TK's Blog

Apologies again for the dearth of blog posts, I plead exam business.

I have not left the house in around 3 days. I am going stir crazy. More importantly, little of blogworthy significance is going on (I could post about certain interesting developments involving a monkey, a cow, and some unwelcome sexual tensions, but everyone with Facebook already knows about that, and besides, this is not a sex blog).

There is, however, a potential development in the pipeline which opens the door for me to introduce you to some vintage TK escapades.

A few months ago FV, who I've mentioned afore on this 'ere blog, dragged me out to Camden for a mooch around (the itinerary went something like Starbucks, All Saints, the Lock, Costa, H&M, Pret). It was during the fourth coffee, around 2 in the afternoon- when she announced abruptly that we were headed off a mysterious address.

In retrospect, my curiosity should have been piqued when she gave me more specific than usual instructions on how to dress, but with FV 'go with the flow, just don't take any pills she offers you,' usually guarantees a fun time and I stopped questioning long ago.

We arrive at said mysterious address, which turned out to be a nondescript looking house, not far from where FV lives. I texted someone to let them know roughly where I was. Just in case.

We were greeted by a guy, my guess around 22 or 23, with a definite and distinctive air of student (scruffy almost-beard, bloodshot eyes on a Saturday morning etc etc). Also, by the by, FV had slept with him. I know this, because I'm generally rather good at ascertaining whether two people have bumped uglies in the recent past- something to do with the way they angle their heads. Anyway, FV gestures at me and says cheerily:

"Here's your other model!"

To which I almost reply "Wuh?" but manage to smile and just go with the flow. Our friend, it turns out, is an aspiring photographer who needs the practice and pictures for his portfolio.

Fast forward 20 minutes and a cup of coffee which ranks somewhere between vending machine and Nescafe instant for quality, and I'm standing in a makeshift studio in the basement, posing in nothing but boxers and my leather jacket.

"Excellent!" the photographer trills as I clench my entire trunk. FV watches dispassionately from the sidelines.

"Wait a second!" and she runs forwards and tugs on the boxers, at which point I discover that I'm not too dark to blush.
"You need to get this muscle in!" she insists, gesturing at my crotch.

I grumble, pose, pout. Afterwards, we have more coffee, and I get tips on the photography side of things from, well, the photographer. At the end of the day

Recently, I discovered the photos hiding in a folder on my computer, and through a slightly convoluted series of events they are now on Facebook. So here's the rub; I phoned FV to tell her I'd found them, to reminisce and whatnot, and she said that he's doing some "ethnic" pictures in a few weeks time, and maybe I'd like to come along.

And, dear god, I think I said yes.

This time, people, "this muscle" stays under at least 2 layers of fabric. I shall report back. In the meanwhile, I shall be using copious amounts of Clean and Clear, and doing unreasonable numbers of push ups every night in an attempt to bulk up my arms.

Blogamigos, wish me luck.

P.S. It seems that I'm not bad at the photography side of things. Anyone wants some nice pics taken for profile pictures or otherwise, hit me up in the usual way. £10 per session, and no nudity allowed.

P.P.S. exams. aaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh.