Bloggin' Hoe

BUT if I just do it and get through the hour it will cover my winter quarter power bill in its entirety, which is due on the same day as I’m getting my Botox done this week, plus I wanted to ask to have my lip filler topped up, plus I’m angling to do a fun summer wardrobe update, plus life and household expenses and rent and responsibility that rest entirely on my shoulders keep coming no matter what. This is me coaching myself to just be a big girl about it btw.

The Pilates is clearly doing wonders for you. It’s great to see you thriving like this.

Also how good is it to finally have warmer weather back in Sydney.

😊🩷 thank you as always for your periodic kind messages and keeping up 2 d8 with my generally pretty mundane little life. It’s always lovely to hear from you. All of you!

Still loving Pilates sick, even after 4 of the most gruelling classes of my life last week and another one this morning and probably another one tomorrow haha…really earning my cheat day today and glad others can see the results too! These past ~9 months of doing it consistently have flown by and I love my little studio sooo much.

It started with just chatting a bit after class, then she began offering to drop me home, or to the shopping centre, or to my lash appointment or wherever I needed to go. It’s become our weekly ritual to take a different route each time just to see where we end up, and I have discovered that basically all the streets in my suburb link up with each other and even when we think we’re lost we’re probably not.

Last week after class she asked if I wanted to use the private gym at the centre with her, but I was dashing home to run errands before meeting Karl at home and sadly had to decline. Today, I said I was going to get my nails done and she asked where. She told me she used to go to my place but found somewhere better in the shopping centre, flashing her cute chrome base French tip at me.

As we were driving — both places are in the same direction, 5 mins apart by foot — I said what the hell, I’ll try your place.

„I want to get a pedi too,” she said. „Should we get our nails done together? My mum’s there at the moment as well.”

So when I said I trudged home from my nail appointment, actually I had had a lovely time there with her, spending most of the late morning and early afternoon meeting her mum and gossiping and laughing and lurking each others instas after she said she didn’t know why we didn’t follow each other already.

„I seriously can’t believe your age, you’re like…a 23-year-old trapped in a 35-year-old’s body.”

This will be the second time we’ve seen one another and actually he was meant to come over last night but ended up finishing work too late, which I was kind of glad of because I had eaten myself almost sick throughout the course of the day and ultimately went to sleep at 8.30. Even today I am tbh still kind of exhausted and feeling asocial, but I know if I want anything to progress between us there needs to be consistency in face-to-face time spent together. He told me on our first meeting that he is looking for something exclusive, but to say he is a man of few words via text would be an understatement. This is gonna have to be an in-person job I’m afraid.

Anyway I trudged home from getting my nails done this afternoon and am now psyching myself up to trudge to work to get something out of my locker, and on the street that runs parallel to mine I walked past a guy who I would ballpark in his mid-20s. This is noteworthy because this is incredibly rare in my suburb; it’s not really a place the young and hip gravitate towards. There was a one second delay but I got caught in the slipstream of his scent trail, which was delightful and masculine and activated the part of my brain that wants to put my face directly into the armpit of whichever man I am fucking for leisure.

In a bid to mentally detach myself from the situation I have reminded myself of our incompatibilities — he lives over the bridge, for a start, and our sleep schedules run almost diametrically opposed to one another. I need my 9 hours and I need them to start at 9pm. He is forever out with friends and I am receiving the text updates of his movements and activities while I sit in contented solitude in front of the tennis or behind a book. He is floating down the river of life, letting the current take him wherever it goes, and I am several hundred metres upstream snagged on a branch. But still I gravitate towards these types of boys, because it is fun and passionate and likely transient and I have accepted that those are the exact conditions under which I allow myself to fall. If it got too real I’d probably freak out and run.

Tangentially I have also reconnected with the Hungarian boy I had an even more transient fling with in Budapest three years ago, and we are having a lovely time of it reminiscing and flirting and sharing pics. Intimacy with a buffer of 16,000km. Every other message begins with „I remember/do you remember” and it led me to being awake well past my bedtime on Sunday evening watching my Instagram story archive from May 2023 to August last year. God my Big Balkan Adventure was truly some of the best 2 months of my life. Maybe the best 2 months of my life, bar Eastern European summer 2k25. And every time the message begins with „do you remember”, I do remember. His head-to-toe Nike fit. An unashamedly passionate public first kiss over white wine spritzers in a bar off Deák Ferenc tér that promised exactly what he delivered in the privacy of my airbnb bed. The vibrant shade of green of his eyes that made intense contact with mine while he spoke Hungarian to me, our naked bodies stuck together with sweat in the heat that was still oppressive at 3am. The men that followed him that year; Dragoș, Vladislav, Antoan, Vuk, Srdjan, Luka, Vasilije, two Dawids and Grzesiu. I think of all of them fondly.

Tangentially tangentially, it has led me to, this morning, scrolling up in my camera roll for pictures to update my hinge profile with. Not that any of them are particularly dated (the oldest is a shot with my mummy on Christmas Day last year), but I treat it somewhat like an escort profile. If you don’t keep the photos fresh, you won’t attract as much attention.

For the past ~year, maybe more, my choices have been modest, conservative in appearance, not suggestive in any way and certainly not giving any sort of indication that I am a woman who has sex on the first date, let alone for money. I like it that way. If I had a dollar for every man — both personal and professional — who told me I seem shy and reserved and mysterious I could afford to take a weekend shift off.

But I think I’m tired of being shy and conservative. In my personal life anyway. And in appearance at least. At work I have no intention of changing because that’s my brand it and does, frankly, absolute numbers there. I want to be perceived as a sexual object by men I perceive as sexual objects, and then bait and switch by still being a little uptight and enigmatic and hard to get. I want to be chased and lusted after and conquered.

