For those familiar with this blog or from reading the title alone, it may come as a shock to discover I was celibate for two years. Now obviously my definition of celibate may vary from the next persons. For me blow jobs and anal sex were fine, but vaginal penetration was a big no no! So I claim to have been celibate for two years, but (having revealed my personal understanding and application of the term) some might just say I didn’t have ‘traditional’ or ‘formal’ sex for 730 days.

What, you may ask, causes someone to embark on a two year period of self-imposed celibacy? Sadly, like much of this blog, I don’t remember his name. But I do remember him and the night very clearly.

My brother’s best friend was visiting London from Amsterdam at the time. Having known him since I was four, it was only natural we hang out. He was going through his homosexual phase at the time (he’s married now with three kids) so we ended up in Soho at some hip and happening gay club. If memory serves correctly, we were joined by a few friends from my workplace – also gay (you do tend to find a lot of very pretty gay boys working front of house in theatres as they pay for dance and fashion college – a gross generalization but, hand on heart, that was my experience).

I started by scouting the place for somewhere we could sit and deciding which room had the best music. On reflection, it’s lucky my work buddies were there because I didn’t feel wholly responsible for entertaining my childhood friend. With the Dutch branch of his international accounting firm paying out for a swish hotel in Central London, he was on the prowl to take home a visitor– thus was independent in action anyway.

We had the same objective really. We both wanted a man for the night. My brother’s bezzie didn’t achieve said objective and I’m told he went home alone. I didn’t fare much better. I wanted a man for the night, but I got a boy.

His name was on the tip of my tongue there as I was typing, but still it eludes me.

In England, there’s this jokey, crass chat-up line people tend to use ironically (if they used it seriously they would be asking for a drink to be thrown over them).

Having done my first walkabout of the club, a group of young, dishy, Irish boys entered. I have to say they reeked of the scent of clueless, drunken, hormonal, straight, male tourists – probably on a bachelor’s weekend. They’d paid the entrance fee and the cloakroom attendant, then spun around to see a distinct absence (certainly an exceptionally low ratio in relation to the male gender) of women.

The tiniest guy cut his losses quick when he saw me and uttered that chat up line – ‘Grab your coat love, you’ve pulled.’

He was undeniably cute and very much my type; twinkling Irish blue eyes and the spiked black hair (as was the fashion back then). Truth was if I was hankering for a good seeing to that night (which I was) it was better to take what was offered to me on a plate earlier on if satisfactory, than spending the night hunting down the odd straight man or cajoling a sexually confused youth back to the heterosexual team for a few hours in the vain hope they’d be hotter than my earlier proposition.

‘Sure,’ I replied, handing the attendant my ticket and retrieving my faux leather biker jacket.

His eyes were like saucers in astonishment at my obedient response to his request.

‘Ummm. Do you live near here?’ he asked, suddenly concerned.

He definitely was a tourist.  I could see the panic in his face at the fear of his poor geography dramatically separating him from the party of boys and resulting in a missed flight home on Sunday.

‘I’m literally a ten minute walk down the road,’ I assured.

It was true. I was fortunate enough to live at the YWCA opposite the British Museum, just off London’s notorious Oxford Street.

He was already in the process of retrieving his coat, so his dick had clearly dictated and committed to a decision. It was merely logic and common sense reducing the speed at which he moved. Now in slow motion, a friend (who seemed thrilled his mate had scored) informed me of the name of the hotel they were staying at with. Without a word of a lie it was actually on my street. Fate appeared to want us together that night.

Awash with maternal instincts and generally being a good girl at heart, I promised to walk him back to the hotel. His friends departed quickly to assess what was going to be a very disappointing nightclub for them, leaving me with the gorgeous leprechaun. My brazen, bold, Australian, overly sexual attitude made him cautious.

‘Should we be doing this?’ he enquired. ‘I mean we haven’t even kissed.’

‘So kiss me. If you like it, escort me home. If you don’t, return to your friends.’

Of course the minute our lips touched, the burning desire between us melded our mouths and our tongues were diving down each other’s throat. We were thrilled a sexual chemistry existed and excited we were both going to get laid.

He was probably one of the sweetest boys I’ve ever encountered. When we got back to mine (which required me sneaking him past security as men weren’t allowed in after 11pm – that’s what being part of the Young Women’s Christian association is all about) we didn’t tear each other’s clothes off, fuck hastily and bid each other farewell.

The approach was slow and relaxed. I actually felt safe with him. His bashfulness and tender touch was comforting. As we know I didn’t lose my virginity till I was 21 and my sex life kind of snowballed out of control from there on. I’d missed out on teenage love. Kissing for hours. Tentative hands sliding under my top, hoping to touch the soft, pale flesh of my breasts. Turning the lights off to undress in the dark.

In some ways, irrespective of the numbers I’d clocked up in (and out) of the bedroom, I was the inexperienced one, although I was at least seven years his senior. I was assertive – pushy perhaps?- and initiated the hand on his cock. THAT is where it all fell apart.

The next thing I know, the lad was in tears, I was scrabbling to turn a lamp on and ascertain what mammoth social faux pas I’d just made. It all tumbled out. He was barely eighteen, he’d got a girl pregnant and now had to marry her – he was a Catholic, I was a Catholic…so I understood the score on that one.

I have to say when someone blurts that out and your naked with a dripping pussy, it’s very difficult to search your mind for any witty comeback; let alone an authentic platitude. All I could do was hug him and kiss away his tears.

