11 days isn't a long time by any definition. But the last 11 days have helped me to understand things about myself that have been kept hidden for many years.

I've never kept a blog before...written a diary entry beyond the mundane 'take the bins out' sort of thing. If you have the misfortune to stumble across these ramblings you'll wish I'd kept things like that. 

 But this site is, in some very weird way, helping to understand things about myself as an adult that no amount of therapy would ever have achieved. One of the things I'll tell you I confessed to one person, my ex-wife, it led to divorce. Others I have never expressed in any manner to anyone. So here I am sharing confessions, and desires, with one of the biggest buch of sick perverts you could hope to find on this planet.

Oh là là, where to begin?

Why do I live alone? Why have my long-term relationships been unfulfilling and ultimately sexless failures? If I was to analyse this, I would say because I kept my desires repressed as a young adult, and so my sexual proclivities became frozen in time, think around November 1981!

I know exactly where my obsession with wetlook - the sight of women wearing wet clothes in inappropriate settings comes from. Way back in Primary School, omnce a week during the summer months two whole year groups - each consisting of some 25 children - would be taken by coach to swimming lessons at a local privately owned swimming pool. There were two sisters, both swam like mermaids, were collecting all the possible swimming badges and certificates they could. They lived 'at the back' as we say in the UK - the house backing onto ours. So come the morning of swimming lessons and the two sisters turn up to school in identical pink jumpers and cotton skirts with a denim pattern printed on them. Nothing remarkable as there was no school uniform in primary schools in the 70's. On to the school bus, off to the pool, into the changing rooms. Not the misses Newton. They dive straight into the pool, pink jumpers, denim skirts and all, to continue their training at resuing bricks from the bottom of the pool. 

Holy fuck! As if that's not enough, end of school, their 'swimming costumes' are drying on the washing line at the back of their house, stimulating all kinds of confused recollections in my pre-pubescent boy-brain.

And they repeat this process each Monday morning throughout that summer. By the end of it, not only was so I competely absorbed by watching these two beauties that I never learned to swim, but I was looking out for their outfits to appear on the washing line and experiencing some inexplicable stirrings inside.

The next experience is much, much darker. My grandfather died when I was about six years old. My parents went to the funeral. Kids didn't get to experience any part of death in the 60's and 70's so I was shipped off to stay with neighbours - I went to the same school as their two children, the daughter was in the same class, her brother, Darryl, was a year below. We had all moved onto a new estate at the same time, so all the families were pretty close.

Darryl had a toy train layout in the attic. I loved toy trains, had a small layout of my own so was very excited when Darryl and his dad proudly invited me up to look at the layout, presumably to take my mind off my Grandfather's passing.

Subsequently, whenever I would go round to play, usually once a week for formal 'playdates', Darryl's dad would ask if I wanted to see the layout and play with the trains...of course I said yes. So for about five years he groomed me. "Sit on my lap for a better view"..."do you like it when I play horsey?" he would wriggle around with me sat in his lap. Latterly it felt...funny (not in a good way)

They moved away. Dad did well in business and they bought what had been a farm, big new house, massive field, old falling down barn with a very rotten MG convertible inside. Darryl, now aged about 11, thought it the best thing ever as he could play in it for hours. 

My family, mum, dad and me, went to visit. "Do you lads wnt to play in the barn", says Darryl's dad. "Darryl can show you his MG"

"Really? Ooh yeah" off we trot to the barn, play at driving along the motorway, slamming the doors, twisting the steering wheel, tooting the way-past-working horn.

Somehow, I don't recall how, maybe I'v blocked the memory, Dad tells Darryl to go indoors. He sits with me in this shagged-out MG. Suddenly he's playing horsey again. This time his hands are inside my pants all over my crotch, he rubs me till I ejaculate for the first time ever, in my tracksuit bottoms (sporty look that day -oh the shame of it!)

I'm confused, ashamed, shocked. I'm probably 12 at this point if I recall.

We go home. (What the fuck just happened? Don't know. What to do about it? Don't know) I decide to clean up the evidence. I must in some way have been at fault, I think at this point. So I draw a deep warm bath, and get in. Wearing my tracksuit. This felt in some way, nice. The tracksuit looked nice, it clung and shone like the misses Newtons' jumpers. What did Darryl's dad do? Lets try it again. I rub my crotch. It feels nice. So it continued. A 12 year-old wetlook fetishist, child-abused pervert.

The mind is a very strange thing I've worked out. All this memory, this awful experience over some 5 or 6 years I blotted out, blanked, covered up. It was only towards the end of my last relationship, as we drifted apart and sex became non-existent, that I dug deep into my memory and found this, like some wrongly named file sat in an archive for decades.  

I think that's sufficient for tonight. It's not fun, it's not sexy or erotic, but if you've kept reading to the end, thank you and send me a little message. 'Hi' is enough.

There is more, unfortunately. I'll subject you to that very soon.

Thank you and goodnight, you bunch of lovely weirdos.