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#Also this post was because I realised six months after my gig that I have pictures I’ve never shared!

qnewslgbtiqa · 2 months

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Get to know Big Gay Day performer TINY

New Post has been published on https://qnews.com.au/get-to-know-big-gay-day-performer-tiny/

Get to know Big Gay Day performer TINY

Each month we ask local entertainers to spill the tea about themselves, their craft and the local scene. This month it’s regular performer on the Brisbane scene, including this year’s Big Gay Day, DJ, producer and singer TINY.

I first got into music…..

When I was six, I was taught chords on a guitar by a family friend. It wasn’t until I was 10 when I received lessons. In high school I was pretty big on writing poetry and won competitions for that so naturally I moved into writing songs and singing when I was 14.

My big break was…..

At the age of 17, I completed my first album and entered one of my songs into a national competition held by Universal Music and APRA called the Bali Song Summit. I won and was flown to Bali to write and collaborate with producers and artists from across the globe. This led to me becoming a top-line writer for other artists (helping them write lyrics and melodies).

I went to LA and did a lot of collaborations, however I left the industry shortly afterwards. I had lost my passion for music and my mindset was brainwashed into “you need to write a hit” rather than, “let’s write from a place of how we can connect to others.”

DJ career

I became a DJ because…

I had a lot of early success and people wanted to know me for what I could give them, but not wanting to know me as a friend.

So after a few months of being depressed, going through a breakup and living a life without music I realised my life didn’t have much meaning without it.

I decided to become a DJ so I could learn to produce during the week. I didn’t tell anyone about my previous success. I wanted to connect with people in the LGBTQIA community and I wanted people to know me for me. I didn’t expect DJing to take off as well as it did, but I guess that was because I fell in love with the process.

My best skill is….

Discipline and perseverance. There was no luck in my success. That was the result of putting in the work every day and still showing up for the love of music, even after experiencing a lot of heartbreak throughout the industry.

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Best and worst experiences

The best gig I’ve done is….

Splendour In the Grass was very much a surreal moment. I felt like years of dedication, commitment and hard work that people don’t see behind closed doors had finally paid off.

The best audience I’ve had is…

When I played Snowbombing in Austria. The support and love for music that I felt in Europe is something entirely different to Australia.

Being a female DJ is…

Becoming a version of myself that I wish I had to look up to as a child so future generations can feel like they can do the same.

Being a female definitely drove me to work hard. I put more pressure on myself to learn as much as possible in all areas of music, not just as a DJ but also as a producer and artist so the proof of my actions was in the pudding itself and nobody could question it.

The worst experience I’ve had performing is…

Well, I’ve played a lot of gigs so I couldn’t say there’s just one. I’ve had the music stop on me whilst performing, I’ve had a glass thrown at my head (I dodged it) and I’ve completely cut the music in a club just to kick a man out who was harassing me and wouldn’t leave. Like every job, there are good days and bad days but it still beats working in an office!

The rudest thing you can say to me is…

“Your music is $#it can you change it.”

I’ve kicked people out of clubs for it as it’s not necessary. Because:

It’s another artist’s music

Most people don’t understand when you play residency gigs you are playing what the venue wants to maintain their brand

Don’t complain unless you’re willing to pay the DJ.

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The scene

The scene for queer women is….

Biggest In Sydney. I’ve travelled the world and have experienced pride in Europe and the US. Newtown was where it was at when I was there. Safe to say I do miss it and everything was different back then before lockouts.

Unfortunately, there isn’t enough community (YET) on the Gold Coast to create a sustainable ongoing venue for the queer community due to tall poppy syndrome. I hope to see performers within the community eventually come together so it can benefit the collective.

The next big artist on the scene in Queensland is….

Siala is definitely coming up. Her flow and sounds as a rapper is something I felt drawn to. What she stands for, how she presents, I think she is someone that younger people within the LGBTQIA community can look up to.

We recently connected and I’m excited to see what the future holds for her. I just played for her at The Zoo with Haiku hands. It was a vibe.

Outside of DJing I….

I am “Into-resting” contrary to popular belief. I need a lot of downtime to recharge. I love making music, spending time with the people who are closest to me, working out and surfing.

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A post shared by TINY (@tny_bass)

Self-discovery

Something people may not know about me is…

I recently realised thanks to my girlfriend that I identify as Non-Binary (still as she) that language didn’t exist when I was growing up. I would have called it being androgynous. I always used to get asked if I was a boy or a girl and was mostly mistaken to be a boy.

When I was younger I struggled to come to terms with being a female and wanted to be a boy. As I’ve grown older I’ve embraced and felt the empowerment of what it means to be a woman and I am happy with dressing to how I feel energetically on the day.

Something surprising about DJs people don’t realise is…

It can be extremely isolating if you’re doing it full-time. You’re in a room full of people but you don’t get to have conversations. It takes a lot of balance, knowing your limits and maintaining a healthy lifestyle to have a career with longevity.

Regular DJs don’t make as much money as people think. It’s important to consider making and releasing your own music if your aim is to be in it for the long run.

Most DJs want to do it full-time but generally have a burnout rate of 3-9 months.

In 2024 I hope…

To head back overseas and release some new music. I haven’t had the chance to travel since before Covid and I’ve got a lot of upcoming musical projects that I have been working on.

You can follow TINY on Instagram @tny_bass

Read next:

Lady Bunny headlining The Wickham’s Big Gay Day

Archie Arsenic calls for more accessible queer spaces

Get to know First Nations queen Chocolate Boxx

Spill the tea with Brisbane drag star Maxi-Bon

For the latest LGBTIQA+ Sister Girl and Brother Boy news, entertainment, community stories in Australia, visit qnews.com.au. Check out our latest magazines or find us on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram and YouTube.

#Lesbian #non-binary

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just-my-sickly-pride · 5 years

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Debut || Roger Taylor x fem!Reader

summary || you’re twenty years old, a full-time uni student, and you’re living out of home. money is tight. so, naturally, you decide to sell your virginity to the highest bidder. when you get an offer from some guy in his mid-thirties, you put on your nicest dress and head on over. but there’s a problem: he has no idea who you are, or why you’ve turned up at his house at nine o’clock at night. maybe things aren’t going to be as simple as you’d hoped. modern day au.

rating || explicit, with fluff dotted throughout. 18+ only. do not read if you are under eighteen. the age gap between reader and roger is sixteen years.

word count || about 17.7k.

author’s notes || welcome one and all to my very first fic on this blog! i pictured roger circa ‘85 (specifically live aid) for this fic. this fic is also dedicated to my friend and fellow mid-thirties-Roger enthusiast Jennifer @mrfahrenhcit (i couldn’t find a way to work in everything you asked, but i’ve saved some of them for the next roger fic that’s in the works). fun fact: this is the first reader fic where i’ve used ‘Y/N’. some people have said they’d had issues with this post being extremely slow to load, or the app has crashed - i think it’s just bc it’s so long, and i apologise for the inconvenience. [i am a proud member of the anti-cross-tagging club.]

masterlist

You don’t think you’ve ever felt more nervous before in your entire life. You’ve wiped your sweaty palms on your dress ten times in the past two minutes, and your heart hasn’t stopped racing from the moment you woke up this morning.

What are you doing? Seriously, what the fuck are you doing?

Well, that’s the thing. You know exactly what the fuck you’re doing.

You aren’t doing it out of embarrassment, or anything to do with pride. You don’t feel pressured, not by anyone, not even by society, fuck society, but you saw some dumb article about it – it was hardly even an article, just gossip – and it gave you the idea, and then you were doing some research about it, just for the money, it’s just for the money, you’ve been living out of home for two years now and life’s still kicking you in the ass, so why wouldn’t you do it for money, if you could? And you can. So you went onto some website and snooped around to check for at least some sign of legitimacy, and then, well, you were making an account, and you made an account, and uploaded some photos that you never thought you’d upload to the Internet, and, a couple weeks later, you found out that someone had chosen you. Chosen you.

And now here you are.

On your way to a strange man’s house.

To lose your virginity to him.

Because he’s paid for it.

Well, he’s paid half. The other half comes… after.

And you’re not nervous about the actual sex part, you suppose, but more about the fact that you’re going to a stranger’s house for sex. Does that make you a sex worker? Could you call someone who played guitar in one gig and got paid for it, but never got paid for it again, a musician?

Probably. But maybe that isn’t the best comparison.

You don’t know much about this guy. Just his address, his name, his age – thirty-six, could be worse, to be fair – and that he’s obviously got plenty of cash to spare. And he’s definitely not the sort of guy you want to have around. Seeing as, y’know, he’s paid a twenty-year-old virgin to have sex with him.

The Uber pulls up to a stop in front of a house. It’s dark outside, almost nine in the evening, so the house is hard to make out, but it’s quite a nice place, very white-picket-fence. Something out of a magazine catalogue about the suburbs. You thank your Uber driver and grab your oversized handbag, climbing out of the car.

You close the door behind you.

The Uber drives off.

And you’re alone on the sidewalk.

You hoist the handbag onto your shoulder. It’s got a couple of things you think you’ll need – condoms, lube, two change of clothes depending on what this guy is after. You think you look more than nice enough in your heels and tight, black dress, but just in case.

You glance at your phone, double-checking the address. You send a quick message to your best friend Justine: at the house. will keep u updated.

She’s the only one who knows; and she only knows because you figured that at least someone should know, if something goes wrong.

Good God, you’re hoping nothing goes wrong. Not in that way. Not in any way, really.

And again, you’re back to asking yourself what the fuck you’re doing.

You take a deep breath, and start heading up the front path.

Your hands are shaking by the time you reach the front step, but you force yourself to raise a fist and rap your knuckles on the door. The automatic porch light is yellow, and you can’t help but feel irked by how unflattering it is.

You can hear movement inside the house. A part of you is searching for the sound of kids, although God forbid there’s any to be heard. But a guy like this… Well, your first conclusion is that he’s looking for an affair.

You really don’t want to be some kind of mistress. But, you suppose, this is really just a business transaction, so you’re free of at least most of the guilt, right? All of it, if you actually have no idea if he’s married.

Please don’t mention your wife, you pray. Don’t implicate me or whatever.

Finally, the door opens, and you feel like you’re about to throw up your heart onto your feet. But you push it down, and drink in the man in front of you.

If you weren’t sure before if he was a dad, now it’s unmistakable. He’s slim, and reasonably tall – not remarkably so, but still tall – and he’s dressed in loose jeans and a blue flannel that he has rolled up to his elbows. His hair is blond, sort of shaggy, sort of spiky, like he spends his time running his hands through it. You idly wonder what it’d feel like in your hands. Guess you’ll find out soon enough.

But the thing that really knocks your socks off is the big blue eyes that blink at you, framed by eyelashes that you’d kill to have yourself. Those eyes flash down to your outfit, and then back up at your face.

Okay. Maybe this whole thing won’t be that bad at all.

You give him your most winning smile. “Hi,” you say in a way that you hope is both alluring and professional.

He blinks at you again. “Hi,” he says, his eyes wide. His gaze flits up and down your body, like he’s trying to compute what he’s seeing in front of him. “Um, hello. What, uh– Can I help you?”

His voice is soft, softer than you were expecting. Gentle, almost.

You lick your lips and shift your feet. “I’m, ah, Mandy. Are you Roger? Taylor?” Your name is fake, of course. You’re not sure about his. Not that it matters.

“Yes, that’s me,” Roger says. He scratches the back of his head. “Uh, I’m sorry, you’re, um, lovely, but I don’t think I know you.”

Huh. Odd. Is this a foreplay thing? “We have an appointment. You booked me two weeks ago, and you gave me this date and this time,” you prompt unsurely.

Roger’s brow crumples. “An… appointment?”

You feel your face starting to heat up. You almost ask if you have the right address, but no, you already know that he’s Roger Taylor, he’s the one who booked, so you must have it right. “Yeah,” you say. “You, um…” You lower your voice a touch. “You already paid in advance. This is pretty much a done deal, but I’m just here to fulfil my end of the bargain. And then, of course, you’ll have to pay me the other half.”

Roger’s starting to look a little pale now, and you’re not quite sure what to do with that. His eyes dart down to your outfit and back up to your face. “Pay you?” he says. “I’ve– what? I’ve paid you? What did I pay you? When?”

Now you’re both embarrassed, and confused, and well, this isn’t something you’d pictured going wrong.

You suddenly feel very exposed in your tight dress and heels.

“Uh.” You scratch behind your ear. “Like, I don’t know what to tell you. You’ve booked me, and I’m here. And it wasn’t a small sum of money, so I doubt you’d want to…”

Roger’s mouth opens, and then closes, and opens again. “Oh, shit, hang on,” he says, his voice flat, “did I… Was this all booked and arranged two weeks ago on the Friday night?”

“Yes,” you say. “Why?”

Roger sighs heavily, and rubs his eyes. “Oh, shit,” he moans. “For God’s…” He raises his head, and sighs again. “Look, um, Mandy, there’s been a big misunderstanding. I, um, went through a divorce, er, relatively recently, a few months ago, and I’ve been doing a bit of wallowing, I guess you could say, and my friends tried to cheer me up a fortnight ago on Friday by bringing round a few bottles of very nice whiskey and gin. I don’t remember a lot of that night, but, now that you mention it, I have some vague memory of my friends trying to get me to, you know, ‘move on’, and, um, I think they might have looked up… people online.”

Your ears are really burning now. “Oh,” you say.

“That’s what this is, isn’t it?” Roger adds. “You’re a…”

“Not really,” you blurt. “Kind of. It– oh, man.” You bite your bottom lip, hesitating, not quite sure how much to reveal about the situation. “Okay, I’ll be honest. Yes, I’m… from a website. But I’m not – this isn’t a living, or a side gig, or whatever. Not that it would matter if I was, because there’s nothing wrong with…” You shake your head. Stay on track. “It’s just a one-off. You paid me to… to take my virginity.”

You swear you can see Roger’s soul leaving his body in that moment. “You– I what?”

You shrug helplessly.

Roger takes a step back, pressing a hand to his forehead. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “Jesus Christ.”

“I’m sorry for the confusion,” you say, and your stomach sinks further when a realisation comes to you. “I…” You swallow. Your mouth is dry. “I’m really sorry, but I can’t – The money you gave me. I’ve done this to help pay bills and rent and everything, and it’s already been used. A chunk of it, anyway. I can’t refund you. I’m really sorry.”

“No, God, don’t apologise,” Roger says. “You weren’t to know.” He shakes his head. “Fucking dickheads, the lot of them.” He looks to you, and warily inspects your face. “How old did you say you were?” His voice is small, like he’s scared of the answer.

“Twenty,” you reply, and his shoulders sag in relief.

“Thank God,” he says. “I mean, still, you’re so young, but at least you’re…”

“An adult?”

He nods, grimacing sheepishly. “I really am being honest when I say I don’t remember much of that night. My mates aren’t those sorts of people, but, well, who knows what they’d try to pull when they’re pissed.”

“No, it’s fine,” you say. “I look young for my age. But I am twenty.”

“No, I believe you,” Roger says quickly. “I’m not… No.”

You wipe your palms on your dress again. What now? Do you just go home? That wasn’t the cheapest Uber ride you’ve ever had. You were kind of relying on that extra money.

Roger seems equally at loss. “You– Did you have to travel far?”

“Not that far,” you say. “Forty minutes-ish.”

“Fuck,” Roger says. He puts his hands on his hips, and then drops them again. “What time is it? It’s nearly nine, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, about nine.”

“It’s late. You should be getting home.”

Your heart sinks. Wow. Okay. This is really just over like that. “Um, yeah, I guess,” you say. You take half a step back. “I’m really sorry about the– the, um, whole mix-up thing. And sorry about your divorce.”

Great. Real smooth.

“Thanks,” Roger says. He hesitates, and you’re about to turn and head back down the driveway, when he says, “How are you getting home? Did you drive?”

“Uh, no,” you say. “Uber.”

“Uber? God, no, sod that,” Roger says. “Let me…” He fumbles for something in his back pocket, but comes up empty. “Let me pay for it. I don’t– Can I pay you for it?”

“It’s all right,” you reassure him. “You’ve already given me– it’s okay.”

“No, please, I insist,” he says. “Should I– cash? I can give you cash. Or… transfer…” He rolls his eyes at himself, those pretty blue eyes that shouldn’t belong to a man his age, but somehow suit him perfectly. “God,” he mutters. “I usually have things more together than this, I promise. I’ve just been caught beyond off-guard.”

“Sorry,” you say again.

“It’s not your fault, really, I don’t– How could I blame you? You had no idea. I am going to murder my friends.” He sighs, rubbing his temple. “Um. Okay. I’ve paid you before, haven’t I, if you got the deposit? How did I do it? I can just do it that way again.”

“You transferred it to me,” you say. You shift in your heels. Your feet are starting to ache.

“Let’s do it that way again, then,” Roger says. “I’ll just get my phone, sorry.”

“It’s okay, really,” you say yet again, stopping him. “Don’t bother. I’ll– It’ll take me two minutes and then I can be on my way home.”

Roger hovers, and then says, “Can I– Did you want to wait inside? Or out on the steps? Could I get you some water, at least?”

You hesitate. “Um–”

“I’m not trying to do anything,” Roger blurts, and then he shakes his head. “Now it sounds like I am trying to do something. I’m not. Really. If you want, you can just wait here and I’ll go inside and leave you alone.”

You glance at your phone. You haven’t ordered the Uber yet, but you are pretty thirsty. You look back up to Roger. “Well, I already had it in my head that I was coming here to sleep with you, so I’m not really concerned about you trying anything,” you say. “Some water sounds nice, actually.”

Roger laughs. Like his voice, it’s unexpectedly soft, and it makes you smile.

“Um. Yes,” he says, glancing at his feet. “Well. Um, come on in, then.”

You head back up the path, and Roger steps aside to let you in.

You slip past him. He smells good.

His house, on the inside, is just as white-picket-fence as it is on the outside. Not the tidiest, but you suppose he wasn’t expecting company.

He seems to notice the slight mess the same moment you do, and he hurriedly darts forward to tidy up.

“Sorry,” he says.

“No, don’t worry about it,” you say.

He bends down to grab an empty beer bottle from where it sits on the floor next to the couch. Nice ass.

Not that it matters. You aren’t sleeping with him anymore. But, to be fair, you are only human. Just because you’re no longer ordering doesn’t mean you can’t admire the menu.

“I, uh, wasn’t expecting any guests, obviously,” Roger adds, half-jokingly.

You chuckle, and adjust your dress. Roger’s eyes flash down to your hands, then to your chest where you’ve pulled the dress down a little further in your adjustment, and then he quickly looks away, running his hand along his jaw.

“Uh, um,” he says. “Water? Um– take a seat, by the way. Feel free to sit…” He gestures vaguely around him. “Sit anywhere. Anywhere you like.”

“Um, okay,” you say, and hesitate, before awkwardly perching on his couch.

“Sorry, did you say you wanted water?” Roger says.

“If you wouldn’t mind,” you say.

“Yeah, of course,” Roger says, and then disappears into the kitchen.

You breathe in a lungful of air and slowly let it out. Wow. Talk about an unexpected evening.

You take out your phone and message Justine. boy do I have a story to tell u.

She’s online, and she replies immediately. fuck what’s happened?? everything alright??

You bite your lip, considering how to reply. yeah I’m fine. the guy is super easy on the eyes, but there’s been a mix up and basically I am remaining firmly in the virgin zone for the foreseeable future lol.

You backspace and try again. yeah I’m fine. long story short I’m coming home. tell u about it when I get there.

is he ugly?? Justine replies, and you can’t help but smile in amusement.

oh no, that’s not the issue even a little bit, you reply.

“I’m assuming tap water is fine?” Roger says, reappearing with a glass of water, making you jump slightly and flip your phone face-down on your leg, as if he could somehow see the screen from across the room. “Sorry, I should’ve asked. I don’t really have anything else.”

“No, no, tap water is fine, thank you,” you say, and he hands the glass to you.

You take a sip.

Roger glances away, seemingly looking for something to do or something to say, as if the answer is written in the walls. He chews on his thumbnail.

Your mind scrambles to find something to say, but it feels like trying to eat soup with a fork.

“Is everything all right?” Roger asks suddenly, looking to you. “I know this is probably completely inappropriate, but… Well, paying for someone to…”

Your stomach sinks with embarrassment. “Oh,” you say. “Um. Yeah. Yeah, everything’s fine. Just – could do with the money.”

“Of course, yeah,” Roger says hurriedly, nodding. “You’re at uni?”

“Yeah. And living out of home, so.”

“Right. Yeah, of course, I should’ve guessed. Sorry, that was…”

“No, it’s fine,” you say with a reassuring smile. You chuckle. “I’m sorry for disrupting your evening like this.”

“No, no, it…” Roger smiles, and you feel every trace of oxygen leave your lungs, because wow, he’s attractive. “It’s a welcomed interruption, actually.”

“It is?”

“Well, all I had planned was to watch something shit on Netflix and drink beer,” Roger says, screwing up his nose. “Not exactly exciting.”

“Oh, don’t let me stop you,” you say. “Sounds like they were big plans.”

Roger laughs, and your heart thuds against your ribcage. “The sort of plans that sound much nicer when you have company, I think.” He pauses. “Not that– not that I’m expecting you to–” He sighs, running a hand through his hair, making it stick up. “I’m sorry,” he says. “Really, I’m not usually this… awkward.”

“You don’t have to apologise,” you say, shaking your head.

“I used to be a real ladies’ man, you know,” Roger says. “Back in the day. Before my wi– my ex-wife. And the kids.”

“Sure,” you say, drawling sarcastically.

Roger laughs again, a little surprised, but amused. “I was!” he insists. “I was picking up women left and right.”

“I believe you,” you say lightly.

Roger grins, and you have to take a steadying breath. “You’ve got a tongue on you, haven’t you?” he says delightedly.

“So it’s been said.”

It comes out more suggestive than you’d intended. Roger takes a moment to drink you in, and then he bites his bottom lip, looking away, one hand sliding into the back pocket of his jeans, the other one slipping under his shirt, massaging his shoulder.

Your stomach flips and jumps. You take a sip of water.

“You sure you’ve never been with anyone before?” Roger says.

You snort. “That’s a pretty rude question, don’t you think?”

Roger smiles sheepishly. “You’re right. Sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

You take another sip of water, and then say, “I haven’t slept with anyone, no. I think I’d know if I had.”

“Right,” Roger says mildly, nodding.

You narrow your eyes at him. “What?”

“Nothing, I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re thinking very loudly. Is there something wrong with me not having slept with anyone?”

“No,” Roger says, his eyes widening. “No, shit, that’s not what I was trying to say. It– you just seem… I’m just surprised. That someone like you…”

You adjust your dress again. Roger’s eyes drop to your breasts again, and back up to your face. “What do you mean by that?” you ask, trying not to preen.

Roger ponders over his answer for a while. “You just seem to… know what you want.”

“Oh, you think so?”

“Yeah,” Roger says noncommittally.

His eyes find yours, and they stay there. Your heart is racing in your chest now, making your blood feel warm. You’ve been attracted to plenty of people before, but this is really something else.

Roger clears his throat, breaking away, and you surreptitiously squeeze your thighs together.

Your phone buzzes on your thigh. It’s Justine. so he’s hot?

