Tuesday, July 29, 2003
Emily: Lilac (chat)
If you don't fancy it, Kate, send Robert round here. I'll sort out his needs while you get back your sangfroid. Or better still, you pop round and I'll do my best to put the sparkle back! Or at least find comfort in a bit of bosom nestling.
I'm about to start a bit of decorating. I have that itch. Suddenly what was all right is now totally unacceptable. So, Kate, if you're still in the DIY mood, and fancy doing something destructive, there's a wallpaper stripper with your name on it. Bring the boys. I'm sure they'd love to do something where they're actually encouraged to destroy things.
I find myself strangely being drawn to lilac for the living room. What'd you reckon?
Monday, July 28, 2003
Kate: Little Man of the House (FM chat)
I can't believe how resilient boyz are. You'd never of thought Owen had had the side of his head cut open during a three-and-a-half hour operation just a couple of days ago. If it wasn't for the shaved bit around his ear, you'd never know. He back to lording it over his brother and mother. Demanding access to the Cartoon channel. And asking when it's his birthday next so he can have more presents.
I'm still all cold and collywobbled about the whole thing.
Robert and I were making up for the little flame out we had in the usual way. Robert seemed happy enough, riding away on top of me, giving it his all. But I just wasn't there really.
Funny how worry is such a libido killer. Funny how usually having a big cock up my arse, pulled out at the last moment, and being spunked over my face, would be everything. A total intense moment. But when you're stressed, it's like some weird thing that someone else is doing to you, but you're hardly there at all.
Sunday, July 27, 2003
Kate: Scènes de Ménage (chat)
Thanks guys for looking after my boyz. You don't realise how much pressure you're under until it comes off. Had a huge fight with Robert last night over nothing. Shouting. Tears. Hormones all over the bloody place. I hate to blame pre-mensal tension. But I will. It's horrid how silly nothings can get out of hand when you're in the mood to squabble.
So I'm having a total chill day today. Mum's collecting the boyz, and is going to take them out for the afternoon. Robert's going to cook. And I'm going to sit naked in the living room, surrounded by scented candles, listening to whale music. Well, OK, I don't think we have whales. Maybe my new Drifters CD instead. It's going to be nails, facials, trash gossip magazines, and Emily's coming to wax my legs later. And if the sun warms up, a bit of sunbathing might be in order.
And once I'm all healed, I might say sorry to Robert for being such a mean cow. Ha! Of course not. Never admit to hormones.
Saturday, July 26, 2003
Laura: Femme de Ménage (chat)
Mum, you're over thinking things, again. Thursday night was just fooling around. A bit of fun. Babysitting with both big and little babies. And the mess. After you and Uncle Robert had gone off in the morning to collect Kate and Owen from the hospital, who had to get the rubber gloves out!
We used to giggle in French lessons whenever a story we were reading talked about the Femme de Ménage, because we all knew what a ménage a trois was. We all thought it should mean some lezzie orgy thing. Well it may sound glam and naughty, but being a "cleaning lady" isn't.
Anyhow, at least Kate appreciated that the house was spick and span when she got home. Owen looked quite chipper, even with the bandage over his ear. Kate looked like she hadn't slept for a week. So I made her have a quiet lie down while I took the boys to the park to run off some energy.
I can't believe how knackering looking after two little boys is. At least Sam is young enough to still need a mid-day nap, which Owen was happy to join in with after he'd run out of puff. I was just sitting like a zombie watching the last day of Big Brother with a cup of tea when Kate got up. She understood.
She was sighing because she'd promised herself that she would do that Grand Ménage (you see - even spring cleaning sounds better in French), once the operation was out the way. And now there was no excuses. Of course, I offered to help, if she offered me a good rate!.
