The Twenty Fifth Hour

Today I went through the net deleting and refining old footprints.  Looking back over the first blog I had for the year, The Twenty Fifth Hour at Wordpress, I realised that a) not much happened in the first half of the year b) if it did it was pretty boring c) the first half of the year was pretty up and down, filled with weddings and funerals, and d) my life and writing were boring boring boring.  I think I felt pretty numb back then, and it showed.  Even my choice of layout was pretty dire (black background with white writing).  That in comparison to my blog now.  Not that it's that amazing but I at least feel I am a bit freer with words and ideas and expression now.   I have no idea why I went to wordpress either, other than I probably liked a friend's layout and wanted a version of it.  Nope, it's back to Blogger and here to stay.  Even the title of the blog was boring and derivative.  How much more plagiaristic can you get?  Muh.  In a much better place now in terms of creativity and flow, despite still having issues finishing things ;)

On the other hand, I saved this little gem:

The Lincoln

Last night, while out on the town with some friends, it occurred to me that I had not been physically touched by a person of the opposite sex for a long time.

I was out at the lovely Lincoln, which was overflowing and required lining up outside until I could pretend I was part of a group and sneak in. It was the end of term drinks for several hospitals which meant that people were trashed, happy and plentiful. Most of the people I had previously worked or studied with were there. As I spent the night shouting and squealing greetings, I grabbed people’s hands or gave them a hug. I am fairly touchy-feely in general, but the magic of alcohol meant that I and everyone else were more touch happy than usual. Anyway, so I was greeting a male colleague, whose shoulder or arm would normally be the furthest up the body I would touch, when he put his hand on my lower back. Taking into consideration the packed crowd, and the alcoholicness of the moment, I reciprocated and put my hand on the small of his back. And this is what I felt:

• Silky cotton shirt
  
• Alive, electric skin
  
• Solid, warm back held up by firm muscle and strong spine
  
• Thick belt, signalling the end of my back touching party
  
• Soft donut of fat spilling out from said belt. I wanted to pinch it.

He wasn’t extraordinarily buff or slim. I didn’t even like him all that much. But it was so lovely standing with our arms cradling each other that I let my hand rest there. The perfect back is so hard to find. His back was not so skinny that if felt like a metal rod, nor so fat that it felt like a wall, it was just right (long, reasonably toned, sitting well into a belt). I allowed myself to break free every so often to change hand positions and unconsciously took in its crevices and valleys. At the end of the conversation, we swapped regards, kissed each other on the cheek, then disengaged and continued on with our evening. But I carried the joy of his beautiful back the rest of the night.

The only thing is, for the life of me I can't remember who the guy was...

I have also decided to try being more open online.  Well, we'll see.  I've always been really thingy about being open on the internet, I think it can lead to all sorts of trouble.  But I'll give it a stab.  I'll do my best to extend from a tiptoe to a heel.