“Is that your Uber?” Roger asks. If you aren’t mistaken, he sounds almost disappointed.

Your cheeks grow hot. “Oh, um, I haven’t actually… I forgot to call it.”

“Oh,” Roger says. A tinge of relief? “Well, no rush.”

“It’s just my friend checking up on me,” you add.

“That’s good of them.”

“Yeah. Well, actually, she was checking up on me before. Now she’s just–” You open and close your mouth a few times, but decide to be honest. “Uh, she’s just, um, asking about you.”

Roger quirks an eyebrow, and it’s so hot that you have to look away. “About me?”

Your phone buzzes again. are you on ur way home now?

“Uh,” you say, and quickly type out, not yet.

“What have you told her?” Roger asks, playfully curious.

You put your phone down, and take a breath, smoothing your hands down your legs, thinking carefully of how to answer. “Just that you seem nice.”

“Nice?” Roger says.

“And you’re… Well.” You smirk. “I’m sure you’ve seen yourself in the mirror. No point in boosting your ego too much.”

Roger steps forward, drawn to you by an invisible string. “I don’t think I understand,” he says faux-innocently.

“I’m sorry, weren’t you just saying a minute ago that you were pulling girls left and right?” you say, cocking your head.

“Oh, yeah, when I was twenty,” Roger says. “Not talking about now.”

“Have you tried?”

Roger pauses, slightly taken aback by this, and his eyes roll to the ceiling as he thinks, blowing hair out of his cheeks. “You may have a point there.”

“And I suppose that’s why these friends of yours contacted me?”

“You… may have a point there,” Roger says again.

You nod to yourself. “I don’t see why they couldn’t have just taken you to a pub and set you up with someone there. It’d have been a lot cheaper.”

“They’ve, um…” Roger cards his hand through his hair. “They’ve tried that, actually.” He hesitates, and then walks over to you, sitting down on the armchair near you. “They’ve taken me out a couple of times.”

“And you’ve struck out?” you ask.

Roger chuckles. “No. I – well, like you said, I suppose I haven’t really tried. I didn’t want to.”

“Too soon?”

“No, it’s not that. It’s…” Roger pulls a face. “I don’t know. Haven’t felt like it, really. Maybe it was too soon. Or maybe the thought of having to try to chat someone up just seemed like so much effort.”

“Surely it wouldn’t be much effort for you.”

Roger meets your eyes again, and he smiles slowly, running his tongue along his teeth. “Oh yeah?”

Your phone vibrates. The way Roger’s looking at you makes you wish it was something else vibrating that you could put to good use alone in your room.

Roger’s eyes flick down to the phone, and back up to your face. “That your friend again?”

You hesitate, and then flip the phone over. hellooooo????? wtf is going on????

“Yeah,” you say, and put the phone down beside you.

“You going to answer it?”

“In a minute.”

You smooth your hands down your thighs. Roger watches like a hawk.

Your hands slide back up your thighs.

He swallows.

You smile.

“You, um, you ever…” Roger tears his eyes away from your thighs to look at your face. “Have– have you ever had a boyfriend? Or girlfriend?”

“Yeah,” you say casually. “Not for a long while, though. And nothing too serious. Nothing as full-on as marriage.”

Roger laughs, but it comes out sounding a bit strangled. “Yeah. That’s all right, though. That doesn’t matter.”

Your phone buzzes.

You ignore it.

“I never got around to… all of that,” you explain. “Y’know. Fucking.”

Roger’s face goes slack. “Uh–”

“I wasn’t waiting for anyone special,” you continue. Your blood feels electrified under his gaze. “Just never quite got there.”

“Never quite–?”

You hum. “That’s misleading. I’ve made out with plenty of people, but that’s all. Some over-the-clothes action. Basically nothing, really.”

Roger looks like he’s struggling to breathe. “Uh-huh.”

“You probably find that hard to imagine,” you say with a wry smile. “Having kids and all. How old were you your first time?”

Roger blinks, and takes a moment to reply. “Uh, I was sixteen.”

You laugh. “God, I can’t even picture…” You frown, and shake your head. “It’s hard to picture what it’d be like, you know? The reality of it? You can watch as much porn as you like – and I’ve watched plenty, mind you – but, like, I know that it’s not real. Not realistic, anyway. I’ve spent what feels like ages just trying to picture what is actually is like, but it’s impossible for me to know.”

“It’s good,” Roger says, and it comes out in a rush, and he looks surprised at himself.

You feel a thrill go through you. “Good?”

“Yeah,” Roger says. “Everyone says your first time isn’t good, but that’s only if your partner doesn’t know what they’re doing. And it’s nice when you have an idea of what you’re doing, too, but that comes with time. And if you have a good teacher.” He rakes his hand through his hair again. “But when the chemistry is right, and the mood is right, it’s… good.”

“That’s descriptive,” you murmur sarcastically.

Roger huffs a laugh. “What do you want, a detailed explanation? Graphs and illustrations?”

“A demonstration would be nice.”

Shit. Oh, shit. Shit shit shit. Why the fuck did you say that?

Your eyes are wide, and you open and close your mouth a few times. “Uh.” Roger looks as surprised as you feel. “Oh,” he says. “Um. Wow. Is– is this part of the…”

You blink. “Part of the…?”

“The whole…” He gestures vaguely. “…thing. You being paid to…”

“Did I just make a complete idiot of myself as part of my attempt to woo you as a kind-of sex worker?” you ask. You can’t help but laugh, shaking your head. “Nope. No. That was all me. Just being a dumbass.” You groan, covering your face. “I’m sorry,” you say from behind your hands. “This is so embarrassing.” This whole night has been nothing but a huge embarrassment. You can’t wait to go home and forget about it, thanks to an unhealthy dose of alcohol.

“I’m sorry,” Roger says.

You lower your hands. “For what?”

“For – I don’t know. I just felt I needed to apologise.”

You snort. “You don’t have to apologise for me very clumsily and awkwardly and horribly trying to flirt with you, Roger.” You roll your eyes at yourself. “You’re probably used to seeing that all the time.”

“Again, not for a very long time,” Roger says. “But I know what horrible and awkward flirting looks like, and… that wasn’t it.”

“But clumsy, though, right?” you say, screwing up your nose.

Roger chuckles. “Maybe. But that’s all right.” He shifts in his seat. “I was just as clumsy.”

You wave a hand, and reach for your phone. It’s high time you called your Uber. And reply to Justine. “You weren’t flirting with me.”

You re-read the messages from Justine you’re yet to reply to.

so hes hot?

are you on ur way home now?

hellooooo????? wtf is going on????

Then the new one, from a few minutes ago: for the love of god can u please reply to me. something. anything. I’ll take a solid thumbs-up.

So you send a thumbs-up.

When you look up, Roger is staring at you, and you realise he hasn’t spoken since you did.

You’ve well and truly crossed a line somewhere. You can’t blame him for wanting you out. “I’m sorry,” you say. “I’m just – my friend. I’ll get the Uber now. Sorry it’s taken me so long.”

“Don’t,” Roger says.

You pause. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t order the Uber.”

Your stomach bubbles. “Wh– No?”

“Not yet, at least,” Roger says. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You think I wasn’t flirting with you?”

“Why would you be?” you respond automatically.

“Why would…” Roger shakes his head. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because I’m a random twenty-year-old woman who’s just shown up at your door on a Tuesday night dressed like this talking about how you paid to take my virginity,” you say bluntly. “Which is more than a little off-putting.”

“Well, all right, I’ll give you that,” Roger says. “But here I am, still trying to clumsily flirt with you nonetheless.”

You break out into a smile, a bashful one, and duck your head. “Oh.”

“Oh,” Roger repeats, a touch playfully.

You glance up at him. He’s smiling at you, pleased with your reaction, and the thought of kissing him flashes through your mind, and you’ve suddenly never wanted anything more. You purse your lips, looking at your hands again, fiddling with your phone, flipping it around and around in your grip.

“Mandy,” he says gently, and you’re puzzled for a moment before you remember –

“That’s, um, not my real name,” you tell him with an awkward chuckle. But you really like how he said it all the same.

Roger looks so embarrassed that you can’t help but laugh. “Here I was, trying to be all suave, and now I look like an idiot,” he says.

You shake your head. “You don’t. You didn’t know.”

“I should’ve guessed you weren’t using your real name.”

“No, it’s fine,” you giggle.

“Well, am I allowed to know your real name? So I can try again?”

You hesitate.

“Unless you don’t want to,” Roger says quickly. “That’s fine. Security, and all. Stranger danger.”

You laugh again. “Stranger danger? I’m in your house.”

“I could be a stalker. You don’t know that.”

Fuck, you’re attracted to him. “Dork,” you say with a roll of your eyes.

Roger chuckles, his eyes sparkling.

“It’s [Y/N],” you add.

“[Y/N],” he repeats, and your breath catches ever so slightly. He pauses, and then comes to sit beside you on the couch, and holds out his hand. “Nice to meet you, [Y/N],” he says. “I’m Roger.”

You giggle, and take his hand, shaking it. “Nice to meet you, Roger.”

He’s so close now. He smells amazing, and his hand is warm, and his eyes are so blue, and his lips–

You realise you’ve been staring at his mouth, your hand still in his, and you glance back up at his eyes before quickly taking your hand back, looking away.

You tuck your hair behind your ear, clearing your throat. You’re barely aware of your own body – only his, and how close it is to yours. Like there’s a force between the two of you, connecting you. When he swallows and moves his hand back to his own lap, you can feel it as if it’s your own.

“Do you, um…” Roger takes a breath in, and you feel your chest, your lungs, buzz. “Tell me about yourself a bit.”

“Me?” you say, looking to him. Oh, wow, he really is close. Fucking hell, you want him.

“Yeah,” he says, smiling. “What do you do for fun? Stuff like that?”

You lick your lips, and his eyes dart to the movement. “Um, well, I…” You absentmindedly adjust your dress, and it catches his eye again. “I’m at uni, in my second year. It’s all right. Pretty stressful, obviously, but I like it well enough. I live with two of my friends. I, um… I like… dogs.”

Roger laughs.

This is so stupid, you realise. You both clearly want each other.

You shake your head. “Stupid,” you mutter.

Roger frowns. “What’s stupid?”

“This,” you say. You gesture between the two of you for emphasis. “This.”

“Oh,” Roger says. He shifts away from you. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

You huff. “You’re not.”

“Then what–”

“Kiss me,” you cut in.

Roger stops. “Kiss you?”

“Yes,” you say, keeping your gaze steady on his. “You’re too damn difficult to resist. So kiss me.”

Roger hesitates.

You raise your eyebrows. “Unless you don’t want to?”

“No, I – I do,” he says. “I just…”

“What?”

“I feel like the circumstances… I don’t want you to think I’m just doing this because I’ve paid you to…”

“I don’t think that,” you say. “And I don’t want your money; this is way beyond that now. I’m not trying to trick you into sleeping with me so I can force you to pay me. I just know chemistry when I see it.”

Roger chuckles. “I was right,” he says. “You know exactly what you want.”

You steel your nerves. “Yeah,” you say with a shrug of your shoulders. “And I want you.”

Roger swallows. “But you don’t even know me.”

“Nope.”

“And you’re in my house.”

“Yep.”

“And I’m so much older than you.”

“That’s right.”

“And you’re…”

“I’m a virgin,” you finish, nodding. “I know. But for the love of God, Roger, if you don’t kiss me right now, I’m going to scream.”

Roger exhales, shakes his head minutely, and then says, “God fucking damn it,” and leans in to kiss you.

You immediately shift to press closer towards him, one hand coming to rest against his chest. He kisses you earnestly, but gently, like he’s nervous. Nervous about making you feel pressured, you can safely assume.

But that’s not what you’re about. You pull back, and, before he can say anything, you climb on top of him, straddling his waist, and kiss him again, more deeply than before. He breaks away just far enough to whisper, “Holy shit,” and then ducks his head to kiss down your throat. You tilt your head to give him more room, one hand against his chest and the other raking through his hair. His hands, rough and warm, smooth up your thighs, and your breath catches. They stop just under the hem of the dress, and a soft whine slips from your throat.

Roger moans in response. “Jesus Christ.”

You reach down and grab at his wrists, urging his hands to go further up the dress. “Touch me,” you pant.

He draws back, and you look down at him, at his slightly flushed cheeks and his ruffled hair, and you want him naked, right now. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to do anything you don’t want to,” he says. “We can just make out, that’s absolutely fine. Just because of… the whole… arrangement…”

“Roger,” you say slowly, “I’m only going to say this once, because I don’t want to have to repeat myself.”

He nods, swallowing.

You cup his face in your hands, boring your eyes into his. “I want you to fuck me. Tonight. Right now.”

Roger takes a shaky breath. “Are you–”

“What did I just say?” you cut in. “Not repeating it.”

Roger smiles, laughing breathlessly. “Bloody hell.”

You smirk. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Oh, it most certainly is one, believe me.”

You lean in to kiss him, and his hands, thank the Lord, slide further up your thighs. You start unbuttoning his shirt, blindly, fumbling a little, and your kisses grow more eager.

You’ve kissed a number of people in your time. Not a whole lot, but a few. And Roger really takes the damn cake.

When his shirt is fully unbuttoned, untucked from his jeans, you move your lips down his neck, and he moans, letting his head roll back, his hands shifting to grab your ass, pulling you against him. You can feel the tent in his jeans, and, beyond thrilled, you grind against it, loving how a bolt of arousal shoots through you. Roger’s grip on you tightens, and when you nip at his skin, he spits out, “Fuck.”

You rock your hips against him again, and he laughs again. “God, it’s been too long.”

You hum, nipping his throat again and soothing it with your tongue. “How long is too long?”

“Months. Lost count. Ah, fuck.”

You pull back, giving him a look, and he lifts his head to meet your eyes. “Try twenty years,” you say dryly.

Roger shakes his head. “Can’t even imagine.” He kisses you, just once, and then murmurs against your lips, “I promise I’ll make this good for you.”

You shiver. “I’m sure you will.”

“I mean it.” He kisses you again, and then sits back, his hands sliding back to your thighs and squeezing them gently. “I want this to be good for you. If I’m going to be your first, I want you to enjoy it. So you have to tell me if I’m doing something you don’t like, yeah?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

“I don’t care what it is we’re doing – you can tell me to stop at literally any point, and I will, no questions asked.”

You nod. “I know, I know.”

Roger chuckles. “You just really want to get things going, don’t you?”

“Yes.” You press your lips to his, and, now that you both know where things lie between you, you’re both eager to get to the next step. The kisses quickly become more feverish, hotter, deeper. Roger’s hands go to the back of your dress, working the zipper down your spine, and you shudder at the feeling of it. When he’s done, you sit back to yank it over your head, dropping it the floor behind you.

Roger’s eyes drink you in, his mouth hanging open. “Whoa.”

You flush under his gaze. You know you look good – you’d worn your push-up bra and matching lace underwear for a reason – but it’s still a rush to get a reaction like that.

“Bedroom?” Roger says, his voice a touch weak, and you nod, leaning in to steal one last kiss before climbing off him, taking his hand and pulling him to his feet. He groans slightly as he does so, and you giggle.

“I know, I know, I’m old,” he says.

“No, I like it,” you say, tugging him closer to you and hooking a finger of your other hand through a belt loop on his jeans. “Dad noises.”

Roger shakes his head, his hands coming to rest on your waist, and you lean into the touch. “Don’t say that,” he grumbles. “Makes me feel even older.”

“You’re not old,” you say, rolling your eyes. “You’re not even forty.”

Roger laughs. “Ah, yes, a real spring chicken.”

“Can you stop whining and fuck me already? I’m gonna be forty by the time we get to it.”

Roger snorts. “Cheeky.” He leans in to kiss you, and you curl your arms around his neck, pressing into him.

When you break apart, you take Roger’s hand again, and he leads you to his bedroom, both of you stumbling slightly in the dark house. You’re only in your underwear, but you’re still wearing your heels, and you feel like you’re in some kind of Victoria Secret ad.

Roger keeps glancing back at you, his eyes sweeping your body, and he’s so distracted he almost runs into a wall at one point, and you have to tug on his arm to pull him out of the way, laughing as you do so. He retaliates by pushing you up against the wall and kissing you senseless, his thigh slotted between yours. You’re lightheaded and unbelievably turned on by the time he breaks away again, and it feels like a lifetime before you reach his bedroom.

Roger switches on the light.

The double bed is unmade, but the room itself is fairly tidy, just a pair of shoes and a shirt on the floor. The whole room screams tax-paying adult, and you’re reminded again that the man you’re about to sleep with is, in fact, a proper adult. Not like you, an adult by the loosest terms imaginable, but a fully-grown man with children and a mortgage and a career, probably. A completely different world to yours.

But none of that will matter when you’re both naked.

He closes the door behind him, and then you’re pouncing on him, pushing his shirt off his shoulders and all but tearing his belt off. His hands are tight on your hips, and when you undo his belt and the button and fly on his jeans, he pants, “Bed, bed, go sit on the bed.”

You do as you’re told, sitting on the edge of the bed and crossing one knee over the other, taking the opportunity to quickly tie your hair back out of your face while and Roger fumbles with the rest of his clothes, kicking off his shoes and pulling off his socks and jeans. You can tell that he would’ve been thin as a twig back in the day, and you’d easily call him slender even now, but his body is soft, the sign of a father who’s spent more time taking care of the kids and having a beer in the evenings to wind down than going to the gym. It suits him, looks good on him. You’re certainly a big fan.

Soon, he’s down to nothing but his boxer-briefs. His boxer-briefs, which are neon green.

You break out into a grin, and Roger looks down at them, sighing. “Of all the fucking pairs I could’ve put on today,” he mutters.

“They’re pretty great,” you say, and you make sure you have Roger’s full attention before you uncross your legs, spreading your knees wide, leaning back on your hands, “but I’m more interested in what’s underneath them.”

From the look on Roger’s face, you’d guess his legs are about to give out from under him. “You’re gonna fucking kill me,” he huffs, and he hurries over.

Grinning, you scramble backwards on the bed, lying down, and he crawls after you, over you, and his kiss is bruising.

Your hands are shaking now – with excitement and with nerves, a lot of nerves – but you ignore that, and worm your fingers inside his underwear, wrapping your hand around him and giving him a tug.

He jerks, and you have a moment of panic where you think you’ve done the wrong thing, but then he kisses you with more fervour, so you do it again. This time, his hand finds yours, gently guiding you away.

“Did I do something wrong?” you ask.

Roger looks confused for a moment, and then says, “God, no. I just don’t want to get too worked up before we get to, y’know, the main event.”

“Oh,” you say, smiling in relief.

“You really have no experience at all, do you?” Roger says, sounding almost disbelieving.

“That’s what I’ve been saying,” you say. “It hasn’t all been some elaborate ruse to get into your pants. Literally all I have is some vague, theoretical ideas on how this works. And I know the mechanics. But that’s it. So you’re gonna have to be patient with me.”

“That’s fine by me,” Roger says. He chuckles. “It’ll make everything I do seem much more magical than it really is.”

“Sure,” you say mock-condescendingly.

Roger laughs, and he looks so wonderful when he’s laughing that you can’t help but smile, your hand reaching up to comb through his hair.

He notices the look in your eye, your smile, and he smiles back in a way that makes your stomach squirm and your fingers and toes tingle.

He kisses you, and the squirming in your stomach grows into full-blown butterflies, big Amazonian ones, and you begin to have an inkling that, oh no, this could be bad. This could be very bad indeed.

It’s probably nothing. He’s just hot, and nice, and funny, so you’re excited to have sex with him. That’s it. You’re a duckling that’s imprinted on its mother. Except you’re a human, and Roger’s the first person you’re having sex with, not your mother.

Not the best analogy you’ve come up with. You can’t blame yourself, though – the way Roger’s kissing you is turning your brain into mush.

He presses a kiss to just under your ear, and then kisses all the way down your throat, and you tilt your head back. “Feels so good,” you murmur.

You can feel Roger smile against your skin.

He keeps going, kissing the hollow at the base of your throat, further down still, and you bite your bottom lip. He presses a kiss to the top of your right breast, and then looks up at you. “Can I take your bra off?”

You nod eagerly, and he moves back so you can sit up. “Oh, I’ve still got my shoes on,” you said.

“I’ve noticed,” Roger says, and you chuckle.

“As super sexy as they are, I do wanna take them off,” you say.

Roger ducks forward to drop a kiss to your neck, and the butterflies are back, and you can feel your cheeks going pink. You want to hide your face, but Roger’s right there, and you can’t look away from his eyes. “How about you take your bra off,” he says, “and I’ll get your shoes.”

“You don’t have to take my shoes off for me,” you say.

“Well, I want to,” he says simply, and shuffles down, climbing off the bed. He gestures for you to shift forward, and you do, until your feet are hanging off the bed, your knees hooked over the edge. Roger gets onto his knees – he makes a dad noise as he does so, and you giggle again – and fiddles with the buckle on one of your shoes.

You take a moment to watch him, biting your lip, smiling, and then reach behind you and unhook your bra, slipping it from your shoulders.

He doesn’t look up right away, and you’re thankful for a moment to get your head around the fact that you’ve never been completely topless in front of anyone before. You’re self-conscious about the grooves the bra has dug into your skin, about the way your breasts look without the aid of the push-up, and you almost go to cross your arms over yourself, but then Roger glances up, and his hands go still. “Bloody hell,” he breathes. “You’re gorgeous.”

You tuck your hair behind your ear. “Thanks,” you say in a small voice, unsure how else to respond.

Roger shakes his head, and focuses back on the shoe, making quick work of it and easing it off your foot, setting it down beside him. He moves onto the other shoe. “Talk about winning the fuckin’ lottery,” he says.

“I could say the same,” you say.

Roger stops again, looking to you, and then smiles, looking back to the shoe. His ears have gone red.

He takes the second shoe off and places it beside the first, then presses light kisses to the inside of your knee. He moves further up your leg, up your thigh, and you realise you’re holding your breath. His arms are curled around underneath your legs.

Roger looks up at you, his thick eyelashes making him look almost angelic. “Is this all right?” he says. “If I…?”

He’s asking if he can eat you out. Oh, God, he’s asking if he can eat you out. He wants to put his mouth and tongue there, and maybe his fingers, too, and no one’s ever done that before.

You nod eagerly. Maybe a little too eagerly, as Roger laughs.

You feel your stomach cave in on itself in embarrassment. “Actually, no thanks,” you say, trying to pull your legs back. “Changed my mind.”

“No, no, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to laugh,” Roger says, still chuckling. He coaxes your legs back to where they were, and kisses your thigh. “It was just the look on your face.”

“You’re doing a terrible job of wooing me,” you say, aiming for resolute and chastising, but it comes out sounding more weedy and humiliated.

“I’m sorry,” Roger says again, and his hands stroke your legs soothingly. “I am. I didn’t mean to make you feel embarrassed.” He smiles, a glint in his eye, and you’re momentarily left breathless. “Can I… make it up to you?”

You can’t help but smile back, rolling your eyes. “Wow. Cheesy.”

“Thank you,” Roger says. “I’m going to be honest, as fun as this banter is, my knees aren’t going to last forever.”

You splutter a laugh. “Yes, yes, okay, yes please.”

Roger surges up off the floor to press a firm kiss to your lips, and you take a moment to wonder just how dodgy his knees really are if he can do something like that, or whether he was just looking for a convenient segue into getting your underwear off. You’re not fussed either way.