Friday, July 25, 2003
Emily: Ménage à Trois (FMf inc ws psychology)
Laura and I stayed over at Robert's place while Kate was in hospital with Owen. We took care of the domestics: Laura fed, bathed, and put Sam to bed with a story; I ran a couple of their working girls over to their gigs for the night, making sure they were clean and had taxi money to get back to their hostelry, and then picked Robert up from the airport. It's nice when extended families are tight, and can do stuff for each other. Feels good, the way families ought to be.
Robert was pretty frisky, after a profitable day. Laura was rather enjoying her day as a pretend mum. And after a couple of dry white wines, I felt fresher too - my cold having gone at last. So it was three-in-a-bed, menage a trois fun for us.
Funny how ménage à trois sounds sophisticated, exotic, alien. While three-in-a-bed sounds all elbows and knees, clumsily and cluttered. But when it's just family, it's more like a big family meal - sharing gossip and tasty dishes, munching through the fine fair on offer.
Still, the psychology of it is glorious in all it's subtle shading. The fears of hurting each other:
Robert wouldn't want me to feel that Laura's fresh teenage body was his main course, and I was just a tasty pudding to finish off. He wouldn't want to be seen as greedy, or thoughtless to his sister-in-law's feelings.
Laura wouldn't want to feel that she's sidelining her mum, or giving her uncle too much of a come on.
And of course, I don't want to feel that Robert and Laura are patronising me with kindnesses.
And then there are your own fears. Would Robert be able to "satisfy" two women? Would Laura show herself up as immature? Would I resist competing with my daughter?
Envy, jealousy, greed, lust and the fear of making a fool of yourself. The thick psycho-soup that just adding a third person adds to the sexual chemistry of love making.
Oddly enough, it's easier in an orgy. You can get lost in the shuffle. If you and another aren't clicking, move on and find another partner(s). But with just three of you, all bad behaviours are exposed.
Which is why a ménage à trois is such a good mannered thing. You take it in turns, you share, you're patient.
Robert built up to a climax after slowly fucking Laura and then me and then Laura, and then ejaculated over my small breasts first, and dribbled some cum over Laura's large friendly breasts second.
Laura went pee over my tummy and pussy, and then almost apologised to Robert for having none left for him.
Robert checked that Laura didn't want to be pissed on, before he pissed several pints over the top of my head and into my jaw-aching open mouth.
I ate my daughter's sweet gleaming pussy, while Robert held her hand, and recovered from his first spunking.
Laura ate me out in return, while Robert placed his recovering cock in my warm mouth. So that when Laura made me cum, Robert was hard enough to fuck Laura and then me again, before cuming over my back, which Laura licked up.
Like a sexual orchestra, we twined and flowed over each other, at one point pressing our own needs, at another, encouraging the other to sate their lusts. Which is what makes the ménage à trois both physically and emotionally exhausting.
Finally, Laura went off to the spare bedroom, declaring Kate's and Robert's too smelly with pee. Which didn't bother Robert or me, though we did change the sheet and wipe down the plastic bottom sheet - just to give ourselves something drier to sleep on.
But with Laura gone, it suddenly felt very odd, just the two of us. Unnatural, somehow.
Thursday, July 24, 2003
Emily: Etiquette Problems (mf chat)
I've been reading that in Roman times, it was common to have a boy as a lover. But that boys were considered too capricious for anything long term. Well, they got that right.
One minute my lad is all cuddlely and huggy and follows me round like a puppy, as I'm doing the chores.
The next he's a randy terrier, try to rut like a dog humping the first leg it finds.
And then he's like, "I have no mother, stop embarrassing me".
Hormones I guess, though Laura never did the whole teenage drama queen thing that Jack is starting to do. So I'm a bit spoilt by her. Luckily, I get lots of practice dealing with teenage kids. Which I hope is why they seem to like me.
My latest fan seems to be Ellis, my neighbour Cheryl's daughter. I know Ellis has had a 'pash' about me. But I assumed that had passed. That was partly because we didn't see much of her (or Cheryl) as things got worse and worse with her ghastly dad. But since Cheryl had to spunk to kick him out, I've seen a lot more of them both.