It was a bachelor’s party and he was the groom to be. Being so immersed in his religion this was his last night of freedom and he’d committed himself to being faithful to his wife and … and he didn’t want to be. (Thankfully the priests at my Dad’s school were all bastards and the nuns at my Mum’s school were all bitches so as a family of Catholics they steered cleared of the church. Apart from Christmas Eve, when Mum decided she was a Catholic keen to pay tribute to the birth of our saviour and my merry Dad decided he wanted a good old sing song at midnight mass – hence while I sympathised with, I didn’t really empathise with him.) He was a teenager.  He hadn’t lived. He hadn’t loved. All he’d done was fuck a girl and get her pregnant – from here on end his life was all mapped out. As far as he could perceive, there no free will – no more chances or choices in respect of his dreams and aspirations that otherwise may had presented themselves to him had he not just signed his life away to a loveless marriage and early fatherhood.

I think it was the sincerity that pinched my heart. It was probably the first time (outside of my parents) that I’d met a decent guy committed to his wife – unhappily admittedly (unlike my parents), but taking the responsibility on his boyish shoulders with good grace and an admirable dogged determination to be a proper husband and excellent father.

I wanted him. At least I wanted someone with those qualities. I didn’t want any more random one night stands; where it was all too evident before the fucking began that by the end of the night’s proceedings I was to be cast aside as nothing more than a arbitrary shag in someone else’s life story. In that moment, I realized the only way I was going to get a guy like the one in front of me, was to stop being a slut and treating myself disrespectfully. I didn’t respect myself, why would any of the numerous men I fucked respect me or see me as girlfriend or possible wife material?

No, in that instant, I knew. I became enlightened. There would be no more sex (vaginal penetration to reiterate) until I found my Mr Right.

So what happened after my epiphany?

What do you think?

He was a hormonal, eighteen year old sitting opposite a voluptuous Botticelli.

I think his exact words were ‘if you can get it hard, I’d love to fuck you.’

Hey, there’s nothing I like more than a challenge and he’d thrown the gauntlet down. My husband will attest to the wonders of my mouth in respect of performing a blow job. I knew I’d be getting fucked that Saturday night.

Average in length, his girth was somewhat disappointing. Thicker than a chopstick but slimmer than a Double A battery, it was like wanking and sucking on a pen. But my magic hands adeptly worked his flaccid shaft to an impressive rod. For the first time in a long time I indulged in vanilla style sex.

Spreading my legs, he climbed between and slipped his pencil dick in my slit. Okay I wasn’t thinking ‘give it to me baby and pound me till I scream’ (he hadn’t the tools for that). But the rhythmic sensation of his cock gliding effortlessly in and out of my pussy was, in its own way, beautiful. As he entered me repeatedly, he maintained eye contact. He dipped his head to kiss me with closed eyes. Hands underneath my armpits, I could see the youthful sinewy muscles in his leanness and the six-pack on display was to die for.

In an intimate gesture – most unlike me – not only did I remain silent throughout sex, but my arms went round his back to his shoulder blades to pull him closer to me. I loved the feel of his sweat, sticking his bare chest to my breasts and tummy.

My hand snaked to his neck to intensify the kiss, and I could literally feel his heartbeat quicken. Indicating a role reversal, he read the body language and rolled on his back. It might have been thin, but it was rock hard and standing to attention as only a young man’s cock can. Straddling him was easy, sinking onto the cock even easier. I probably should’ve rode him like  a young stallion needing to be broken in, but I rocked slowly on his prick, making sure I didn’t ruin the spell by breaking eye contact in some lustful, dirty desire. As I lowered to kiss him, his hands went straight to my breasts. He was squeezing them as if they were stress balls and he was a Wall Street investment Banker. At that particular time I wasn’t too keen on men lavishing attention on my breasts. I found it slightly disturbing that he was imbibing as much as he could of one breast into his mouth to suckle, as I continued bobbing up and down on his dick.

There was an ethereal atmosphere in the room that threatened to freeze the moment forever, which I don’t think either of us would’ve been dissatisfied with – but I knew he wasn’t the one for me. I couldn’t afford to let time stand still, because he was a boy that would mature into a good man and fulfil the obligations his current predicament imposed.

I had to break the spell. I chose to do it by faking an orgasm. I rationalised that if he actually didn’t ever sleep with another woman again, he’d recall his last sexual encounter with a stranger as one where he turned in an A star performance resulting in the older woman squealing in ecstasy like a porn star. Plus, by acting like Jenna Jameson, my panting and moaning bought him to the brink – where I swiftly bounded off before he discovered himself fathering a second child.

He left. I didn’t even have to walk him to his hotel. He could actually see the sign from my front steps. There was an awful awkwardness. The kind of silence when you know you’ve met someone special, but they started leaving you the minute you were introduced. All we could do was kiss, hold each other and accept there was no redemption for us – no opportunity to explore our connection further (certainly not in this lifetime).

I felt bad for him when he’d gone. I felt good for myself. I’d been blessed with some insight as to how good sex would be if I was in a relationship. For the first time in a long time, I was ready to go steady. I didn’t want to be a slag. I didn’t want to be a good time girl. I wanted to swallow my fear. I wanted to put myself out there.  It was essential I uncover if I possessed the qualities that made me attractive to the opposite sex.  It was critical I discover if, in all my fucked-up-ness, ample character and substance existed in my soul for someone to take a chance on me as potential relationship material.

Turns out I did.