Roger kisses your collarbone, and then pulls back, hooking his fingers into your underwear. “Lift your hips up for me, love?”

The pet name makes heat pool between your legs. Oh, Jesus.

“Mm-hm,” you say, hoping it sounds more nonchalant to him than it does to your own ears, and lie back to lift your hips, and he slides your underwear down your legs and drops them near your shoes.

You expect him to go back to his knees straight away, but he holds himself above you, kissing you, deep and slow, making you whimper into his mouth. One hand holds himself up, and the other one massages your hip, his thumb kneading your skin. Relaxing you, you realise. You let yourself get lost in the kiss, and you’re only partially aware when Roger’s hand moves from your hip to your thigh, brushing over your skin.

You’re extremely aware, however, when his fingers stroke through your folds for the first time.

Despite yourself, you jump, and Roger murmurs, “Sorry,” but you shake your head to dismiss his concerns, and pull him in again.

For a few moments it’s strange, feeling someone’s else hand there, and you’re very conscious of how wet you are, and you wonder if it’s something you should be embarrassed about, but then Roger circles your clit, and suddenly all your worries seem very far away.

It feels… good. Really fucking good. Roger’s fingers are rougher than yours, but they’re clearly experienced in how they move.

You push your hips up against Roger’s hand, wanting more, and Roger complies, his fingers moving just a touch more roughly, and he ducks his head to nuzzle at your throat, kissing it, nipping lightly.

“Oh, God,” you moan to the ceiling, overwhelmed already, and you almost laugh at how surprised you sound. Your hand grips Roger’s hair, and you hope it’s not too hard, but you couldn’t let go if you tried.

Then Roger’s hand is gone, and you let out a choked sound at the sudden stop. You try to gather your thoughts to ask why, but then Roger is kissing down your body. Oh, man, you think, unable to conjure up anything else, and Roger chuckles, and you realise you said it out loud, but you don’t have time to be embarrassed, as Roger takes one of your nipples into his mouth, his tongue swirling around it, his teeth tugging at it, and you gasp.

“I’ve never… That’s new,” you say weakly, hissing when Roger runs the flat of his tongue over your nipple.

Roger pulls off to ask, “Do you like it?”

“Yeah,” you say. “Yeah, uh-huh.”

“Good.” He goes back to his task, and you arch off the bed slightly.

“So good,” you breathe. Roger switches to the other nipple, and you moan appreciatively.

Eventually, both to your dismay and your excitement, he draws away, and presses a single kiss to the space between your breasts. “You’re fucking stunning,” he says, and then he moves back to climb off the bed, setting himself between your thighs.

You struggle to wrap your head around it. How he could be making you feel this good, and then still compliment you, as if you’ve done anything to deserve it?

Roger doesn’t waste time talking now. He kisses the inside of your thigh, and then he dives straight in, his tongue nudging your clit as it pushes through your folds. You suck in a sharp gasp, your hand gripping his hair tightly. Your other hand flails, grappling at the sheets as he starts to find a rhythm. You wind up pressing the back of it to your mouth, trying to muffle the sounds you’re making, trying to gather some sort of control, because right now you feel like you’re falling head-first off a cliff, and Roger has complete power over how you land.

He does something with his mouth – you couldn’t tell for the life of you what it is – and your hips buck against your will. “Sorry,” you blurt out, and it comes out broken and breathless.

Roger just adjusts one of his arms, bracing it across your hips, holding you down, and you moan. His other hand joins his mouth, sliding a finger into you. “Oh, fuck,” you whisper, and then your hand returns to its position, keeping you somewhat quieter.

It doesn’t take long before Roger’s working in a second finger, pumping them in and out of you, and the sound of it is so obscene that it makes your face go bright red. You’re climbing towards an orgasm, frighteningly quickly, and when a third finger squeezes in beside the first two, you very nearly come, but the sting of the stretch is enough to keep it at bay.

But then your body relaxes around the three fingers, and Roger crooks them just so and sucks on your clit, and you move your hand away from your mouth to say in a rush, “I’m– I’m so close, I’m gonna come, fuck, ah, shit,” and then–

Then Roger is gone, his fingers and mouth are gone, and you’re left teetering on the brink of an orgasm, feeling like the air has been punched out of you.

“Wh– Roger?” you say, your head a mess. You prop yourself up on your elbows to see Roger still between your legs, but instead he’s massaging your thighs with his thumbs, dropping light kisses to your soft skin.

He smiles up at you, his nose and chin glistening. “Thought we could try something.”

You shake your head to try to clear it. “But I was just about to…”

You can still feel the urge. Another minute, and you’ll be there. But the longer you wait, the more the feeling fades. It makes you want to punch a wall.

Roger hums. “I know. That’s the point.”

You frown, trying to wrap your head around it. “You… don’t want me to?”

“Not yet.”

It finally clicks. “You’re gonna do that to me a couple more times before you make me come, aren’t you?”

Roger’s smile widens into a grin. “That’s the plan. If you’re on board.”

“I’m on board,” you say. “As long as when I do come, it blows my fucking mind.”

“That’s really the point of it, love.” Roger keeps eye contact with you as he leans forward to press a kiss to your core, and you shudder. “And move your hand away from your mouth. You don’t have to be quiet. The more sounds you make, the better.”

“When am I gonna get my hands on you?” you ask. “I’ve barely even touched your dick yet.”

Roger huffs a laugh, and you can feel his breath against you. “We’re getting there,” he says easily. “Good things come to those who wait.”

“Ugh, that’s such a dad thing to say,” you bemoan, lying back down.

Roger laughs again, and then his mouth and hands return to where you so desperately need them. You suck in air through your teeth. “Fuck, Roger.”

Roger moans, and you jerk at the sensation.

He brings you to the edge once more, and, even though you don’t tell him when you’re about to come, he knows, and leaves you hanging once again. So close, so close, but not close enough.

You feel like crying. Or kicking him in the face.

You moan helplessly, slinging an arm over your eyes, your legs trembling as Roger smiles against your thigh – you can feel it. A smug smile that makes your blood boil and your core throb even more than it already is.

Then his fingers push into you for a third time, and his tongue licks through you, but this time it’s slow, painfully slow, not enough to make you come but enough to keep your head lost in the clouds, enough to make your stomach clench and twist, desperately searching for something. It’s enough to make you grind your teeth together. “God, fuck, I need to come,” you sob against the palm of your hand, your thighs trying to clench around Roger’s ears, but his arm is in the way, keeping your hips still.

His tongue drags against your clit, steady and unhurried, and the gasping whine that rips itself from your throat is piercing to your ears. Not even your hand could muffle it.

“There we go,” Roger says, and does it again.

You squirm. “Roger, fuck, please, I wanna come so bad.”

Roger’s fingers still move in and out of you at a leisurely pace, but he uses his mouth to say, “You wanna come?”

“Yes,” you say miserably. “Please, I need to.”

His thumb presses against your clit, and you bite your bottom lip, your body twisting.

“Christ,” Roger breathes. “That’s a fucking sight.”

“Fuck me,” you beg. “Anything, just please.”

Roger takes his hand away, standing and wiping his face on the back of his hand, and you swear. He kicks off his boxer-briefs. His cock is hard and red, swollen, leaking. You sit up and zero in on it like it’s a four-course meal and you haven’t eaten in days. You scramble off the bed, dropping to your knees in front of him.

“Fucking hell,” he says, clearly not expecting you to do that.

“Can I suck you off?” you ask desperately, resisting the urge to just shove your mouth around his dick without further preamble. “I’ll do a good job, I promise. Just tell me what to do. I’m a fast learner.” You curl your fist around him, sucking the head into your mouth.

Roger makes a strangled sound, his hips bucking slightly. “Wait, wait, wait,” he says quickly, guiding your head away with a hand on your head.

You pull back, but keep your hand where it is. “Just fuck my mouth,” you say, gazing up at him. “I dunno how that works, but I can keep it open.” You do so, sticking your tongue out, silently begging with your eyes.

Roger chuckles softly to himself, running a hand through his hair. “You’re gonna make me come just from running your mouth like that.”

You open your mouth wider.

“Or from just doing that,” Roger says. He pries your hand away from his dick, using it to pull you to your feet.

He kisses you, a hungry kiss, a you’re doing so well kiss, and it makes you preen. “But I want to fuck you,” he says. “I’ve had my dick sucked before; you’ve never been fucked.”

“I’ve never sucked a dick before, either, though,” you reason.

“Well, hit me up next time you’re in the neighbourhood,” Roger jokes. Before you can reply, he kisses you again, and you drink him in greedily, palming at his cock until his kisses grow sloppy, messy, more teeth and tongue, and he has to snatch your wrist. “Let me get inside you first,” he growls. “Good God.”

“I like it when you’re bossy,” you say, teasingly.

Roger hums, his eyes dark. “You need that attitude fucked right out of you.”

“Do it,” you say fervently, grinning in delight when he grabs your other wrist as well to stop you from touching him. “Do it, do it, do it. Fuck it right out me. I need it. Never had anyone try to fuck anything out of me before.”

Roger shudders. “Jesus.”

You half-heartedly try to tug your wrists back, but he holds them tightly. “Fuck me till I can’t walk,” you say. “Come on.”

Roger takes a breath, and then lets your wrists go. “Bed. Now.”

You scramble to obey, clenching your thighs together at the sight of Roger. He looks wrecked already, his hair a mess, his skin flushed, his eyes glassy, his lips red. He goes to his bedside table and digs out a bottle of lube and some condoms. “Maybe should check the date on these,” he mutters to himself, and squints at the packets in his hands. After a few moments of peering at them, he sighs in frustration, and reaches for the pair of glasses on the table that you hadn’t noticed before. He slips them on, and then nods at the packets. “They’re fine.”

He goes to take the glasses off, but you say, “Wait, show me.”

He turns to you. “Show you what?”

Fuck, he looks gorgeous in those glasses. They’re large, round ones, with delicate silver frames, and you make a soft sound. “Oh, wow.”

“I know, they’re horrendous,” Roger says, taking off the glasses and setting them down. “My eyesight’s always been shite, but I can’t stand wearing the bloody things.”

“No, you look great,” you say. “So great, in fact, that I need you to get the condom on so you can fuck me literally right now.”

Roger raises his eyebrows. “You what?”

“I’m dying here, Roger,” you say loudly, smacking the bed beside you. “You look hot as fuck in those glasses, and I’m so insanely horny that I’m about to explode. I need your dick in me right now.”

Roger grins, and rips open the condom packet. “All right. Jeez.”

“Let me do it,” you say, crawling over to him and taking the condom from him.

“You’ve ever done it before?” he asks.

“Not since we had to at school when I was, like, fifteen.” You do it carefully, to the best of your memory. Your mouth waters being so close to his cock. “Is this right?”

“Yeah, perfect,” Roger says. “You look incredible, by the way.”

You look up at Roger, and the butterflies return. You’re left momentarily speechless, but it doesn’t matter, because Roger leans down and kisses you. His hand rests against your collarbones, and you get another idea in your head. You rise up into a kneel, keeping his lips on yours, and then you take his hand, pressing it against your throat: a silent invitation.

Roger moans into your mouth, and applies some pressure, just a bit, testing the waters.

It makes your core ache, and you kiss him harder, so he presses harder in return. His palm is warm against your throat, and you keep one hand loosely around his wrist, the other hand in his hair, as it is wont to do.

You end up lying back on the bed, Roger pressing his hand against your throat as you gasp and squirm.

“You like this, don’t you?” Roger says, fingers on his other hand dipping into your folds. “Fuck, feel how wet you are.”

You nod desperately. Your mouth is hanging open, and your head is starting to swim.

“Is that all for me, love?”

You whimper, nodding again. You can hear your heartbeat in your ears.

Roger lets go of your throat, and you gasp, your eyes wide. “More,” you say immediately. “More. Fuck me like that.”

Roger smiles, keeping his palm against your throat, but brushes his thumb across your skin. His other hand curls around your knee. “Your enthusiasm is… mind-blowing,” he says with a chuckle, “but just take a moment, yeah? You’re all over the shop. Slow down a bit.”

“I don’t wanna slow down,” you protest, grabbing onto his forearm.

“We’ve got time, love. It doesn’t have to be over so quickly.”

“You can’t tease me like that, almost make me come, like, three times, and then tell me to slow down,” you say. “I need you, Roger. Christ, I need you. Show me what it’s like, show me how good my first time can be.”

Roger’s pupils are blown wide, and he lets out a shaky breath. He swallows. “Spread your legs.”

You grin, and do so. Roger lets go of your throat and leans over you on all fours to kiss you briefly. “I’m not choking you while I fuck you,” he says. “I want you to feel all of it, not have your head somewhere else.”

You nod vigorously.

Roger reaches for the lube. You hold out your hand, and he raises an eyebrow at you, but pours some into your hand. You reach forward and slide your fist up and down his cock, spreading the lube. He groans and shudders, and then he says, “That’s enough, that’s enough, I want to fuck you.”

You take your hand away, wiping the lube on the sheets, Roger surges forward to capture your lips with his, and you feel the head of his cock nudging at your entrance. A shot of adrenaline explodes within you.

“Tell me if it hurts, okay?” Roger says, and you nod.

Then, slowly, he pushes into you, just an inch or two. You gasp at the stretch, gripping onto his arms, your mouth wide.

Roger stills, and nuzzles at your throat. “You okay?”

“Mm-hm,” you say, biting your lip. “Keep… Keep going.”

He does, rocking in shallowly, just going a little further each time. He’s panting against your neck, and you can feel your sweat pricking your skin. You can’t help but admire Roger’s back, the way the muscles move.

It feels good. Once you get over the initial shock to the system of having something that size inside you, you realise why you were so excited to get to this in the first place.

“I’m good,” you say, nails absentmindedly scratching the back of his neck. “It– It doesn’t hurt or anything.”

“You sure?” Roger asks, kissing your neck softly.

You can’t help but laugh. “Roger, for the love of all things holy, fuck me.”

He doesn’t need another invitation. He slams into you, and your eyes go wide, a tiny sound of surprise leaping out of you.

“Sorry,” Roger says, raising his head to kiss you in apology.

“Don’t fucking apologise, it feels good,” you say back. “Come on, come on.”

Roger laughs, and kisses you. You can feel his laughter against your lips, feel the way his smile changes the shape of his mouth, and that dangerously warm feeling in the pit of your stomach returns.

You could get used to this. Get used to Roger laughing against your lips as he’s buried inside you. Get used to teasing him, to turning him on, to rolling around in his bed.

As soon as the thoughts creep into your mind, you banish them. That’s not happening, you tell yourself harshly. This is a one-and-done deal. You can’t develop feelings for a man you’ve only met once. A man who is, by the way, in case you’ve forgotten, sixteen years older than you.

Then Roger pulls out halfway and drives back into you, and all you can think about is his dick.

Your hand goes back to your mouth, just like before, keeping yourself quiet as you moan and whimper. Your ankles hook over the small of Roger’s back.

But then Roger pauses, sitting up, and he unwraps your legs from around him and pushes one of your knees flat on the bed, keeping you spread out wide. “Hands away from your mouth, love,” he says. “Let me hear you. It’s okay, you can let go.”

Your face burns, and you cover it with both of your hands. It’s too big of an ask. You’ve never felt more vulnerable. “Roger…”

“[Y/N].”

You lower your hands. He’s watching you, his blue eyes burning with desire, but they’re soft, too. Understanding.

“Keep your eyes on me,” he says. “Hold onto the sheets, yeah? Can you do that for me?”

You nod, and, with no small amount of effort, let your arms go by your sides, your fists wrapping in the sheets.

Roger smiles. “You’re amazing.”

You turn your head away, overwhelmed.

“Eyes on me. Hey.”

You look back at him. Exposed. You’re exposed, in every sense of the word.

Roger braces himself on the bed beside your ribs, and, keeping one hand on your knee, holding it down, he starts fucking into you again, hard and deep.

The sound you make could best be described as a mewl, and it’s a sound you’ve never heard yourself make before. Your hands tighten in the sheets, fighting the urge to cover your face again. Roger’s eyes are still on yours, and it’s too much, you want to look away, but you can’t.

“So good for me,” Roger pants. “Fuck. God, you’re incredible.”

You whine. “Roger.”

“That’s it, love. Say my name.”

He thrusts into you at just the right angle, making your back arch. “Roger.”

Roger groans, and he lets go of your knee to circle his fingers around your clit. You gasp, your eyes finally breaking away from his to look to the ceiling, feeling yourself climbing rapidly for the fourth time that night.

“Let me come, let me come, please,” you beg, your arms straining as your fists pull on the sheets.

Roger leans forward again to kiss you, a mess of heavy breathing and tongues and lips brushing. You let go of the sheets to clutch onto him, pawing at his shoulders and back and hips, unable to settle on where you want to hold him.

One hand inevitably slides into his hair, and you grip onto it, tugging it hard. Roger’s rhythm stutters, and he groans out your name.

His fingers feel so fucking good, and, doubled with the way he’s stretched you out, tripled with how he edged you before, you just know how hard you’re going to come. You can feel it building deeper within you than you’ve ever felt before, like an impending tsunami.

Roger readjusts, sitting back again, his brow furrowed as he searches for just the right spot to hit you.

When he does, you cry out. “Right there, right there, fuck.”

Your hands scrabble for purchase, and one finds your own hair, burying itself, and you don’t pull, but you keep a firm grip on it, the slight pain being the only thing keeping you from losing yourself entirely. Your other hand finds the same spot as before in the sheets, and you sob, screwing your eyes shut.

“You close?” Roger asks, and you nod.

“Say it out loud, love.”

“Yes, I’m so close, I’m so close,” you gasp. You’re almost there, you can feel it, only inches away, moments away.

“Open your eyes, come on.”

You do, and meet his gaze. “Roger,” you whimper.

“You gonna come for me?”

“Y-yeah.”

“I wanna hear it, yeah? Wanna see you. See you come undone on my cock.”

And that’s the final nail in the coffin. You orgasm pulses through you, so hard that you convulse, and you wail, blurting out Roger’s name, clenching down on him. Your blood roars in your ears, and you’ve never come so hard in your life.

Roger moans out, “Fuck,” and then pumps once, twice more, and then comes, groaning your name, a shudder ripping through him.

When he comes back to himself, blinking his big blue eyes at you, you can’t help but think he looks otherworldly. His face, pink, shines with sweat, as does his whole body. Locks of hair stick to his forehead, his temples. His mouth hangs open, and his chest heaves, and maybe it’s the ten-out-of-ten orgasm you just had, but in that moment, you kinda want to marry him.

He takes the hand you’ve tangled in the sheets, and presses a kiss to your wrist. Your heart just about explodes. “You all right?”

You splutter. “All right? The fuck’s that meant to mean?”

Roger smiles, massaging the palm of your hand with his thumb. “I mean, are you hurting anywhere?”

My heart hurts from you being all hot and perfect and stupidly romantic, you think. “No,” you say. “I’m just fine.”

He pulls out of you, carefully, and it does nothing but reignite a spark of arousal within you. Then he collapses onto the bed beside you with an unmistakable dad noise, and takes off the spent condom, tying it off and tossing it into the rubbish bin beside his bed. When that’s done, he wastes no time in rolling onto his side and pulling you in for a kiss. You hum happily, shifting closer to him, not even caring about the sweat and how wet you are all over your inner thighs.

When he breaks away, he says, “So. How do you feel?”

“Like I just had the biggest orgasm of my life,” you say.

Roger chuckles. “I meant now that you’re, y’know…”

It clicks. “Now I’ve lost my virginity?” you say playfully. “Had my sexual debut? I’ve become a woman?”

“Not that any of it matters, of course,” Roger adds. “But it’s still… It can be a big thing.”

You give him a soft kiss. “Yeah, it doesn’t matter,” you say. “Virginity is nothing but a social construct and all of that.”

“Of course,” Roger reiterates.

“But I feel… happy.” You hope your grin isn’t as cheesy as it feels. “It’s nice to not have to… worry about it anymore, I suppose? I don’t know if I was really worrying about it before, but it… I don’t know.” You shrug. “I just had a really good time. That’s all that matters.”

“Good.” Roger’s hand goes to your hip, squeezing it. “I’m glad.”

“Did…” You lick your lips. “Did you have a good time?”

“Did I have a good time?” Roger repeats, almost aghast. “Are you joking?”

“Even though I had no idea what I was doing?”

“You’re a natural.”

You laugh. Your stomach squirms – both because of those ridiculous maybe-almost-could-be feelings, and because, even though you know in your mind that the whole sex part of the evening is over, your body certainly isn’t ready to throw in the towel just yet.

Your thighs clench together, but you do your best to hide how it feels. You don’t want to be greedy.

Roger feels your thighs move under his hand, though, and he looks to you questioningly. “Are you still–”

“No, no, I’m fine,” you say lightly, shaking your head. “I was just moving around.”

Roger pauses, and then says, “All right.” He kisses you, and then takes a moment to gather his energy before he sits up. “I’ll get us some water.” He turns to you, pointing a finger at you, as if something just occurred to him. “You should go pee.”

Your eyes widen, and you nod. “Oh, yes, good thinking.”

“Bathroom’s just there,” he says, gesturing across the room at the closed door.

“You have an en suite?”

“Well, yeah. Much easier when there’s kids around.” His face falls a little. “Not that I’ve had the kids here very often recently, but uh…”

“I’m sorry,” you say.

He shakes his head. “Sorry. It’s fine. Great way to bring down the mood, eh?” He leans down again to kiss you, and then stands up, stretching. “Be back in a mo’.”

You watch him, your gaze hawk-like, as he pulls on his neon-green underwear and disappears out the door, raking his hand through his hair as he goes.

Your thighs clench together again, and you whimper.

You try to push it aside, and slide off the bed to go the bathroom, pulling on your underwear as you go. You don’t exactly feel like putting your push-up bra back on, but you don’t want to just lounge around completely naked. Would it be too presumptuous to put on Roger’s shirt?

You bite your lip, considering, and then decide to just bite the bullet, slipping it on and buttoning it up. It’s comfy, and smells like him; you understand why women in movies do it now. You do have to call bullshit on wearing a man’s shirt like a short, cute dress though – it’s more just like a long shirt, and you’re glad you’ve chosen to put on underwear.

It feels odd to pee in a stranger’s house – even odder that it’s an en suite – but you’re thankful that you get a moment to properly gather yourself in private, instead of while being surrounded by the smell of sex.

It’s when you’re washing your hands that you finally get a look at yourself in the mirror. Your mouth drops open in horror.

You look like a fucking mess. Your foundation is patchy where you get oily and where you’ve sweated it off, and there’s a slight ring of smudged mascara under your eyes – honestly, you’re thankful that it’s not worse, and that your setting spray did at least something. Your hair, though, is the worst of it all. You look like you’ve been dragged through a bush backwards.

“Oh, shit,” you whisper to yourself. What can you do? You don’t have any make-up with you to try to fix the problems, but you can’t exactly take it off, either. You have no way to fix your hair. You untie it from the ponytail it was in and try to smooth it out, but it doesn’t really do much, so you tie it back up again, but it’s a shitty ponytail, so you untie it and try again. Then you try a third time, and give up, settling on the disaster that it is, and grab a tissue, blotting at your make-up.