I try to make a point of popping round at least once a week. Being a new single-mum still going through all the nasty legals is not nice. And Ellis pops round to play with Jack sometimes. Or more accurately, boss him about, as she's 14, though, like Rita, quite immature for her age. (Though, like Rita, her body is blooming quickly into womanhood.)
Anyhow, it's obvious that I'm still a minor idol of hers. The over the top enthusiasm at seeing me. The exaggerated listening to my pearls of wisdom (she's always asking me questions). Her choice to sit next to me whenever she can.
So it came as a bit of a surprise to find she and Jack have been fucking.
Etiquette is vague on what to do when you go into your son's bedroom to change the sheets, and find him fucking a girl. Do you:
A. Bluster and scold them both for their immorality - well that would hardly be me, would it!
B. Get me knickers off and join in, guiding them to explore anal options - well only in porn movies I'm afraid.
C. Watch them, while frigging yourself off - well how off putting to your sexual performance would it be to have your mum watch you screw?
D. Cry out "Whoops sorry" and retreat quickly back through the door. Yes, well, sadly, that is the English thing to do. There was silence in the room for a moment. Then giggling. And then a return to small sounds of beds creaking that I should of heard before I came flying in, if I hadn't been in chore mode.
It was a bit of a moment, really, to realise that my little boy was developing his own sex life, independent of me.
I know you might think that's silly, if your read the stories here. But they're all largely me or Kate or Lindsey or some other adult creating an erotic event. It's a bit of thing - however obvious - to find you're son has got the hang of it too.
I quizzed Jack later about it. Oh how he loved that … not.
Boys can go into this total communication black-out zone where even grunts aren't forthcoming. But he admitted it wasn't the first time. I gave him several packets of condoms. Jack wasn't terribly happy about being lectured about sexual responsibility and ensuring his sexual health. Just like all of you chaps do!
Oh, and one other thing - halle-fucking-lujah - it's the school holidays. So after a very long lie-in, I'll be helping Laura stepping in for Kate, while Kate goes with Owen for his ear op. So we all might be a bit preoccupied in the next few days.
Laura: English as a Second Language (chat)
I've been helping Uncle Robert and Auntie Kate, teaching their girls a bit of English, mainly on the weekends. But a couple of days a week now its the holidays too. Marika and Agneta (Aggie) are both from Latvia, so at least they can talk with each other. But Jenica is from Romania.
Teaching them the sex bit is quite hard. You have to remember all the different words: bum, arse, ass, botty, buttocks, behind, back-side, rump, bottom, rear-end, anal, anus, butt, arse-licking, analingus, butt-fuck, assfuck, arsefuck, A-Levels, and that before you get to any shitty stuff. It's up to them if they want to do anal and kinky stuff. But they need to know what scat and enema and number-twos mean. 'Cos some creepy bloke is going to ask if they offer it at the Massage Parlours they work in.
Teaching ordinary English is much more fun. I make them name everything we see. We go into town, and do shopping. Robert gives me a hundred quid to enjoy ourselves: have a drink and a bit to eat, and buy a few things. The girls love the charity shops. They buy loads of bargains to take back home as presents. They can't believe we give away so much stuff.
They work hard for me. When their English is good enough, they know they can work independently as escorts, and make more money.And they're fun. I now know the difference between slaists (good for nothing bum) and pakala (backside bum) in Latvian. They know the difference between A Levels in sex work, and A Levels at school.
Well it's better than most of holiday jobs of my chums, working in shops.
Tuesday, July 22, 2003
Emily: Cults (chat)
Well it's a brave attempt to interest our readership in colour psychology, Kate. Most of them will be running the risk of clashing over being "cyber love cheats", rather than putting clashing colours on their walls. (I'm an Autumn person apparently.) Or volunteer to join religious cults on Pacific islands:
"The cult then started enlisting young women from the area forcefully, often taking them to the place of worship and holding them captive there and forcing them into having sex with them.
