Not all sex is good sex – fact! Not all sex is memorable sex – fact! But unmemorable, ordinary sex can still leave you with a sense of personal achievement.

When I was working in theatre back in the early noughties I was somewhat obsessed with a particular patron who I thought looked like a chubbier version of James Redmond (an actor who played Finn in tack Channel 4 teen soap Hollyoaks and moved onto Casualty playing Abs). James Redmond was a model so looking like a slightly chubbier version of him was by no means an insulting comparison. If anything he was drop dead gorgeous. I shamelessly threw myself at the patron but with little success. He himself was a little overwhelmed at my attention and couldn’t quite appreciate why someone was so desperately attracted to him. I worked hard on his visits to the late night theatre but reaped very little of what I attempted to sow. In fact I think the closest we got to sex was when I walked him from the theatre to the tube station and in a dark alley he squeezed one breast and asked for a flash of my ample bosom. I obliged and he asked if I would like to dress up in leather and play the dominatrix to his submissive. Sadly, on the spot in public (however dark) I was caught off guard and unsure of how to respond to such a request. I had holding hands and romantic picnics on the  brain, he clearly had other ideas that were at the reverse end of the relationship scale. People assume sometimes because one is voluptuous, outspoken, gregarious and sexually aggressive that they’ll be like that in bed. I wasn’t. I spent most of my time behaving like that so when I was in ‘fuck’ mode I wanted to be dominated so I could turn off that particular personality defence for an hour or two and reveal the gentler more sensual aspects of my soul. Thus taken aback from his bold request I pulled my blouse down and scurried back down under the arches of Charing Cross train station to attempt to recover some dignity.

Dignity was something I had little of with that patron. Another time I seduced him into staying back with free drinks and my obvious besotted desire for him and he moved in so close I could feel his breath and waited for him to finally brush my lips with a kiss I’d been wanting for months and he whispered ‘You are so lovely. You’re like an angel, but you’re never going to be the girl a man wants to marry – and I’m looking for a wife.’

I was crushed. In fact that comment crushed what little ego I had left. I soon let go of that crush. I wanted the wait of his gorgeousness crushing my body while we writhed around on the floor or in the toilet of the theatre. All he crushed was any self respect I had.

The one that got away. But there are more James Redmond look-a-likes out there I’m thankful to report.

One night a few years later my friend L and I were having yet another debauched weekend in Great Yarmouth – England’s premier seaside town. As I was getting my groove on (as much as one can throw shapes with the difficulty of moving effortlessly on a sticky alcohol drenched dance floor) I spotted at the bar another James Redmond look-a-like. He was not a chubby version. He was more like a  younger brother. Similar hair, figure and features – not identical but still gorgeous.

I’d like to say I’d learnt something from my previous encounter chasing a TV/Model/Presenter lookey-likey but I hadn’t. Within seconds I was unglued myself from the dance floor, trotted over to the bar and declared my intense attraction to him alongside my intent to bed this beautiful man. Unlike London, Yarmouth is a small town. An Australian partying in the town is a news-worthy event in itself. To be the recipient of her affection is altogether very flattering. Perhaps London lookey-likey felt he could be more choosey, perhaps many had commented on his uncanny physical similarity to James Redmond, but Yarmouth James Redmond responded far better to my shameless, slutty suggestions…and who could blame him. With such blatant overtures I suspect he knew I was looking for a husband any more than he was looking for wife that evening – or maybe he was sensitive enough not to criticize my inexperienced approach to acquiring a shag for the evening.

Before long he had allowed me to drag him from the club onto the Pier, where behind closed arcade and seafood venues we could commence some serious kissing, quickly developing into heavy petting and fumbling. I could feel his hard cock through his jeans and when I unbuttoned his fly so I could get a grip on it it felt even harder. As hard as his cock was I have no doubt in my mind he could feel how wet I was for him as he slipped two fingers into my knickers, working them into me as I groaned and held his cock. He pulled them out, licked them and without even doing his flies up took my hand and quickly led me down the stairs from the pier to the beach.

There wasn’t much time for small talk – other than my babbling about how stunningly attractive he was. The need for fucking was so great, neither of us bothered with finding shelter under the pier or even attempting to find a place on the beach a little more secluded. All I was aware of was stumbling through the sand and then kissing and collapsing where we were – only metres from the pier (the lights of the clubs shining brightly on the beach).

Without wasting any time he had already pulled my underwear and tights down (I didn’t even have time to wonder what a passion killer tights and control knickers may have been). I quickly removed one of my shoes to free a leg from the underwear allowing him to slide into me missionary style. He never said a word but breathed heavily as he moved in and out of me deeply, thrusting forcefully. There was little technique involved but I was unconcerned. The fact that he seemed to want me (or the sex) as much as I did was reward in itself.

He pulled my dress down to expose my breasts and buried his face in them, suckling them as he continued to pump away.

Soon enough people moving up and down the pier changing clubs had spotted us and were wolf whistling and enjoying the free live sex shows. He swore under his breath and pulled out. As I went to sat up from the sand to rearrange my clothes he said ‘Fuck it!’ and grabbed me by the waist, telling me to get on all fours. I did as he said and he mounted me doggy style, switching between holding my hips for depth and grabbing my tits which he seemed very taken with. There was little talk apart from the odd expletive and dirty talk like, ‘Fucking yes’ and ‘You’re so fucking tight!’. I could feel him grow thicker inside me and the talk became less as the breathing became heavier. I had just enough time to say ‘Don’t cum inside me’ before he withdrew to a round of applause from the gathering crowd on the pier.

Fortunately his sperm missed my dress. Admittedly it was on my thighs but I wiped it away with the tights and discarded them. I wasn’t looking for sex again that night so could deal with having corn meat legs on the dance floor. It also meant I only had to put my knickers on and do without the fuss of arranging tights and checking for ladders so it was a sacrifice I was happy to make.

Having only to do up his jeans, he waited till I was dressed and we walked back to the pier on the lit beach to the comments (cheering and critical in equal measures). We waited under the pier in silence for the crowd to disperse. He rested against a plinth smiling shyly at me. After a time he nodded that we should go back. As I took a step, he put a hand on my shoulder, kissed my lips and said thank you. He judged the time correctly. The pier was empty. He held my hand and walked me back to the original bar we’d found each other. He kissed my hand and said thank you. Then strolled off down the Pier back into Great Yarmouth town centre.

I stepped back into the bar. L was busy on the dance floor dealing with her own complicated love life. She smiled and waved at me as I entered with a ‘where have you been?’ expression. I danced over to her grinning. Mid song, while waving her hands (like she just didn’t care) to the music she pointed at my suddenly bare legs. ‘Your hair looks fantastic,’ she said, ‘the sand and wind have given it real volume!’