On bruises...

I don't know if you are familiar with Vice Magazine's Dos and Don'ts. If you are you are probably a hipster. That's alright. I share some hipsterish qualities. I have all of Broken Social Scene's records on vinyl. I went to Primavera once. But why do you have to look like such dicks? Anyway, I digress.

One of the pictures was of these two hot, hipster, New York girls, fringes, boy pants, band T-shirts. Bands you have never heard of because you are not as hot as these two women. Then they highlight the clear, 'restraint' bruises on their wrists.

"This is why these girls are hot.' the commentary adds.

I've laid down my own fair share of bedroom bruises in my time. One of the biggest thrills of my life was the first time a girl sent the picture of her bum to me, with the caption, 'Yummy, more please.' It's happened since. That discrete bruise, the one that they catch you looking at. They look back, knowing. Then you both know. There's a look, a laugh, a wee smirk. And you leave it at that. You know.

I had a similar experience. A chance meeting at a gig, some chat about music, a return to my lair, the dance as old as time itself, the next morning. Then, once she's bundled away like a precious package, I decide to hit the gym. Now my gym is in the middle of a hotel, so there are many multi-national guests.

I ended up sharing a sauna with two young ladies of Nordic extraction. They kept looking at me and giggling, talking in their own language.

'Of course they're flirting with me.' I think. 'I've just had a great night of sex, they can smell the pheremones.'

Then I leave, and hit the shower. I look in the mirror and then, I see. Midway between nipple and collarbone there's a plainly discernible bite mark, teeth and all. I knew exactly then, when I got it. And I felt more than a bit sexy.

And three weeks later she texts me. Seeing her later on today.