Category Archives: A Little Bit Of Everything
I was sitting on my therapist’s couch yesterday in a bid to determine why exactly I hadn’t updated my blog as regularly and routinely as in the past. A few points arose:
- I was getting absolutely no action in the present and therefore was as mentally distant from my sexual self as I was physically,
- Reflecting back on these posts I realised as fun and as frivolous as fucking a hundred plus men had been there had been numerous times I glossed over the reality of some of these situations which had in fact been somewhat psychologically traumatic and this fact was beginning to permeate my memory rendering the blog a more tortuous task than a body of fun work;
- We also considered the lack of direction, control and focus in my life but that really is the boring psychotherapy stuff.
So I’ll give you an example and I’d be interested as to who finds this story sexy and who finds it disturbing (and who finds it shit…maybe don’t comment on the last point given my low self esteem at this moment).
Many moons ago I fell for a married man. Chris – the inbetweener. I’d had my first love and was quite convinced I’d never love again. Now I’m married so my husband who is my true and grand passion, but Chris was the man that allowed my heart to realise it could love again. Now I’m married – no to Chris – clearly didn’t work out with him, but I’ll roll onto that story at some other point in time.
Because I was heart-broken and fully aware Chris himself hadn’t really wanted to end the relationship, it was just practically it couldn’t work long-term, I felt the best way to punish him was to fuck other married men. Enter the website ‘Illicit Encounters’ set up purely for married people (or those in long term relationships) looking for like minded people to fulfil the sexual side of their relationship that has gone wanting over the comfortable years with a long term partner.
I had put my age down as 27 when I was in fact 31 and tended to approach older men….like late 50s, early 60s. In this way they’d be so flattered and surprised by my tentative advances they would be less inclined to reject me. I have to say in most cases this was true. Occasionally you would get the odd ‘honourable’ (if you can adopt such an adjective for members of the website) gent saying he felt it wasn’t the best idea because of the age gap and that having daughters of a similar age made it inappropriate. However on the whole I’d get many an invite for dates and more because they tended to have daughters older than me.
One such man was called…..Peter…maybe…I think. He was a 58 year old engineer from Essex that had made his life in Ireland. He seemed an attractive enough man with a frame of 6’4, broad shoulders, a gentle but square face. He was literate enough over email to attract my attention and almost consumed by the fact that I wanted to ’embark on an affair’ with him – which wasn’t strictly the case but I felt we could iron out the finer points of the relationship upon meeting. What was spectacularly unusual was that he was actually willing to fly from Ireland to Dublin to spend a night with me under the premise, to his wife, that he was visiting his family in Essex.
In some respects I found this phenomenally becoming but I was also a little struck by the impulsivity given we’d never spoken on the phone r met in the flesh. I was completely honest and up front about my size issue – I was undoubtedly photogenic but was considered very voluptuous at a size 16. Perhaps warning bells should have gone off with me when he wrote back ‘so you’re a fat bird then – you can’t be that big given the photos’ (he clearly knew nothing of how to angle a camera for the best shot).
He was undeterred by my weight and decided to pay the fare (I assume he went Ryan Air – for a sex fuck you’d only risk a discount airline) to visit. I decided he was either smitten or a psycho. It didn’t matter which. Well not until I found myself typing a message that he was welcome to spend the night at mine – I felt a little mean insisting on a hotel given he was flying over to fuck me; free accommodation seemed a reasonable contribution on my part. This was, in hindsight, perhaps not my best or most considered decision. Heartbreak and payback sex are not a combination to bring out the ‘sensible head’ on anyone’s shoulders.
Friday came and I dressed accordingly. I was due to meet him in a pub on Carnaby Street, where my workplace was located. I worked in the music industry so my attire had to be casually flattering in a semi-professional manner. I opted for my jeans and a figure-hugging blue top which not only accentuated my curves and rather perky large breasts but the depth of colour accentuated my pale skin tone against the dark features of my hair and eyes – unassumingly stunning. Because of his height I could even afford to wear a pair of very high heels.
He was handsome for his age and dressed in cords with a collared shirt and some patterned knit-wear jumper. He looked me up and down and decided I’d do. I reached this conclusion as he delivered a hefty slap to my rump with an introductory comment of, ‘You weren’t kidding about your weight.’
That comment sat heavier with me, than I did on the pub stool I suspect. We chatted inanely about his work, situation and I’m sure I exchanged equally banal conversation. I saw his eyes light up when he spoke about how I was younger than his own children, and what a coup it was for him to nab someone so young at his age – what a topic for discussion down the pub at the village he lived at in Ireland (I didn’t think bragging about a young online conquest in a small village was the best idea given it could easily get back to his wife, but steered clear of advising him of this). The more I realised I was nothing but a boast, the more I realised how much my heart still hurt for Chris and how this man, whose name I honestly do not even remember, could not have been any further from being the man Chris was – or had been to me.
