Celebriy Sex Camp - Part Two!
2006-02-13, 11:17 p.m.
So. Onwards and upwards then!Its now Wednesday in the virtual word of Celebrity Sex Camp and Im KNACKERED after yesterday�s exertions on the footie field with the lovely Mr Ferdinand (well, lets face it, I was the one doing all the running around, HE appears to have had one foot nailed to the floor as per usual). So, I fancy a night in. Not the usual sort of Night-In-All-Alone where wearing tracksuit bottoms, drinking juice out of the carton and picking ones toenails is perfectly acceptable, but just a night where I can relaaaaaax.
Our dumb-ass doorbell plays "Goin� to Alabama with my banjo on my knee" or whatever the hell its called (Yes. I really does. In REAL LIFE) so when I hear it I have to answer the door IMMEDIATELY to deter anyone from *shudders* ringing it twice. And who should be one the doorstep but Mr Wednesday
Tis Jean-Christophe Novelli with a huge hamper of scrummy nosh "Becawse, ma cherie, Ay deeednt sink yew would wAnt to beee coookeeeng for me, az Ay am a vairrry fammooose chef and all zat". Hoorah, J.C. and come on in old chap, sez me!
JC strips off his Gallic mac to reveal crisp chefs whites but that makes him look a bit too corporate so I insist on him wearing a frilly granny pinny with crossover straps over the top. He looks sweeet! He lays out his wares (Oh, STOP it!) on the breakfast bar (don�t worry, its had a wipe-down since me and BF played strip clubs on it) and I dip my fingers in everything and make appropriate comments:
"oooo, chocolate! What�s this? This smells of feet! Eeeuuw OLIVES, they are Soooo yuck. Mmmm, yummy fishy stuff. You�d better not be doing that shepherds pie you made on telly last week. Man, that was RANK!" whilst JC raises a sardonic but indulgent eyebrow and sets about clanging pans around and being cheffy.
I choose scallops but Im not sure how many I can eat so I make him open them one at a time and then sear them, one at a time, and then I eat them, one at a time. Each one done a different way of course. JC being a top createur du nosh is able to second guess how I want the next one done so I just have to say "ready for another one please" and one appears, this one wrapped in pancetta, that one drizzled with a little truffle oil, blah de blah de blah until I feel sick. Of course, the scallops are just an amuse bouche so when Im heartily fed up with them I pop upstairs for a nice bath (JC has miraculously run it for me in between dealing with the scallops and shrugging and looking French). While I soak in the tub with the big rubber crocodile (which is Treacle�s really, but I dont think she�ll mind) JC strips off to JUST the frilly pinny and sings "Sank Evvens for Leeetle Gurrrls" up the stairs to me while he checks on the cr�me caramel. I think we�ll have sex first and THEN the cr�me caramel. I find it does have remarkable restorative properties after a couple of hours of getting an Eiffel of his Tower. I know French fellers are supposed to be great lovers but I reserve the right to go "Is that your LOT?" and snort in a derisive way afterwards. After the cr�me caramel Id suggest a teeny little spliff "Oh, Mees Stepfie, yew Arrrr soooo deck-a-donnnt" then, once the silliness kicks in Id like to jump up and down on the sofa playing my trumpet while he does a Napoleon impression and sings "Allons enfants de la patreeeeeeyah, le jour de gloire et arrreeeeevay" for my amusement. When he�s washed up and put all the leftovers in the fridge he can go home.
Wednesday�s second shall be
Mr David Gilmour. I post two pictures of him on purpose, my friends, so that you can see what a total heap of super-yum he used to be and how he�s actually not too bad these days either. I think Super-Dave might prefer to do something a bit less poncy in the kitchen. Probably something grilled, so I choose lobster, which HE can "deal with" as I find all that stuff a bit of a chore quite frankly. While we�re dipping the lovely grilled chunks of crustacean in garlic butter or some such, we would discuss whether or not he concurs with BF about whether those four irritating notes in "Shine on You Crazy Diamond" really ARE the MOST fabulous four notes of guitar music ever written. Personally I think they suck. (and I would fuck him, even tho he�s quite old now.)
Ah Thursday. And the weekend�s almost here. Time for some partying. Bring on the one, the only�.
THE Robster himself, the ever lovely Mr Robbie Williams. There�s no point in beating about the bush here. We obviously cant go out anywhere as he�ll get recognised and might go off with someone younger and better looking than me so lets book into the Savoy and FUCK. Noisy naked fucking, with the addition of a massive selection of marital aids just for the hell of it. At least one of us needs to get thrown roughly against a wall for a sweaty knee trembler. And at some point we need to crash into some furniture only to have it splinter beneath us so we can laugh like loons and then just carry on, upside down on the floor.
When the room-service trolley turns up, I predict a lascivious food-fight ensuing (nothing with cream on � it doesn�t mix well with bodily fluids and actually tastes a bit horrid if one is compelled to lick it off anything) and some swigging of JD out of the bottle. We can take turns on the specially installed pole dancing pole (don�t worry � Rupert advised me on Monday which moves not to do as they make me look like a harpooned narwhal) and then a spot of 1000watt karaoke with a selection of dressing up clothes (from Angels and Bermanns, not MY dressing up clothes, silly!) � The Robster belting out "Smells Like Teen Spirit" whilst wearing a Kaiser�s pointy-topped helmet, lurex evening gloves, chamois leather loin cloth and some perspex porn shoes would be a sight to see, dontcha think (ooh, and one of those ridICulous butt plugs with a horsey tail joined on to it!). A word of warning tho, if he wants to do "Something Stupid" then I have to sing Franks part as I always go a bit wrong doing Nancy�s part even tho BF says its just a major third and I should be able to do it.
