Minimal internet access at the moment and short of time. Following the ‘How to make a blog successful’ website has urged me however to ‘post regularly’, rather like my grandmother advising of the absolute necessity for at least daily bowel motions. Having taken on board as best I can this homely advice, the following little Malteaser of a post is short, sweet yet, actually, extremely important as far as manners within the boudoir are concerned.

Thus far I’ve delved into my own early sexual inexperience and given just a little insight into the deviancy I relish today. Yet certain encounters with certain dicks have, more notably than others, shaped my bedroom etiquette – as opposed to expertise. Thus comes the story of David The Trumpet.

Within about 18 months of unleashing my vagina to the world I’d left the safety of a 9-5 office job and moved into theatre land, securing a position first as Office Manager before moving into full throttle as Front of House chief and immersing myself in the hub absolute of the action. What was unique about our theatre was that after the show finished, the venue played host as a late night bar which was frequented by a mass of actors, musicians, dancers and backstage workers from surrounding West End theatres once they’d finished their respective shows each evening. Those in the know will recognise instantly the establishment to which I refer.

My foray into this industry would pave the way for me in terms of sluttiness and upping the kink factor by vast notches at once. However my first experience in that role contributed little in way of all that but did nonetheless teach me a good lesson in life.

Still on the large side myself, I discovered bodies inhabiting the entertainment industry, in their own way, far less discerning looks wise than those of the City Boys with whom I’d been previously known to frequent. It was my experience that personality and perception of one’s talent and position was far more an attractive proposition in the West End market than superficial good looks. So there I would flourish, see myself cross into double figures sex partner-wise, becoming ever more open and experimental with each of my evening antics.

Originally, I was just the fat, funny office girl that stayed behind for drinks, but having been embraced by the ‘family’ of out-of-work actors, dancers, designers and so on otherwise known as the Front of House Team to members of the soi-disant ‘IT Club’ that haunted our particular drinking hole, I was seen as some pretty, young (albeit plump) witty thing that could potentially hit the headlines at some point.

For headlines, or stories of them, do keep watching this space.

Obviously not wishing to disillusion my patrons I was happy to be considered ‘beautiful by association’ which led me to one of my own, who shall forever be known as ‘David the Trumpet’.

Insecure, I was shallow beyond belief with my choices in men (hypocritical I know) and bid constantly for physical affirmation.

David took looks to a whole new level; he was, I thought then, totally out of my league under normal circumstances. But these weren’t normal circumstances. This was a whole other world where David had beer goggles, was drinking alone and I was…happy to take advantage.

By no means the best trumpet player in the West End (if memory serves he was actually 3rd player in one of the nearby shows meaning there were at least two others in that show alone better than him – perhaps more depending on the size of the orchestra). But in all his gorgeousness he was fortunate to not be solely reliant on his ability to blow a horn. In his early twenties he was very much the pretty boy with long lashes, deep brown eyes, perfectly cropped black hair to match an equally perfectly chiselled face on an even more perfectly toned body. Boy did I throw everything into obtaining that shag. Ensured he was given unlimited free drinks, watched in awe at his pathetic matchstick tricks on the bar (god did they actually impress women when sober?) and listened to his inane drunken mumbling.

And then I scored the prize of an invite back to his place, which I more than readily accepted.

It turned out to be a booby prize though; the only thing I won was the experience. David was all too aware of his good looks and my gratuity at the attention, thus when it came to the nakedness bit he just laid back and let me do all the work…and I mean all.

By dint of sheer willpower and massive effort I somehow pumped the Brewer’s Droop from his cock – quite a feat on its own – but having overcome that obstacle (I could and did worry about the RSI later) David had no intention of thanking me less still repaying in kind for the investment I was left with the prospect of having to get on and ride the (almost) dead donkey – and this my first time on top. Whereas I should really have been concerned about how my boobs were jiggling, what bits were wobbling or how to position myself so he didn’t feel my full weight along with the effort of ensuring he didn’t slip out, I suddenly realised I was having bad sex.