I stared at his over night bag as he reluctantly bought me alcopops (clearly he despised my common taste on that front) and felt my eyes well up with tears. It would sound clichéd, but it was true and if I said it and committed to the decision I may well escape the night unharmed. Through the tears I admitted the whole scenario was a bad idea. I apologised profusely that he spent the money flying here (even if he did have friends and relatives to see) but that I couldn’t sleep with him. I just wasn’t ready and to try wouldn’t be right for me.
It’s funny how quickly a man’s character will change for a bit of fanny. He became gentle and caring and tactile; in an instance saying how he completely understood my change of heart and it wasn’t a problem. He even offered to walk me to the tube station. It was a kind gesture. Feeling fragile I accepted. Then he offered to walk me down the steps into the tube station itself. I suddenly had a sinking feeling that I knew exactly where this was going. I gave him the goodbye kiss with as much fake passion and tongue as I could muster but it was the wrong move.
Suddenly he became overbearingly nice saying he’d accompany me home, I didn’t have to sleep with him, he could just cuddle me, he was in an awkward position having to ring friends and relatives for a place to stay at this hour (it can’t have been any later than 8pm). I suppose I wanted him to be genuine so I said as long as he understood the situation he could of course stay at mine. There’s nothing like being guilt tripped with the price of an air-fare (even if it was a discount airline).
As an aside when we got into my bedsit/semi studio which consisted of a large double bedroom and a second room which was a large kitchen I noticed my hamster’s cage which resided in the kitchen was vacant. I couldn’t find the creature anywhere and was slightly perturbed at the idea of him running round the walls and shitting everywhere. I’d given up handling him after a bite so I was as frightened of him as he was of me. I think shifting my focus to the obsessive need to recapture the rodent resulted in my guard coming down and my senses not being overly aware of my predicament.
The next thing I knew the 6’4 old man was behind me attempting to grind his hard penis against me as he tried to be seductive and grasp at my breasts. I felt flustered, completely compromised and very threatened. I muttered that I really didn’t feel I could have sex with him. My attempt to avoid his lechery in the kitchen meant my only escape was the bedroom. Here his physical dominance came into play; his stature and determination as he walked, talked and invaded my private space – his voice was almost calming and reassuring me this would happen and I’d be okay – I was eventually backing away until I had no where else to fall back to other than sitting on the bed.
I knew what was coming. I felt defenceless to refuse or stop it. I began crying saying I wasn’t ready but he said it’d be okay and we’d just cuddle.
I didn’t realise cuddling for him meant undoing his trousers and tugging them down enough so his hard old penis had room for some forceful action. I was unaware that cuddling meant pushing me down on the bed and telling me to just close my eyes and relax. I didn’t know cuddling meant he would undo my jeans and pull them off hurriedly. Who’d have thought cuddling would have involved him climbing on top of me trying to kiss my lips as I cried. Who’d have guessed cuddling would involve roughly grabbing and sucking someone’s breasts as they hopelessly repeated ‘I don’t want to do this, I don’t feel like doing this.’ I certainly didn’t know cuddling would result in someone forcing my legs apart, easing their cock in me and slowly and rhythmically working it in and out of me while pinning my wrists to the bed. I never thought a cuddle would eventuate with an old man moaning in my ear about how tight I was, how young, how much this meant to him, how grateful and thankful he was as he built up speed and came inside me.
He got off me and I felt anything but a boastful sexual conquest. I felt fat, my body manipulated into an unattractive position so he could get his one last young fuck for the wank bank. And I must’ve looked it because all he said as he pulled up his trousers was, ‘Don’t worry I’ve had a vasectomy.’ I stared up at the skylight and noticed how heavily it was raining. I wished the window would break and the rain could wash it all away – the pain, the shame and him.
I didn’t have to worry about him staying the night. Seemingly spending the night in a storm that didn’t look like it was about to ease up any time soon was far more appealing than spending it was me.
‘I’ll go now,’ he said.
‘You can stay – it’s silly if you’ve nowhere to go.’
‘I can walk round in the rain till morning. To be honest you’re really fucked up and you need to get help.’
And with that he left. I don’t know if it was unfortunate, foolishness or rape – who can say. I did feel though, as an outside observer, having witnessed both our behaviours in that situation, on a scale of fucked-upness he would’ve scored higher than me.