You sigh, staring at your reflection. Well, fuck. What the fuck are you meant to do? How the hell can you go back into the bedroom, knowing you look like this?

“[Y/N]?” Roger calls. “You all right in there, love?”

You shiver. God, the way he says the word ‘love’. The way he says your name.

You clear your throat. “Um, yeah, I’m– I’m fine. Just…” You can’t say you’re still peeing. Oh, fuck, what if he thinks you’re taking a shit or something? “I’m just fixing up my make-up.”

“I think there might still be some make-up wipes in a drawer somewhere, if you want to have a look,” Roger says. “Maybe they’re no good anymore, I’m not sure.”

You have a dig around, and find a packet. It’s already been opened, quite a while ago by the looks of it. Must be Roger’s ex-wife’s.

The thought of that sits weirdly with you, but you’re not quite sure why. Almost like you feel like you’re intruding, maybe. You certainly don’t feel like you belong here, in this bougie, nice house.

You sigh again, and pull out a handful of make-up wipes, seeing if there’s any that still hold any moisture. One in the middle has a little bit, so you carefully run it under your eyes, and lightly tap it over your forehead and down your neck to soothe your skin, fixing up any problem areas as best you can without it being too obvious that you’ve just wiped off the make-up.

The end result is fine. Not good, and certainly not great, but… yeah. Fine.

You throw the make-up wipes into the bin, take a deep breath, and exit the bathroom.

Roger’s on his phone, and he looks up when he hears the door open. His face goes slack when he sees you. “You’re wearing my shirt?”

“Isn’t that what girls are meant to do after sex?” you joke.

“I just haven’t seen, um, anyone do that in… in a long time,” he says, somewhat stilted, and he glances down at his hands. He quickly turns his eyes back to you. “It looks good. Really good.”

“Thank you,” you say, and pad over to the bedside table near him, where he has two glasses of water waiting. “Which one’s mine?”

“On the left.” Roger sets his phone down and watches you as you take a sip of water.

He’s close to you, and, like before you kissed for the first time, you’re hyperaware of every movement. But he barely moves, just waits for you.

When you put the water down, you hesitate. You want to climb on top of him, kiss him, feeling his arms around you again, but is that too much? Does he want you to go? Are you overstaying your welcome?

“You all right?” he asks gently.

You nod. “Um, yeah,” you say, and take a step back. “You probably, um, have work or something tomorrow, so I should go.”

You don’t miss the way Roger’s face falls a bit. “Oh, you want to go?”

No. “Well, it– I don’t want to impose…”

“If you want to go, then I’ll order an Uber for you,” Roger says. “But don’t feel like you have to go if you don’t want to.”

The Amazonian butterflies are back yet again. “I…”

“Because – and correct me if I’m wrong,” Roger says, reaching out and tugging on his shirt, pulling you closer, and you go without any resistance, “but I think you were telling a bit of a fib before, when you said you were… what did you say? Just moving around?”

You press your lips together as Roger guides you between his legs, and he tilts his head back to gaze up at you. He smiles at the look on your face. “Am I right?”

You can feel your face heating up again. “No,” you mumble unconvincingly, hiding your smile behind your hand.

“No hands over mouths,” Roger murmurs, reaching up and taking yours. “You don’t have to hide.”

Fuck. Oh, fuck. His voice sounds like a warm fireplace feels, and you barely even know him, but you’ve never felt safer, more comfortable, around a man. You can’t pretend now – you’re really starting to like him.

Roger raises his eyebrows at you, just a touch, searching your face. “So? Am I right?”

“It’s fine,” you say, shaking your head. “I’m fine, really. You’ve done plenty, I… I can’t ask for more.”

Roger hums, and presses a kiss to your palm before letting your hand go. “All right, okay,” he says. “I was wrong, I see. Can I at least tell you what I’d do to you if I had been right?”

You breathe in shakily, and nod once.

The corner of Roger’s mouth quirks up. “Well,” he says slowly, “first I’d kiss you, of course. And, as hot as you look wearing nothing but my shirt and your knickers, I’d undress you again. Get you lying down on your back, all spread out for me. I’d kiss you some more. Then I think I’d choke you, because you seem to like that a lot, yeah?”

You nod, hypnotised.

Roger nods as well. “Right. And then, while I was holding you down by your throat–”

You gulp.

“–I’d get my other hand, and I’d–”

“Okay, yes, you were right,” you blurt out, and grab his face, ducking down to kiss him desperately. He kisses you with just as much hunger, and nudges you a few steps back, giving him enough room so he can stand up and start unbuttoning the shirt. As soon as he’s done, your shrug it from your shoulders, and Roger pulls you closer by your ass. One hand moves to cup your jaw, his tongue pressing against yours. It doesn’t take long before the hand shifts to your throat, and you whimper softly, urging him to tighten his grip.

He does, and the feeling of it goes straight to your core. Your hands clutch at him frantically.

He lets go of your throat, and you suck in a gasp, then latch onto his neck, kissing and nipping and sucking at his skin, licking off the salty traces of sweat.

“Careful, love, careful,” he says shakily. “I can’t turn up to work looking like I’ve been attacked by a vacuum.”

You huff, but soften your kisses. He moans under his breath, and you don’t think you’ve ever heard anything hotter.

Soon, you break away, and crawl back onto the bed, and he follows you, positioning himself on all fours above you to kiss you deeply, his knee slotting into between your thighs. He presses it against your core, and you instinctively grind against it, shuddering when it fires an electric shock of arousal through your system. Roger shifts, readjusting his balance so he can bring his hand back to your throat, and you welcome it. You grind against his leg again.

It’s when you have to stop kissing him, your brain going into overdrive trying to force you to focus on breathing, you have to breathe, that Roger sits back, moving his leg out of the way and replacing it with his other hand.

“Fuck, Roger,” you gasp, twitching under his grip, your hands vice-like on his forearm. Your eyes slide closed, revelling in the way your head swims, the way your body fights to suck as much oxygen as it can into your lungs. You’re still so wet from before, still so stretched out, that Roger slides two fingers into you at the same time with ease, and you let out a stuttering moan, bucking your hips into his hand. His fingers swirl around your clit, hitting it in just the right way, and within minutes you’re almost there.

“Most people think the best part about getting choked is the actual ‘getting choked’ part,” Roger says out of the blue, and you frown, trying to follow, opening your eyes.

“Hear me out,” Roger says casually, pushing his fingers back into you and flicking your clit with his thumb, and you whine. “Are you close, love?”

You nod.

Roger hums. “You look so good like this. Does it feel good?”

You nod again. “Mm-hm.”

“Yeah, looks like it does. Looks like you enjoy it.”

“Ah, Roger, please.”

“It’s all right, love, I’ve got you.” Roger’s fingers quicken their pace, and you make a sound, squirming.

“As I was saying,” Roger continues, “people think the best part of getting choked is actually getting choked. But it’s not. The best part of it is actually being let go. Do you want to see?”

You nod, barely even listening to what he’s saying. You’re too close to coming to pay attention.

And then Roger lets go of your throat at the same time he brushes your clit, and a rush of oxygen flows into your lungs, a rush of blood flows back to your head, and your orgasm slams into you, and the world seems so much brighter in that moment. “Oh, fuck, fuck,” you gasp, your back arching, your eyes wide.

It feels like it goes on for a lifetime, although perhaps that’s just your mind trying to sort itself out. When you do finally start to come down from your high, you realise you’re shaking, and Roger is grinning at you. You blink at him owlishly.

“Wh– Huh?” you breathe, your heart racing, and Roger laughs.

“So you’re alive, then,” he teases, and leans down to kiss you.

You grab onto him, kissing him soundly, and roll the both of you over, so you’re straddling him. You just stay like that, just making out, letting the frenzied kisses lull themselves into something slower, something calmer. Just kissing for the sake of it. Roger’s hands stroke up and down your back, and you could almost fall asleep like this.

Speaking of falling asleep – you have to break away, hiding your yawn by tucking your face into his chest. Roger hums, and you can feel it vibrating against your body. You smile. “Sorry,” you mumble.

“Can hardly blame you,” Roger says, his voice low. “It’s late.”

You let yourself slump against him, a moment of pure self-indulgence, and then roll to the side, dumping yourself onto the bed. You groan, unable to stop yourself from instinctively shifting into a more comfortable position for sleeping, your arm beneath your head like a pillow, your eyes closing.

“I’m sorry,” you say again, muffled by your arm. “I’ll leave in a minute.”

Roger says nothing, and you feel your stomach coil in guilt. God, he wanted you to leave fifteen minutes ago, didn’t he? He was just too polite to say anything. And then you pressured him into making you come again, because you were too selfish to know when enough was enough. Great, fucking great, you’ve fucked it all up, and you’re a huge piece of shit, and you–

“Did you want to stay the night?” Roger asks tentatively.

Your eyes fly open, and you shift up onto your elbow. “What?” you say. “Stay?”

Roger glances away from you. “It– It was just a suggestion,” he says. “Just an idea, I don’t know. I, um – it’s just late, and I don’t want you travelling all that way on your own. You can, obviously, if you want to, that’s up to you, I just…”

You’re hardly even listening. You’re still struggling to drink in the first thing he said. “You want me to stay?” you ask.

Roger looks to you, and bites his bottom lip. “If– Well, if you want to, then, um, yes, I’d like you to. But only if you want to.”

You beam, and your heart triples in size. “Um, yes. I’d like to.”

Roger smiles back. “Good. Great. That’s–” He clears his throat. “Did you want to have a shower?”

“I think so,” you say with a laugh. “I’m…” You went to say I’m so disgusting right now, but you don’t want to fuck up your now-sleepover before it’s even properly begun. “Yes please.”

“Well, you know where the bathroom is,” Roger says, nodding towards the en suite. “There’s a spare toothbrush in the drawer, if I remember correctly. I’ll get you a towel.”

“You’re not coming into the shower with me?” you ask coyly.

Roger blinks, and you laugh.

“Oh,” he says. “You were joking.”

“I wasn’t,” you say. “You just made me laugh.”

Roger swoops down to steal a kiss, and you don’t let him leave, pushing up into him, stealing a few kisses back.

“Let me get you a towel,” he says, and then climbs off the bed and pads out of the room.

You bite on your finger to stop yourself from making some stupid giggle, or maybe a dumb squealing sound like a little girl. He asked you to stay the night. He wants you to stay the night.

Oh, shit, you realise, your finger dropping from your mouth. Justine. You never told her what was happening.

Where’s your phone? In the living room. Spitting out a curse, you pull on your underwear and Roger’s shirt again, and hurry out. You run into Roger, arms full of sheets, in the hallway. “Hey, is everything all right?” he says. “What did you forget?”

“I never told my roommate I wasn’t coming home,” you say. “Last she heard, I was about to book an Uber.”

Roger’s eyes go a little wider. “Shit, whoops. Yeah, go tell her.”

You shoot him a smile, and scurry off to the living room. Your phone is on the couch, and you snatch it up. Wow, shit, it is late. You’re glad you only have an afternoon lecture tomorrow.

Thankfully, just one message from Justine, from about half an hour ago. hey, haven’t heard from u in a while. just send me a message when u get this ok? xx

You respond. fuck sorry, left my phone in the other room. I have SO MUCH to tell u omg, but in a nutshell uhh we ended up sleeping together, it was fucking amazing, and now he’s asked me to stay over, so ill see u at uni tomorrow maybe? if not then at home xx

You keep your phone in hand, and head back to Roger’s room. He’s started cleaning up in the minute you were gone, stripping the bed. Fresh sheets sit on the floor. “What’s this?” you ask.

“I’m making the bed,” Roger says simply, tugging a pillow from its case. “I’m too old to be sleeping on sheets I’ve just had sex on. Let me tell you, it makes a difference. And the sheets were due for a change, anyway.”

You step forward. “Well, let me help.”

“Don’t be silly, jump in the shower.”

“Don’t tell me what to do.” You set your phone down beside his on the bedside table, and together the two of you help remake his bed.

Roger chases you into the shower then, and says he’s going to tidy up the room a little more before he joins you. “I’m on a roll now,” he says, picking up your shoes from where you kicked them aside during the bed-making. “Can’t stop, won’t stop.”

You take the make-up wipes. The door is about halfway open, and you can hear Roger moving around, hear when he trips over something and hisses out a curse, making you smile.

The make-up wipe freezes in the air near your eye. You can’t very well have a shower and go to bed without taking your make-up off – it does not make even a vague semblance of a pretty picture – but this is… way more intimate than you were expecting. Why didn’t you think of this when you agreed to stay over? Roger’s going to see you without your make-up on, with your hair tied up in a bun. He’s going to see you in the morning, all bleary-eyed and disgusting. Fuck, morning breath. You have the spare clothes you brought that you can change into tomorrow, but no extra underwear. Nothing to wear tonight. It’s a miracle that Roger even has a spare toothbrush. What time does he get up for work? Will he expect you to leave before he wakes up?

Are you a one-night-stand? Is that what this is? Are you asked to stay the night if you’re nothing but a one-night-stand, or does the fact that he asked you mean something else?

“Is your roommate all right?” Roger asks, coming to the door, leaning against the doorjamb. “No freak-outs?”

You lower the make-up wipe. “Um, no. It’s all fine, I think.”

“Have you found the toothbrush?”

“No, I haven’t checked yet.”

Roger moves around you, pulling open the drawer and rummaging through. “Ah, here it is. Still in the packet! How good am I?”

You smile as he presents it to you like it’s a medal of honour. “Thanks.”

“Sorry about the make-up wipes,” Roger says. “They’re not great.” He huffs, and then leans against the edge of the sink, rubbing his hands down his face. “I’m sorry,” he says again. “I’m… I’m actually really nervous.”

Your eyebrows shoot up. “Nervous?” you repeat. “About what?”

“About… you staying over,” he confesses. “It’s been, I don’t know, ten years since I’ve had anyone new sleep over. My brain is suddenly filled with every annoying thing I do when I sleep. And I look awful in the mornings, let me tell you. If you think I look bad now, just you wait.”

“Who says I think you look bad now?” you say. “I thought I made it perfectly clear that I think you’re a hot piece of ass, Roger.”

Roger splutters, flustered, and you grin.

“I move around a lot,” he says. “When I sleep. So be prepared to cop an elbow to the face.”

“Don’t you worry, I’m a heavy sleeper,” you say. “And I move around, too.”

“I run hot,” Roger adds. “I’m like a space heater. And sometimes I talk in my sleep, but only when I’m really stressed about something, like work. I can be really very clingy.”

“I run cold,” you say with a shrug. “So clingy suits me fine.”

Roger pauses, staring at you, like he wasn’t expecting an answer like that. Then he snaps out of it, glancing away. “Sorry,” he says for a third time.

“Don’t apologise,” you say, shaking your head. “You don’t have to. I’m nervous, too. Like, really fucking nervous. I’m– I’m too nervous to even take my make-up off.”

Roger’s eyes search your face. “I won’t care what you look like,” he says gently. “I’m sorry that you feel nervous about taking it off. But it won’t matter, I promise.”

“Just wait and see,” you joke in a sing-song voice.

Roger is silent for a few moments, and then he says, “Well, I hope you’re ready. I’m going to kiss the bloody daylight out of you when you take it off.”

You don’t know how to respond. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I’m going to. I’m going to do whatever it takes to make sure you don’t feel uncomfortable without make-up on. And if that means I have to keep kissing you all night as a reminder that it doesn’t matter what you look like without make-up, then that’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make.”

You duck your head, making a disgruntled sound. Why does he have to say cute shit like that? Why must he make you suffer?

Roger pushes the packet of make-up wipes a little closer to you, waggles his eyebrows at you, making you giggle, and then reaches across you for his toothbrush.

You start wiping off your make-up.

Roger waits until you’ve finished taking it off, until you’ve brushed your teeth, until you’re well and truly left without anything to do, and then he cups your face in his hands and does exactly what he promised he’d do.

One steamy make-out session and one far-too-long shower later, you’re sitting on the newly-made bed, wrapping in a towel, the strands of hair that slipped loose from your bun sticking to your neck and temples. You’re watching Roger pull on a pair of underwear and rifle through his chest of drawers. He pulls out a huge shirt, clearly worn and well-loved, and turns to you, holding it out. “I went on a day trip once to Brighton,” he says. “We were out to a pub and I spilled red wine all over my shirt. Had to buy a new one. Sent one of my mates to get it for me and he came back with this. Hence why I have a shirt about five sizes too big for me.”

“You didn’t have to explain,” you say with a chuckle, taking it from him.

“I feel like I did,” Roger says. “I, um, usually use it as a sleep shirt when I travel.”

You slip it on, and then stand up, letting your towel drop to the floor. The shirt is long enough to cover everything, but you’re not about to bend down any time soon.

You glance over at your underwear, where they’re in a pile near the door. Should you put them back on?

“Please don’t,” Roger blurts.

You look to him. “Huh?”

His face goes red. “Um. I just– I– You– I saw you look over there, and–” He rubs his hand along his jaw. “I, um…” He looks to the ceiling, and says it in a rush. “I’m sorry this sounds awful but I saw you looking over at your knickers and I don’t want you to put them on because you look really hot wearing my shirt and the thought of you wearing nothing underneath makes my brain explode.”

“You’re one to talk,” you say, “standing in front of me in nothing but a pair of boxers like that doesn’t make my brain explode.”

Roger’s eyes flick towards yours, and he breaks out into a smile, and then laughs. “I guess we’re even, then.”

“We’ll be truly even when I see you wearing my clothes,” you say teasingly.

Roger steps in close, his hands coming to your waist. “I don’t think your dress would fit properly, love.”

“I’ll have to come better prepared next time,” you say, and Roger hums, leaning in to give you a kiss.

Next time. Next time. You said ‘next time’. Talk about presumptuous. Christ! What is wrong with you?

You break away. “Not that I think there’ll be a next time,” you say quickly. No. Bad phrasing. “I don’t want to assume there’ll be a next time.” Still bad. “I don’t want you to think that I think there has to be a next time.” Even worse. “I don’t want you to feel obliged to have a next time if you don’t want there to be.” Better. Not great, but passable.

“I want a next time,” Roger says. “If you want one.”

“I do,” you say, God, far too eager. “I’d really like there to be a next time.”

“Me too,” Roger says.

You press into him for another kiss, and then, finally, the two of you make it to bed.

Once you’re under the covers, you almost fall asleep immediately. You didn’t realise how exhausted you are. Roger reaches over and switches off the light, and then wraps an arm around your stomach, his front against your spine. You allow yourself to smile freely in the dark, even as your eyes close and you drift off to sleep.

~~~

“I’m… I’m going to send you the rest of the payment,” Roger says. He’s dressed for work, just in a white dress shirt and black slacks, and you’d been admiring him and enjoying the coffee he’d made you after you’d gotten out of the shower. It’s early – too early, for both of you.

But now your stomach drops, and you lower your mug of coffee from your lips. “You are?”

“Yes,” Roger says.

“You don’t have to,” you say. “I said it last night, I don’t care about the money.”

“I know,” Roger says. “But it’s still right. You started this whole thing to help pay the bills, and it’s not your fault that there was that whole mix-up. You don’t deserve to miss out on getting the money you’ve rightfully earned.”

“You don’t deserve to fork out that much money because of that whole mix-up,” you say. “You’ve already paid half of it. And it’s– it’s quite a fair bit, Roger.”

“I can afford to pay it,” Roger says. “I’m living more than comfortably. Giving you the money you’ve earned would just mean that I can’t, I don’t know, travel overseas this year.” He raises his eyebrows a touch. “Well, now that I might not have to be paying for three kids as well, maybe I’ll still be able to afford to go.” He shakes his head. “That’s beside the… My point is, I can afford it. And you deserve it.”

You don’t know what to say. “Roger…”

“Just let me,” he says earnestly. “Please. I want to.”

You open and close your mouth a few times. God, you’d be mad to turn down the money. But it doesn’t feel right. Does it? You don’t even know what to think.

You glance down at your mug. “All right,” you say quietly, so much so that you’re not even sure if he can hear you. But you can’t bring yourself to speak any louder. “Thank you, Roger.”

“Hey.”

You look up at him, and he smiles. “You can pay me back by letting me take you out to dinner.”

Your face immediately grows hot. “Suave motherfucker,” you say, and he laughs.

“I still have a few tricks up my sleeve,” he says playfully.

Your stomach squeezes. “Sure,” you say. “But I’m paying.”

Roger snorts. “Not bloody likely.”

“I’ll fight you for the cheque, don’t think I won’t.”

“Maybe I’ll just sneakily pay for it before you’ve even realised.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Can we settle on going Dutch?”

Roger sips his coffee. “All right,” he says eventually.

“Good.”

He takes out his phone, holding it out to you. “Text me some time during this week,” he says. “About where you want to go. Or just text me if you want to say hi. Or call me. Y’know, whatever.”

You tilt your head to the side as you take his phone. “That wasn’t quite as suave, I have admit.”

Roger sighs. “Damn.”

You laugh, and send a quick text to yourself, then slide the phone back to him.

He seems extremely pleased, but he takes a casual drink from his coffee like he’s trying to hide it, and you can’t help but think it’s horribly cute.

He shoots a glance at you, and sees you grinning at him, and his cheeks turn pink, and he clears his throat, turning away to the sink to rinse his mug out.

~~~

You’re at uni, half-asleep, shuffling back to the bus stop after your never-ending lecture, when Justine barrels into you, grabbing your elbow so tightly that you yelp. “What the fuck happened last night?” she exclaims.

You don’t know why it hadn’t been awkward this morning. Apart from the money conversation. There had still been some nervousness, on your part anyway, but Roger had been too focused on getting ready for work to let any uncomfortable silences hang. You have to admit that it had been nice to wake up with someone’s arm around you, and you had been quietly delighted to see Roger fussing over the faint bruises on his neck, pulling up his shirt collar and adjusting his tie to try to cover them. After you’d both gotten ready for the day, he’d dropped you at the nearest bus stop. “And I will text you,” he’d said seriously. “Don’t think I won’t.”

“Good,” you’d said. “I’ll be waiting for it. Three days is the general rule, right?”

Roger had groaned. “Don’t make me wait three days.”

You had chuckled. “I’m not making you do anything.” You’d hesitated, and then said, “Is it weird if I kiss you before I go?”

Roger had taken a breath. “I… wouldn’t say so, no.”

So you’d leant in and kissed him, and he’d kissed you back, and you’d wanted to keep kissing him, but a car had pulled up behind you and honked, so you’d drawn back, whispered, “Bye,” and gotten out of the car.

Once you’d figured out how to get home, you’d crashed, sleeping until your alarm had woken you up again for your lecture.

“Stuff,” you say to Justine.

“Stuff?” Justine squawks. “Don’t give me that shit. You have to tell me literally everything, or I’m going to kill you. Come on.” She loops her arm through yours, and starts towing you towards the bus stop.

Your phone buzzes, and you pull it out of your pocket.

I know it hasn’t been three days, but it’s been more than three hours. Is that enough time, do you think?

You smile, reply, I think so, yeah, then quickly pocket the phone before Justine can sneak a glance as Amazonian butterflies flutter around in your stomach.

#queen fanfiction #roger taylor x reader #roger taylor imagine #rpf #mine #smut

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juliehamill · 4 years

Text

Wayne Hussey, Gillian, and me.

