Thursday, 5 June 2014


Inspiration for blog posts can come from the strangest places. This one came from erotica.

Okay, yeah, so it's a sex blog and so I suppose erotica isn't so strange as an inspiration source. But the content of the story I was reading (editing, actually) wasn't anything to do with what I was inspired to write about. It was the title: Songbird.

I love singing. I do. I love music and I love to play my guitar, and dance and sing, often at the same time. It's an unfortunate by-product of moving to different places and being fairly restricted in terms of space that I haven't ended up being able to do that much any more, if at all. I used to stand in front of my computer and belt out vocals like nobody else was listening, occasionally doing a few turns if I had the space. I used to be afraid to dance outside my own room. Now I don't really have a room.

Have I been sung to, like the recipient of the songbird's vocals in the story? Well, both yes and no. I remember TD singing a lot just because she could, but not exactly to me. Rebecca, for all her faults, could sing, and she even did so for me once, though I was slightly mollified by the declaration of true love she wrote for her tutor in song form I do, however, have fond memories of a friend singing I Just Want To Make Love To You for me. I never actually heard that performance - I was just told about it, so for all I know, it may not have happened - but the idea that it had happened and that she had me in  her mind when she sang made me pleased, nonetheless.

But, much as I like the idea, I much prefer doing it myself. I haven't got the best singing voice - I mean, I'm okay but there are much better singers than me, including my friend with the huge cock - but that doesn't stop my love of song. I catch a few bars where and when I can, but now I'm in the situation I'm in I rarely, if ever, do whole songs any more, which makes me sad.

Sometimes, when I look deep into your eyes, I swear I can see your soul.

Doesn't quite work as text.

But, whatever I sing, I'm singing it to someone. I imagine great audiences in front of me, or gatherings of friends, or even one person. Sometimes I'm doing it as a musical. Increasingly often, more sex bloggers are involved as well. I have no doubt that there's a kick-ass musical performance in our collective consciousness. And if you're reading this, I'm singing to you. What with the new James album and the amount of time I've been investing in my iPod recently, and the long hours of solitude I'm having in my less interesting job, it seems the time is ripe for a reprise.

On my count. One, two, three, four...

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