Sex With A Comedian (It Wasn’t That Funny!)
The first theatre I worked in closed. Actually it went bankrupt. My gang felt somewhat bad regarding the umpteen free drinks we helped ourselves to on consecutive nights. When we found the locks on the theatre door changed with a notice up explaining the poor financial situation of the venue we wondered if we were to blame. Sitting down and doing the maths (overestimating the free drinks we consumed), we realised we could only account for a maximum 3% of the debt – it eased our consciences. Sadly it also meant the ‘gang’ disbanded suddenly; with everyone out of a job and owed money.
There were some people I never saw again (no, not even on Facebook) and those whom I tied to forever more. Turns out blood is thicker than water – well certainly shared experiences in an underground world can bind you to another, no matter what the time or distance is between catch ups.
At this point in my life I was knocking around with my best mate and his wife. We were as thick as thieves. People assumed we were a manage-a-trois.I can honestly confirm, here and now, that we really were going back to the couple’s flat, drinking loads and listening to or watching ‘Erasure’.
My friend, who was an actor, decided as his career was a little stagnate (non-existent would be a more accurate description) that he would dabble in stand-up comedy. Fair play – he’s very dry, perspicacious and witty so it seemed a good career move (he once made me laugh so hard at his ‘pooper-man’ story that I farted in hilarity). So as he did the rounds of all the open mike comedy nights in London to start acquiring some experience, hone his act and catch the name of the right promoters, me and his wife played as devoted unofficial groupies.
This is going to sound arrogant, but if you were going to have a competition on funniness between me and my friend, I’d be in with a bloody good chance of stealing his comedy crown. As he accumulated regular and paying gigs, my presence and talent became recognised by his new ‘work’ colleagues. Thus my company was welcome as we’d frequent late night drinking holes catering to performers in London’s West End.
I’d had one near run in with a comedian, but truthfully having told me he wanted me to fuck him with a strap-on, refused to have a coffee at Starbucks for political and ethical reasons, presented me with a book on Milwall fans (he used to be a yob), was considered an old hack (someone who steals other people’s jokes) on the comedy circuit and wasn’t the prettiest man in the playground – the sex part was never really on the cards (despite me having led him to believe the possibility existed).
Seriously, I’m open minded but the ‘strap-on’ request really could have waited till we were at least actively participating in a sexual relationship. I’m all for being honest and up front, but sometimes revealing too much too soon is a major turn off. The mere mental image of my twenty-five year old body wearing a giant strap on and fucking a significantly overweight, pasty faced, greasy mousy blonde man in his late forties quite turned my stomach. By divulging that particular secret, no matter how many of my personal favourite jokes he included in his set and directed at me, I just couldn’t bring myself to even amble to first base with him.
I digress. That was the comedian I didn’t fuck and the reason behind it is mildly amusing. This post is about the comedian I did fuck and why it wasn’t funny.
A small group of us were crowded round a table in a members bar. There was a cute comedian present, who was significantly more attractive than his predecessor (old, fat, strap-on comedian). Yet again, I cannot remember his name, but I clearly remember what he looked like. He was about five foot nine, medium build, a buzz cut, brown hair, twinkling brown eyes, casual clothes (jeans and t-shirt) and was genuinely a real cutie.
What was particularly appealing was his lack of confidence. Rather than just ‘claiming’ me, which he could easily have done after every pint by stamping a kiss on my lips, he spent the time in the bar getting gradually drunker and building up his confidence to a point where he was able to be openly tactile with me.
I thought the process very sweet. That is until he was telling my best friend that we were well suited because we had matching moles on our faces. He then persisted in rubbing his brown mole against mine. I’ve always thought my moles to be interesting and a feature that accentuates my beauty, a la Cindy Crawford. Hearing I should be paired off because (and I quote) of our ‘witchy hairy moles’ was actually offensive.
For a start my moles aren’t hairy – I carry a pair or tweezers on me at all time in case a big black hair sprouts. Secondly, that he drew attention to it made me think, for the first time, that when people meet me they must immediately notice the mark on my face. There are probably those who are repulsed by it or, even worse, make comments about it behind my back. I was riddled with insecurity. If/When people do impressions of me; do they draw a large exaggerated mole on their left cheek???
I was pleased I was on a promise, but the alleged reason behind the comment bordered on insulting. It was like I was getting a shag off a fellow ‘mole’ who knew what it was like to be ostracized because of a facial disfigurement. Only I’d never seen it as a disfigurement. What I thought was a beauty spot was viewed in the eyes of others as a wart. D for depressing and D for distressing.
He would redeem himself by insisting on acquiring a kebab for each of us (and paying for them both – last of the big spenders!) to eat as he walked me home. As I was in need to a new notch on my bed post, obviously the night didn’t end with him kissing my cheek (the one with a mole) and bidding me farewell. It continued with me sneaking him past the security guards of the YWCA and up to my room for a quick sex session.