In my teenage years I went to The Barrowland Ballroom in Glasgow countless times to see The Mission with my pal, Gillian. The Mission has always been a band that makes a big powerful sound, full of melody, and Wayne Hussey in his dark glasses, black hat on a smoky stage has a clear dominating presence with which the crowd connect to and thrive upon. The Mission gigs in the 1980s were crazy, bouncy, full of love; and me and Gillian revelled in the chaos. Too young to drink, we stole a cider from the bar and threw ourselves amongst it, laughing as we got shoved around in our black clothes. The whole room stunk of patchouli. It was a blast.

Before Wayne Hussey came over for his tour last year (Nov 2019) Omnibus had provided me with a copy of his book, Salad Daze to review for the rock n roll book club. It is full of great stories about his time with The Sisters Of Mercy and such evocative tales of his childhood. After reading it, I wanted Wayne for a live interview for rock n roll book club, more than I ever wanted anybody. It’s great when I get to interview people that have meant something to me in music. It’s even better when their book is brilliant. I wanted Wayne, for his juicy stories, but mostly for Gillian and our past.

The publisher set it up for November and put us in touch on email. With a date pencilled, I wrote to Wayne and told him of my friendship with Gillian, and how the The Mission was one of the bands we enjoyed together. I told him of how we would sit in her bedroom playing God’s Own Medicine and get up and dance and shove each other about. I told him of the day that Gillian peeled back a small piece of the wallpaper and wrote on her bedroom wall, in biro, ‘I still believe in God, but God no longer believes in me’. We folded the wallpaper back over, so as not to get in trouble. Thirty-five years later, when the house was being cleared to sell, the little quote was still written there, on the wall under the paper.

Gillian and I were best pals for almost forty years. As teenagers we were never out each others houses drinking tea and eating chocolate biscuits and talking boyfriends and school. Once I accidentally broke her kitchen table and my dad came round to fix it. Their house was always full of young teen drop ins drinking out of a stainless steel pot of tea and hanging out with Gillian’s sisters Fiona and Monica, her dad Jim and her mum in a peeny, Gina. For a short time there was also a mad dog, Paddie, he enjoyed everybody’s legs. Gillian and I shared a love of music and were very close. We took trips together to Fort Augustus and slept on Michael and Ronald’s floors. We never thought twice about taking off somewhere with a backpack. I copied her French homework and she borrowed my tapes. When I moved to London she lived around the corner for a while. We were steeped in history and hilarious memories that carried us through a lifetime. When she lived in Manchester she’d send me silly funny notes in the post and I’d do the same. When she moved back to Edinburgh we would phone each other and sing The Mission and Lloyd Cole and The Smiths down the phone. She was cement for me and I for her. Although far apart saw each other whenever we could. We phoned each other a lot and just became kids again.

She was, in fact, best pals with so many people. Her little sisters, Fiona and Monica, and our other pals, Jacqueline, Elaine, Caroline, Babs, Sharron, Lorna, all of her school mum pals, all of her cousins, all of our school friends, the boys from the Academy. Anybody she touched in life instantly loved her. Even foreign exchange students and pen pals kept in touch. Like her mum, she had an abundance of love that beamed out from behind an apron. She was generous, loving, intelligent, loyal, hilariously funny and strikingly beautiful; and she was always, ALWAYS, making tea. She had a glow about her; an energy of positivity, youth, mischief and fun. Everybody had adventures with Gillian, and I was lucky to be one of them.

In Spring 2018 we received a text out of the blue saying that Gillian had been diagnosed with bowel cancer. When she was diagnosed my first thoughts were of how young she was, only in her forties, and how they would definitely operate. She had no symptoms. It was just there. As time moved on she discovered it was incurable and six months later she was gone. I got to spend some time with her in her last days in the Western General Hospital. I took in photos of us to look at and the old things we used to do. We laughed, even though she was in excruciating pain. I have never seen somebody in such pain, she couldn’t stay still despite every powerful drug available being dripped into her body. But still she laughed and smiled. ‘No greeting!’ she said, ‘You’ll get me going.’ I treasure those last few days, but forever feel useless and confused because there was nothing that could be done. I couldn’t save her. Nobody could. It is a powerless, rock hard and impossibly raw feeling to accept.

When Wayne Hussey sent a nice gentle reply to my email I just burst into tears. Because I wanted to phone Gillian. There’s a second when, although you know a person is dead, you get some news that relates to them, and you go to dial their number, and the crash of remembrance is overwhelming. The realisation that I couldn’t tell Gillian first was devastating. I wanted to hear her high excited voice. ‘Oh my God! What you gonnie wear?’ I wanted to smile through the sore tears. She deserved to be here; she deserved to meet him. In those minutes a parallel of our past life and my current life without her smashed together, and I felt lost, empty and just heavily sad. How come I’m here and she’s not?

But Wayne, well, what a gent. Gillian - you would have loved him.

I met with him quite a lot in a short space of time. First for dinner at a Mexican restaurant in Camden with the Omnibus team where I talked rubbish and asked him to sign my records. I had veggie fajitas and kept offering him a bit. He laughed, and was kind and charming. Honestly the nonsense that poured out of my mouth. I composed myself and then interviewed him at The Dublin Castle for rock n roll book club. We could have talked all night. Watch the link, he’s sensational.

The next morning he came into do my radio show Hamill Time on Boogaloo Radio. We had such a laugh. Wayne is easy to talk to, funny yet professional and quite mischievous. Perfect for Gillian.

I went to his gig in Nambucca that night, which was just brilliant. I felt Gillian beside me. Wayne Hussey’s connection with his crowd is very genuine. He gave me a shout out from the stage. His performance was incredible, authentic and moving. I’m pleased to say we’ve stayed friends.

Gillian, Thanks for sending me Wayne Hussey. I miss you every day. I’m off to listen to God’s Own Medicine now.

Wayne, thanks for reading my books, thanks for all the music and the kindness. You’re the best.

Thanks to David at Omnibus. With love to Fiona, Monica, Jim, Simon and the weans.

In September a fundraising ball was to be held in Gillian’s name to help raise money for Bowel Cancer, but regrettably it had to be postponed. Every day, 110 people are diagnosed with bowel cancer. It can be symptomless, and reach late stages without any signs. Please donate to help fund research. Do something amazing today. You can donate here.

If you can’t donate (times are hard) but you have some wonderful object that would be amazing to raffle at Gill’s ball in 2021, please get in touch. Thank you. X

RIP Gillian Farrell 10 June 1971 - 8 September 2018.

(You and Wayne would definitely have enjoyed a pot of tea and a Caramel Wafer).

#the mission #bereavement #cancer #friendship #music #salad daze #books #Wayne Hussey #grief

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queer-cosette · 5 years

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Sunflash headcanons

K I'm seriously deprived of Sunflash material right now so here's some stuff

Flash definitely taught Sunset how to play guitar. Even before they get back together they'll hang out at her house and jam together.

Sunset hugs Flash at least once a day in public. She's aware that the last time they dated she was a shitty girlfriend so now she's determined to show him affection and that she likes him for who he is.

But let's not forget they had a long enough relationship the first time round that there had to be some kind of connection. I propose that they had a similar sense of humour. Now that they're close again, they have so. Many. In-jokes.

It's canon that Flash becomes a smitten kitten when Sunset flirts with him. She'll wink at him or blow him a kiss as they pass in the corridors because she finds it really cute when he blushes.

Flash goes to every Rainbooms gig, and Sunset goes to every Flash Drive gig

When they start seeing each other again, date night mainly consists of punk rock concerts or staying in and eating sushi and playing videogames.

Sunset always ruffles Flash's hair because she thinks it looks cute all messy.

Sometimes they'll pick up each other's leather jackets by mistake and not realise til it's too late

"Flash why are there so many guitar picks in the pockets you don't need this many"

"Nevermind that Sunset I somehow didn't notice this jacket was like three sizes too small and it's cut off all the circulation in my arms"

Flash has moved on from Twilight, and he and SciTwi end up bonding because they both love Sunset so much.

SciTwi tried to organise a group date with her and Timber, Sunflash, Rarijack and Flutterdash. Pinkie refused to be left out, accompanied them to the restaurant, and insisted the waiters set an extra place for the pineapple she'd brought as a substitute date.

Since the Pineapple Incident, no more group dates. Instead they all go to a movie or an amusement park together once a month. It does mean there's more chance of Equestrian Magic popping up but it's nothing they can't handle and it's better than Pinkie being escorted out of a restaurant screaming that "pineapples have rights too!!"

Sunset and Flash are no longer allowed in grocery stores together because they always end up running around pushing each other in a shopping cart.

One store owner at first suggested they bring supervision but they brought Rainbow Dash and ended up organising a cart race and somehow getting everyone else in the store to join in. All three of them were banned from that particular store for six months.

They're that couple who will tag-team to sass a bitch and then high-five. It's both frustrating and adorable.

Sunset introduces Flash to Ray. It's love at first sight for both of them. Flash is now officially a Gecko Step-Dad TM.

Sunset customized a new guitar for Flash's birthday. He got so choked up he couldn't speak for an hour. It's one of his most prized possessions.

Flash got Rarity's help to sew a gecko-sized leather jacket for Ray for Sunset's birthday. She thinks it's amazing and so does Ray.

Sunset has a YT channel, right? She mainly does gaming streams but one day she has a different video in store for her viewers

"Sup guys! I know you weren't expecting another post until Changeling Invasion 3 comes out but I wanted to share this with you."

It's her and Flash's half-a-versary (six months) and they've written a song together. It's a duet with two guitar parts. It becomes her most viewed video because everyone thinks it's really adorable how they can't stop smiling at each other all the way through.

As part of their half-a-versary celebration, they go to the diner where Pinkie works for lunch. Pinkie brings them their food and everything and doesn't make a big deal of it to their relief and they're holding hands and smiling at each other over a plate of Nachos and then suddenly they hear Pinkie say in a very loud whisper "ARE YOU GUYS GONNA KISS??"

The moment's ruined but they still have a great time

Oh yeah also Sunset can canonically drive a motorbike and sometimes they'll go out on it together and Flash holds onto her jacket and they'll ride out to a field and bring a picnic blanket and lie down and watch the sun setting and then make up fake constellations with dumb backstories

SciTwi was excited to hear the details of this star-watching date but got almost personally offended at the constellation inaccuracy.

Sunset and Flash are like. Always touching when they're together. They're either holding hands or just draped against each other. They were like this before they were dating and like. Nothing changed. The only reason their friends realised they were dating and not just friends anymore is because one day they kissed goodbye instead of just hugging.

Bonus points if this is like at least a month after they've started dating

"WAIT A SECOND DID YOU GUYS JUST KISS"

"Uh yeah?"

"Couples kiss sometimes?"

"Wwww-SINCE WHEN HAVE YOU GUYS BEEN A COUPLE"

"We've been dating for like a month I thought you guys knew"

"NO WE DIDN'T"

"Really? Huh. Could've sworn I mentioned it."

#Sunset shimmer #flash sentry #sunflash #sunset shimmer x flash sentry #we need more of this pairing #coco speaks #coco writes #headcanons #eqg #mlpeqg #equestria girls

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supastareden · 5 years

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Bang Yongguk left his K-Pop idol past behind; now he name-checks Kurt Cobain and confronts his mental health struggles in music

Taylor Glasby Apr 18, 2019 2:45 pm BST [LINK]

"I’m constantly living my life trapped in fear," the B.A.P frontman and solo artist tells Taylor Glasby

The date of the 27th has orbited Bang Yongguk’s life like a moon. The first ever London concert Yongguk played was at O2 Academy Brixton on April 27, 2014. He and the five other members of K-Pop group, B.A.P, did a pre-show interview where I recall him as attentive, but mostly silent, avoiding extended eye contact.

It was in stark contrast to Yongguk on stage; the charismatic rapper whose forceful, punchy delivery intimated a jumble of emotion and frustration below the surface.

Six months later, on November 27, it was alleged that B.A.P had filed a lawsuit against their agency regarding working conditions and profit distribution, putting the group out of the public eye for months. After reaching a settlement, B.A.P’s comeback single, ‘Young, Wild & Free’, netted them a win at one of Korea’s weekly music shows on November 27, 2015.

Last year, Yongguk’s contract with his agency expired and he left (as did all the members as their contracts ran out) to go solo. And right now, he’s sat in a London hotel lounge having arrived from Paris. His concert, where he’ll perform his eponymous, just-released debut album, is the next evening – March 27.

Yongguk is still a shy man. He wears a bucket hat so low that it’s hard to see his eyes but his speaking voice is as soothing and resonant as ever. Solo interviews aren’t that bad. “Now I can be honest, so it’s OK,” he says. Back then, he points out, he couldn’t be. It was easier to stay quiet.

Yongguk’s album tears off the idol skin he’s worn since debuting in 2012, but giving a voice to those silent years and his total creative control made for a tumultuous process. “I’d never done anything like this, so I felt a lot of pressure about whether I could do it on my own. I have the tendency to be a perfectionist,” he says softly. “When each aspect came together I received a lot of positive energy, but I don’t want to do an album like this again. It hurt too much.”

“I don’t want to do an album like this again. It hurt too much” – Bang Yongguk

‘Bang Yongguk’ knits dozens of sounds – from sensual R&B to jaunty space age synths – into a dense, complicated journey. It’s punctuated with sarcasm (the trap-meets-Chinese Pipa of ‘Xie Xie’), love and loss (a jazz instrumental, ‘Portrait’, and distorted electronica of ‘Hot and Cold’), but much of it reveals a life lived with introversion, loneliness and depression. His lyrics are based on the contents of his diary, the keeping of which was inspired by his grandfather who passed away during the early days of B.A.P.

“He’s the person I respect the most in this world,” Yongguk says. “By chance I found a diary he kept, read it, and started writing my own, thinking [one day] people that really liked me would read the stories in it, just like I remember my grandfather by reading his.”

Yongguk included two older songs in the tracklisting – ‘Portrait’ and ‘AM 4:44’. Released in 2015 during his group’s hiatus, the latter’s helplessness and fury are so potent that listening to it, even now, feels like a physical blow. “The assholes who ruined this are living with their bellies full”, he spits, “…I know I want to leave and put down the weight of reality that trapped me and just cry.”

“The theme of this album is myself, and ‘AM 4:44’ fits best with that,” he explains. “It’s still hard emotionally when I listen to it but if this song wasn’t on this album, I don’t think I could call it ‘Bang Yongguk’.”

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The final track, ‘See You Later’, rich with blues guitar and warped dance beats, wears a sense of the triumphant in its pacing. “Come and let’s have a drink, I’ll remember you forever, thank you and see you later,” he exhorts in the lyrics, name-checking artists (Cobain, Lennon, J Cole), family and friends like an acceptance speech. The basis of it, however, is a Will he wrote in his journal.

“I think I’m constantly living [my life] trapped in fear,” he says slowly. He sounds matter-of-fact but the particular Korean words he uses express the emotional profundity of his statement. “I thought the subject of my Will would be good as the last song because I had thoughts that this album could be my last. I don’t think I wrote anything too emotional. It’s a song that I made thinking it would be nice if they remember me when they hear ‘See You Later’.”

If anything captures the constantly swinging pendulum of light and shade that is Bang Yongguk, it’s this. A man who writes a song for others to play after he abandons music, or even his death, yet discusses it as calmly as you would the weather. Talking with Yongguk is to be laughing one moment, the next, experiencing an urge to grip him tight to this world.

“Finding happiness in life is the hardest thing,” Yongguk reflects. “I’m on tour, so I’m in a state of happiness, but my fans know how difficult it is for me to be back onstage. When I’m up there I get the feeling they’re holding me, it’s comforting.”

In October 2016, Yongguk took five months off from B.A.P, openly sharing his diagnosis of the panic disorder which prevented him performing. “When I was promoting as B.A.P, it was very hard mentally. When my contract expired, I stopped wanting to make music or be a public figure.”

During the first few months of leaving his agency, Yongguk hid himself; “Other than going for walks with my dog, I don’t think I left the house.” He began spending time with family, something his schedule hadn’t allowed for, and “one of the things I wanted to do was learn to play tennis. So I learned how to play tennis,” he smiles. “But there was a sense of emptiness and when I look back, that was me thinking, ‘I need to do music’.”

South Korea’s view of mental health has typically been unsympathetic; seen more as a weakness in personality than a legitimate health problem, many suffer in silence. There’s progress in changing perception and treatment, but it’s slow. Only a handful of idols, including Yongguk, have opened up about their struggles within K-Pop’s high-stress environment.

“I’ve always felt a lot of pressure towards myself,” he muses. “Even though I was doing my best, it was like, ‘what are you doing, you should be trying even harder’. When I was younger, I let it pass, not realising it was depression. I also thought maybe I’m too old to get help.”

“I’ve never felt embarrassed about myself in regards to this,” Yongguk adds. “I’m getting treatment and I’m diligent in taking my medication.” He pauses. “To be a little more honest, I’ve come to believe that I won’t be able to take myself out of this depression.”

His candour is painful but for years his fans have found in it a strength, a voice or a mirror to their own issues. They leave messages under his videos and social posts, some letting him know that he’s saved their lives. “When I see those messages I feel a strong sense of responsibility but embarrassment, too, I feel like I’m not worthy. When I look at myself, I feel that I’m weak,” he says, “but it’s like my fans are motivating me to get up and work.”

At his overcrowded gig, he’s visibly nervous during the first half. There are a few glowing Matoki’s – B.A.P’s lightstick – but most of the audience only grip phones. His confidence slowly uncurls, and he ends the show with one foot on the monitors, drenched in water and sweat, the crowd chanting his name. There’s no confetti cannons or expensive video backgrounds. It’s as far removed from idol-dom as it gets. He’s happy nonetheless.

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When it comes to B.A.P, he’s still experiencing mixed emotions. “I’m speaking about this for the first time,” Yongguk says. “I don’t want to use the word “withdrawal” [around his decision]. That was completely what my former company wanted. Even when I left, I still did all the remaining schedules. I wanted to end my contract alongside my members but nothing worked out the way I wanted it to, so I feel a bit sad about it.”

“At that time, I thought about just enduring it [until all the contracts had expired], but also felt like… ‘you’ve already endured so much, do you want to endure it even more?’ I’ve left the company, but I don’t think I’ve withdrawn from B.A.P. I still see myself as B.A.P’s leader. I still believe there’ll be a time where we make an album together.” As for the next chapter of his own work, he thinks for a short moment before replying. “I don’t know what that music will be, but whatever it is it’ll be music that sounds like me.”

Bang Yongguk’s album ‘Bang Yongguk’ is out now

#Bang Yongguk #NME #Bang Yongguk left his K-Pop idol past behind; now he name-checks Kurt Cobain and confronts his mental health struggles in music #B.A.P

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bookwormscififan · 5 years

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Absquatulate

Absquatulate: To leave without saying goodbye.

Agathokakological: Composed of both good and evill

Finally, Alto’s backstory! He’s very agathokakological.

This is an angst fic; read at your won risk (and maybe with tissues)

Word count: 1986

Look at my musical theatre knowledge! Also, this was supposed to be an Il Muto Phantom of the Opera thing, but turned out more sinister.

Oh dear, I think I put more Stories Untold vibes into it than I intended.

“Thank you, Mr Septicie. We will be in contact.” Alto smiled at the men in the seats, and left the stage.

Heading to the foyer, he looked around. A poster reading Hunchback of Notre Dame Musical Auditions Today was pasted to every available wall, people were sitting in costumes revising the audition pieces, and food was being passed around. Nobody looked at the poor people shuffling around with food.

He gulped back some water and looked at his watch. The people in seats had told him the final decisions would be announced at six, and it was currently four. He had two hours before coming back here to hear decisions, unless they called him earlier. Taking his phone out of his pocket, he made a quick call.

“Hey, honey. I just finished the audition and was wondering if I could meet you for some afternoon tea? Half an hour, the café down the street? See you there.” Hanging up, he adjusted his jacket, cracked his neck, and left the building.

Meeting his wife at the café, he ordered a chocolate cake and coffee, then told her about the audition.

“It was amazing, sweetheart. They were so engaged, asking me questions about my music background, my acting skills, my vocal range. They weren’t scared of the gravel. And when I started singing… you could have heard a pin drop. I think I’m going to get this gig.” He reached across the table and took her hand.

“As soon as I settle into this career, the kids will be happy again. And you’ll be happy, too.” She smiled at him, blonde hair covering an eye. Alto had met her on the set of the reboot movie Casablanca. She was playing Ilsa, and he was a background character. They had accidently knocked over a prop, and were trying to pick it up, when she met his eye.

They got married soon after the filming was finished. The film never saw the theatres, though. The studio with all the film had burned down two days after they went on honeymoon. Nobody could afford to film again.

“Alt, sweetie, nobody blames you for the fall of our home. If anyone’s to blame, it’s me. I was supposed to pay the bills. We’re all just happy you found this opportunity.” She smiled as he scratched his head. Opening is mouth, Alto was interrupted by his phone. He held a finger up to hold the thought, and picked up his phone.

“Yes? What? Really? Thank you so much! Yes, I’ll be right there!” Putting the phone down, Alto stood up, kissed his wife, and left the café, calling behind him that he had gotten the part.

“Alto Septicie as Quasimodo. Why does that actually fit so perfectly?” alto could hardly contain his excitement, recreating the choreography from Singing in the Rain, only without rain, or actually singing.

He dashed up the stairs to the theatre and ran to the auditorium to join the rest of the cast. It was a good selection, people from all races and musical backgrounds. Alto had auditioned just after the woman who was playing Esmeralda, and he remembered her saying she had never done musical theatre before.

He politely smiled at her when she turned to look at him, and she smiled back, confusion filling her features as she realised he was going to play Quasimodo. Alto looked at his shoes, face flushing.

“Sorry, sir. How does Mr Septicie look like Quasimodo? He doesn’t have a hunchback or any deformities. Wouldn’t you have cast someone who at least looked like the character?” Alto suppressed a chuckle. Wait till she hears my voice. The director smiled politely at her, and cleared his throat.

“Sometimes, Miss Crimson, appearance doesn’t give people roles. Mr Septicie, if you don’t mind, could you please sing a few bars for me?” Alto, smiling, nodded.

“With pleasure.” He sipped a bit of water, then cleared his throat.

“Bu̧t ͏s͞ud͟d̷e̛n̡ly ͘an a̷n̴g͟e͢l͡ h̴a̛s ͞s̛m̷íl͝ed at ̢m̡e͞/And ͝k͢is̴sèd m͢y̨ c̀h͢e̴ek̢ ẁith͡ou͜t ̷a̷ t͢r̛a͟cè ҉o̧f҉ ̀f͜r̀i̸gh̛t.” He paused, and looked at the director.

“Thank you, sir. See now, Miss Crimson? The voice holds the character. Now, do we have any more questions about your cast mates?” Everybody murmured slightly, still reeling from Alto’s singing, but nobody asked anything else.

“Hey! Alto, right? Alto, wait up!” Alto stopped in his walk down the steps as Miss Crimson called after him. Turning, he saw her running after him, dark hair escaping its confines, boots crunching in the snow.

“Geez, you’re a fast walker. I wanted to have a little talk with you. I’m Clara.” She held her gloved hand out to him, and he took it. He motioned for her to walk with him, and, smiling, she matched his pace.