So that’s one more of the one hundred. That particular encounter brings back no fond memories or frisson as I write it. But fucking 100 men, one was never to expect a 100% perfection hit rate in all those sexual encounters. Good with the bad and all that.
What I will say, is after the absence and devastation this vile old predatory creature had left me stewing in and a good deal of comfort eating on my part the hamster eventually made himself known within the bedroom walls (And I thought my nightmare ended with the faux-rape but nothing will drive you mad than constant squeaking in the walls). By Monday morning the hamster had been moved to a dumpster with all his food and bedding. I hope nothing bad happened and he escaped the bin men. I like to think some rats adopted him and he’s part of a rough gang still going strong in Stockwell. He was better off out of the apartment – so would I have been on that particular night.
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!’
Following on from last time’s post about the great divide of persons between I’m inclined to continue with a focus on sex related to Christmas and New Year’s. Whilst my previous post addressed life as a singleton finding sex at these particular holidays I feel this week I’ll focus on whether there are any significant changes in sex at these particular times when in a permanent solid relation ship.
In short – there’s not. Being single and slutty or wife-ish and whorish has absolutely no impact on the kind of sex available and on offer on these dates. Somewhere deep in the subconscious the preferred date is seared not only on the brain but the loins and one responds accordingly.
Me? I like sex all the time and having never been in a proper relationship until my 30’s one thing I was determined to do was make the most of having sex on tap and available to me. No longer would I have to go out on the prowl to ensure a festive fucks.
Christmas is a time of giving and sex is readily available. But it is still a family holiday and when you have one foot Australia and the other in the UK it tends to mean you and your family are joined at the hip – at least in terms of accommodation at this time of the year. If in Australia I’d be staying with my folks and was not in a position to insist on Christmas clubbing and then bringing a random dick back to finally christen my virgin bed (which still remains so and I’m now 35!). If my family were over from the UK we’d be staying at a rather posh Downton Abbey-esque hotel by the sea in Norfolk which limited the amount of dicks available considerably– normally nil because it was a ‘family’ hotel of the English genteel so finding a single man willing to shag a horny common slutty Australian was difficult to say the least.
After I found a man I assumed all this would change.
Not necessarily so. Because Christmas and New Year’s fall in close proximity the same problems plaguing my Christmas cock endeavours also impinged on my New Year’s nobbing.
For the first New Year’s I had my boyfriend rather romantically we had been separated – me with my parents, brother and wife and niece and nephew in a restored barn in Lincoln; my fellow with his newly wedded father in London. Irrespective of the emotional blackmail his father burdened upon him (‘This could be my last Christmas,’ he wailed. ‘And I could go under a bus tomorrow,’ quipped my boyfriend.) He spontaneously caught a train to Lincoln to join me for New Year’s Eve. This wasn’t just to impress my parents, nor was it a grand gesture on his part confirming our shared devotion. It was a lusty journey because he hadn’t had a New Year’s fuck in over 10 years. Thus he felt it worth the effort and I was excited because not being a ‘New Year’s’ person I had never had a shag to welcome in the New Year.
Sadly it was all a little disappointing. My boyfriend was a recovering alcoholic and having recently packed in the booze was low on energy and physically recovering from excessive alcohol abuse for 3 years on his 45 year old body. The valium may have eased his need for the drink but it did render performance problems. I had never really had sex before with my parents in the next bedroom so couldn’t really let loose and ride in the New Year with any vigour or vocalisation. It ended up being a very vanilla style session. We adopted a very last session laying side by side, my leg raised for his entry and then a slow, deep, constant penetration to ensure the bed wasn’t rocking audibly and the headboard wasn’t banging rhythmically to alert my parents to what activity their little girl was indulging in. My orgasm muffled by a pillow and his tampered by his inhibited English manners. His inhibition was so great he was reluctant to even cum for fear of him staining the bed. It was a short celebratory session. Both of us smiling in the dark that we’d finally broken the New Year’s sex drought (mine at 31 years significantly longer tan his ten year abstinence) but also realistic at the subdued nature of the act of love.
What made it so disappointing was that only a week earlier we’d been be staying at a rather posh Downton Abbey-esque hotel by the sea in Norfolk and I’d been riding him and screaming down the house for three nights and mornings on the trot.
Even earlier in the Christmas season his lust had been so frenzied that when I’d been drunk and returned home from my work Christmas party in a cab because I couldn’t stand up straight let alone string a sentence together with any coherence and had vomit down my chin, he opened the front door where I was being deposited with the greeting, ‘Wow you look like a movie star!’ (Really??? In that state???).
