see if anyone had the items cheaper. Sexi-Bum on the other hand can be quite thrifty and likes to compare prices. After a few hours, we had both spent up big and were tired from trudging through the crowds. We saw the sign for the exit and moved towards it.

We were about 10 steps away from the freedom and fresh air of the exit when I looked up and directly in front of me walked The Gentle Giant - Complete with horrid, "ex" girlfriend hanging off his arm with a dodgy "I'm missing chromosomes" look on her face. My heart sank. Our eyes locked on each other. My face went bright red. I looked away. I could not believe it.

Yeah right! "I'm too busy working to come and help you pick out some new toys to add to your arsenal." LIAR! I don't deal well with people - especially boys - that tell porkies! I couldn't help myself. I had to text him. I asked "Having fun? I thought you and the Missus broke up?" at 6pm as Sexi-Bum and I walked out of the event. Three hours later he decided to text me back. "She wanted to go so I went with". Nice. I wanted to go and asked you the day before and you said no.

So I'm pretty sure the events of the last few weeks and the weekend just gone have answered the question in the title of this blog. No. You should never encourage an old flame to rekindle. Old flames burn out to become ashes for a reason. Let these ashes blow away with the wind. They are not worth worrying about. Use your time and energy on new and exciting things. Leave the past in the past.

Should one encourage an old flame to be rekindled? Part One

The Gentle Giant is back. You may not know who I'm talking about so you might like to backtrack and read my blog titled - You can't always get what you want...

I got my 1st text from him about two months ago. It was a random school night when I received the text telling me that he'd just taken himself on a pub crawl in the CBD and was now in a local pub that I had taken him to. I congratulated his effort and told him that his pub crawl was probably no where near as good as the one I had taken him on months earlier. He agreed. I enquired as to whether he'd like some company on the last stop of the crawl, to which he accepted. I was out the door, in the car and at the pub in less than ten minutes. Eager much? Silly me.

I got to the pub and the voyeur in me kicked in. He was sitting inside, at a table alone. I paused for a moment and contemplated leaving. I stood and gazed at him for a few moments just thinking about the last chapter I had endured with this boy. I had fallen for him and he gave me the cold shoulder. Did he deserve me giving him the time of day? Of course the answer is yes. I'm a girl aren't I?

I took in a deep breath and entered the pub. His back was tuned to me but as I walked, he span around and smiled at me. I walked over to him, said hello and gave him a kiss on he cheek. I saw his pot was half empty (I'm not being negative, it really was nearly empty) so I sauntered to the bar and ordered two pots of refreshing lager beer.

I sat at his table and we began chatting away. We caught up on the past few months that had elapsed since we last spoke. We talked about work, friends, projects and love lives. It was pleasant. He was still charming and I couldn't help but smile at him. I don't know how or why, but conversation between us just comes so easily. We sat there, and before I knew it around two hours had ticked over on my watch. It was at that point that the singing from the open mic night became unbearable. We picked up our coats and left. As we were standing out the front saying our farewells, I offered him a lift back to the Bat Cave.

I pulled into his driveway and saw an odd looking unpainted car. It turns out that he has done a cut and shut on his 4x4 and turned it into a ute. I was super impressed. We talked about cars for a few minutes before an awkward silence fell over us. I once again - just like the very first night we went out - declared it was getting late and that I should head off. I was secretly hoping that he would invite me in to ravage him under the guise of having another beer. He didn't. I stepped in towards him and stood on my tippy toes to give him a peck on the cheek. He turned his head and planted a semi open mouthed kiss on my lips. I froze. I was unsure if I should kiss him back. I didn't know if he was still with his girlfriend so I chose to pull away. I got into my car as he walked to his gate. Before he went in, he looked back at me. I smiled, put my car into reverse and went home grinning from ear to ear.

That was the last I heard from him until a week ago...

Madame - My new lover and friend...

I needed a new bicycle. My last one got taken without my permission. Get yourself in a comfy chair, and I'll set the scene for you...

...Comfy? Good. Now I can continue!