“How did your voice get like that? You look like someone who would have a perfect voice. Like an…” She drifted off, giggling at her train of thought.

“Alto? Yeah, lots of people have said that.” He laughed as she blushed.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t judge. I was in the wings after I finished, and I heard you’ve had a bit of experience with musical theatre. If you don’t mind, I’d really like to learn from you.” Alto smiled, and agreed.

It was opening night, three months after the cast had been chosen. Alto was prepping his costume, making final adjustments as he heard the din outside.

“Honey, you look wonderful.” He turned and smiled as his wife peered through the dressing room door.

“You’re going to do a great job. Break a leg, I’ll be watching from the wings.” She left quietly. Alto finished dressing, then headed to the stage so he could wait in the wings for his cues. He passed Clara, who seemed a little distressed.

“Clara? Are you alright?” She turned around, face pale, and took hold of his arm. Her hair was neatly held back, and her red dress almost seemed to glow in the backstage lights.

“Oh, Alto, I’m so nervous. I’ve never done this before. I know the rehearsals went alright, but I’m so afraid something will go wrong.” Alto patted her back and smiled.

“You are going to do fine. Trust me.” She smiled, then let him go and headed to her post. Alto looked around at all the props, looking up at the sandbags hanging from the ceiling. It’s good to be back here.

“Alto! Quickly, it’s your wife!” He turned from his post to see that a crowd had gathered in the same place he was standing not ten minutes ago. Looking up, he realised a sandbag had fallen. Running through the crowd, he saw his wife on the ground, a large crater in her head, and a sandbag by her side.

“What happened?” He looked from person to person, begging for an answer. The lights flickered, turning off, then back on. Alto was alone with his wife backstage, all the people gathered had disappeared.

“Alt…” His wife reached out weakly for his hand. Taking it, he looked at her broken face.

“Remember… I love you…” Her hand went limp, and her eyes closed. Alt tried to rouse her, but each movement emitted more damage to her head. He held her close as tears streaked through his makeup.

“Oh, this is bad. You weren’t supposed to be here as she breathed her last.” Alto opened his eyes to see the glowing red fabric of Clara’s costume. As he looked up, the dress dissolved into a black garment, covering her head to toe in darkness. Death.

“What did you do?” She smiled sweetly at him, leaning down to take his wife from his hands.

“You needed a push in the right direction. Don’t worry, I got rid of the children.” Alto stood up, hands shaking and red with blood. He glared at her, cold in the pit of his stomach.

“Why…?” She smiled.

“Because sometimes things aren’t what you believe they are. People, cast members, even this performance. They aren’t what you think. Look around.” As Alto turned, he saw the backstage area was covered in cobwebs, wooden planks falling around him. There was no din outside. Stale air filled his lungs, and the stench of blood stung his nose.

Everything resurfaced as soon as Death picked up his wife. He had done this. His wife wanted to leave him, and take the children. He drove her to the abandoned theatre, the place where he first performed, trying to show her how far he had come since he met her. She was trying to change the subject.

A loose rope, a plank of wood. Alto looked down as he registered the blood on his hands, and the plank of wood beside his feet. He had pushed her under the sandbag and broken her legs with the plank. Each swing brought forth a line of anger. There was no production.

He fell to his knees as the realisation sank in.

“I… killed… her. She’s dead because of me…” He looked up at Death.

“You reversed time to make me forget. But it kept repeating. Each time, I’d beg you to bring me back, so I could change it. But it never worked.” Tears sprang to his eyes as he remembered the twenty do-overs she had given him.

“Twenty is my limit, Mr Septicie. I can’t give you anymore reruns. This is the end. What do you want to do?” Alto looked at Death, fear in his eyes.

“Take her away. Don’t let them see. I can’t go to jail. I’ll leave the country.” Death nodded.

“Go to England. Your cousins will be happy to see you again. Say hello to Juxta Position for me.” With that, she disappeared.

Alto left for England the following week. All his clothes and valuables had been shipped the day before, and he had called ahead to let his cousins know what was going on. Malvern had seemed happy to hear from him, so he had a feeling he was welcome.

As he closed the door to his apartment, he looked back on his past, and held back tears as he remembered his family. He hadn’t given any context as to why he was going back to England. Nobody needed to know what he’d done.

He shuffled down the stairs, dragging his feet and looking at the ground. Quietly he opened the door of the cab and climbed in. He barely spoke to the driver, looking out the window. The It Must Have Been Love scene from Pretty Woman played in his head as he looked out and wished it would rain.

He walked slowly onto the plane, and sat with his head in the screenplay of The Hunchback of Notre Dame. It was his wife’s favourite film.

Climbing the stairs to the house, Malvern raced outside and took his bags from him. He chatted with the actor the whole way to the room, and even offered to help him unpack. Alto politely declined.

Pulling a photo from his bag, he placed it on his nightstand and looked at it with tired eyes. I’m so, so sorry.

“Well, look who followed my statement.” Death sat on his bed smiling at him. He glared at her and began to put up his movie posters.

“Aw, come on, Alt. Aren’t you even going to say hi?” Alto just waved.

“Well, at least you have a sense of humour. Hey, tell you what. I’m gonna go chat with Juxta, then I’ll play a game with you two. How does that sound?” Alto looked at her, eyes wide.

“Hey, look! A reaction. Ok, I’m off to chat with my mute friend. As soon as the rest of your cousins move back in, the game will start. Bye!” And she disappeared. Alto shook his head, and finished with his posters. Without taking his clothes off, he lay on the bed and fell asleep.

#jacksepticeye #jse fanfiction #swap au #Alto Septicie #tw: blood #tw: death #tw: implied gore

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begigdigital · 3 years

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The Future of Work

The COVID-19 impact on the global as well as Indian economy will take time to be assessed, especially with organisations shedding weight (read employees) and work from home getting to be a rule rather than the exception. However, it does seem to point to a future where gig work is likely to become the norm.

According to a recent report jointly published by global management consulting firm Boston Consulting Group (BCG) and non-profit organisation Michael & Susan Dell Foundation, India’s gig economy will triple in the next three to four years, creating around 90 million jobs in the next eight to 10 years, in the non-agriculture sector alone. Work worth about $250 billion could also be generated terms of volume and contribute at least 1.25% to India’s gross domestic product (GDP).

Post pandemic workforce – hybrid and diverse

COVID-19 has not just altered sectoral landscapes but, indeed, the way we work. It has almost created a caste system in the workplace. There are two kinds of workers today thanks to COVID-19: the in-person and hybrid jobbers. The latter work on a mix of both online and in-premise platforms.

Agreed that hybrid workers need special attention, connectedness and empowerment by HR teams so that business outcomes don’t waver from their in-person peers, but as new McKinsey research shows, common organisational culture, social cohesion and shared trust are oftentimes victims in a hybrid model. It may lead to the emergence of two very conflicting cultures within the same office – one that is workplace-centric with strong organisational values and cohesiveness taking full advantage of in-premise face-to-face interactions. The other one relates to the isolation and disenfranchisement of remote workers who infrequently show up at the workplace, and don’t necessarily benefit from hierarchical bliss. Such workers tend to underperform as there is absence of a sense of belonging. Undoubtedly, employee engagement is key.

The brutish nature of the pandemic has also thrown open the door for a more humane workplace where diversity and inclusiveness are prioritised. Since both are linked to employee engagement, that’s one sure way HR can balance the online-offline dichotomy. One way to up the diversity quotient in organisations today is to look beyond qualifications and experience while hiring. HR managers must level up candidates on enthusiasm, creativity, the desire to succeed and other parameters too. Besides, there is now research to prove that 21% of the companies with gender diversity perform better than their competitors, while those that are ethnically diverse perform 33% better than others.

Human resources should figure out a way to balance the online and offline paradigms with the help of technology and face-to-face counselling.

Balancing work and personal life, how gig working helps

The recent ‘lie flat’ movement that has set China abuzz can be the harbinger of change the world over. Millennials are now resisting the Chinese government’s 996 culture which pushes for a 9am to 9pm work routine six days a week – supposedly for the advancement of the nation.

A growing number of Chinese youth now feel they cannot take on the pressures of academics followed by jobs that swallow up all their time and don’t allow them to pursue activities of leisure and pleasure. Surviving on bare minimum, working only when they need money (many of them just ‘lying flat’ in bed the whole day), they are shunning the so-called symbols of success, such as a personal car or a home, as unnecessary or beyond their means because of rising costs.

Elsewhere around the world, the new work from home culture following the COVID-19 outbreak has given a delectable taste of freedom to millions who are getting used to working in their pyjamas and avoiding the long car ride or sardine-in-a-can train or bus commute to spend more time with their families, especially young children.

The gig environment is ideal for a relaxed, stress-free life, allowing workers to choose flexible working hours, projects of interest to keep their mind ticking and take a break when they feel like it.

More spare time can also mean improved mental as well as physical health as people exercise, choose healthy eating options, pursue a passion or learn new skills.

Not running into managers or bosses every day too has its plus points.

For others laid off by organisations reeling under the impact of the pandemic, gig work is not an option but a necessity. India’s unemployment figures in May 2021, when COVID-19 led to a spike in infections and large-scale fatalities, stood at 11.90%, (14.73 % in urban and 10.63% in rural areas) according to business information company, the Centre for Monitoring Indian Economy. Though unemployment rates fell in June to 9.17% (10.07% urban and 8.75 rural) it’s evident that those who now have no means of income will be looking for all kinds of work options to sustain themselves.

Find your mental space – introduce flexibility, choose gig

Shail Joseph, 40, has been working with a television production company for nearly 20 years. Joseph was her company’s mini star with several hit episodes and wildly popular advertisements under her belt. But the production company job had a downside: Tremendous work pressure and very few leaves. The work pressure and the commute from her office to home and back (three hours) also left her physically and emotionally drained.

This almost-daily punishing schedule also left Joseph with little time for herself and her two other passions, travel and music. At best, she could travel once a year for 10 days. When the coronavirus pandemic struck in 2020, like others, Joseph started working from home. Since she was not travelling, she could extract a few hours to join an online music class. Joseph could feel something had changed inside; she was far more relaxed mentally than ever before. Then a realisation: She must unshackle herself from the job to live a more fulfilling life.

After making sure that her finances were in place, Joseph quit her full-time job and worked out a deal with her office: She will freelance work part-time and pick up projects according to her schedule and liking. In the last six months, her entry into the gig economy has given Joseph what she aimed for: A lot of time to recharge her creative cells, choose gigs she likes, and a lot of time to indulge in her hobbies. “I think finding that balance between your income and expenditure and mental peace is extremely important. My entry into the gig economy has really helped me achieve that”.

Source View:- https://begig.wordpress.com/2021/08/17/the-future-of-work/

#online marketplace for freelancers #best marketplace for freelancer #marketplace for freelancers

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1dreality · 7 years

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It must have been well over a year ago now, when Liam Payne realised he had absolutely nothing interesting to say. The singer, known to most as ‘Liam from One Direction’ until the group’s indefinite hiatus in January 2016, had returned to the studio, settled into the idea of being a solo artist for the rest of his days, and promptly drawn a blank. He was, he says, just too darned happy to think of anything.

Everything in his life had fallen into place. He’d found love, moving in with Cheryl (formerly Cole), a fellow junior royal of the Top 40. Their first child, a son named Bear, was well on the way. He had signed a huge record deal with Capitol. He felt fitter and healthier than he had in years. And, yes, there’s no denying it: he was pretty pleased that he no longer had to be in the biggest boyband in the world.

‘I had a bit of a problem formulating what was going on in my brain into the music at first,’ he says, ‘because I was so content with everything in my personal life. It’s easy to spill your guts out on a ballad. But I was thinking, “Oh God, I’m really happy – what am I going to write about?!”’

More than 12 months on, the answer to that question still isn’t entirely clear. Payne’s debut album, as yet untitled, won’t be released until early 2018. There have been two singles, though, with a third, the unsubtly titled Bedroom Floor, arriving next month.

Of those we’ve heard, the first, Strip That Down, a R&B-inflected club hit released in May and co-written with Ed Sheeran, marked a departure from One Direction’s stadium pop-rock. It was also chock-full of hoary by-the-way-I’m-an-adult-now signposts: there are references to nightclubs, drinking rum and coke, driving Ferraris and having girls ‘grind’ on him. And mixed in with all that were lyrics that caused a minor stir among his acolytes: ‘You know I used to be in 1D, now I’m out, free / people want me for one thing, that’s not me’. Payne, it seems, is keen to reintroduce himself.

‘When I left the band, I felt a bit stranded,’ he says, when we meet in an enormous boardroom at his management’s offices. ‘It took time, but I know as an artist I am starting fresh now.’ He slaps the table with melodrama. ‘This is Moment One. It’s the start line.’

Liam Payne is 24 years old. He is athletically built, as anyone who has seen his shirtless Instagram posts will know, and kind of everyday handsome, in a Love Island, former-youth-footballer way. Both his arms and hands are almost entirely upholstered in tattoos, highlights of which include some thick black arrows on one forearm that look like road markings; the number ‘4’, in reference to One Direction’s 2014 album of the same name, on his ring finger; and, on his left arm, a scale depiction of Cheryl’s eye, that appears to follow you around the room as he gesticulates. ‘It’s so my missus can always keep an eye on me,’ he likes to say about that one.

He is impossibly nice. Before we meet, he plods through the office, saying hello to everybody in the building individually, and in most cases remembering something about them: that they beat him at Fifa last time he dropped by, so they must have a rematch before he leaves (‘I’ll whoop ya with West Brom!’), or they’ve surely had a haircut, haven’t they? (‘It looks really great anyway, man!’). It is the manner of somebody both impeccably raised and intensely keen for people to like him, and it appears genuine and successful.

To an extent, Payne says, the five members of One Direction – or four, after Zayn Malik left the band in 2015 – ended up playing characters over the six years they were together. Whereas the Beatles (arguably the only other group with a comparable scale and speed of world domination), grew increasingly cantankerous towards the end of the 1960s, One Direction stuck resolutely to the caricatures that fans and management assigned them right to the end.

Malik was brooding and mercurial, Harry Styles was a cool, flamboyant ladies’ man, Niall Horan was charming and laid-back, and Louis Tomlinson, who has since admitted to feeling a little redundant, was fun and energetic. And Payne? Well, Payne was The Responsible One.

‘I’ve always been a bit of an older soul,’ he says, mulling over his place. ‘It’s funny: there’s a thing on the net where the fans put what they think are our mental ages. All the boys were around their real ones, but then they put me at about 37.’

Payne admits to feeling a little daunted in 2010, when Simon Cowell thrust the band together on X Factor after they’d auditioned as solo artists. Keeping up with the other personalities in the gang was exhausting, so his coping mechanism was to attempt to rein them in as best he could, and work with management in doing so. Like the popular schoolboy teachers identify as mature enough to be a trusted emissary for his recalcitrant friends, Payne carved himself a valuable niche.

‘I was put with a group of rowdy teenagers, and when I was a teenager, I had mates, but I was always with my dad. I’d go out to the pub and chat with him. So when I was stuck with these boys I was thinking, “F— me, I don’t know how to do it.”

‘When something was going wrong, I’d get a phone call. If there was an apology needed, it was me. I was the spokesperson for the band, as it were, with the press and the label.’

Along with Tomlinson, Payne shares comfortably the most writing credits of the band on One Direction songs. Over their five albums, dozens of songwriting collaborators contributed to the group’s success, but it seems nobody worked harder than the two least-heralded members. Neither was the showiest or best singer; but they kept things ticking over.

One Direction’s hordes of fans around the world noticed the assumed roles, and nicknamed Payne ‘Daddy Directioner’. He lived up to it with them, too. In 2013, on tour in Australia, Payne tweeted a message to warn girls waiting outside the band’s hotel of snakes living in the surrounding fields. ‘It’s just not worth it someone’s gunna get hurt [sic],’ he pleaded.

Two years later, he gave an interview lamenting the fact he and the other boys were being sent sexually explicit pictures of themselves drawn by underage admirers. While the rest of the band seemed to find that funny, Payne called it ‘the sad and sorry side of what we’ve done.’ Yeah, all right, Dad.

Becoming a real-life father has at least given the nickname some purchase. Rumours swirled at the end of 2015 that he had started dating Cheryl – formerly Fernandez-Versini and Cole, née Tweedy – after her second marriage ended in divorce. By the next summer, she was pregnant with the second One Direction baby (Tomlinson, the eldest of the bunch, had one first).

The couple live in a mansion near Woking, Surrey, and aren’t married, but he considers them ‘basically at that stage’. Bear, with whom Payne is besotted, was born in March, and named for the growling noises he was making during his first sleeps. So far, no photographs have been released, but he instantly shows me one on his phone. And here, I can exclusively reveal that the heir Bear is – as you’d expect of a baby with that name, born of two professionally good-looking parents – very cute.

‘We’ve only shown him in glimpses,’ Payne says, explaining their decision to shield him. ‘We don’t want him to have the pressure that me and Cheryl have, as household names. We want him to enjoy himself first and then figure it out.’

Born and raised in Wolverhampton, Payne has an unexpectedly thick Midlands accent that gets thicker the longer he talks – which is a lot. His preferred conversational feature is the anecdote, resulting in a version of the phrase, ‘I remember, there was this one time…’ prefixing the majority of his utterances, which are in turn regularly punctuated with singular handclaps of self-incredulity. It can be mildly alarming, like interviewing a young, heavily-tattooed Ronnie Corbett, but I suppose it speaks to the amount of life experience he has already accrued.

Growing up, Payne’s father, Geoff, worked as a fitter, while his mother, Karen, was a nursery nurse. Money was tight and the house small, but he remembers it as a happy one.

‘My place was on the floor with the dog, there was no space on the sofa. It was great, though we didn’t have much. Dad was in debt, but they did the best they could. It makes you dream a bit, you know?’

As a child, he had two routes to possible stardom, both of which Geoff pushed hard for. One was singing, the other was long-distance running. For a time in his teens, Payne was one of the fastest 1500m runners in the country, getting up to train before school and seconds from qualifying for the London 2012 squad. It was before that, as a 14-year-old in 2008, that he first applied for X Factor.

Auditioning with Fly Me To The Moon, since it was one of the few songs he could manage while his voice was breaking, that year he got as far as the ‘judge’s houses’, before Simon Cowell told him to come back in two years and try again. He became a mini-celebrity back home in that between-period, and carried on performing around town. The adulation was short-lived, though.

Once, performing a Justin Timberlake cover at an under-18s gig in Oceana Wolverhampton, somebody lobbed a coin at his face and managed to draw blood. He laughs about it now. These days – admittedly a largely cashless society – it’s only bras and knickers they fling.

‘I had become less and less famous. One time, I was in McDonald’s with a girlfriend and someone shouted ‘X Factor reject!’ at me. The whole restaurant turned. It was like coming out of fame. So I knew what it was like at 15, and it helped me.’

Following Cowell’s advice, he returned to X Factor in 2010 and found himself shoved into One Direction with the four other boys, eventually finishing the competition in third place, but with easily the brightest future. Within weeks, he had moved out of his Wolverhampton bedroom and into a penthouse apartment in Canary Wharf.

And six years later, One Direction had sold more than 20 million records, become the first band in history to have their first four albums go to number one in the US, touring the world numerous times, and earned a preposterous amount of money in the process. Payne is now estimated to be worth £40 million. He hasn’t been back to Wolverhampton in a long time, but he paid off his father’s debts years ago, and bought his parents a new house in addition to funding the renovation of their family home. He refers to his time spent in One Direction as ‘like uni’.

When they were in the thick of things, all the boys used to obey Cowell’s omertà – relentless enthusiasm at all times, please – and never discussed any negative aspects of their experience. Now safely out the other side, Payne is frank on matters of burnout and claustrophobia.

‘Cabin fever. It sent me a bit AWOL at one point, if I’m honest. I can remember when there were 10,000 people outside our hotel. We couldn’t go anywhere. It was just gig to hotel, gig to hotel. And you couldn’t sleep, because they’d still be outside,’ he says, before telling several stories of how he and Tomlinson would sneak out of hotels just to feel freedom, only to find themselves bored once they got out.

‘People were speaking to me about mental health in music the other day, and that’s a big issue. Sometimes you just need some sun, or a walk.’

Every stop on tour became the same. Earlier this year, Payne was asked which was his favourite city of those he visited with One Direction. ‘One in Italy with a big white cathedral,’ he responded.(The band performed in Milan at least five times.)

‘One of the problems was that we never stopped to celebrate what we’d done. I remember us winning loads of American Music Awards and then having to get on a plane straight away. It got to the point where success was so fluid. I don’t even know what happened to our songs, we just sang them, then sang some more. It was like a proper, hard job. Non-stop. I can concentrate a lot more now.’

The paparazzi and fan attention sounds just as draining. It must feel weird having a Twitter following larger than the population of Australia, as he does, but especially odd to have fans so obsessed that they’ve set up multiple fake profiles pretending to be your mother, for some reason.

Moreover, footage of One Direction out and about makes A Hard Day’s Night look tame: thousands of screaming fans all over them, police escorts everywhere they went, an unending run of selfie requests... It came to a head in New York in 2012, when Payne was walking to a restaurant with his parents and a paparazzo accidentally pushed his mother over. He was incensed.

‘I was like, “Oh, f— this. F— this s—t.” There was a swarm of them and I just wanted a burger with my parents,’ he says, unsmiling for a moment. ‘I cried my eyes out. I thought, “I can’t do this”, and really hated my life.’

He soldiered on, but it wasn’t a healthy lifestyle; none of them seems to miss it now the ‘break’ is on.

‘It’s great that people can see what we’re really like away from each other,’ Payne says. ‘It got to a point in the band where we were just playing characters, and I was tired of my character. Apart from the daddy thing, I was really loud and bubbly. There were a lot of personalities in the band to keep up with, so I had to be all, ‘Ey!’, the rowdy lad, and I don’t have to now.’

There were times when the band would celebrate hard, and in that, Payne had catching up to do: as a child, he was diagnosed with a scarred kidney, meaning he didn’t taste alcohol until he was given the all-clear at 19. Tell a teenage millionaire they can now safely drink, and they’ll go for it. He admits ‘the floodgates opened’ that year.

‘I wasn’t happy. I went through a real drinking stage, and sometimes you take things too far. Everyone’s been that guy at the party where you’re the only one having fun, and there were points when that was me. I got to 13 stone, just eating crap. I got fat jibes, and it affects your head. I have nothing to hide about it…

‘As I say, it was like a musical university. We were pretty reckless, but I got it out of my system. I had my fun.’

The hiatus seems to have come at just the right time. But before he could take a breath, Payne lurched on in life, becoming involved with Cheryl almost at once.

Nobody asks how they met; their introduction is on YouTube for all to see. Ten years his senior, she was an X Factor judge in 2008 when the 14-year-old Payne shuffled in, all mop-hair and waistcoat, to perform his Sinatra number. He winked at her, she called him ‘cute’, they bumped into one another over the years, ended up working on a remix of one of her songs in 2014, and the rest is recent pop history.

Not everybody was happy when the relationship was initially confirmed. That Cheryl was in a quasi-pastoral role when they met raised eyebrows in the usual eyebrow-raising camps, as did the couple’s decade-wide age gap. Liam doesn’t care. In fact, he can still barely get over the fact she’s his girlfriend.