It was true, it was the first time he’d seen me fully made up and in a dress but 6 hours of non-stop binge drinking really should’ve taken the shine off me. Instead he looked at me like I was a mesmerising Christmas tree in Times Square and began pushing me up the stairs.
I got up stairs and collapsed on our bed, only to wake an hour later with his hard cock pushing at my buttocks. The minute I groaned, authorising my state of wakefulness he wasted no time in pulling at my control knickers and tights. I could feel his hard cock placing itself between my plump bum cheeks and as he continued to thrust he reached around my front to see how wet I was. And even drunk I was wet and wanting. His hand could feel how moist I was and his fingers slipped in easily. After finger-blasting my vagina, spreading it and bringing my to my first orgasm, my responsive moans had him demanding a little more action from me.
He insisted I get on all fours for a doggy style ramming. My head was in the bed already pounding with tomorrow morning’s hangover. We agreed later, given my state, it was borderline date rape, but kinda sexy cause it was safe. I was begging him no more but he wasn’t having it. If anything he was making me look in the mirror to acknowledge how allegedly beautiful I was and then thrusting his cock into my mouth.
Knowing I was unable to physically prevent him from having his wicked way he then started telling me he wanted to ‘fuck my arse’. I love anal – as does he – but am normally hygienic about it and like to feel comfortable. Because I was drunk and worried about muscle control (or rather the lack of) I pleaded with him not too. I said I was worried about a mess and knew I had to go to the toilet so felt uncomfortable about it. All this was mumbled and he shook his head and said we’d done far filthier and had far bigger messes take place in the bed. When I expressed my concern about the passage not being clean he was not deterred by my concern and confession of a few stumbling, brown obstacles that may hinder the process of an anal pounding.
STOP READING HERE IF YOU ARE OF A NERVOUS DISPOSITION
In a festive fucking frenzy whilst using his fingers and some baby oil to prime my arse and widen the entrance for his overly thick cock he reached up inside and pulled three malteaser size balls of poo from my bottom. I realise this sounds gross but for him to do that and not lose his erection I can only assume I must’ve looked fucking gorgeous that night. To my shame I was so inebriated I was fascinated that he’d done it and while he forced his cock into my ring piece I watched with an almost childish joy as I saw the three little balls roll down the mattress. I was about to grab them, marvelling at how perfectly symmetrical, smooth and round they were but was prevented from doing so as my boyfriend slapped my arse hard, pulled my hair and thrust deep and then came, making me cry out and forget the poo and focus on the pain and pleasure.
That was certainly a Christmas cracker and a great start to the festive season in 2009. It’s just a shame the sexual start to the New Year of 2010 involved a rather bland, conservative and restrained speedy almost teenage pump. So being single or involved will not influence your sexual takings for these festive holidays. I’m now married and I have to say Christmas remains a bonanza spectacular style attitude to festive fucking (thankfully there is no more forceful faeces extraction required) but New Year’s we don’t even bother with – better to have no sex than bad sex. Who wants to start the New Year with a lousy fuck???
I’ve always thought people can be easily separated into two groups; those who favour Christmas and those who favour New Year’s. Personally I’ve always been a Christmas girl. People are more spirited, friendly and benevolent with their sexual favours (treating them like presents to give out to a stranger) in that party atmosphere where Santa and his elves peep in from the outskirts. It’s almost as if you have to be naughty to be nice in December. It’s a time of sharing and giving – so with beer goggles firmly attached people are more likely to hook up out of a general feeling of goodwill. It’s a fabulous feeling.
New Year’s though … people are out for themselves. It’s no longer about sharing and giving; it’s about cutting off old ties, burning bridges and creating a new and better life for one’s self. It’s about new starts and hopes and they spring from each individual’s wants and desires. Whereas Christmas is about being with other people and loving what we’ve got, New Year’s is about moving on from what we have in the hope of finding something better.
It’s always been fucking shambolic for me and absolutely dire in the sex stakes. I blame this solely on the fact that people become self absorbed, self obsessed and overly critical and analytical of themselves on New Year’s and thus are unable to focus on the people around them. They look at potential shag’s on New Year’s Eve as if they are potential life partner’s … and clearly I never quite made the grade. Christmas people are just looking for a good time in a warm setting where everyone leaves happy but knowing it’s all been easy Christmas fun. No pressure, no strings. New Year’s is all about the pressure to start anew so everyone becomes tunnel vision.
Hence I’ve always avoided New Year’s. It’s nothing but a constant disappointment for me.
