May 10th

Home for my birthday, which means a weekend with the parents. At least, out of deference to my 20th birthday celebrations, they weren't at each others' throats the whole time. Although, I'm not sure which is more disconcerting: them arguing the toss non-stop or the enforced niceness and jollity which replaces it on such occasions.

Having a few days away from John is probably a good thing. Things are getting pretty intense, and it's stressing me out. I know he wants to go all the way and I'm not ready for it. Memories of Steve are still too fresh, the scars are still livid. Talking of which, the birthday means it's three years exactly since it all happened. Guess it's time to put it all behind me and get on with things, but it's difficult. Difficult to trust people. Difficult to stay positive. Difficult to keep up the front, conceal my fears. I wish John was more help.

Since I told him about it all he's kind of blocked it. Never mentions it, it's like he wants to pretend it didn't happen, at least not to the Simone that he knows. History, in the past, not his problem. Which it isn't, of course, but a bit of understanding would be good.

I don't know how to handle it if he makes a pass at me again. He did it on Friday, before I went for the train. We were in my room, listening to Eminem (wanker) and he started kissing me all over. It was very nice, he was very tender, kissing my eyebrows, eyes, cheeks, lips, chin, jaw, ears. Made me feel special. We ended up lying on the bed, snogging, and his hands started wandering. Men, predictable or what? He was stroking my back, dragging his nails hard, so that I could feel them through my tee shirt. Then he started sliding round to my breast, and started kneading and stroking me. It got me pretty hot, I have to say. So much that when he slid his hand under my tee shirt and felt me through my bra I didn't stop him. My nipple was stiff and he rubbed his fingers round and round on it. A bit much, actually, a bit sore at times. Then he put his hand under my bra and started stroking my bare breast. First person to touch me in three years.

I really wanted to. I was soaking. I wanted him to continue, I wanted to enjoy it, but I couldn't go through with it. While he played with my breasts I was okay, but then his hand started to go downwards, over my belly, to my jeans. That was when I lost my nerve. "I'm sorry," I said. "I just can't. Not yet." He said he didn't mind, but of course he did. His cock was bulging in his jeans like a truncheon. He kept kissing me for a few minutes, but it was pretty half-hearted stuff, and I think we were both relieved when I had to go for the train. So I'm not looking forward to seeing him again, really. How will he react? I hate being like this. Just wish I had the confidence.

Will I ever love anyone again?

There was a woman in the pub last night who kept staring at me. It was extraordinary. She was so blatant, looking at me the whole time. Every time I looked up, there she was, ogling. I felt like saying "Yes, I have a bloody great hooter, don't I? Biggest nose you've ever seen, I suppose." What a bitch. Just because she was gorgeous. We can't all be Miss World. Expect she's been telling everyone about it ever since. "You should have seen it. Enormous! Hope she doesn't get wrinkly when she's older, people will mistake her for an elephant. Poor soul."

Bitch.

So here we are, Saturday night. Two evenings and one day left before I can escape back to Manchester. And how will I spend my Saturday evening? Out on the town, clubbing, stuffing "e"s down my throat? Some chance. Can't even use Clint, because I'm paranoid they'd hear the buzzing. "Simone, what on earth are you doing, child? What have you got that up your pee-pee for?" So it's off to bed for some fingerwork and dreams of Robbie Williams. Night night.

On to next story: A dream of Simone