Because the members of the sect were armed with high-powered weapons, local people could do little to stop them. They would threaten the girls not to tell anyone what was going on with them, and the girls were reduced to sex slaves.
People in the area became enraged when they found out about what the cult was doing to the young women in the area. They mobilised and attacked the cult, and a gun battle ensured, resulting in the death of 17 people. The clash developed into a tribal fight, and the situation was very tense in the area."
Religion just can't get it right about sex, can it.
Monday, July 21, 2003
Kate: Working on the House (DIY)
Just watched the first of the Beeb's new Interior Design prog, and had a look at their rather spiffy website, Design Rules. Loved the colour Personality Test. I'm a spring person. Anyhow, it's got me all fired to for a bit of DIY. Which isn't something I normally warm to.
Anything to distract us from Owen's operation
Emily: Unshockable (school chat)
Well just because it's the last week of term, doesn't mean I'm necessarily in a good mood. Not when I'm carrying a poopy summer cold. So I'm happy to off-load my sniffly bile over some Year 10 toughie, who mistakenly thought that his ego could withstand the sharp point of my tongue.
There's nothing like humiliating a teenage boy in front of his classmates to put a spring back in a teacher's step. He was touching himself, tugging at his cock (through his trousers) in a lame attempt to embarrass me. Oh dear. Did he have The Wrong Woman.
I mocked syrupy concern, "Oh are you all right down there. Is it hurting? Or do you just need to go to the toilet, but didn't want to put your hand up?". He blushed beetroot, having me stand right next to him enquiring about the health of his penis in front of the whole class.
I pointed out to the class - theoretically of course - that the Deputy Head wanted to hear about all forms of harassment and inappropriate behaviours. But that luckily, I was unshockable.
Sunday, July 20, 2003
Laura: Not in the mood (FFMfm inc, no sex)
Well waking up to find your mum in bed with you can be a bit confusing too. Specially when your head hurts. Extra specially when everyone keeps coming into my room.
Jack came in wanting to be taken to Judo. Mum told him to ask Dad. ANd I told him to sod off. I hate it when he comes into my room.
Dad came in to say he was going to go fishing, since it was nice out.
Auntie Kate popped in to ask if either of us wanted to go shopping, and see if Jack would look after her boys. But Jack was out. My head hurt. And mum was unusually sleepy. Katie, who looked fab all in white, was disappointed. So I said the boys could stay.
Of course, as soon as Kate had gone. Sam and Owen wanted to come to bed with us. But mum complained that she wasn't feeling very well, and that she was coming down with something.
Well I didn't want to catch it, and I didn't want Kate's boys to get it either. So I dragged myself up. Took some pills for my head. Bunged a DVD on for the boys. And let mum sleep.
It was a pretty crappy day. Everyone else seemed to be having fun. Kate came back under a ton of bags. She bought me a pretty tight fitting dropped-neck top. When I put it on for her, she made a pass at me. But I had to tell her I wasn't feeling well. Not only was my head sore from drinking too much. But my period had just started too.
Dad came back with a big catch - some fey young man. They went up to mum and dad's bedroom for several hours.
Jack came back, boasting of a good round of golf after judo. Like anyone was interested.
Even Kate's boys had had fun, watching the same DVD over and over.
In the evening, mum was full of cold. So we left her in my bed. I went to bed with dad. He got all frisky with me. After a crappy day, I was a bit cross. I told him it was my period. He told me he didn't want to do it there. He wiggled his finger against my arsehole. I told him no. I wasn't in the mood.
He got a bit huffy. Got up, and went over to Jack's bedroom. I felt a bit mean, though I told myself I shouldn't. I didn't have to feel available to everyone how fancied a piece of me.
I listened to Dad and Jack's distant noises for half an hour. It was quite horny, actually. Perhaps if Dad had been more seductive, less mucking about playful, he could of warmed me up to the idea.