I give you a few examples. When I lost my virginity in 1999 I pretty much became a cock hungry whore. I remember the evening before the work Christmas party my friend and I decided to go clubbing in the West End. I preferred to steer clear of the West End of account of my rather voluptuous figure and general lack of experience in more expensive (or classy) environment. This night though there was decorations and mistletoe. At a time when boy bands were at their height I found myself being approached by a little cutie that could easily have jumped off the cover of smash hits magazine with his black curtains haircut, chiselled features and perfectly packaged body. He’d come from work in trousers and a smart shirt but it wasn’t long before he had smiled and whispered to me he was going to the toilet.
I wasn’t sure how to read that but felt there was an invitation in his declaration of requiring use of the club’s facilities. I made my way down the stairs and he was waiting at the bottom. As soon as I appeared he grabbed my hand and dragged me into the women’s toilets, locking us into a cubicle. Without further ado hands were down pants, tights and control knickers were being clumsily taken off. I went to sit him on the toilet so I could ride him but he took one look at the state of the toilet and shook his head. For some reason it was okay to have sex in the toilet but not on the toilet.
Because he was short and I was in 4 inch heels the sex was quickly becoming a logistical nightmare. Soon enough I was slipping out of my shoes to lower my height. My hands pinned to the toilet wall and legs spread to allow him access. He just had an inch or two but the cubicle was so small my thunderous thighs couldn’t spread as wide as required. The next attempt I had my hands on the side of the cubicle. One leg on the floor, the other leg raised and rested onto the toilet bowl. This gave him the spread to enter me clumsily. Both young and somewhat inexperienced and overly horny and desperate to do the deed to go and brag to our respective friends. A few thrusts and I found my hands slipping. He was frustrated he couldn’t go deeper…and so was I. Again we tried a re-position. He stood, semi squat, over the toilet bowl and tried to life me up. I have to say he was a brave sex soldier trying given my bulk! He lifted me up and onto his cock but as muscular and wiry as his build was he would be no means have the stamina to continue supporting my weight while fucking me like a rabbit. I then attempted my own acrobatic feat by clutching the walls of the cubicle and supporting my weight while trying to ride on his cock. Being unfit and having no upper arm strength this only lasted a few more thrusts.
By this time it was painfully obvious what was going on. Did people make complaints, bang angrily on the door, call security??? NO! It was Christmas and people were happy. In fact I remember one girl finding my shoe, kicked down a few stalls and slipping it under my door wishing me well with my activity and reminding me not to forget my shoes.
He was desperate to cum; I was desperate to be more fully fucked. I decided to give my first Christmas gift. I braved the toilet bowl. I bent over and rested my hands on the toilet bowl. This gave me the stability and height for him to enter and fuck me like the Duracell Christmas bunny he was. Fortunately his cock was young enough, strong enough and determined enough to have me biting back cries of ecstasy rather than being deterred by the state of the toilet and what germs were there. Soon enough I could feel his cock swelling inside me, my vaginal muscles clamping tighter around him inside. I stood up preventing him from any potential explosion. Looked at the toilet seat…thought of what Jesus would want (a safe but heavenly experience I guesses…and sat on the toilet seat.
I began licking his cock up and down. It was to be my first proper blow job. I pulled the foreskin down and traced my tongue around the head of his cock. I sucked the top – he moaned. I didn’t know if I sucked it too hard but he groaned loudly. I continued licking up and down and all around and soon enough I decided it was time to take the beast in my mouth. I opened up and wrapped my lips around the head of his cock. I was careful not to let my teeth graze his prick – I’d read in some woman’s magazine that could cause pain. Slowly I began to ease him further and further into my mouth. I only got it so far before I started to gag. I got a shock and released straight away.
Aware of my inexperience he gently took my head and began to slowly insert himself into my head. Each time I gagged he pulled out. Eventually I began to relax and the more relaxed I became the more of him I found I could fit in my mouth. Feeling a little more in control I began to build up a rhythm. He released his gentle hold on my head and let me manage the job in hand – sorry mouth. Soon enough I could feel him swelling again and I stressed and panicked as the gag reflexes kicked in, but I’d done enough. Just as I was frightened I couldn’t breathe I felt my mouth fill up with a sweet salty liquid. I heard him moaning and could see his hands had gripped the sides of the toilet cubicle. He lent down and kissed my head. While he was zipping up I spat the substance from my mouth into the toilet bowl and began to dress up. We had a kiss, exchanged numbers, ensured our respective friends mingled for the remainder of the evening and went home. Me with a cum stained face and wearing tinsel like a scarf.