If they havent arrived to take the room-service trolley away yet then we�ll use it for surfing down the corridors on, taking it in turns to be the surfer or the trolley pusher. If we can find a really long corridor I�d like to get some serious speed up pushing the trolley and then both leap on and SCREEEEAAAM as we go along so every door to every room opens and a selection of bemused faces poke out going "wasn�t that�?" "Ohmygoodness, look away Martha, they�re both NAKED" "Shut the door Reginald, Im calling the management".
Back to our room where we get cosy in bed with a packet of Wagon Wheels to watch some really really bad seventies porn. The Robster scratches his nuts and farts quite a lot and tries to hold my head under the duvet but I manage to get a hand up to yank his chest hair til he stops. Then we�ll phone the front desk at the Savoy grill (went there once with Shagnasty!) and ask if our friend is there "Mr Jarse. Hugh. Can you ask if anyone�s seen him, please" and then when the maitre d� is bellowing "Has anyone seen a Hugh Jarse?" we can yell "Right behind you , mate!"
Naturally we�ll have sex again, but this time with kissing and caressing and a bit more finesse before he tells me Im "the best. EVER" and falls asleep with my arm around him and his head nestling against my breasts (which have miraculously grown for the occasion otherwise there wont be much nestling going on). When he wakes in the morning I will have slipped away back home leaving him to wander wistfully around the hotel marveling at my shagtastic powers (and marveling at the hideous mess we�ve made of a very nice hotel room). He�ll flick a roll of twennies on the bed before walking off down the street whistling a few bars of "On the Street Where You Live".
My second? After some deliberation (it was going to be Tommy Lee but BF said "Noooo Stepfie! He�s a CUUUUUNNNNT!") Ive settled on
Jon Bon Jovi.
I think he�d be fun (although a poor second if Im honest!)
Friday Night? Culture Night and Stepfie�s orf to the jolly old theeeaytre with 
Liam Neeson. He will frown all night. When I say "You�re frowning", he will look concerned and crestfallen and say "Im not, baby, Im having a FABulous time" and frown a bit more from the worry of it all. Naturally Id be a bit bombed after last night�s shenanigans but he wouldn�t notice me having forty winks in the second half as it would be dark and he would be holding my hand in a sedate sort of way and frowning from all the concentrating on the play. If it�s a good play, I�ll stand up at the end and shout "Bravo" and clap with my hands above my head and he will smile weakly at the people sitting nearest to us and frown a bit as I�ll be showing him up, but he wont mind really as he�ll think Im rather daring and sparky.
When we leave the theatre there�ll be a massive pack of paparazzi waiting after the "Robbie: I�ll never love another! Shock Revelations from the King of Pop after night with middle aged mystery blonde (see page 9)" expose in that mornings Sun. Liam will shield me carefully by wrapping me in his coat (with him still in it!) and bustling me to a waiting cab � not before the papps have got a fab shot of me looking doe-eyed and slightly haunted, of course. A little dinner for two in the private dining room of a dimly lit little place he knows. I pick at my tuna carpaccio salad while he looks worried and frowns a bit as he carves up his steak and colcannon.
Back to his place in a cab with his coat draped over me as I "look a bit chilly, my love". I wander around picking up all the artifacts he�s garnered on his travels and putting them down again in the wrong places. He frowns in an indulgent way while he mixes the martinis. He kneels on the floor in front of me, takes my face in his hands and tells me I am the most beautiful thing he�s ever seen before leading me to the bedroom and slipping me out of the flimsy chiffony number Im nearly wearing. His love-making is considered, considerate and intense. When I squeal, he frowns like he�s done something wrong. When I whisper "don�t stop, don�t stop" he frowns with concentration and carries on. Afterwards he sits on the side of the bed with his head in his hands, frowning. He says "I hope that was alright�" I jump out of bed and put his shirt on, saying "Gah! Give over man! Shall I make us a sarnie?" and he follows me into the kitchen in his boxers and watches me raiding the fridge, frowning as I get butter and crumbs and blobs of pickle everywhere. I sit on the countertop and discuss the play in the same way I discuss football "Maaaan, he was soo fat! Is he gay? She looked dreadful, you know she�s on drugs, don�t you? That bit where that bloke forgot his lines and went all red, that was the BEST bit!". Liam frowns and whips round with a J-cloth. We go back to bed but he sits on the side again, smoking a cigarette. Then he starts to cry. Im outta there (but I send flowers next day � Im not totally heartless).
Friday�s runner up? Nicolas Cage. 
I make him say "Put the bunny down" over and over again until I wee myself a little bit. He doesn�t mind (and he helps with the sandwich making and has salami in his one). He doesn�t cry and he calls me "Darlin�" quite a lot but I think that�s just cos he�s forgotten my name. He frowns too. Quite a bit.
Phew. Just Saturday and Sunday to go then. Just a few little hints then I�ll keep you all in suspenders til tomorrow night. We have TWO (Count Them!) total GODS of lurve, plus two of the most super dooper super-subs in the whole wide world. One of these hunks of loveliness has already been picked for this elsewhere by someone else but Im sure he will have recovered enough to go to it again, despite his age! You will laugh your arses off at my pathetic choice of men at least once but I will get to go to a fabulous party AND get some jobs done around the house, so scoff all you wish.
Til then�.
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