Dad sneaked back into bed without putting the lights on. I gave him a little cuddle. He fondled me. But only half heartedly. He'd spent himself on my brother, and now he was sleepy. I let him go, regretting how changeable moods can be.
Saturday, July 19, 2003
Emily: Breakfast Wank (Fm inc mast)
I stayed up for Laura last night. She tipped toed in at 2.30am. Apparently I was fast asleep on the sofa, with a cat across my chest.
Laura half woke me. She was too tipsy, and I was too drowsy to make it upstairs to my bed. So she helped me into hers.
Which is why this morning started with a, "er? ... who am I? ... where am I?" It was only recognising Laura next to me, sleeping if she were in a coma, that I was able jigsaw the evening back together.
I got up, had a pee, brushed my teeth, and padded into the kitchen to boil the kettle.
Jack was already up. He'd made himself some toast. He fussed over me. Making me a cup of tea, offering to make me toast or get me ceral. Mothering me not to spill my tea (I didn't have anything on). I sipped my tea and knicked the crust off Jack's toast.
Jack got up and came a stood beside me, expectant. Good grief. I'd hardly dug the sleep glue from out of the corners of my eyes, and here was my bright eyed boy with a gleam in his.
He stroked my hair in clumsily attempt at tenderness. This ulterior motive so transparent it was nearly charming. I just sat with my tea. But he didn't budge. He just stood beside me, invading my body space.
I ran my hand down the front of his trousers. "You're little man isn't very interested" I chided. "Why don't you go and play on the computer? Maybe we will have some time later."
"No, now." He insisted. Not so much petulant, as inconceivable that anyone would want to anything other than what he wanted to do, right then and there. He unzipped himself, and fished out a little wormy cocklette from inside a pair of his mummy's knickers. He'd pinching stuff out the airing cupboard again.
"So long as you don't expect anything from me, honey."
I sat absently sipping and nibbling at bits of breakfast. My thirteen-year-old son stood beside me, wanking, cock growing from small to plump to big to hard.
I looked up at him. I looked him in the eyes as he stared down at me with a fixed snarl of concentration: focused, manic. Looking down at me as if I were a bit of porn on the computer. Wanking over my naked tits. Wanking over me.
He has a bit of a thing about passive women. A couple of times, I've come home from school, knackered. Laid down on the sofa to watch a bit of telly. Drifted off. And then woken forty-five minutes later to find my prim white blouse covered in pearls of cum. My son having stood beside his dozing mummy and wanked himself off over me.
So he liked it just as much if I just sat, sipping my tea, passively watching him masturbate beside me, than if I did anything energetic, like stand and bend down over the kitchen table, or suck him off.
And then suddenly, he ejaculated. Almost from nowhere, it was done. And a few tiny specs of cum puddled on the end of his cock, and dribbled on to his stroking hand. I checked myself. No big splatters. He'd obviously already had a wank less than half an hour ago before he got up.
I stood and gave him a little cuddle, ruffled his spiky hair, and slopped off back to Laura's bedroom, exhausted by the thought that he'd cum twice and I hadn't even started the day properly.
Friday, July 18, 2003
Emily: Ranting at the Radio (rant)
The other drivers were all rubber necking at me again. But I don't care. So I was arguing with the radio ... again ..., driving into school, some bloke trying to tell me that I'm genetically predisposed to being choosy about who I have sex with because my eggs require such a long investment once they get fertilised.
Bullocks.
I love it when men tell my why I am like I am. I don't believe men are from Mars etc, and I don't believe women are genetically predisposed to keep their legs crossed. What a load of reductionist nonsense.
I hate it when the reach diversity of the human experience is reduced down to a singular simplistic one-size-fits-all explanation of everything.
I hate it when idealised forms are created and you and I are swept up into one stereotyped category or another.