The following night at the works Christmas party we found ourselves sharing our venue with another company. Being a virgin – thrice removed – and still buzzing from the night before at 22 I found a lovely young trainee accountant throwing some haphazard drunken shapes to the sounds of Lou Bega and Ricky Martin. Before long we were shimmying on the dance floor closer and closer to each other. As our bodies got closer and closer so to did our lips. But we were both young and being lip locked wasn’t enough. Pretty soon we were almost dry humping on the dance floor. I was the cock hungry, uninhibited Australian within minutes my hands were down his trousers and working their way inside his boxers. Soon enough to allow me more freedom to wank his cock he was unzipping and I was literally performing a hand job in the corner of the dance floor in full view of the partner’s, managing and financial director. Fortunately for me the head of the secretary pool had taken the role of surrogate mother of me in my time in London and within minutes was pushing the boy off saying he ought to know better, seizing my arm and marching me off the dance floor then scolding me like a child at a private table.
But like all naughty Christmas elves once the Christmas party venue closed we somehow gravitated back together at the cloakroom and soon enough found ourselves fornicating at the fire exit of some office building in London’s West End. We literally got lost in the dark doorway, my hands found his cock, he got my dress up and my knickers down far enough for him to thrust into me quickly, desperately and without a sound. It was anonymous Christmas sex, a brief and cheeky pounding for me and something warm and wet for him to remember this particular party in years to come. Unsatisfying because due to time restraints and venue neither of us climaxed but a secret Santa fuck was definitely the order of the night – so once we’d scratched the sexual itch we departed to our separate after parties.
At our recovery party the night after the works Christmas do, L and I made our way to our favourite club in Norbury. The big, black bouncer I had always had a soft spot for allowed me to flirt incorrigibly with him and I made all sorts of promises about him taking me home and revealed all the private sexual thoughts I had carried with him throughout the past 12 months. After a few stolen kisses, by the time the end of the night came the thought of his big black cock became a frightening reality so I began to retract the vows I’d made earlier in the evening. Did he take offense? Refuse entry on our next visit? Start insisting I pay for entry? NO! Because he knew it was Christmas and there was no malice in my last minute rejection, everything was taken in good spirit and a light hearted manner.
That was just three nights over one Christmas. The Christmas of 1999. Do I have any similar tales of New Year’s Eve antics?
Let me think.
Okay so the raunchiest New Year’s experience I had in 32 years – and this is without a word of a lie. In 2003 we decided to do something very last minute for New Year’s. So last minute we didn’t leave home until 11.30pm.By the time we made our way through the throng of the humming West End the countdown had begun. I was wearing combat trousers and a bra covered by only a net top. I was looking pretty cute I think – sex in a girl next door kinda way. There was the smell of a million different aftershaves and perfumes mingling with the abundance of pheromones, the mist of the smoke machine and alcoholic cocktail haze the room was immersed. As the crowd roared the last count down 3 -2 -1 everyone whooped for joy. At the same moment a man got his watch caught on my net top. Whilst everyone was saying happy new year he was tugging his hand. He kissed me quickly on the mouth and shouted ‘Happy New Year.’ I smiled up at him, expecting a longer, lingering more sensual kiss. ‘Can you undo yourself from me there’s a girl over there I need to get to before someone else does.’ Stupefied in shock, my momentary pause took too long because he ripped his watch from my top, tearing the netting and didn’t bother apologising or looking back. As I looked round the room everyone seemed to be looking for the next best thing and no one was looking at me.
That was the closest I’ve come to sex at New Year’s so you’ll understand my reluctance to blog on this particular time of the year. It’s hardly scintillating stuff a story that can ever be considered ‘Gone Wild’….although his manners had clearly gone somewhere as they weren’t present around me. Fuck New Year and roll on next Christmas.
A transcript between me and my husband – three months into marriage. He’d just had a shower and graced our bedroom with his beautiful naked body.
S: Ooooh hello you look good.
S: Seriously you’re lush. How can someone your age have the body of a twenty something.
E: I think there’s a compliment in there somewhere.
S: Oh come on you’re 48 and you’re skin is like perfect, there’s not a hair anywhere. Well actually you could do with a trim. It’s a wonder that snake can find his way out of that forest.
S: I’m just playing. It’s just we only shaved you once over the summer. I only like the voluminous curls in the winter months. Nice to run my hands through something warm on those cold nights.
E: Sounds like you’re more worried about flossing with my pubes.
S: Well it’s bad enough that my own hair gets in the way. A little trim would help. It’s weird when I find myself extracting my hair from your foreskin mid job. It’s even more weird when I find myself having to lick the duvet cover to remove the stringy pubes off my tongue.
E: Well I’ve never prevented you taking a razor to me.
S: True, true. Awww come here for a cuddle. I just can’t resist all those boyish good looks…
E: You look pretty too baby.