‘It’s a ridiculous place to be in,’ he says. ‘She’s even more amazing than I thought. I was watching her do Fight For This Love [her debut solo single, from 2009] when I was a kid, and now we’re together with a kid. I feel like I’m X Factor’s biggest winner.’

It helps having Cheryl around to ask about business matters. Like Payne, she was scouted on a TV pop contest (2002’s Popstars: The Rivals), had massive success in a group (Girls Aloud), and then went solo with a more urban sound. She is also the unlikely possessor of the record for number-one singles by a British woman.

‘We think about the same things. She understands what my life is like. She knows what it’s like to sit on the Graham Norton couch [or] we can talk about her L’Oréal work. It’s not that we’re “a brand” as a family, but we can help each other.’

In Who We Are, one of One Direction’s seven books, published in 2014, Payne writes in his chapter that he’s ‘worried about the idea of failing outside of this band’ and declared he’d become a low-key songwriter, because ‘there would be less attention on my life’.

The opposite of that is what’s happening, I inform him.

‘Yeah, that was a point when I was scared of our success, and we didn’t want to take a step back from it,’ he says. ‘I just wanted to be a songwriter and not be famous, but happy. Then Simon and Cheryl told me this is where I am supposed to be, and I’d miss the stage. The pressure of what was coming next was scary, but they talked me down.’

The solo product he’s come up with is the sort of music he’d always wanted to make: radio-friendly R&B in the style of his heroes, Justin Timberlake, Usher and Pharrell Williams, and more informed by the rap music he listens to than the pop he’s famous for. Who knows if he can shake the ‘embarrassing dad’ brand to pull it off, but the signs point to success. Strip That Down has been streamed more than 300 million times on Spotify alone.

‘I wanted this to be for people my age. The themes are a bit older, but you have to grow up with your fans. I can’t make bubblegum pop any more,’ he says.

One Direction fans needn’t despair. They might have dispersed and almost all signed elsewhere, but Payne is excited about the idea of a comeback gig in years to come. As, I’m sure, are the band’s accountants.

But that won’t be for a little while, if Payne has it his way, because – as he keeps on telling me – he is just far too happy with his lot at the moment to take a step backwards. When it reaches our time to wrap up, he’s still at it.

‘I feel great about what’s going on in my life,’ he says, giving it one last handclap and springing to his feet. ‘I’m extremely lucky. I feel like I’m in a comatose dream. I’m like, “when did I last bump my head?” because I can’t believe this…’

Liam Payne’s next single, Bedroom Floor, is out on 20 October

#liam payne #liam's solo project #liam's promo #liam for the telegraph #liam & cheryl #dad liam #baby payno #1d hiatus or split?#liam about 1d #liam about simon #liam's album #Wow Liam could have been an Olympian... That's pretty impressive #That was a great interview where he finally let go and was honest. The guy must have had so much pressure while in the band #reading this once again reaffirms that what Zayn said first and was hated for has been corroborated by other members now that they are solo #I hope that fans realize now that people see what you write about them or hear about it.. Poor guy he must have felt like shit when people #were making fun of his weight.. Or every single time fans tweeted at him in outrage for something problematic. Like these boys are human #Also him kind of letting you know listen what you saw onstage while there was a bit of us in there it was mostly characters that we had to #keep on playing....Also him talking about the lack of recognition even though him and Louis had the most songwriting credits #Him confirming that the 4 his for their album FOUR which I guess holds a special place in his heart #And he reiterates that he is in a period of his life where he is blissfully happy. He has a child with a partner that understands & support #him and it looks like he has found what he wants to do career wise and is getting his footing as a soloist #Interestingly enough in this interview he is letting you know that the reunion if it overcomes it's not going to be anytime soon

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lobandwidth · 4 years

Text

Ten Years On

When you’re young you think it’ll last forever, all the moments that seem new, exciting and powerful also seem like they are limitless. How many times can you hear a song and know that it basically was written for you because it’s so perfect and it fits so well? How often will you stand in line for a gig or pressed against the barrier and breathe in the smell of a sticky, dark venue, and feel completely alive and completely happy? A hundred times at least, I thought, but probably more. But as you get older the colours fade, not everything feels as vital and strong. You no longer feel the urge to write the lyrics to your favourite songs on the front of your notebook so everyone knows how much it means to you It doesn’t seem to matter so much whether everyone knows that great band that’s getting popular you had already heard and loved last year.

It’s generally a good thing I think. If I had to live my life now feeling everything as much as I did when I was a teenager I’d be, well, still a teenager. I’m in my mid 20s now, so that wouldn’t really work, and I have the life I’d always assumed passively would come to me, without any realisation of how hard work it was to get here. I find joy in calm and order and knowing that the bus will get me to work on time. I don’t regret that, I had long enough living my life at 100 miles an hour to know that it can’t be sustained, and that there’s much to be grateful for in knowing how you’ll feed yourself next month and also where you’re going to be in six months time.

And there’s always music.

In just a few seconds of the opening bars of a song, I can slip back into that world, teleport myself to being 15 and believing whole heartedly that not getting tickets to a gig would be the literal end of the world and I would never get over it. I don’t want to live there anymore, but I will never take for granted the power that music has to let me visit. We store parts of ourselves in the songs that we love, never realising at the time that we are doing so until we turn to look back.

I’m going to see We Were Promised Jetpacks on Saturday because their album These Four Walls is turning ten years old. To understand why this is such a big deal, let me tell you about when I was a 15 year old living in a rural village in the West Country.

I wasn’t cool, I wasn’t totally nerdy either, I just kind of got by but I had this best friend. They were definitely cool, and they told me about all the best bands. I learned everything I thought there was to know about music from them, and also a lot of other important things about life. We went to gigs together and shared the excitement of getting to wear band t shirts to school in our final years. They got me into listening to a lot of Scottish indie bands, and it made me start thinking that Scotland must be pretty much the coolest place in the world to be. One of those bands, was We Were Promised Jetpacks. I can see myself sat in the back of my parent’s car listening to Quiet Little Voices through my headphones on my iPod nano, letting it fill me with the exhilaration and joy that it still brings me today. These Four Walls is the album that captured that blend of energy, joy, excitement and anxiety that defined by teenage years. I used to curl up in bed and listen to Conductor to lull myself to sleep, letting the melodies take away my pains and fears. It felt like a place to go, somewhere I could be to feel all the massive things you feel when your body runs almost solely on hormones and snack bars.

Music got me where I am today, sat on the sofa of my little rented Glasgow home. I came to Scotland, because of the music. When the time came to find a place to move after uni, all I could think about was how many times I’d sat and listened to Glasgow/Scottish bands, the way they made me feel. It had to be a place I would fit and love. Because of Frightened Rabbit and Dananananaykroyd and Copy Haho and We Were Promised Jetpacks and probably many others I don’t remember now. So I came here, and I didn’t leave. Four years later, I am proud of the life I’ve built myself. I maybe never got the career in radio that I thought I wanted, but I came back to music writing after a long period of absence and rediscovered the joy it gives me. I get to combine my love of archives and sound in my day job, which feels like the perfect blend of everything I ever wanted to be. I’m still not in my own killer Glasgow band, but I am working on it. And I have found a way to make peace with my past self, to celebrate the confusion and wonder of growing up, how it feels like it will last forever until one day you realise you’re an adult that pays council tax and finds it hard to get off the sofa to go to the same gigs you made your parents drive you to because it was the only way to go. I’ve found a way to understand myself better, to be complete and whole and proud of who I am – and it’s all there in These Four Walls. I can put my headphones on and be back there, standing face to face with myself and my life, the memories I poured into the music without even realising I was doing it. I have put part of myself into these sounds, and it is a gift to be able to relive it. Sometimes it gets a bit much, we all have bands or songs we can’t listen to because of how powerful the memories are – but what a wondrous thing that is. I might have deleted the embarrassing facebook photos or tumblr posts, tried to forget some of the harder parts of growing up, but I still have access to that world just by clicking play.

#bye bye lobandwidth #we were promised jetpacks #glasgow

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bluewatsons · 7 years

Conversation

Ben Isaacs, Interview: James Ellroy, ShortList (2014)

Ben Isaacs: What have you been doing since your last book, the autobiographical Hilliker Curse, was published in 2010?

James Ellroy: I have a second career writing movies that don’t get made and TV shows that don’t get picked up. I want to write a Scotland Yard movie, but I don’t know the nomenclature. I’m considering spending some more time in Britain. But would I be confounded by the left-hand drive again? I once drove over the border into Scotland and kept clipping fence posts. Fucking nightmare. But I’m thinking of coming over to London – in winter, when it’s cold.

Ben Isaacs: We could do a house swap.

James Ellroy: Where do you live?

Ben Isaacs: Bromley in south London. I’m not sure you’d like it. It’s suburban.

James Ellroy: [Carefully looks around the diner] I hate hipsters, I hate liberals, I hate rock’n’rollers, I hate the counter-culture, I hate movie people. I want to go somewhere quiet, peaceful and decorous, and be radical in my mind. I have fatuous American ideas about Britain. I want to go to the moors. I want to buy a shotgun from Purdey for a lot of money, but I understand it’s tough to buy a gun – you can’t just walk in and say, “I’m an American, give me that gun.” British people are the best readers. They speak the same language, but view the material as foreigners. There’s no class distinction for readers there. They ask the best questions and you can talk to them afterwards and go to an Indian restaurant.

Ben Isaacs: What can you tell us about your new project, the second LA Quartet?

James Ellroy: I’m about to finish the first volume, called Perfidia – my biggest book – which will be published in Britain this fall. The new quartet takes characters both fictional and real, major and minor, from the first quartet and the trilogy, but places them in LA during the Second World War. It’s the month of Pearl Harbor, 6-29 December 1941. It seamlessly takes the quartet and trilogy, adds four novels, and makes my oeuvre as a historical novelist one inextricable 11-novel whole. And although the story is very much about the injustice of the internment of the Japanese – most of them innocent – let me say, and this is very un-PC, the fucking internment was not the Holocaust or the Soviet Gulag.

Ben Isaacs: Will people disagree with that?

James Ellroy: I don’t think they’d like my tone. But the book takes a theme I first got hip to thanks to Skyfall. It’s fucking brilliant and it’s the only profound James Bond movie. They’re usually boring and overlong; the books are boring and racist. The stories are shoddy and sloppily plotted. But Skyfall is about the defence of the West, and that’s what the series is about. I also want to write an espionage trilogy set immediately after the Second World War called the Red Alert Trilogy. Churchill predicted the Iron Curtain and Soviet aggression, and thought we should go into Russia while they were weak after the Second World War. In hindsight, he was right.

Ben Isaacs: How do you feel about Obama?

James Ellroy: I hate him. I think he’s a coward, incompetent and I find him sinister. He’s the face of cancerous socialism under the guise of benevolence. His wife going on the Academy Awards by remote hook-up made them come across like Soviet apparatchiks. However, I don’t have a TV, cellphone or internet and I find the world untenable. I’m a big Tory. Big. Tory. There’s also a part of me that loves to say, “Fuck you, I’m a Republican.” I’m a Thatcherite and a Reaganite.

Ben Isaacs: OK. You don’t have a TV, but some say that medium is now better at telling stories than films. Will you ever write a TV drama?

James Ellroy: This is where my TV paycheques have come of late – people wanting to make an Ellroy TV show. I like the form, in fact I love the form. I watch TV shows at a friend’s house most Friday nights. I think Deadwood and Mad Men were intermittently quite wonderful, but often shoddy and veered into incoherence. I saw one or two episodes of The Wire and thought it was bullshit. Bad writing. And I have no sympathy for the underclass. I was hired to adapt LA Confidential for TV last summer, but it didn’t sell. I also came up with a TV show about the private eye Fred Otash. The cable channel FX paid me, and dumped it. We have an actor attached now and we’re putting the script out again. I‘d love to put my stamp on this form of drama if I could control it to the most minute level.

Ben Isaacs: How do you write?

James Ellroy: I have a strange writing schedule now. I go to bed at 8pm, wake up between 1.45 and 2.30am and work for three or four hours, then go back to sleep, then write again in the afternoon. I know how to exploit what’s been given to me--early parental dysfunction, my mother’s murder, all my crazy shit. The most startling moment I’ve had as an artist was in New York in 1985 while writing The Black Dahlia, and in a heartbeat the structural entirety of LA Confidential came to me. I then realised that whatever I could conceive, I could execute. So I’ve executed ever more grandly throughout my career. The books have become more emotionally accessible. In [2009 novel] Blood’s A Rover there’s more interior monologue, more sex shit, more love shit. There’s even more of that in the novel I’m finishing now. Anyway, I need to go back to bed now. What are your plans for tomorrow?

Ben Isaacs: Nothing concrete until about 4pm…

James Ellroy: In that case, I’ll meet you back here at noon, after I’ve been to church, and we will continue. Don’t worry about the check, I’ve got this. And, whatever you do, don’t try getting a bus anywhere around here. Only a cab. And, like that, the interview is paused. Ellroy leaves a 50 per cent tip for the waitress and darts away. I was warned he was a difficult interviewee, so was prepared for that. I wasn’t quite ready for the journalistic equivalent of the girl who texts to ask when you’ll see her again after a first date. As I wait for a cab a woman approaches me. “I know you from somewhere, don’t I? You’re a producer. I saw you with James Ellroy. I’m an actress. Here’s my card. Call me.” Welcome to Hollywood. Less than 24 hours later I’m back in the diner. As I walk in he holds up an arm and says loudly, “Mr Isaacs!” Although I’m on time, he’s already eating. I order a sandwich he will eventually pay for, and get talking.

Ben Isaacs: You’ve said you’ll only write about LA now. What do you love about the city?

James Ellroy: My parents hatched me here. It’s a cool locale. As it happened, Raymond Chandler wrote about this place and preceded me. The likes of Double Indemnity were shot at Paramount – I grew up just south of there – and the movie features the market where I used to shoplift. My parents were quintessential LA arrivistes from the Midwest and East Coast. My mother was murdered here. Kevin Starr addressed the city from the left-hand side of the plate and viewed it as a dystopian nightmare, but I love this place. Now I live here because it’s where I come when women divorce me. The people I love are here, and I need to write movies and TV shows to earn a living. Plus, I love cars, girls and Mexican boxers. The winters here are great. My LA isn’t down and dirty. The fondness some people have for dives I don’t share. I can’t stand even a hint of discord or squalor. I’ve always preferred the more affluent parts of LA. I’ve always loved Beverly Hills. They used to have great movie theatres there when I was kid and you could lose yourself in a matinee.

Ben Isaacs: You set your Lloyd Hopkins Trilogy books in the modern day. Would you write a contemporary novel again?

James Ellroy: I don’t give a shit about the modern world. I was hassled by my agent to do it. I wanted to write third-person, multi viewpoint. I saw that I had to get to the historical novel – specifically The Black Dahlia. It allowed me to get to my work‘s major themes--the secret human infrastructure of big public events, and bad men in love with strong women.

Ben Isaacs: You sound like you’re thinking about your legacy…

James Ellroy: I’m very much doing that. I want to get my shit in line. In case I go to the doctor and he says, “Ellroy, you fucker, you’ve got six months to live.” I want to leave a great literary legacy. I will leave legal documents so no one can ever co-opt my characters or write an Ellroy knock-off book, like when Robert B Parker finished a Raymond Chandler novel. I came of age when being a writer was a big deal. Now everyone’s a writer, due to the internet. Half the people in LA are writing screenplays that’ll never get made. I want to secure my literary legacy despite being more and more flummoxed by cyberspace, the internet and the dissolution of the civil contract. That’s part of my reason for wanting to come to Britain – I’m hoping there’s a higher standard. You’re smiling, so I think you’re going to say no!

Ben Isaacs: Probably not as much as you’d like…

James Ellroy: They’re so sincere, wonderful, especially the working-class people. I stick around to be with them if I’ve got time. There’s just that it in Britain that you don’t see here. And dogs are treated well there. I had a dog gig when I was a writer in New York in the Eighties, working on Because The Night. For a few months I was the caretaker of a big snowbound estate in Rhinebeck; keep the heat on, chop wood once a week and finish my book.

Ben Isaacs: Wait, this isn’t going to be like The Shining is it?

James Ellroy: No. Shit no! [Laughs] I was looking after two Akita females. I took walks with them across golf courses in the snow, and urinated and defecated with them. We were a pack. I wasn’t the leader, but we slept together at night. If it was cold I’d call it ‘a two-dog night’. They’d growl at me if I got up to take a leak. Grr. It was like having two big, good-looking women fighting over me. So good. I love women and I love dogs. The potential nightmare for me is I go to Britain and all I see is like in LA; meth labs, white trash and women with tattoos.

#james ellroy #interviews #literature #crime noir #eccentrics

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rueur · 4 years

Text

Morning Pages No. 56

Wednesday 19th August - 9:22am

I set my alarm to wake up at 6:30am and it didn’t take, because I was dumb enough to fall asleep at around 1. I was talking to Sam from the agency though, and we hadn’t spoken properly in a long while. His last message to me approached 500 words, and he made a comment on it basically being an outreach piece and said our response system was getting out of hand! But man, we had a lot to catch up on. He’s been telling me a little about his lockdown experience, and it seems pretty grim in comparison to mine, I mean aside from the fact that he’s still got a full-time job and multiple other noble commitments, whereas I made around $300 last week with my two shifts. I’m not enjoying making this little from my main source of income, especially after thinking about buying the house in Epping. I went on LinkedIn this morning and had a squiz at the jobs posted on there, but as usual, nothing seems entirely perfect. There was a job posted for a broadband company that isn’t Telstra, and that sounds pretty interesting. I feel like with my degree and my telco retail experience, I’d probably have a good chance of landing that? Maybe I should apply. I’m honestly not in too much of a rush to find something until after graduation. But considering how long this degree is taking me and how fed up I am with unimelb and this bogus fee they’re trying to charge me over my semester one class cancellation, I’m reconsidering just how much I need this degree anyway. My parents say that I’m this close, I might as well see it through. And I know they’re right. I just don’t like that they’re right! Usually I’m right!

It’s worth mentioning that I’m also struggling with getting through these pages today, and I say that only six minutes in, and half a page in. I don’t know, I just feel a bit fatigued today. It’s most likely the sleep. I’m not sure how to fix this aside from going to bed at a reasonable hour tonight. I’ll have to do that anyway in order to feel ready enough for work tomorrow. I should do some laundry...my jeans are in the wash. I mean, I have other jeans and I probably shouldn’t wear the jeans anyway, considering I’m just going to be sitting at a desk for four and a half hours now, and I don’t really need pockets for that. But I don’t know what else to wear, and jeans are a really easy decision to make. Maybe my black-and-white pinstripe pants.

I want to be a little active today, I wasn’t that active yesterday...but I still have articles to write. I didn’t finish any of the three insider pieces I have to do, because I was only given access to the spreadsheet yesterday after asking Sam and asking Sam for access turned into a full-on all-day conversation with Sam. I was also on the phone to Sandy for 2 hours and 40 minutes yesterday. I just feel like I’ve been so goddamn busy all week. Sunday blurred into Monday and now Tuesday went by with little restraint, and now it’s Wednesday. And what have I made to show for all this work? $300. $80 from tuition. $60 that I still need to invoice Julie for. $270 for the entire MONTH from the agency. Let’s say that’s $70 a week. That means every week I’m supposed to make a combined income of approximately $460 without commission. That’s honestly not enough for the amount of time and effort I feel like I’m putting into things right now. What is taking up all my time? I honestly don’t know, but we’re in lockdown and I shouldn’t be feeling this tired. I just want to be appreciated and compensated for what I’m worth. Goodness. I feel like this is just a recurring theme in my life. I feel like I’ve outgrown school now, to be completely honest. I don’t want to wait until I’ve finished my degree to put myself out there. I’m ready now. Finishing my degree is just a formality at this point. The worst thing about waiting until after I finish the degree is honestly just the fact that I don’t know when the degree is going to end because I can’t fulfill the internship component nor even PLAN the internship component because we’re in a STAGE 4 LOCKDOWN. I feel like my future is being held for ransom, it’s hideous. It’s ACTUALLY being held for ransom because of unimelb’s dumbass fee. I am clearly not feeling good this morning. I hope the 21 Days has something planned that’ll turn this shit around, or I could at the very least do it myself. It’s wet outside, but I’ve been gearing to go for a bike ride. But riding in the rain has been a small source of anxiety since my accident where I lost my two front teeth. That was in April, 2017, a few months into my relationship with Evan. Evan was there. We spoke about it for the first time in a long time quite recently, I think during the first lockdown. I asked him if he thought in that instance when I was sitting with a bloody mouth on the side of the road, that he DEFINITELY couldn’t break up with me anytime soon because he’s fucked up my mouth. He laughed and said ‘yeah, actually’, which was honestly pretty cool. The fact that after all this time, I could ask a question that had a brutally honest answer and we could just laugh about it. We’re solid, I’ve always felt like we are. Even when we broke up for that one afternoon last year, when Dan was living with us.

I find myself writing most of this so that I have at least some recollection of it further down the line. I’ve realised that these pages have been valuable for me to read over, so I want to put stuff in them that ‘future me’ will find valuable. Like I think that I’m going to use all the stuff I wrote about Aaron and that weird coke night in Thornbury to finetune the short story based on that incident. It’s great to have the actual feelings of that night down in my own words. It feels like I can just go back to that night and have it be very real, and thus infinitely easier to write about.

Nicky just came back through the open front door a few minutes ago, so I’m just going to go check that he’s still in the house. It’s 9:43am, and I’m impatient to finish these pages off. I just have very real work to do and this feels like a bit of a distraction. I’m only two pages in ah!

Okay, I don’t think he’s still here, but Lonzo’s tucked right underneath the full doona next to me, so I’m feeling comforted by him and not too concerned that Nicky won’t return or that he’ll get hurt...or anything like that. Nicky’s had a few incidents over the past few years, but this system of letting him out first thing in the morning before he’s had breakfast does work! He runs out for a bit, spends a good twenty to thirty minutes exploring the outside world, and then he returns home promptly because he wants to be fed. Not only does he get to enjoy being outside at least once every day, but he gets to do so without wandering too far, and he also doesn’t feel inclined to go scrummaging for food through anybody’s bins because he knows there’s some actual food waiting for him at home. I feel pretty confident and settled in my cat ownership abilities, my abilities to be a cat owner.

Finally I’m on the last page. This isn’t going too well today, I don’t know. My fingers are almost to a point where it gets difficult to type because of the cold. My circulation isn’t too great, my extremities get cold quite easily. It’s apparently supposed to be a female-body thing, a biological setting that helps protect our centres, our wombs. 2000 or so words a day is intense. Does this become a detrimental practice if the prose is too long? I’ve just been doing this the way I’ve always done it, and I kind of don’t want to change the practice three days into it. I might review the three page construct after the 21 Days are complete. It shouldn’t be too much of an issue, so long as we’re still in lockdown, and we’re most likely going to stay in lockdown until mid September, apparently. I have no issue with that either. I just heard Nicky, he’s still here. Evan just came out of the other room. I hope he feeds him right now. I think he’s going to. I’m just hearing out. He sighed. Nicky’s meowing. There’s a crinkling of plastic and a cupboard just closed. I don’t think he fed him. Nicky’s food is in a jar on top of the microwave. Should I call out ‘can you feed the cat and close the front door?’? I feel like I shouldn’t have to. Evan’s making himself breakfast. Oh god, if it rains some more today, my jeans just won’t be washed in time for me to wear them to work tomorrow. Or more aptly, they won’t be dry in time.

