I was asked if we really did what we did on the lawn in full view of Angelika who must have seen it when she was in the house with us. Of course not: although we are all not shy of nakedness - and Angelika is not, either - we don't have sex in full view of each other. I am always surprised how many people - particularly those who have enjoyed a more traditional education - confuse nakedness with sex. Angelika was away yesterday.

There was someone on NN lately who posted some male cum pictures under the heading of: lately at the nudist beach. I had to laugh about so much naive ignorance - one cannot be more wrong than that. True nudism or for us here plain nakedness is not more than the absence of clothes. It means no wet swimsuits, no tanlines, no making sure that your breasts are covered everywhere by your bikini top and don't peek out. The funny thing is that wearing a tight little bikini has a lot to do with sex - while being without hasn't.

Hard to understand for some who have never tried. But when you are on a nude beach you hardly notice any hard cocks. There are always guys - strangers - who hide somewhere in the background in the bushes when there are any and masturbate. But otherwise people don't care much, and they don't even look. I can walk along the beach naked for kilometers and don't have the impression I am stared at. If I do the same in my bikini at the ordinary beach, this is much different. In France, a nude beach is a family beach.

Once when I was in the South of France in early autumn with a friend and we were almost alone on the naturist beach - there seemed to be more guys in the bushes masturbating than swimmers. It was quite ghastly because they did it looking at us two. I wonder what goes on in these poor sod's minds.

So when I swim in the nude with my friends, there are no hard cocks whatsoever. This can change of course, but then the situation would be different - and we would have sex.

It's sunny and summery although autumn has begun. I dragged myself out into my garden - the first few steps are always the worst - undressed and dipped into my pool. The doctor said cooling the swelling was good, and the water is already fairly cold, so I thought swimming a little would be fine. And it was. Then I sat on the edge of the pool with my feet dangling in the water and it felt nice and soothing.

Then Phillip came out and OH MY GOD he also had a swelling that was much worse than mine. It was in a completely different place, and it was obvious there was only one cure. So I lay down on my towel on the lawn and spread my thighs, and he carefully manoeuvered between them, and I held my awkward feet heavenwards - and soon his swelling was healed, and I was exhausted and enjoying the sun on my bare skin. But I didn't feel like getting sunburnt, too, so I have hobbled back to my study and here I am.

Phillip is still lying outside, but he said if there should be another swelling in the course of the afternoon, he would appreciate my help again very much later.

Last night Phillip asked me if I cared to join him in visiting one of his friends at the hospital in town. We took the car, and when I got off at the car park, I stepped on something lying on the ground, some big pebble, twisted my right ankle, fell across the lane in front of a car and doing so tore a whole bunch of ligaments in my left foot. I didn't even wear heels, as some of you may suspect, but some kind of leather track shoes, but it was just bad luck if not sheer clumsiness.

I was at the doctor's this morning to have the whole mess x-rayed to be sure that nothing was broken, but my skeleton seems alright and nicely in place. Now I am lying on my bed in my study, both swollen feet in coldpacks to cool the swellings down - and I certainly look pitiable. My only consolation is my laptop next to me which allows me to have contact to the world, which is NN, and you, my dear online friends.

It was so dark and rainy this morning, and I had some time on my hand, so I went back to the beginnings of my blog, sixty-six pages at the moment, each of which are about four pages on my old Epson printer. So all in all I must have written over 200 book pages – all about me and my small world, my hopes and desires, about my sexual endeavours and errors, and about my opinions on countless items. And most of all about people who crossed my way in the last two years, and the many, many ways we interacted – and this all in a foreign language which I am about to learn. What I also learnt in this time is how to type with more than only two fingers. I am still not fast – but I reckon no-one should type faster than she can think anyway.

It was interesting to look back: there are so many things I myself have half forgotten, so that some things were like a re-discovery – people I have not thought of for a long time, because we never met again, because they didn’t matter much in the first place, or because the are no longer among the living, and it’s so sad how quickly one forgets.

Someone I hardly recognized, either, was – myself. Two years younger, free-floating, freely fucking Alpina, the totally independent, keep-your-distance, never-fuck-someone-twice girl who was above most things. That is not me anymore: today I am much more part of something, I have a partner I want I child with, I have hardly any affairs any more. Have I become more mature, or more complex, or just more boring – considering the place where this blog can be found?

At that time, I still had at least one picture posted here – I have looked at them this morning. Some decapitated nudes – who regularly brought in offers to be fucked by strangers or were reposted to me soiled with unknown cum all over it. Some pictures were pretty explicit - showing pussy, one with visible signs of use. Those were the days, those were …

To finish with: I quite liked what I read. I am proud of my blog. There are specimens of fine, lucid and still emotional writing. I hope I will succeed in going on like this.

"What makes an AIDS test humiliating?" depotguy asks and implies with his question that this should not really be the case, but just quickly and professionally done. Maybe I am just oversensitive, but my impression is that here in our Catholic republic everything which is connected to extramarital sex is still looked upon as immoral - and that such people asking for treatment are at least morally inferior. It's what homosexual friends on mine notice when they have to go to hospital; I noticed it when I needed "the pill after" following my unfortunate swinger-club experience, or when I had my last AIDS-test done. It's the condescending way in which I was addressed, the quiet implication that if I behaved normally (which is morally), I needn't be here and rob them of their precious time to cure the good and worthy.