I hate it when the obvious blurring of contemporary sexuality is simply ignored, and I'm not just talking about the whole rainbow of the GLBT family (though if you want to explore lives not like yours, try the Gay Lesbian Bisexual Transgender section of hit-or-miss.org). I'm talking about the young women I teach who just want to party and have sex ('cos it's fun and no big deal) and be wild just like all those guys "from Mars". I'm talking about behaviours that get privileged (men being lads), behaviours that get stigmatised (men being womanly, women being sexy), and behaviours that get ignored (women being manly). I'm talking about getting so worked up, I missed the turn for school. Bugger.
Now I'm not going to go on and on … tempting I know, but I'm not …
But if you want simple answers then I can only think you're living in a very simple world.
I see complexity. Mind numbing, do-you-head-in complexity.
I see "man" and "woman" as states so vague, its hard to pin them down to any sort of clarity.
I see kids from Asia (India and Pakistan) and it's clear that from their culture, "man" and especially "woman" are very very different things to what I think they are.
But what I don't see are testosterone crazed warrior and estrogen homemaker savants, because this is where all this biological deterministic twaddle usually ends up: you the Man, hunter-gather; me wooooman, have babies, stay in kitchen … or as Adolph used to like say, "Kin, Kinder, Kirk" (see , for that nice simple biological view of what is "natural", Frauen Warte, or for the German Girl's version, Das deutsche Maedel).
Phew. I feel better for that.
Thursday, July 17, 2003
Emily: Re: Seasides (chat)
Well it didn't rain on me! Though one of the teaching assistants might have broke her toe kicking something in the sand. The kids were great though. Dead keen to practice their first aid.
What I remember was the geography school trips when I was a bit older, 15 or 16. Midnight skinny dipping in the (fucking freezing) lake after midnight. Having it off with - oh God, I've forgotten his name too - in the hostel toilets. Smoking a ton of dope. Argh, that's what I call a liberal education.
Kate: Seasides (chat)
I had to laugh, pulling back the curtains this morning and watching the rain pour out of the heavy sky. What a great day for you to take your babies to the seaside!
Reminded me all those all school trips I went. Flirting and misbehaving in the back of the coach. Pooling our change together to buy some ciggies and sneaking off for a crafty fag. Steaming up the shop windows of the Jaguar dealership with our breath and writing rude words in the condensation. And the snogging competitions.
I remember me and Duncan somebody or other - can't even remember his name now, he's just a fond memory of a tongue down the back of my throat. Kissing together as if it was a sub-branch of wrestling. Letting him feel me up. The taste of vinegar from his lunch at the Fish and Chip shop on his breath. All my mates egging me on. Asking me what is was like afterwards.
We were 12-year-old sluts on a mission to conquer boys. It was great fun. Of course, I had the tender embrace of my 14-year-old big sis to amuse me. So I wasn't as mad for it as some of my friends.
So I hope you're not going to be too much the teacher, and let your kids have a bit of fun, like we used to have.
Wednesday, July 16, 2003
Emily: Home Sports Day (chat)
Well since the weather has been absolutely fab, we've been living outside. Laying in the sun. Eating in the sun. Gardening in the sun. Playing games in the sun.
Jack managed to get us all to play basket ball with him. I knew that hoop on the back of the garage was a mistake. I'm not sure bouncy bare breasted women make the most elegant basket ball players. Though I think my son found my and his sister's boobs quite distracting, in that hypnotic oggle-eyed way boys do.
I'd like to report that A lead to B and energetic silliness lead to energetic sexiness. But there were some things it was just too hot to do in the sun. After a few minutes of rushing about after a ball to amuse my little boy, it was time for sweaty nearly naked bodies to be lotioned up again and flop on to the sunbed.
I'm off on a school trip to the seaside tomorrow. I have no idea how the organiser made the educational justification for the trip. But hey, everything in education is so exams, exams, exams. It'll be nice to do something that is just fun. Or hopefully nice.
