What makes a guy attractive? And what makes a man physically irresistible.

I like to think the majority of men I’ve slept with have ranked pretty high in terms of their looks. Graded most women would place them at 7 or up on a scale of 10. It used to be phenomenally important to me to sleep with men extraordinarily good looking and far superior in their physical attractiveness in comparison with me in order to affirm what little self confidence I had and to ensure my conquests were boasts to be proud of.

But there were one or two that slipped through the net in terms of physical beauty and I question why I allowed it. The person in mind was not great beauty in fact he barely even made the grade as average or ‘plain looking’. In truth he was ugly.

It’s a harsh judgement to make; subjective and dependant on taste but had the man in mind and my liaison with him ever gone public I would have been ashamed. Yes that sounds shallow and horrid on my part and back then I suppose some aspects of me were but at 5’2 with a greasy blonde mullet, pock marked skin, buck teeth and a limp no reasonable person could have dragged him into any other category looks-wise other than …. unattractive.

Yet I was besotted with the man. For an evening or two – just till I’d bedded him…well fucked him in the downstairs toilets of the theatre I worked at.

And so what lure did this goblin like creature have for me, particularly as I was stone cold sober and drug free? He had a confidence to him and he had ‘the chat’. He was conversationally engaging. The words dropping from his tongue seemed to give him some kind of aura that made me want him. His sheer dismissiveness of me when I was or should have been the toast of the theatre as its manager, calling the shots with music, free drinks and lock ins had me annoyed and sexually hungry.

I was furious with myself for wanting him, knowing I could do better and with great ease. Perhaps it was the challenge or just to prove to myself that he was all chat and no little repugnant hobbit could really resist my charm.

I was on charm offensive. It took three nights hard work. I bore 36 hours of back handed compliments and physical brush offs, but by Friday night I had exercised my tongue (not on his cock but in competition with his sharp wit) so that he took me seriously enough to linger with a last drink…as I let the normal punters head home at closing and invited my naughty gnome to stay for another pint.

His height was problematic. Fortunately the bar stools were quite high so sitting on the stool and me standing behind the bar we were roughly about the same height so I could go in for the kiss. His bugs bunny teeth banging against my own perfect pearly whites. My hands twirling the ends of his mullet and wondering if I could wipe the grease from his hair into the oil vat out the back of the restaurants to cooks the following nights chips in.

I gravitated from the behind the bar to between his legs, testing the cock and to my surprise finding it wasn’t as stumpy as his shorter leg.

I admit it I was drunk. It was Friday night and Friday night was FUBAR night (that’s a drink abbreviated for Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition consisting of two shots of vodka, two shot of gin, two shots of bacardi and a bacardi breezer all poured into a pint glass) and I had indulged. I must have because I cannot for the life of me recall how we somehow made our way from the bar downstairs to the toilets by the entrance to the stalls of the theatre.

But I do recall sitting on the row of sinks, skirt hitched up, with a pugly pygmy’s face buried between my spread legs. And I remember loving it. I mean it was ugly sex but maybe that was the appeal or turn on for me.

Clearly there was no way (unless he stood on a beer crate or slipped into some mammoth platforms from the 70s) he was going to be able to fuck me on the sink so I did an unforgivable (in terms of hygiene) and allowed myself to be fucked on a toilet floor.

You have to remember the west-end (fringe) theatre I was managing at the time had a late night bar and the clientèle were musicians, actors and dancers from surrounding theatre-land. These were not restrained or orderly in their social habits. So the floor had already been subject to at least 8 hours of spilt alcohol, god knows what may have been on the soles of the toilet users shoes, possible pee from having to drip dry (my fault for not ensuring the toilet rolls were kept full and fresh in each cubicle), possible other mishaps from bowel or uterus and most definitely spunk from other Friday night filthy encounters patrons had been engaging in.

And there I was, in the mess, knickers and tights down round my ankle having ugly sex on an ugly and smelly floor.

That sex has stayed with me. Because it was hot. Because it was wrong. Because I should never have allowed it to happen. I used to wear all black and by the time I’d been shafted severely by a  midget with the sex style of a pneumatic drill my attire did not in any way disguise my antics.

There’d been something about having something so little and ugly working its way round and relishing all of me that had made me wetter than ever. I still find it repulsive as I write and yet can still get wet at the sheer disgust he evoked in me combined with the pleasure he actively bestowed on me. I’m not sure what it was…seeing my juices all round his plump lips with those protruding teeth; those tiny little hands with sausage fingers – one resting on the mound of my vagina a thumb pressing against my clit while the other hand slipped two deliciously short fingers furiously inside me; that grimy unwashed body sweating over me as he fucked away – the grubby droplets being massaged into me as he clambered over me to get his dick in as far as it could go. Whatever it was it worked. It was sexy and unforgettable.

By the time I arranged myself and watched the minuscule excuse for a man dress with morbid fascination that I had just had very intimate and exciting relations with I was holding his hand and walking up the stairs of the theatre and passed the box office to find the Saturday Box Office morning shift were starting – which meant it was 9am and I had been caught hand in hand with someone very ugly and very obviously another shag from the numerous punters I was clocking up from that particular venue.

She was disapproving – not of my choice (she was no stunner herself), more that I was her boss and was clearly conducting myself in a manner she felt not befitting a manager.

She was probably right.

There was no more ugly sex with him. Or ever again. Which is a shame really because looking back it was definitely worth a revisit. My only opportunity though was when our paths crossed at another theatre. The theatre and my position was far more civilized and orderly….and the sinks were way too high for the initial foreplay.