This is part of my blog entry from last time I had a test done (22/11/05): "The young doctor who took my blood sample told me that this HIV - test would only show a definite result if there have been more than three months since my last unprotected sexual intercourse. And this included oral sex, he said with a smirk, which most women usually didn't think of. That's what I use my strawberry flavoured condoms for, I say. Oh, he says."

This is the kind of conversation I can easily be without with in a medical surrounding, where my extramarital sexual activity already seems to appear as some kind of illness.

So trite, so normal, so unspeakable and unmentionable, so uninteresting particularly for males - my menstruation has set in, with all its feelings, and tears, and a body going awry. But just one month more of contraception, one month more of business for the latex industry and filling in rubbers - and then: nature, do your duty! I feel as fertile as freshly ploughed soil -I am sure it won't last long.

This time I will send Phillip for an AIDS test - just for the safety of our child and on principle. And I'll have one, too, of course. It's going to be humiliating again, but I am sure it's worth it.

There are so many new young colleagues in this school year that I start feeling like and old lady, from the way they look at me and ask me advice. Yesterday I met one at the photocopier and I was glad that she finished her copyjob when I arrived because I was a bit in a hurry. So I copied my tests and talked to her, but when I put the papers into my briefcase, she went to the copier again and got on with her job. And I noticed that she had just stopped to let me do my things because she wanted to be nice to an older person. Next thing is she gets up in the bus and offers me her seat. I could have screamed at her - although she just tried to be nice: I am a younger colleague, too - although I must admit this is no longer entirely true. Some retired, some even died, and year after year I quickly move through the ranks of seniority (towards senility?).

Some of them have no permanent jobs but are here for colleagues who are on a sabbatical, so they are so young they may not even have finished their training. When I look at them, I can see the difference between them and me ever so well: I thought and still think that I owe my students proper and appropriate clothing, like the male teachers for who there is a certain dresscode - that's why I wear my business clothes to school. But these young teaching girls do not bother much: two teach with a visibly bare midriff (God, what wonderfully firm abdomens), two have face piercings and one large tattoos on her shoulder and legs. I even have certain difficulties to distinguish them from older students, as when lately I closed the staffroom door before someone's nose who I had never expected to come my way.

If this is not a sign that I'm getting old, what is ......

Fourteen was the age when I started to menstruate - and from that figure you see that I was rather a late-bloomer, compared to most girls today. But that's maybe why I experienced my physical changes much more conscious than a younger girl. My parents, who were very open people, particularly my mother, had prepared me very well for this moment and given me all kinds of information, so I knew what I was up to.

I mentioned before in my blog that in our family, nudity was never a mystery. I saw my parents and many of their friends naked all around the house and particularly in summer when swimming in our pool. So I knew what a man looked like and how I would later look as a woman. When my body started to change, people started to comment on it and I loved the changes: the budding breasts, the pubic hair that started to grow.

So when I started to bleed, I knew pretty well what nature's intentions were when providing me with this reproductive system, and I soon very much felt like trying it. What I most wanted was to feel a hard cock in my hands and inside me - and this desire has never left me until now.

It actually happened when I was 15, and the guy was not quite 17. It was not exactly a great experience and I learnt a lot about guys and how they behave and treat you when they think that you are their regular fuck-buddy now.

What a glorious late summer's day! We were on the lake all afternoon, and I must say: It's one of the best feelings possible - the light, the gentle movement of the water, its reflexions, the silence, the view of the far land on both sides, the various shades of green, and the white mountain tops in the distance. The Editor's yacht is very comfortable, with a bedroom and a kitchen below deck and a tent-like sunshade in the back. In the front there is a platform where I usually spread my towel and spend some time sunbathing.

I am not much of an exhibitionist, but when we are on the yacht, I behave like one I must admit. The men are usually fully dressed and talk shop, a glass of wine in their hands. But I was just wearing my black bikini panties all afternoon today - together with the fine gold chain I got as a present from the Editor. I also wore this during lunch when we were sitting together, and they complemented me on my body and said they admired my breast, which made me quite proud. Once the Editor touched them and weighed them in his hands when Phillip saw it, but he just smiled.

I didn't get sunburnt, I made sure I wouldn't, but still my skin is glowing from being exposed so long, but I feel good and relaxed, not wearing much more than in the afternoon, while Phillip is reading downstairs, I am writing my blog here. But I am sure ere long we will be together again.

I woke up in Phillip's arms and we had breakfast together before he left for the office. Then I went shopping and later had coffee in town with Tanja - to be updated on her turbulent life. For those who remember her - she is pregnant (who isn't?) and plans to get married - to a doctor from the same hospital who is originally from Ghana and as black as the night - she guesses that her daughter (she does not know yet, but is convinced) will look like Angelika, if not chequered like a chessboard which she thinks might be cute, too.

It was wonderfully sunny and hot in the afternoon, which brought about another wet kiss on my lips - Helene and Oliver came over and while the boy was rubber-boating in my pool, his mother and I were working a little on our seamless tans and mainly talked about her marriage, which she describes as a disapointing bore. When I told her how often Phillip and I do it, she felt quite depressed and said next time we should call her over. It was meant as a joke, of course, but I made a mental note of that all the same, although I am not really intent on complicating my life more than necessary. But she said she was glad she had me - and that we were really, really close. And I was in for another wet slurp.

Tomorrow, actually, we will be on the Editor's yacht again - he invited Phillip and me, and according to the forecast it will be a brilliant day. So I am looking forward to it very much. Have the best of Sundays, too, my sweet readers and friends.