It'll be a chance for me to be with my new form for next academic year. See who the characters are. And practice my head-counting skills while the naughty ones say 15 36 47 12 22 to try and put me off my count - and that's just the other teachers.
Tuesday, July 15, 2003
Kate: Re: Sports Day (chat)
Well, you trying being a parent. It's so competitive. The right dress. The right shades. A nice car. A fat-free child. And trying to kid people that you're actually the older sister. At least down with the younger primary school mums, its more a fashion parade of who has been spending more time down the gym.
I just walk my super model walk to collect my Owen. And then give him a piggy-back to the car, mucking about. I don't care! I'm just glad to be out of there. I can't imagine how you put up with it.
I went passed my boy's changing rooms, and wow - the smell. It took me right back to being a skinny little kid - no boobs, no hips, just bones - with those horrid divided skirts for PE and big blue gym knickers. Oh, and the beastly thug girls who bullied the weaklings and tried to knick their towels, or show everybody their tampons. Yuck. I don't miss all that girl-fascism.
And then there were the sports days. Well, I remember a stroppy teen with attitude and a fag hanging out of her mouth, who used to disappear up the top field and bunk off sports. And I seem to remember the teacher's then were glad you'd gone!
Emily: Sports Day (chat)
Fashion for teachers, if that isn't an oxymoron, is a bit testing when the weather turns damn hot. At least for women. No bare shoulders. No visible bra straps. Smooth tee-shirt bras to hide the nipples preferred. Nothing translucent. Skirts and dresses no higher than just above the knee.
All very sensible. All meltingly hot when I have to sit in the sun for two hours, as scoring for Year 8 as they run, hop, jump and generally throw themselves around the place. To the whoops of over competitive parents. And my modest fantasies of a glass of wine in the shade, served by sweaty scantily clad school kids.
My little Rita sat beside me, as my messenger girl. She'd injured her arm, which was in plaster. Actually, a nasty punter had attacked her, threw her against a wall, and broke her wrist. Child prostitutes are so very vulnerable. I've told her mother before she needs chaperoning.
Anyhow, she was as pleased as punch to be sitting with me, and she was very attentive. I nearly forgot myself and almost patted her on the head when she brought me a tall cold drink of juice.
I'm afraid I'm really quite sexist when it comes to watching sport - when I must. The boys do look good. Athletic. Fit. A giddy parade of tight bums in short shorts. The boyish girls, or the under developed ones, look pretty cute too. Their faces glowing pink and their short skirts swishing around gaily.
But the developed girls - the "big" girls - well they just look artless and clumsy. Breasts thumping about in a different direction to the one they're go in. And they know it, and hate it. Embarrassed by their external sexual organs being made to perform so visibly. Some of - OK, most of the male teachers and parents and the boys get off on slyly watching these poor hapless girls wobble their bouncy boobs all over the place.
But I just feel embarrassed for the girls. It's like their breasts are advertising them - hey, boys, look at me - when the girls themselves are not actually offering anything.
Afterwards, I had to sit in the girls changing room. There'd been trouble with boys rushing in with water bombs and excessive sexual curiosity the week before last.
I sweated in the steamy heat, marveling at the number of different girlie body shapes, as my girls got undressed, ducked in and out of the shower, toweled themselves dry and dressed again. All without a break in their chitter-chat.
A dozen of them were circled around me, asking me about my nails which I just had done (in a couple of the most boring hours of my life - the nails do look nice though). Asking what I was going to do in the summer. Asking what I thought of so-so a lad as a potential boyfriend. Asking who I wanted to win in Big Brother.
It was nice. Being fussed over by these young girls. I very much fancied stripping off and going under the shower myself. But of course, that's disallowed under the fashion rules for teachers as well.
Monday, July 14, 2003
Emily: Who's where doing what (family catch up)
I guess I should give you some sort of idea of where we're at now, assuming your memory from sex months ago is hazy, or this is your first time. Though you should take a moment to check out the who's who section.
