When you start clocking up so many shags you forget not only names but exact numbers it takes its toll on you. Not physically so much, but mentally. Somehow the dream of one of these random fucks turning out to be ‘the one’ becomes less and less likely. You realise you are no longer addicted to the dream of finding Mr Right, rather you are addicted to the sex – the ‘high’ of scoring the cock you demand inside in you; another ‘notch on the bedpost’; a funny fabulous story to recount down the pub; a boudoir conquest; an escape from the loneliness – just a couple of hours in the arms of another, even if the comfort and attention is all just pretend.

And it started to hurty by the time I was thirty. Constant disappointment as I left one bedroom without wanting a return invite (if one was even extended). With the crushing realisation my wonderful twenties were behind me and facing the inevitable reality that I was just a slag who’d spend their life alone I thought I’d at least diminish the prospect of allowing myself to be a doormat to beautiful men.

There’s a great line in a Blur song (before they completely creatively disappeared up their own arses) – ‘and the mind gets dirty, as you get closer to thirty’.

Mine did. It has ever since if I’m honest.

I’ve always said there are three things I don’t do:

1)      Bestiality (it’s okay to have a sneaky watch on zootube)

2)      Poo (accidents are sometimes unavoidable)

3)      Paedophilia (it’s always wrong and makes me ill thinking about it, let alone writing about it)

But Cougar Town was approaching. A stream of married men, experienced men had an emotional edge on me, upsetting the balance of power. The only alternative was to stop chasing older guys and start seducing younger men. The rationale behind it was that if they were older they’d be less experienced with women which would allow me to feel more in control and chances were less complicated emotionally (I don’t mean that in a derogatory way  I’m not sure how complicated emotionally men ever are – and I’m not a staunch feminist man hater). I could have saucy sex without any sticky heavy emotional ties. Young guys wanna fuck – not get married and have babies.

I have to say for the most part this new plan worked – there’s a few other stories tucked away in that catalogue that I’ll return to at another time. Young might be fun but it can be…..messy in an inexpert way.

I wish I could remember his name. He was a scouser and I met him on faceparty – just as they eradicated all the ‘oldies’ from the site. I was lucky to get a code to reboot my profile and access this young person’s domain.

There is an escapable beauty in youth. Youth aside though he would remain beautiful even as he aged. In a few more years he could easily have gone Goth, but when I met him he was ‘geeky’. A little scouser that was a good catholic boy, and spent his time painting famous scenes from cult movies and selling them on eBay. A comic book collector. I’d have loved him when I was 13, but I was 30 now and I had the ability to not have to lust from afar. I could use my feminine wiles to draw him to London. And I did.

There was an innocence to him. Despite my reservations that my size would put him off he assured me it didn’t in the slightest. He thought I was ‘interesting’ and ‘sensitive’. I don’t think he realised I was just emotionally retarded. At 16 I suppose to him I was interesting. When he asked about seedy Soho and how sexually adventurous I was I’m guessing given my sexual history and overactive imagination a teenage girl couldn’t really complete. Perhaps I was the embodiment of maternal sexuality – I wonder if it was that I was non-threatening but highly available? Whatever he clearly thought I was worth the risk so he told his mum (he was from a single parent family) that he was headed to London for a comic book convention one weekend.

Picking him up from Victoria coach station I did feel a bit mumsy. I was vamped up appearance wise but I was shocked at how boyish he was. I wasn’t even sure he’d have pubes and I hoped to god he hadn’t lied about his age. It’s gotta be legal!

He was so skinny and wearing all black. He had jet black hair and deep green eyes – like a cat that had transformed into a boy. All leanness – I remember him telling me he had something like 2% body fat. His arms were like twigs and I had a feeling I wasn’t sure he’d be able to execute my favourite sexual position of me on my back with my legs wrapped round his neck…but I was willing to give it a try.

I just hadn’t thought through how overwhelming it may have been for him. He’d been to London once before with his Dad who had warned him off Soho, which clearly piqued his curiosity so I felt it was the best place to start.

Regardless of him being underage I didn’t incur any problems in getting him into pubs in Soho. And I definitely needed a drink to take the edge off as I felt like a naughty nanny. He was awfully shy and confessed that he never ate in public with cutlery (McDonald’s for dinner then – I kid you not!). But after a few drinks he relaxed enough to let go of his backpack and sidle closer to me on the couch at the trendy Soho pub.

All the texts and instant online messaging began to creep into the conversation. Did I mean the things I said online? Did I like him in the flesh and still want to do the things I had promised? Was I really happy to go shopping for sex toys with him to use later? Hello Mr Cutey Cute – YES!

I had my first kiss at 15 and never had another until I was 21. I didn’t have sex until I was 21. I sat in that bar, looking at the evening crowd tottering in for a night on the West End and should’ve felt out of place but as he eventually mustered up the courage to kiss me oh so gently, so tentatively I melted into the seat. It was a kiss I should’ve had 14 years earlier, but it was worth the wait. My cynicism and pain of rejection forgotten in that moment. To kiss like a teenager, to just explore, to be excited at the prospect of sex – it felt so innocent and exactly what I needed. There was no need to analyse, think it out, contemplate the art of seduction – the attraction was there and that motored things on.