I don’t know why, but my brain just naturally took me to this one time that a homeless man on Collins St outside Evan’s shop followed me until I gave him cash. I had to actually TAKE CASH OUT at a servo before he left me alone. That was an upsetting day. But it was raining and I was wearing a very big, thick coat from UNIQLO that ammi had given to me. It probably made me look wealthy, I guess. I mean aside from the fact that I’m a tiny, little, scruffy, brown person. I don’t understand how anybody could look at me and think that I have money. And in the grand scheme of things, I really don’t have money. But I have more than Evan, despite having a lot more debt too, thanks to tertiary study. Look, I can see I’m thinking about money a lot, despite making very little, but I think that’s the whole point. Money is security, and I deserve security. I’m working so hard to try and attain this sense of place and security. I reckon I’m ready to be a homeowner, all I need to do in order to reach this goal is to find a job that can provide for me. And even if I leave the store and find a professional gig, but then the professional gig goes belly-up because the economy is in the toilet, I still think I’ll be okay because the store will take me back. Maybe not as a salesperson again, I don’t know. But I’m convinced that I have family at that company, and so long as I have people there, I should be okay. It’s not like my last few jobs, where I quit and I knew I couldn’t go back. I have some pretty well-established connections now. It might be worth asking Sam if there’s anything for me to do at the agency...but I don’t want him to think I’m just talking to him to get a job. I actually love him. He’s a fantastic human being and we have a lot in common, and I want to meet him. I’ve always wanted to meet him, so much more than I want to talk to him over messenger or email. I have faith that that day will come, the day where we’ll finally be able to meet. I just thought it would be a lot sooner, that’s all. I thought a lot would be happening in 2020. I had high expectations. I think everyone did. I believe that fact has made this reality a lot harder for the western world. But then again, the western world has just got to suck it the fuck up. This isn’t hard.

#stream of consciousness #stream of conscience #morningpages #56 #sam #money #jobs #artistsway

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getseriouser · 5 years

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20 THOUGHTS: Mid-season shaft

GEE it’s getting cold in Melbourne.

Left my half-finished Farmers Union iced coffee for just a second, came back and it had become a Masterchef-esque espresso semifreddo. Ridiculous.

But it still ain’t as cold as what we witnessed between B.Scott and D.King at Marvel Stadium on Saturday arvo.

Their relationship, or lack thereof, would give you a full, frozen ice cream in seconds.

Bit to unpack with that, and lots more happening too.

1. Let’s go all Brad Scott stuff up front. On the David King stuff firstly, let’s not forget, he is ‘a Scott brother’, who was coached by Leigh Matthews, and then tutored as a coach-in-waiting by Mick Malthouse. This ain’t a man brought up to make the romance with arachnids, so to speak. Therefore nothing to see here, Kingy ain’t exactly a precious flower either, so the idea Scott should be reprimanded, please, whoever’s saying that wasn’t hugged enough by their mother growing up, clearly.

2. Where to for now for Scott? Don’t know. When you’re a bourgeoning assistant, any jobs a good job. When you’ve done ten years, and impressed, you can afford to take your chances. I don’t think he is any certainty to coach anywhere next year, in fact the idea he does some media next year and ends up following paths similar to say Rodney Eade or Neil Balme sounds pretty plausible.

3. Here’s one thing though, and where one must be careful – a handful of Giants players knew about Brad Scott’s departure before any Kangaroos players. Obviously Rhyce Shaw knew really early on, let slip to the younger brother playing up in Sydney, next thing Heath is smashing up WhatsApp with the latest scoop before anyone at Arden St, or Brad’s wife, were aware. Two words – classic Heater.

4. So, John Longmire. Two schools of thought and I favour the second – first, is that after such a long time away from Melbourne he’d like to return to where he spent 12 years as a player and lead his old club into its next chapter, fully resourced, starting afresh given Sydney’s impending plight. Or secondly, if he wasn’t entertaining the idea of leaving his home state (born and bred Corowa on the banks of the Murray), why all of a sudden does the North job persuade him, might as well stay the course he was on before Brad Scott’s decision.

5. So my shortlist for the North job next year, chuck Rhyce Shaw in that group as he’ll have enough of a go to make a fist of it, chuck Longmire in too, why not, then also Brett Ratten is the incumbent senior coach for anyone who is looking (Clarko’s 2IC, dare I say more), plus Michael Voss I think too would be a chance after his good work at Port. My smokey would be Blake Caracella at Richmond, master tactician; he came to the club after 2016, and look what happened thereupon.

6. Mid-season draft, don’t mind for the minutiae of it all, its either kids who you’ll never see play or Marlion Pickett who ends up being in Richmond’s best 22 by year’s end. But, SANFL CEO Jake Parkinson released a statement last night I have to empathise with, where aside the positive yarns you’ll read about in most of the press, his view was rather different.

"We will continue to stand firm in our opposition to a mid-season draft," he said, “(it) will have a significantly detrimental impact on SANFL clubs who work hard to develop their players and teams lists and position themselves for success”. He continued “it will not be possible for ... [the] clubs to find replacements for their players taken," and “affected SANFL clubs now face the remainder of their 2019 season without key players”.

Very hard to not agree with Parkinson – if we’re going to do this again it needs a re-think and a more respectful approach the lower leagues affected.

7. People having a go about seeing the injection by the Brisbane doctor down in the race Sunday. Please. Firstly, why would you have a go at the doctor, he did the right thing and did it away from spectators, but secondly, whilst it’s not exactly what you tune in to watch footy for, I don’t see it as being offensive, or indeed inappropriate to small children who face the reality of needles from an early age. Unless this is part of that whole ‘anti-vaccination’ thing which in that case I’m moving on…

8. Great piece of commentary on that final play in the Dockers-Lions balltearer on the weekend by a caller you mightn’t know – Adam Paplia gets the odd Perth game or the dud games in the Fox Footy roster, but delivered “he has made every post a winner” in the immediate aftermath of Michael Walters winning behind. Thought it was very sharp.

9. Earlier Sunday the Giants eroded their MCG hoodoo. No they didn’t – it never existed. Last year they played two preliminary finalists over three games for one win and two losses, year before that played only two MCG games, against Richmond, who ended up winning the flag. If losing games to good teams interstate is a hoodoo then maybe those anti-vaxxers might have a thing after all, not sure…

10. What’s Christian Petracca doing? Went pick two almost five years ago, and is lumbering around the half forward line looking muscly but doing seven-eighths of stuff all. Hasn’t got a tank, or a defensively-minded bone in his body. Oh, but he has strengths that could work as an effective mid-sized forward you say? Well three picks after him was Jordan De Goey, whose had enough time to be a pest off-field, do penance and announce himself as a gun forward six months ago. Time to get serious Christian, we’re bored.

11. And whilst we’re on those who need to get serious, Mitch McGovern, stolen a moustache from one of those Debra does American cities doco’s and has seemingly taken it upon himself to skip training to in order to smash carbs. That boy needs to not play away games, that figure in a slim-fitting white jersey would be a sight no-one needs to see in 4K.

12. And another one – Jesse Hogan. Has reputation and presence like Clint Eastwood walking into a country town in ‘insert Western film here’, but seemingly hasn’t got any bullets, to keep the metaphor going, nor do I think he even has a gun in either holster. Jaryd Roughead can’t get a game, nor can Josh Jenkins, but eight goals in nine games, four in his last five, Hogan’s getting a sweet ride.

13. Brissy, gee, bless them, look almost assured of an elimination final even before we leave Autumn, its an impressive season to date. They were super stiff not to take the chocolates on Sunday and be nudging top four. Impressive stuff from the Lions.

14. Carlton though, I tell you what, you wouldn’t want to be Brendan Bolton, but you do want to coach them in 2020, which is a bizarre scenario. This is a team teetering on the edge of clicking into a winning, finals-bound unit, but Bolton ain’t doing himself any favours. Damien Hardwick’s winning without his best half-dozen players, Nathan Buckley has his team idling but doing enough when it matters, even John Longmire’s coached a really competitive outfit for three weeks now for two wins and a narrow loss, Bolton needs one if not two of the next three to survive probably.

15. Chris Judd, another balancing a serious footy role in club land with media gigs, has always deflected pretty well the Bolton stuff on Footy Classified, but on Monday he was different. His body language suggested decisions or conversations with impending outcomes had been now had, and recently, and it was less defensive of his senior coach and more ‘what will be will be’. My view, if not reading too much into it, Scott’s departure or otherwise, is that the Blues board see the time as now to make a call on Bolton, and to support Damien Barrett just this once, a sacking around the bye should those two or so wins not realise is increasingly likely.

16. Sad about Paddy McCartin ey? Lots was reported with him hitting media street on Sunday, but my main takeaway was Billy Brownless, his pseudo father-in-law, talking on the Sunday Footy Show. Billy spoke really sombrely about how his daughter’s boyfriend struggles with headaches constantly, and whilst usually a very enthusiastic and jovial media performer, to have Brownless so forlorn talking about someone he cares about really struggling, it really struck a chord. Wish you well Paddy.

17. Gotta call out the Doggies, I’m a fan but surprised they’re not copping more heat. 13th, four and six, a decent percentage, sure, but have now lost to Gold Coast, North and Carlton. That Richmond win in Round Seven is counting for a lot right now.

18. Daniel Wells, probably a career-ending injury in what now seems decided is his last year. But he has opted to go for one last crack, looking for the moons to align where the Pies make the finals and go deep, he gets himself fit to be considered, and the makeup of the team at the time warrants his selection. He might be able to kick two or three in a winning final if all those moons align, but otherwise this knee injury has drawn curtains on a great career.

19. West Coast, I’m a critic and not just because of Dom Sheed’s annoyingly accurate set shot last September, but I wasn’t buying what they were selling thus far in 2019. And aside from Luke Shuey’s genius, who along with Elliott Yeo are carrying that midfield right now, in the last quarter they lose to a plodding Adelaide whose captain has gone missing. So how’s their form then, six and three, looking good? I’m still subscribing to a ‘gift of a run’, where off the back of two bad losses to Port and Geelong, they have starred down the barrel of a bad loss in each of the four games since but have just managed. That all said, they’ll win at least four of their next five looking ahead so a top four finish, despite all of their shortcomings, looks on.

20. Gaz and his punch, who cares whether he deserved it or not, whether it’s karma for the two elbows he got off, or whether he is playing angry. Its perfect management of a 34-year-old who was already scheduled to stay up in the Gold Coast longer than the team for a mini-break, so his forced week off actually just makes those plans even tastier and freshens him up a couple weeks before the bye. Seriously, Geelong are just crunching this season so far, it’s a right laugh.

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accuhunt · 6 years

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How I Managed to Pay Off 26000$ of Student Loan: Candid Tips for Freelancers and Travel Bloggers!

Over six years ago, when I quit my 9-to-5 corporate job in Singapore, I tried not to dwell upon the 26,000$ student debt hanging above my head. In order to finance my college education in Singapore, I had taken a massive loan, and had until 2030 to pay it off.

Yet there I was, quitting a well-paying steady job to experiment with a life of travel, freelancing and blogging. The day I sent in my resignation, I promised myself two things:

One, that I would do what it takes to earn enough money to pay my loan instalments – a minimum of 200$ per month. I wouldn’t borrow money or dig into my backup savings as far as I could help it.

Two, that if by age 35, I still hadn’t paid it off, I would swallow my dreams, head back into the corporate world and work my butt off to repay the loan.

Although I broke my first promise a couple of times by digging into my savings, I didn’t have to wait till 35 to reconsider the second one (phew). In 2017, over six years after quitting my full time job, I managed to pay off the entire goddamn loan – while freelancing, blogging and travelling around the world.

Here are some lessons I learnt along the way; candid tips that I hope will give perspective to fellow freelancers and travel bloggers in similarly challenging times:

1) Believe in yourself and stop working for peanuts

Learning along the way in my outdoor offices – this one in Coorg.

When I first began freelancing, I was writing travel stories for as little as 500 rupees (less than 10$). I had no contacts in the industry, no idea of freelancing rates and no confidence in myself to deliver a decent travel piece. But with time, I built each of these.

Once my travel writing portfolio expanded to include BBC Travel and National Geographic Traveller, I decided to walk away from work that neither excites me nor compensates me enough to be worth my time and effort. Unfortunately there are no standard industry rates for freelancers / travel bloggers, so my formula is simple: for how long can a piece of work fund my travels? My goal is to earn a month’s worth of expenses for a week’s worth of work. It’s a personal thing and must evolve with the quality of work.

Many freelancers complain about poor rates, but end up accepting the same gigs anyway. We’re certain to lose some opportunities when we hold our ground in a negotiation, but it’s the only way to seek out better paying opportunities, deliver higher quality work and strike a satisfying work-travel / life balance.

Also read: Practical Tips to Break Into Freelance Travel Writing

2) We only get a few chances: Professionalism matters more than we think

Life of a digital nomad – in the Bavarian Alps.

I remember the months I could barely scrape up enough money to pay my monthly loan instalments. I remember sleepless nights of pitching and sending proposals, not knowing where my next assignment might come from.

So when I scored a 3-month social media and writing gig, I knew I had to do everything to keep it. Working virtually, I learnt early on the importance of being professional and timely in my communication, deliverables and deadlines. So what if I was a one-woman show with my own blog and social media to manage, simultaneous work deadlines and an insatiable wanderlust? I gradually managed to turn two short gigs into year-long projects that steadily enabled me to increase my monthly loan repayments.

I’ve heard companies lament how they’ve burnt their hands with freelancers, and tourism boards disappointed by bloggers who don’t deliver on their promises. Remember that it’s a small industry and word gets around fast. Right from the first email and deadline, we’re being judged on our professionalism. And cliched though it sounds, under-promising and over-delivering is always a good mantra to hold yourself to.

Also read: So You Want to Start a Travel Blog?

3) Freelancers need a forced savings plan too

Spending on experiences that matter… but saving too.

Like every freelancer and travel blogger, I hate late payments from clients, but I secretly think of them as forced savings. I’m pretty casual about spending what I earn on travelling, so it takes no time for my account to go from six digits to three – and the only way I survive is through forced savings.

In my corporate days in Singapore, a portion of my salary was deducted and transferred into a provident fund account. After I quit, I tried to keep that habit – transferring 30-40% of what I earned on a big project into a fixed deposit or second savings account. Ultimately, all that saved money helped me pay off the last big chunk of my loan at one go – phew.

Also read: Things I Wish I Knew Before I Quit My Job to Travel

4) Stop feeling insecure about losing a free trip to another blogger/freelancer

Inspiration to create inspiring travel content.

I came face to face with a dilemma that every travel blogger (and these days, Instagrammer) faces at some point: to accept a free press trip to somewhere exotic, or not. Back in 2011, at my first travel blogging conference outside India, I was surprised to learn that some prominent travel bloggers were charging a fee to join press trips. But the more I thought about it, the more sense it made. Besides the fact that creating truly inspiring travel content online is a time and effort intensive job, it also leads to direct revenue for the brand or tourism board involved – and I know because many of my readers write to me to say my stories from a destination made them travel there.

I’ve been part of multiple blogging trips now where it’s turned out that I’m one of the only ones getting paid – and not necessarily because my content is better or my reach greater, but because I’m willing to walk away. I’ve also been dropped from many campaigns because I’ve walked away in a negotiation – and I think that’s okay.

Truth is, if we are confident we create innovative content and influence our readers’ decisions, we need to realise and monetise the value of our work.

Also read: How to Earn Money While Travelling

5) Sell your work, but not your soul

Contemplating dilemmas in northern Copenhagen.

I started travel blogging for two reasons: One, I didn’t want to forget the incredible stories and small acts of kindness I came across on the road. And two, I wanted to encourage my readers to think differently about life and travel. The only way I can continue doing both is by staying true to myself – and there are plenty of dilemmas every day.

I struggle to stuff my blogposts with keywords that google wants; I struggle to write posts that people search for (like how to do Europe in 5 days – sorry, no one can “do” Europe in 5 days); I struggle to promote things that I don’t genuinely believe in (no thank you L’Oréal, I can’t support animal testing).

And so be it. I tell myself that the offers will come and go, the money will come and go, but my writing will stay. This blog will stay. And (hopefully) you guys, my readers, will stay… and that’s what matters. Because without my audience, my blog is nothing.

Also read: How Croatia Compelled Me to Rethink Travel Blogging

6) Let’s not try to be superheroes: Learn to delegate

Doing the digital nomad thing in Chiang Mai.

The biggest lesson I learnt from running my travel startup India Untravelled, was to delegate to the right people. It’s something I still struggle with, but I’ve been learning – to split my work (and pay) with other freelancers when my plate is too full, and to gradually grow my team at The Shooting Star. By delegating things that need fresh eyes, are time-consuming and just don’t interest me (hello, google analytics), I’ve been able to free space and time for things I care about and to work on passion projects.

By investing in talented individuals, I’m not only looking at my own work with a fresh lens, but also learning more about running a business, diversifying my income sources and gaining plenty of “me-time” along the way.

Also read: Every New Beginning Comes From Some Other Beginning’s End

7) Naysayers be damned: Turn off the negativity

Turning off the negativity in Guatemala <3

Ignore the naysayers – that’s the best advice I got when I first took the plunge to quit my job. Maybe I’d make it somewhere in life, maybe I wouldn’t; maybe I’d be able to pay off my loan before 35, maybe I wouldn’t. But the worst thing I could do is fill my mind with all the doubts people had about my choices.

I’ve come to believe that our lives are often a self-fulfilling prophecy; the more positively we think of the future, the better it tends to be. And even if the future isn’t going to be that great, why ruin our present with negative thoughts?

All those years ago, the idea of paying a huge loan through an unsteady freelancing and travel blogging income seemed rather impractical, but I convinced myself that I’ll find a way. After all, what fun is a practical life with no big dreams and no impossible challenges to overcome?

Also read: How I’m Funding My Adventures Around the World Through Travel Blogging

What are your biggest challenges as a freelancer or travel blogger?

Connect with me on Instagram, Facebook, Twitter and Google+ to follow my travel adventures around the world!

ALSO READ: Why Long Term Travel is More Like Real Life and Less Like Instagram Advice for the Young and Penniless Who Want to Travel Confessions of an Indian Travel Blogger

How I Managed to Pay Off 26000$ of Student Loan: Candid Tips for Freelancers and Travel Bloggers! published first on https://airriflelab.tumblr.com

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megadarkbouquettidalwavethings · 6 years

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Kenyan film school takes on Hollywood for an Oscar

Image caption The Oscar-chasing film school wants Kenyan youngsters to tell their own stories on the big screen

When the Oscar winners are announced this weekend, it won’t only be Hollywood superstars who will be waiting anxiously.

There will also be eight graduates from a film college in Kenya nervously awaiting the results.

These graduates of the Africa Digital Media Institute (ADMI) in Nairobi were part of the team making a movie nominated in the category of best short live action film.

The film, called Watu Wote (or All of Us), tells the story of a terror attack on a bus in Kenya by militant group Al-Shabaab in 2015, in which Muslim passengers protected Christians.

Nairobi slum

“I was at work when I got a call telling me we had been nominated,” says 22-year-old ADMI graduate Claire Njoki, who helped to design and build the film’s set.

“My mum was the first person I told and we cried together. I felt so good that we were able to tell that story about Kenya, it is every filmmaker’s dream to reach the Oscars.”

Image copyright Hamburg Media School

Image caption The Kenyan-German movie, about a terror attack, is nominated for best short live action film

The short history of ADMI could itself be a script for a feelgood film.

The film school’s founder, Wilfred Kiumi, grew up in a slum in Nairobi and developed a love of film after his uncle took him to a government-funded cinema.

He worked in a barbershop to make enough money to go to college.

But his ambition was to set up a film school which would give Kenyan students the full range of skills needed to succeed in the industry.

“At first people thought I was joking when I said I was trying to set up a school, but the more I talked to people about it the more they encouraged me and connected me to others who could help,” he says.

Image copyright Reuters

Image caption The Kenyan film school is a surprise challenge to Hollywood superstars in the chase for an Oscar

Six years ago this month, the college welcomed its first intake of only five students.

Today, it has 350 students at a purpose-built campus in Narobi’s Central Business District, complete with well-stocked graphic design and animation labs, sound studios and post-production labs.

They study a two-year diploma which includes training in film and TV production, graphic design, journalism, sound engineering and animation, and an internship.

Self-reliant

This is a broader curriculum than other film colleges and it is because Wilfred wanted to teach students to “produce, shoot and deliver all by themselves without having to rely on others”.

The ADMI’s leaders say the nomination for Watu Wote, which involves ADMI graduates and is directed by Katja Benrath of Germany’s Hamburg Media School, is a good start.

Image caption “We aren’t even used to seeing our own stories on screen,” says Wilfred Kiumi

But they have even bigger aims – they want to reclaim Kenyan and African stories so that they are told in film by African directors.

“Almost 90% of the content we consume is from the rest of the world – from Mexican soaps to Malaysian stories to big box office American movies,” says Laila Macharia, director of the institute.

“So we aren’t even used to seeing our own stories on screen. This is where we can have a great impact on the world, and also on how the world sees Africa.

Image caption The aim is to train young Kenyans to build up a home-grown movie industry

“The more films we produce, the more people will see the different sides of life in Kenya.”

In the future, Claire Njoki wants to stay in Kenya to help grow the film industry and change the perception people have of her country.

“I want to tell more stories from Kenya – good stories, sad stories of humanity and togetherness and love,” she said.

“I believe that people in Hollywood are not the only ones who can make good films, we are showing we can make good films so my biggest aim is to stay in Kenya, grow the industry and tell our stories.”

Putting Kenya on screen

It’s not just about changing perceptions. Wilfred says that developing the film and TV industry could make a huge economic contribution.

“Just one project is able to employ more than 100 people and the trend globally is that film crews are getting larger and big studios are increasing their budgets,” he says.

Image copyright Hamburg Media School

Image caption The film tells how Muslim passengers sheltered Christians during a terror raid

“If we can get our films to a larger market, we are talking many thousands of possible jobs. We have realised we can create content and now we need to learn how to sell it,” says Wilfred.

The school has a foundation which funds places for students from low-income backgrounds, and many of its students come from the slums of Nairobi.

“We have a lot of kids from the slums and you see the transformation in one year,” says Wilfred.

“They start getting gigs, dressing better, they change and they start hanging out with people who can develop their career.”

‘Move their parents out of the slums’

But he says it can be difficult to convince parents that their children can make a career from film.

“My mum was the same – she didn’t understand why I wanted to make films when I could do accounting instead,” he said.

“Parents always ask me if their child will be successful.”

Image caption The school has to persuade parents that there can be a career in making movies

But he is adamant that the success of ADMI’s graduates show that working in film can “transform” Kenyans’ lives.

“It does pay well and, in future, our students will be able to move their parents out of the slums,” he says.

The school is now looking to set up collaborations with other colleges and companies around the world, and to persuade audiences to take a chance on African films.

But until Sunday, they can be forgiven for focusing only on the Oscars.

If Watu Wote wins, expect more tears from Claire and her mum.