My husband's quest for fit young men to wear on the end of his cock is a never ending search. Though he hasn't had a steady boyfriend for quite a while. It would be good for him to have something a bit more regular. You don't want to be the oldest friary in town hanging out at the bars, or courting trouble picking up fifteen year old confused boys with all the risks and whoo-harr that entails.
But now Jack has gone thorough puberty, dad and son do a lot more together, as if the heightened levels of testosterone have suddenly made Jack much more interested in men's things.
Jack himself has suddenly stopped being a little boy, and started being a penis, with a small boy attached, plus a bit of rather camp door slamming attitude. He's really pulled away from his mummy this last year, and spends a lot of time in his room (wanking), in the bathroom (wanking), in the study on the computer with the door firmly shut (wanking), and playing outside with his mates (wanking each other?). It doesn't seem to occur to him that I do the laundry, but I leave a box of tissues on his bedside table now.
So I feel wistfully sad for the cute nice little boy my Jack once was. And wonder who is this new stranger in the house? I think I might have had it easy with Laura. She didn't have moods or drama. She's just always been nice.
And now, Laura is an extra thing as well - hard working. Well it surprised me. I have to encourage her to go out and enjoy herself. She studies so very hard. So very much harder than when I was her age - and she doesn't get it from her father either. Perhaps all those years of watching me study as an adult, catching up on having fluffed my schooling, rubbed off?
She isn't in a relationship. It's been a while now, actually. She had a boyfriend for a while, and before that, a girlfriend - a much older woman (another bloody pervert teacher). I didn't really approve of either, well that's my new job in life. But I wasn't fussed. And now Laura just seems to be happy where she is. She has the odd fling, the odd one night stand - but I don't get the sense that she's desperately looking for someone to fill a void in her life.
She's too busy for one thing. This summer she'll be helping her uncle with his business. Teaching the girls he imports a bit of English and a few tips on being streetwise. Though I think she can now say a few rude words in Romanian, which is bound to come in handy one day. Anthony's also doing a bit of maintenance on Robert's properties during the weekend. And I help occasionally with caring for some of the younger girls. So my brother-in-law has got us all involved in the family business.
As a reward, he's taking of us: him, my sister and their boys and me and my lot, for a holiday in the Med in a few short weeks. Which should be lovely, especially for my sister Kate's littlest, Owen, who is up for a operation on his ear in a few days.
I won't go into the medicals of it all, as I'm trying to not to think about it. I've had my fill of doctors lately. But we have a complex plan of diversion and support. Kate will go and stay with Owen in hospital. My Jack will go and stay with Owen's brother, Sam. Sam and Owen worship their big nephew, Cheeky Jack. I'll look after some of the business that Kate usually takes care of. Laura will do bit of cleaning. And Robert and Kate will fret.
But then fretting is core to any loving family.
Sunday, July 13, 2003
Emily: An ordinary day (chat)
What a great day to start a new weblog. Laura and her girlfriend Jenny are sunbathing topless in the garden. Sweaty Jack is kicking a football out in the street with his mates. Anthony is watching sport on the telly. And I've just been chased in from a spot of gardening by the heat. It's bloody hot!
Too hot for sex
Too early for dry white wine
Too sticky. My boobs keep on attracting bits with the aftersun lotion. Which is either a hint that I should put something on, or do a bit of dusting.
There's a sort of natural peacefulness to my home. I imagine my husband might be watching the telly through occasionally closed eyes. He usually does. He's had a hard week at work.
Looking out the study window, I can see Laura and her friend might just be in a coma — oh, no, Jenny just lumbered her heavy breasts underneath her as she rolled over. It's nice to see Laura doing nothing, after being this frantic exam machine since Christmas.
I can hear the distant shouts and hoots of young boys playing down the road. School tomorrow. So I'll be calling him in for his bath soon. And he'll be moaning and protesting at life's unfairness. And the sky is blue and I'm blogging again and it all seems perfectly right.