I was riding reliable old, Huffy to a Mexican restaurant for dinner one evening a few months back with a good friend Miss How Do You Do. It was early evening, the sun was going down, birds were settling into their roosts for the night, when all of a sudden, the left crank and pedal assembly of my two-wheeled vehicle fell off! My close friends know that I have a very quick temper and even the slightest thing that most people would just shrug off sets me over the edge.

I picked up the bicycle and threw it accross the nature strip in a fit of rage, I threw the crank into some bushes and stomped up the street towards the restaurant. I was in a bad mood because I was hungry, my bike has just fallen to pieces so I kept my head down and used the Foot Falcon to get to where it was I needed to be. My plan was to walk to dinner. Enjoy a fantastic vegetarian la combination with the ever lovely and composed Miss How Do You Do, walk back to where I had left the bike, push it home and fix it in the morning. But no, when we got back to the place I had left my bike I was shocked to discover it was gone! Someone had stolen my broken bicycle! Who would ever do such a thing? I was furious! I picked up the detatched crank and threw it as hard as I could down the centre of the street - I'm a girl and throw like one so it didn't get far!


When Miss How Do You Do had calmed me down and defused the situation we continued the walk back to her place. It was late, getting cold, and now my grumpiness has returned ten-fold. All I wanted to do was to get into my 5.7 litre V8 car and go home to bed and forget about the fact that some jerk had stollen my broken bike!

I broiled on the fact that somebody had stolen a broken bike and not bothered to look for the missing part. Did they walk it back to their Aladdin's cave of stolen treasure? Did a one leggered pirate claim ownership of my abandoned fragmented former chariot? Over the next few days I decided it was time to replace the good old Huffy with one more fitting to my personality. I decided I needed a vintage bike.

I started trawling the internet - eBay mostly - for a vintage bike. I came to a realisation that owning a vintage bike would be much like owning a vintage car. Lots of maintenance that would more than likely prove to be quite costly. I found this amazing bike that looked like a vintage beach cruiser, but was in fact brand, spanking new! Eureka! I wanted to buy it as soon as I had laid my eyes on it.

She was beautiful. Powder blue, curved frame, tan leatherlook saddle and hand grips, 7 gears, cane basket on the front and mudguards. I was in love... again! This time with a bike and not a boy! I named her Madame.

Since falling in love with my new flame, we have been on many adventures. I love that I - the unfit, fat, non-exercising person - can now ride my vintage inspired bicycle to Williamstown, do 'the lap' and head home again all without whinging about being tired, exhausted, puffed or out of breath - I put it all down to giving up the dirty cigs five months and fourdays ago.

I heart Madame.

No smoking and taking Champix make The Opinionated Little Miss go something, something...

I am on my last week of Champix. I have been smoke free for 2 months and one week. As I sit back and reflect over the last three months of taking a 'quit smoking' medication twice daily, I smile. I was a smoker of 30-40 cigarettes a day. I think back and I wonder where I found the time to smoke each of these ciggies. Think about it. It takes around 3-4 minutes to smoke a cigarette. This means I spent on average 122.5 minutes a day smoking! That's just over 2 hours of every day! Let's just say I've been smoking for 10 years. I know it's probably more than that, but legally you can only buy said evil cancer sticks once you turn 18. That comes to 7,300 hours of my life that have been wasted smoking! What a waste! Imagine all of the exciting things I could have been doing in that time.

Champix, the necessary evil. I have tried and failed in the past to quit smoking. I knew it was bad for me, but I was addicted to nicotine. I tried the patches when I was 23, but ceased using them after they started making my skin smell like a stale garbage bin. I managed to not smoke for 4 and a half months back then. Last year my house mate and I decided that we were going to kick the habit together after hearing about Champix from a friend. We both popped off to our doctors, and started taking Champix the following Monday. It was great. 3 days into the treatment I was not finding myself having the urge to light up every 10 minutes. It was weird. My brain would think "Oh, it's been a while. Let's have a ciggie" The just like magic another part of my brain would kick in and say "We really don't need that coffin nail, do we?" and I would not light up. I managed to last 6 months before things went sour with the housemate and instead of fighting with him, I'd go out into the back yard and have a cheeky cig. This was OK at first. Just smoking one or two a week. As things got more and more hostile between us, I began smoking more and more, and before I knew it, I was a full time smoker again.