S: Don’t say that.
E: You do!
S: No like, just say something nice to me because I’ve said something nice to you.
E: But I mean it.
S: Well it’d mean more if it was a little more spontaneous.
E: Oh well I’m sorry I’m not more romantic.
S: Can you stop that?
S: This admiring yourself in the mirror. Seriously how big headed can you be?
E: I’m not admiring myself. I’m looking at my gut. It’s huge.
S: Oh My God – what the hell. You’ll never be fat – you don’t have the build.
E: I’ve never been this big.
S: Yeah but you were underweight when we met. Now you’re just normal weight. Anyway we look better like this. It’s weird me being morbidly obese and you ano.
E: You’re not obese…and I’m not fucking ano. I just – this stomach.
S: Baby it’s sexy.
E: You’re saying that to make me feel better.
S: I’m not. Listen there’s something really nice about the little soft curve of your tummy. Anyway if you want the truth it really turns me on when I’m licking your balls and I look up and see your tummy. That thatch of hair running to your belly button. It’s hot. Makes me feel pervy.
E: Yeah you like that?
S: I prefer it.
E: Been a while since we’ve had a big session.
S: I know.
E: And I really need one. I wake up feeling so fucking horny at the moment but cause you don’t sleep….
S: What! We’ve not had sex in ages. I’d be happy to have it whatever the time of day.
E: No you reject me.
S: I don’t.
E: You tell me to get off.
S: I do not.
E: You did the other morning.
S: I didn’t I just moaned and the next thing I know your cock was bouncing off my bum cheeks. I hadn’t even opened my eyes. I didn’t say get off, I just said I was sleepy.
E: Yeah but I’m dying for an all nighter. I just don’t know why you’re off sex at the moment.
S: I’m not off sex. I just don’t like myself at the moment…so I can’t figure why anyone would want to have sex with me. But I fancy you…
E: Yeah and I fancy you.
S: But you aren’t going without. I gave you a blow job two days ago.
E: Yes and you do give the best known blow jobs in the universe –
S: And you’ve always said you consider a blow job to constitute having sex. I’ve always said in my view it’s not sex so at the moment you’re having sex and I’m not.
E: Do you know how weird that sounds.
S: I thought you liked blow jobs.
E: I do and I’m happy to have you suck my cock forever but I … wellI wanna be inside you. A girl needs to be fucked senseless once in a while.
S: And I want you to fuck me, I really do. I’m just…I can’t get into a sexy vibe.
E: You liked it last week. (pause) You did like it didn’t you.
S: Yeah I loved it. It was great.
E: And I only used spit to fuck your arse.
S: Which should tell you how much I loved it if you got it in there lube free.
E: It didn’t hurt.
S: No using the vibe in my arse to relax the muscles worked a treat. I have wanted you to fuck my arse so badly but cause we haven’t done it in ages I had serious concerns.
E: That you didn’t want me to do it.
S: No that I’d be so tight you wouldn’t be able to do it.
E: Hun your arse was so relaxed it was like a cunt. Felt amazing.
S: It did and you went for ages. Oh oh and I loved when you put the vibe in my arse to relax it that you were fucking me doggy style at the same time.
E: Felt like you came so hard when I was doing that. You’re kegel muscles were clamping and massaging my cock and that was even before I switched.
S: It was full on. My legs were trembling afterwards. My whole body was tingling. I’m guessing that must be what it’s like to be doubly penetrated. And cause I was on all fours every time you thrusted you pushed the pink vibe in my arse as well. Fucking amazing.
E: Hmmm you sound like you wanna have sex again.
S: Well I paid for it the next day. Seriously this not having sex regularly. The next day I felt like I was giving birth to Mick Jagger. This massive pair of lips protruding from my vagina. They were so swollen it hurt to sit down and to be honest it’s not right that I should be sitting in a cinema with a 4 year old watching ‘Hotel Transylvania’ and thinking about my vagina.
E: You couldn’t shit right for a month.
S: I couldn’t shit right, I couldn’t sit right.
E: If we had more sex you’d get used to being stretched again.
S: Yeah but it’s all about timing isn’t it. You like sex in the morning, but I’m always sleepy.
E: You wan to fuck at night but I’m always sleepy after my evening meal and, you know, we settle down for telly.
S: So we should have afternoon sex. We could do it while your Dad watches the soaps. But you have to let me make you come:
E: No. You know it’s like a tranquilizer. I’ll crash out and not make dinner and then….
S: Yeah but then if I have to wait till after dinner to give you a blow job.
E: I thought you liked my cock.