I mean Really Bad Sex. Boring sex, rubbish sex, sex that was exactly what it should not be – i.e. completely devoid of the slightest pleasure or fun. As we al know (but seldom admit) the ‘member’ isn’t the all important factor here – but a little imagination is. I bobbed up and down on his wilting stem til I realised making him come was beyond my skill, patience and now utterly diminished desire. I’d been up for twenty four hours and was tired. Sleep was infinitely preferable to silently bouncing about on his less than impressive cock wondering how long was polite before accepting, without verbally communicating, his reaching an orgasm was not going to happen that night and my doing so even further off the scale.

I persevered – it seemed the right thing to do – but after what seemed a more than reasonable amount of time, got off and held his cock, unenthusiastically massaging it until he dozed off to sleep. Then I could breathe easily; I figured I’d catch a few hours and then slip away, not cause a fuss or outstay my welcome, but at least be there for a quick ‘hi’and ‘bye’ when he woke. Chances are I’d see him again and …well no one wants tension on their own turf.

I lay in the darkness, staring at the ceiling and replaying how horrendously bland it had been was and what a disappointing scene I’d just played part in. I reached the conclusion that so confident was he in his looks David had never been short of women and therefore had never been desperate for sex. No need then to rely on other skills. By never having to make an effort around the opposite gender, the misguided fool had allowed this to impact on his performance. He’d never had to be good at it because he could get it as and when, but I wondered about what repeat performances he’d achieved. I suspect the women he’d sexually encountered for the most part considered him a one hit wonder. I’d had drunken sex before but in the fumblings both parties had made an effort so as to at least ensure they themselves had gotten off and (I like to think) hoping in the process the other consenting person did too. But not this time. He assumed because he got women with ease, he pleased them as easily. Even an inexperienced girl lacking in self esteem like me realised just how insignificant looks were in respect of a good shag.

Then the cautionary tale. As I mulled all this over, David the Trumpet farted…on my thigh…in his sleep. Failing to make the effort in bed with a one night stand was one thing but not even bothering to hold back the flatulence in their presence was downright disgusting.

I fumed in his fumes (a mix of his dinner and my indignation), desperate to take a flannel to cleanse my thigh until the morning. I threw my clothes on (leaving a bra on his instrument case) and tried to wake him, asking if perhaps he could phone a cab. He waved me away like a fly. I asked equally politely if he had a Yellow Pages so I might find a the number so I could call one myself. This was met with a groan and sleepy instructions to leave the front door, take a left then a left and in ten minutes I’d be at the tube station.

I was outraged at the sheer dismissiveness of it all (which is saying something given I’m an Australian and not noted for perfect manners). It didn’t seem overtly rude or deliberate as far as I was concerned personally, just pig ignorance and poor manners on his part. I felt I’d observed all the unspoken rules of the one night stand, but it was as if he didn’t even acknowledge their existence.

I understood that night not only the value of sexual prowess but the necessity for a little bedroom etiquette in order to be considered a ‘decent fuck,’ one to be remembered with some degree of fondness rather than revulsion. I’d given him the gift of my luscious lips and a bloody good blow job and all I’d received in return was a blow off. Farting on someone’s leg is inexcusable. Okay in a relationship I might refer to it as brown kisses or excuse it as a bottom saying ‘I love you’ but please – at least exercise the sphincter for the sake of good impressions with a stranger.

The following night when it got out round the workplace I’d had my first shag with a member, everyone was curious as to what ‘standard’ of guy I was capable of attaining. They assumed it would be Edwin, the morbidly obese stage hand from some theatre – desperate to confirm his questionable sexual persuasion. Instead they were in shock and awe that it was ‘David the Trumpet’. I on the other hand was not so surprised at my conquest those twenty four hours later. If anything, the only thing that mystified me was how this particular ‘air bender’ remained at 3rd Trumpet in his orchestra as opposed to first, given his penchant for the gusty bellowing of personal wind.