8 months down the track brings us to March this year. and it was as if a switch had been flipped in my head. I just wasn't craving to smoke as often as I use to. It may have had something to do with the change in recipe of my favourite brand. I even called the customer hotline to ask why they tasted different and stopped burning if you stopped puffing. I swapped brands, was still unsatisfied and it was then I signed myself up for another round of Champix. Again on the third or fourth day after commencing the medication, the desire to smoke was gone. i cut down to around 10 or less fags a day. 2 weeks into treatment I had given up completely. I was stoked!

On the fourth week of taking the tablets I began having crazy dreams. Not crazy, cool trippy, acid-like dreams. But more like frightening nightmares that would wake me up in hot and cold sweats. Sometimes I would even wake up trembling. The first one I can remember involved my dog (and life partner) Billy and I going on a road trip 'in a fried-out kombie'. We stopped at an imaginary seaside town to stock up supplies. Upon my return to the car, I found my precious Billy had been murdered in the back of the camper van. He had had his throat slashed. His blood was everywhere. It was upon seeing this that I woke up. Another nightmare I can remember involved me being stalked by some kind of predator through the streets of Melbourne. This horrid dream resulted in me being hung, drawn and quartered, just like the medieval torture. Nice. Not.

(I started this bog back in August, and just never finished it off til now. I'm now six months and one day smoke and crazy dream free)

My love for rope...

Some time ago, let me see... I guess it was around 18 months ago or more, during one of my random internet searching sessions that I seem to engross myself in all too often, I came across some raunchy pictures of a beautiful naked woman tied up with a bright red rope. She was not tied with regular old 'Granny knots'. These knots were similar to knots I could remember from a favourite book from my childhood. It was a book on maritime knot tying. I would spend hours with a 2 metre length of jute rope tying, untying and perfecting knots. Sad, I know. But there was not much else to do that didn't involve mischief on Dad's access weekends!

My favourite knot to make was called a monkey's fist. So titled, as when completed it looks like a scrunched up paw or fist. Genius! It was used by old school sailors at the end of ropes to add weight to them so a rope could be thrown from the deck of a ship or boat, to a third party waiting on a dock to catch and tie off. After conducting some research into the history of the humble monkey's fist, I discovered that it also had a more sinister use. It went by the alias slungshot, and was used as a rather crude but I assume effective malee weapon by sailors when involved in tavern and street fights way back in the 1800s.

This is one of the hardest knots to master the art of. It took me several attempts to get it right. Out of all of the attempts I have made over the years to tame this beast, I've only managed to get it down pat twice! The hardest part is at the end, when you tighten up all of the loops to become a round ball shape. I almost always ended up with a random loop that would not go away! This frustrated me so much that on one occasion out in the back yard, I poured zippo fluid on my precious jute rope and set it alight. After my rage subsided, I was sad that my rope was gone and I had to explain to my somewhat grumpy father, why I needed a new length of rope. I made up a lie and told him that the ends were too frayed to use anymore. He bought my story, and off we trotted around the corner to Mitre 10 for new rope. I chose a white 3 ply acrylic. Once I got it home, I spliced both ends so they did not fray or unravel.

Getting back to where this fable began, my discovery of Japanese rope bondage. I was intrigued by the woman in the red rope so I searched for more and more images to ogle. I was fascinated by what people had managed to do with a few metres of rope. I got online bought my self a few 'how to' books on Amazon.com and went to Bunnings and bought 10 metres of rope. I dusted off my armless and headless mannequin, cracked open the book and jumped straight in. I flicked through the book and stopped at a page with a photo of a bottom (person being tied) wearing what looked like a bra made of rope. My mannequin has boobs so I thought that would be a great place to start! My eager hands palpated the rope as I read through the instructions. I folded the rope in half and began to string up the dummy. Before I knew it, I had created some simple breast bondage. I was as happy as a dog with two dicks! I took a quick photo and untied my creation. I was now hooked on a new drug. A drug called Shibari. Enter my new obsession!