Sticky situation

I've got a feeling this might be too much information, but I've got a bit of a problem. A sweat problem. I just can't stop. I'm constantly sweating at all times, regardless of what the temperature is. In the summer, it's understandable and people turn a blind eye at beads of sweat on the forehead, but when it's cold and miserable like today, it looks a bit odd.

This morning for example, I left Doormouse's and struggled onto the Jubilee line with all my gubbins for the weekend. I had an over-the-shoulder bag, a BIG Topman bag, brolly and all the other bits that make rush hour on the underground so comfortable for me and those around, and while I was lodged in the doorway, chin pressed into my chest, trying not to breathe in the stench of the unwashed, the sweat was quite literally pouring down my forehead and into my eyes. My thickening spray was slowly dripping in with it, but because I had loads of stuff in my hands and there was limited room, I had no option but to stand and leave it blinding me. It was stinging so much, it must've looked like I was crying. And I'm not even going to mention what a state my hair was left in.

But that's not the worst of it. The parts of my body that really drip (and not in a good way) are the palms of my hands. Any time, day or night, they are in various states of wetness from clammy to damp to sopping. Shaking hands on the first day of a new job usually results in a boss looking decidedly unimpressed and should I feel that a hand shake is imminent in a formal setting, I can usually be found desperately wiping my hand down my jeans before contact is attempted.

I'm not alone: Sophia is the epitome of style and grace, but she too suffers at the hands of the Sweat Curse. Not all of my friends are understanding though - Snow calls me The Sweat Boy, Mr Clammy and Dirty Wet Hands.

It's all rather unsavoury and I'm sorry if it's left you feeling a bit sticky. I really am a very clean boy and I do wash regularly, I promise!

It's just when people behind me on the escalator see the soaking wet hand print I've left on the rail, I feel like a grubby little pikey.

Dirty talk

An email popped into my inbox from Doormouse a moment ago.

Despite only signing up as a verified sex industry worker on Tuesday, he (or rather 'Joe, 24, slimmer's build') has already been inundated with calls from sickos across the land.

One caller last night wanted Doormouse to pretend to be a 'sweaty Ashley Cole after the match', another said he wanted to 'piss spunk up his arse', but the best of all asked if he could use Doormouse's 'man cunt as a cum bucket'.

They haven't all been that funny. 'Jeff from Kent' asked him if he was wearing frilly knickers and when DM said he wasn't, the guy hung up. It seems that the world of chat line operators holds no prisoners.

The money seems to be rolling in and I am supremely jealous that I don't have a landline. I'm popping round his place one night next week, so I hope he lets me listen in to a call, or better still, do one myself.

How deliciously unsavoury.