Once conquered I want to be similarly lust filled and insatiable and demanding and obsessive and obsessed over. Three times since I have been single I have experienced that feeling, most notably with the tall Polish lad in 2022. In the first month of us dating I kept a log and we had sex 40 times. I still think of a night I did something with him I have never done with any other man before or since, and I say this as a woman who has pretty much done it all. I’m at a point in my life where there are no stakes — I’m 35, don’t want children, don’t want to get married and want to live alone on notice — so does it matter if it doesn’t progress beyond mutual sexual obsession? The man (or men) with whom I share this chemistry have to be out there in a city of 5.6m. The days are getting longer and the weather is getting warmer and the first buds of my desire are getting ready to bloom. A tendril has emerged from the soil anyway, fertilised by the Italian. Thanks babes.

And my blue mountains weekend getaway with my SD last week. I did my first hike with a (very cautious) bit of running a day shy of 3 months post-injury, and came back 10km later with both ankles intact. I was — and am — so pleased and relieved…and then had to wait in the car for him for 40 mins lol. He said he watched me blaze away and felt very smug and happy that „with any luck, that’s mine tonight.” My calves were still hurting when I got back to Pilates on Tuesday.

We ate some lovely food (our first ever dinner together after 7.5 years), drank some lovely wine — two of our shared faves, Emmalene sparkling rosé and EPC — and chilled tf out for two nights. For large parts of it we sat on separate couches in total silence like a married couple while he did the puzzles in the newspaper and I texted my friends. That feeling came up again when I gently chastised him for complaining to the waiter about the bread and butter at the restaurant being too salty only hours after he told me his tolerance for salt is astronomically low.

„[Redacted],” I said. „I think, based on what you’ve said, this might be a personal preference, especially if nobody else has said anything. I personally thought it was all great,” I said, turning to the waiter. „And now it is well past my bedtime so we should hop to it.”

He thanked me at home for my tact and gentle management of the whole evening; the same waiter forgot about us for 20 minutes in the beginning and the cocktail I wanted was sold out. But really nothing is ever a big deal. Plus it was all overshadowed by the moment where he paused, considered and then said,

„Do I look like a sugar daddy right now?”

I did a head back laugh that made people look up, a Lizz classic.

„Oh…BIG time. And I can give you an open mouth kiss right now to remove all doubt if you’d like.”

At home I shamelessly cranked the underfloor heating to 30° in my bedroom and he went out wood chopping to build the fire for me while I read the newspaper out of idle curiosity. There was an article about Zyzz in there. Weird. And I played DJ the whole time, like always. It was actually he who blasted it in the car after telling me I was playing it too softly. When we got into the carport he stayed for the drop before he turned the ignition off because I was in my own world fist pumping. I didn’t realise until I turned to him asking what we were doing, and he told me he was just waiting for me to be done. I put it back on inside anyway, and he told me he never expected to know so much about hardstyle at any point in his life, let alone his sixties.

I was expecting to be more disappointed by that, mostly because my spending has been frivolous and carefree, but actually I am not. And it has been frivolous and carefree due to the fact that this July, which was supposed to be a month like any other, I have actually...had fun. Not just for an evening dancing til 3am at a rave, or mum visiting for a few days, or having dinner out with a friend, or going on a date with somebody about whom I end up feeling tepid. I have had fun the whole damn month.

I’m attributing it largely in part to the fact that, for the first time since 2021, I am here at home for the entirety of winter. I know I’ve banged on about this a bit since it rolled over into June, but it feels pertinent because I think there is some part of me — body, brain, psyche, subconscious — that is still in holiday mode. I’m programmed for a northern hemisphere summer now, and I’m used to flogging myself at work with that specific goal in mind: to have a full 5 or 6 or 7 weeks off, to gallivant and cavort, to eat drink smoke cigarettes and be merry. With no goal, no dedicated time off, no outlet, what does it all even mean? How does a girl get her kicks?

She gets them, I have found out, by working as little as possible, still by the grace of god hitting her monthly target, still going to Pilates 4x a week and taking 10km+ walks on the off days, and then living as luxuriously as possible. July has been champagne and cocaine and sex for fun and late bedtimes and eating off-schedule. It’s been friends and fashion and blasting banging techno while sitting on my bedroom floor doing my makeup in preparation to go out. It’s been last minute cancellations and last minute invitations and telling myself that next month…next month…it’s time to get serious. And I will. But I needed this.

And so now July is at an end. And it began to end last night walking around the grocery store with a silly sweet boy buying ingredients for dinner at 8pm, and then perching on my kitchen bench watching him make it for me. I hopped down and he smooshed me in his arms and kissed me.

„I think you like me,” I said, looking at our reflection in my window.

„I wouldn’t be doing this if I didn’t like you,” he replied simply.

And it got closer to ending this morning the way we finished last night — slick with sweat under my layers of blankets, slick everywhere he touched me and kissed me, and straddling a very fine line between enjoying it all immensely and that feeling of it being too too much, which is a kind of agonising pleasure when the guy you like has a big dick. Afterwards he wrote his name and drew a love heart in the dew on my bedroom door that leads to the balcony, and then he left me with a kiss and a second toothbrush in the bathroom.

After some contemplation I realised that, in the spirit of July being holiday lite, I would cancel my class and instead take a walk on this beautifully sunny day. And I will, later. The daylight hours are the relaxed vignette before the official end tonight and I need to recline on my bed for a bit longer. I am going out with the girls and in this current mindset I cannot be trusted to be anything but silly with them.