Only his nerves and romantic nature resulted in it not being a ‘quickie’. As we devoured our grimy fast food, he flipped through my 500+ CD collection and picked out tracks for me to play. What sticks in my mind is us both half-propped up on pillows on my single mattress and the ‘Ash’ song ‘Girl From Mars’ playing. He said it reminded him of his misspent youth (didn’t we all feel so old thinking about being seventeen as our mid-twenties threatened to move into our late-twenties) and said there’s a beautiful line coming up. Then he turned to me and sang in a husky voice ‘I know that you are almost in love with me, I can see it in your eyes’.
He loved music.
So did I.
He loved kebabs.
So did I.
He loved late nights drinking with friends.
So did I.
He had a mole on his left cheek.
So did I.
We were, of course, perfectly suited. My heart was lost to him in that instant.
We had sex like teenagers. I struggled to remove his sweater and t-shirt from him. He wrestled my jeans off me in a fashion not dissimilar to the late great Steve Irwin taking down a crocodile. The lights stayed on and he pulled the bed covers over us to protect our modesty and not expose his less than toned frame.
He wasn’t sexy, but he was adorable. I liked the smattering of hair across his broad chest. I liked that he didn’t have a washboard stomach (it made me less insecurity about my ‘fuller’ figure). There was an innocence attached to the act, as my hand sort his cock under the dark of the covers. Landing on it, I attempted to work it as best I could without any night vision goggles. I was to learn from my vigorous attempts that a little lube doesn’t go astray and that saliva is fine to use.
His fingers were tentative and exploratory. He spent his time running them between my slippery lips. The fact he was motioning and circling his index and middle finger on a spot about an inch away from my actual clit demonstrated not only his inexperience, but a willingness on his part to please me in bed. It might have been frustrating, but he eventually found a way into my slit and used his fingers to fuck me – which was absolutely sensational.
Too wet to build up a friction, there was only one direction to take and that was actual sex. Tossing, turning and twisting in the bed linen, he managed to mount me. Despite my wide spread legs, laying on me missionary style, his cock seemed unable to locate the place his fingers had. I adjusted my position, raised and tilted my hips to offer silence guidance, but it was all in vain. In the end I reached down and just pulled his dick directly to the entrance and let the head burst through.
I have to say, I was pleased with the girth. Average in length, the stretch on my slit was delightful. Finally embedded, his peachy smooth buttocks rose and fell slowly as he inserted his length in and out of me. He lifted himself on his arms to gaze at me as we fucked leisurely.
It seemed poor timing on his part to ask after he was in me if I took birth control pills. Shooting out a quick negative response, he leapt off me like I’d said I was HIV positive. Pale and naked, he scooted under the duvet to retrieve his jeans, fish out a condom then struggle to put it on his penis which had diminished in size since initiating the ‘safe sex’ issue.
He was determined though, because even though he was more flaccid than erect, he physically worked his dick back into me. Once my slit sucked him in and my cunt tightened round the stubby shaft, I could physically feel his prick expanding inside. It was hot; feeling the shaft grow and touch the various nerve endings secreted in my pussy. Confident he wouldn’t slip out or disappoint, he returned to pumping me. The connection had been broken and he laid on me jerking sporadically, face buried in my neck, mouth delivering sloppy kisses until he came. He obviously hadn’t had any sex for sometime because I could feel the condom fill up with his semen.
As he removed himself, the condom separated from his cock and the spunk ran down the crevice of my cunt to my rear entrance. In years to come I’d suggest some dirty antics to follow up, but there and then I just relished the foreign and divine sensation of the thick white liquid spreading on such sensitive and delicate areas of my person.
I assumed, because of the lack of intimacy, that the spell the band ‘Ash’ had cast on us earlier was broken. I was wrong. Although he needed to get home for work the next morning, he was insistent on taking my number.
The trouble with ‘almost in love’ is that it isn’t actually ‘in love’. That word ‘almost’ is perhaps one of the most powerful in the dictionary – especially when used in relation to love. ‘Almost’, I suspect, was the reason not to give me that follow up call. I like to think had he been in love with me he’d have rung. If he was only ‘almost’ in love with me he had an excuse as to why he wasn’t obligated to fulfil the promise he made me on the doorstep as I kissed him goodbye.
Comedy gold? I wasn’t doubled over laughing so hard it hurt my belly as I waited for him to call in the following three weeks.
(I’d like to say the comment on my mole was a one off and up until this year it was. Sadly my six year old step son went to give me a kiss the other month and said, ‘not that cheek, it’s got a yucky mole on it. Let me kiss the other side!’)