Me moving my hand up his thigh, him moving his kisses to my throat, ears, panting like a puppy as his hands gently brushed over my exposed cleavage. I could feel myself dripping wet and decided to make a move.

I avoided Ann Summers – it’s way too mainstream and inoffensive. I opted for Harmony – decent stuff but not intimidating.

It wasn’t crazy or extreme toys we bought. We held hands and selected some handcuffs and a blindfold. Ever the gent he insisted on paying…..with his pocket money no doubt.

After a Maccas we headed back to mine. At the time I was living in the very hip Lambs conduit Street in Holborn – above a Café, with the landlord’s and café owner’s mother and a mysterious flatmate I never saw. The difficulty was that my room was a refurbished loft. You literally opened the front door of the flat to see a ladder. One had to climb the ladder to get to my bedroom. The ceilings were low but the room was massive – it’s just that it was directly overhead the town other bedrooms in the house so all movements and noises can be heard.

There was a single bed in the room, but I tended to use that as my couch and had a double futon on the floor. It was only when I was finally getting to strip that tight t-shire off to reveal a taunt skeletal pale white torso I heard the words I dreaded.

‘I lied about something’

‘What?’

‘I ummmm I never slept with another girl. I haven’t done this so. I might not get it right.’

Ding, ding, ding – JACKPOT!!!

I promised it’d be okay. And for just one night I didn’t feel used. I felt treasured, admired. To have someone desperate to explore your body. To try things they’ve only ever seen in porn movies and magazines. Someone without any need to be cruel. I had an urge to sing with angels – ‘I was beat, incomplete, I’d been had, I’d been sad and blue but you made me feel, yeah you made me feel shiny and new’.

For him everything was exciting. And knowing that my warm, wet minny was the first his mouse would visit was very flattering I must confess.

It wasn’t dirty sex, it was pure sex. Like the best vanilla ice cream ever that makes you think – ‘why do I always opt for chocolate and strawberry – this ice cream flavour is bliss’

That’s not to say the toys were neglected. I got him up on the single bed where I could cuff him to the bed posts and blindfold him. Suck him until he was begging for mercy. Demented with pleasure. I straddled him then – knowing I’d be the first woman to ever mount that lovely proud flawless cock – and rocked. I removed his blindfold and the sight of it was all too much. He was begging to suck my breasts and who I was I to deprive him.

Notwithstanding his impressive stamina it had taken its toll. He began begging me to get off. I was a bit miffed. I normally try and bare my full weight on my thighs in that position so as not to squash the man underneath. But he seemed distressed so I leapt off only to find as I did cum came out of his penis like a fire hose had been turned on and was unmanned – his cock whirling round, cum flying out like a sprinkler.  It was a blast that jettisoned over us both. I reached down and rubbed the cum on his stomach down and massaged his balls with it while he moaned. Still handcuffed I let him watch as wiped his cum between my legs. He begged me to uncuff him and no sooner had I then he got quite forceful and pushed me down on the bed cuffing my wrists.

He put the blindfold on and I felt his fingers probing inside me, deeper and deeper. My body responded and he intuitively twisted them inside me making me moan. He spent a long time orally investigating the new shaven pleasure garden before getting hard and putting himself inside me again. With him in control it was a lot more frantic and frenzied – but who doesn’t like a good rogering now and again. Technique can be forgiven as long as lust and enthusiasm are present.

He was quick to withdraw again before ejaculation. He stood by the single bed, his eyes closed tight and his mouth fixed in a firm line, willing his cock not explode again. I got him to uncuff me and told him to kneel down as I positioned myself into a sitting position on the bed edge, legs dangling to the floor. He obliged and spreading my legs wide, then lips I gave a few clear concise instructions as to exactly where the clitoris was. Inexperience is sweet but lapping a cunt like a dog is only fun for so long – eventually you need to hit the right spot. It would only be fair to the next lady he laid with.

It was an exercise he seemed to enjoy as it wasn’t long before he was back inside me, my ankles in gripped in his hands as he pushed my legs over my head to go as deep as possible before withdrawing and cumming all over the backs of my thighs.

There’s always that awkward moment when you feel sticky and … well I’m an Aussie and OCD (obsessive compulsive disorder) – we like to shower once a day and I just can’t sleep if I feel dirty. So it was down the ladder for a shower but by the time I climbed stark naked up the ladder – which given my size cannot have been a good look. His green eyes were beaming and he was asking if he could do me doggy style. It seemed rude to say no, but I have to say by this time, age was taking its toll on me. I was thirty after all and not only needed my beauty sleep but wasn’t used to pulling an all-nighter – even if I could have a lie in tomorrow. This last session not only involved me on my knees on a hard loft floor with threadbare carpet, gritted teeth as I endured the pounding but was accompanied to a soundtrack of my elderly Portuguese flat mate (landlady’s mother) yelling in broken English that she didn’t deserve this noise at 3am.

I know longer felt like a porn star, I just felt tired. Eventually he collapsed and slept and I was grateful.

And like two teens aware that it was an infatuation there was the awkwardness the following morning of getting him back to Victoria Coach Station so he’d get home for school on Monday, finding a place to have breakfast that didn’t involve cutlery and him awash in catholic guilt saying if I was pregnant he’d stand by me.

He headed back to Liverpool and took my teenage dreams with him.