The Virtual Virgin gets Clicked

I’ve had a hit! Unbelievable. Here’s to the internet, computers, cutting and pasting and blog sites. Out with my ballpoint pen and 25 diaries.

After years of trawling bars and sweaty clubs, all I have to do is hit send from the comfort of my own home and I have a hit. 'Camper – take it higher' has contacted me and has asked me to send a picture of myself. Not sure I should – he has a nipple ring and a tattoo on his ‘long dong silver’. At least somebody is interested in me and I shouldn’t be too quick to eliminate, especially when I am living next door to zero for the time being. 

Maybe I should spend a bit of time researching the implications of dating a man who has tattooed his long dong. I could start by asking him what image he has chosen and then move on to consult a few of my male and female friends for some healthy prejudices about this state of affairs. If he has a Ferrari, a steroidal bicep or a list of initials on display then I can confidently inform him that I would prefer to sleep with 'long John silver' himself, even if it meant losing my retinas to his sailor’s breath and suffering the pain of splinter inserts from his peg leg when he came. And it would go without saying that 'Camper – take it higher' would not be getting a picture of me.

I don’t have a history of impulsive elimination of potential mates so maybe I shouldn’t start now. From the age of 5, I refused to eliminate Sid from my list of eligible bachelors. He waltzed into my brother’s birthday party – half an hour late (warning signs for the future I chose to ignore) wearing bovver boots, tartan pants and his sister’s brown school tie. It felt like I had been hit by a bolt from the almighty heavens and I had no control of myself around Sid from that day on. When I was 13 my mom found me in her darkened room crying because Sid was slow dancing with Jane. Her boobs had started growing already. My mom said he would be sorry when I blossomed - and he was. 

I walked into Hyde Park shopping center aged 16, sporting a pair of striped stretch jeans, which I had peeled on by lying flat on my back and using a coat hanger to drag the zip up.

Frustratingly for Sid, it wasn’t only the lack of a similarly robust coat hanger that prevented him from removing those jeans for the next little while. Moral standards were high in those days, but if tattooed schlongs are not being immediately weeded out of the internet pond scum, then maybe my standards are beginning to slip just in time. Those are moral standards that are slipping by the way – I still want his dong to be long and for him to be a hottie if possible.

C has just read yesterday’s blog and is outraged I called him a ripening male. He says he is way past ripening. He reckons he is a low hanging fruit, ready to be plucked.