Everybody's dead, Dave.

The hot-as-hell-ness that my flat is orgiastically indulging in has, surprisingly, turned my thoughts almost entirely sexual. What is it with summer? The heat gets you hot. I’m sure it’s all linked in my mildly perverse mind to summer and summer holidays and nothing much to do and drinking and dancing orgies and picking up and running away. Of course, in those days air-conditioning played a wonderful part. [Wanna come back to mine, it’s got air con…] The nights were every bit as hot as the days and every bit as long. It’s one of those unfortunate things about the tropics, and one of the many that I don’t miss, that there’s so little variation in the length of days despite the season and that there’s no twilight. The sun sets, sometimes gloriously, but never is it prolonged. It is day, blink, it is night. The nights are very, very long.
It might be the heat alone, the recent trip north, the couple upstairs who continue to get in rather a lot of very loud practice [thank Christ they’ve got a less squeaky bed than mine], or even just a combination of them all but I’m starting to feel like I’m on heat. Lovely thought, yeah? and a vibe that can be projected for metres – when you want it to be. It’s not just sex though, there are one or two other things that I haven’t done in ages [yeah, scoff at my life hapless minions] that I’m positively aching to waste nights on. I say nights with good reason, I am mostly nocturnal – well, the afternoon/evening version of it anyway, and my natural bent is towards late nights. I do my best work in the wee hours [wink and nod]. I want to dance the night away totally fucked up on drugs and alcohol somewhere safe and cosy, like the Shift. I want to be un-pc and bake myself brown, ah skin cancer why must thou destroy such simple joy? I was never meant to be this pale. I want long summer vacations like I had at uni – casual jobs can be fucked for a month or so over the summer, especially when you’re paying peppercorn rent and the government’s giving you a pittance for studying for the multitude of ways it’s fucked you and your family over, any just because reason. I want a real break from real life. A real break for a long hot summer where the brain is left behind or simply fried.
The reaction that I’ve been getting from boys and men lately has made me wonder if my libido, as well as my brain, has been on ice for the foreseeable past. I haven’t changed. I’m wearing the same face, the same hair, and the same clothes but I’m getting quite different reactions to the ones I had before I went away. The options are either that the reactions have changed for some intangible reason or that, for some other intangible reason, I’ve come back more noticing. Maybe I’ve just come back. I had rather felt like I was in stasis. Ooooh aaaah, watch me butterfly my arse off. Of course, it could be my imagination. It could even be that I’m not as hideous and unappealing as I’d convinced myself I was. And I’m more than happy to get me some of the right kind of attention [please apply if you’re tall, dark, nerdilicious…] even if it is coming from funny quarters.
An example is the pub last night, I can’t have been that drunk, I’d only had one schooner. There I was eyeing off a prime bit of nerd [possibly a bit too ever-so-slightly gay] who fit the criteria when the barboy got a bit friendly. I was, being the kind friend that I am, eyeing him off to understand my drinking companion’s perspective – she had him pegged as a bit of all right, it all comes back to types. The boy ain’t bad but he’s just not my type, he didn’t blip anything but the beer radar [really, the thing about the people who serve you alcohol is so true]. Yet, watch Nails attribute blame, I was checking him out because of her interest in his musculature. Very tight, very built, very blonde, very not doing much at all for me. [Oh dear. This story is really starting to meander, isn’t it?] But there it was, the boy, yes really, was paying abnormal attention to me. Maybe he liked my jugs as much as I liked his. It may just have been that he’s decided that I’m a regular and has come over all friendly like – which totally fails to explain why he felt the need to ask me how I was [blearily] going as he collected our sucked dry glasses. Christ, I’m so out of practice. I can’t tell which way is up anymore, well, okay, maybe. At least I can still flirt with, and scare off, random nerds. Honestly, one caught out look [the nerd’s, I was staring off into space well above his head] and a serious stare back and watch him flee. Ah nerds. See how they run…