S: I do but if I have to finish you off after we’ve eaten. Well it’s like, you know I like to do as much washing up as I can before we eat so I can sit down and enjoy tea, cause if I see a mountain of washing up it’s just a chore that spoils my enjoyment of the meal?
S: Well if we do all that fucking and you keep tabs of my multiple orgasms.
E: Your excessive multiple orgasms.
S: Well whatever. Anyway it’s like then I have to make you come and sometimes it takes ages cause you’re a little older, your mind wanders, your Dad interrupts or moves around and kills the mood with the threat of coming upstairs.
E: Well I don’t want it to be a chore or a mercy blow job.
S: You don’t give a fuck about my intention. In fact you once said you get off on having sex with me when I’m not well because you like the idea of me performing under duress.
E: I do. I love it when you’re moaning more because you ache rather than ecstasy. That’s as close to being a sadist as I get.
S: Yeah well if I have to wait till after dinner to give you a blow job…it’s like the washing up. It’s kinda – a little less spontaneous, a little less in the moment, a little more like a job. And then there’s the whole….well you’re thick and I gag and having just eaten there’s the whole reflux thing. I’ve got pureed chicken and chips being upchucked.
E: I like the feel of that.
S: What you like the head of your cock being washed in a regurgitated meal?
E: It’s cool that you choke on my cock. I like feeling the wall of food hit my cock and you struggling to swallow the food down, your eyes streaming.
S: Well it’s not so pleasant for me.
E: But you’ve made me horny and I wasn’t feeling so great before.
S: How comes?
E: Cause I was in the shower and, you know, it’s a little cold. I’m not ashamed to say I’m a grower not a show-er and I looked down and my ball sack is significantly lower than my cock.
S: But it was cold. When it warms up and stuff…your cock’s fine.
E: It’s not though. I’ve got like a droopy ball sack.
S: Oh don’t be stupid. It’s fine. It looks okay. I can’t see a problem. I told you I love licking your balls, putting ‘em in my mouth and stuff.
E: Yeah but it’s a known fact that the older you get the lower your balls hang.
S: So it it’s normal. What’s the problem? I think it looks aesthetically pleasing. It’s not like you’ve got an acorn and your balls are down round your knees.
E: Give it 5 years.
S: Oh come on.
E: I’m being serious. I mean look at it. Look at all this excess skin.
S: Have you ever seen ‘Puppetry of the Penis’ cause the way you’re pulling that looks like a turkey gobbler of something. I think maybe you could do some of the tricks and stuff they do on stage.
E: I’ve not seen it and I don’t wanna fucking be in it. LOOK AT THIS SKIN. That’s not right. I think like I need a scrotum tuck.
S: Are you being serious?
E: Well yes I am.
S: You want a scrotum tuck?
E: Yeah I do. If we get some money together….What would you have a problem with that?
S: Ummm look I gotta be honest. I just don’t see the problem.
E: Yeah but I’m the only man you’ve ever been longer than a night. You don’t have any oter male genitalia that you’re familiar with as a point of reference.
S: That should be a good thing cause if it really is … hanging low … I’m not gonna know any way to complain or make an issue of it. You’re good, you’re in the clear. It can hang exactly where it want. Just hang there. Like your balls are a pendulum on a clock. Hanging in there and I’m just taking it in without passing judgment. In fact if I position myself right sometimes when you’re fucking me from behind your balls actually rub against my clit. Feels fucking amazing. Guaranteed orgasm the minute I feel them swinging in to hit the clit.
E: Sounds like you have an opinion. Seems to me like you’re now saying you think they hang low. Do you think it hangs low?
S: No we’ve just said I couldn’t possible comment. All I can say is, for me, personally I think your balls look great. You know why do you think when I get you to the point where you’re ready to come I like you to kneel over me and finish yourself off. It’s not to be porno and have you cum in my mouth or over my tits – it’s so I can lick and suck your balls. I love ‘em.
E: But if I wanted a scrotum tuck?
S: If you really want one and we get the money then….you know I think it’s fine, I fancy you but if it’s gonna make you feel better I’ll support you.
E: You’ll back me getting a scrotum tuck?
S: Sure yeah of course. I don’t think you need one, but you were there when I got the gastric band and supported me even though you didn’t agree so – go for it baby.
E: Oh my god I can’t believe you think I should get a scrotum tuck.
E: You’d let me go through with it. For fuck’s sake S who’s gonna see my balls. Just you and maybe a doctor. Two people are gonna see my balls and you’d let me go ahead and have a scrotum tuck. I can’t believe you wouldn’t dissuade me. You haven’t even attempted to talk me out of it.
S: I thought you wanted one.
E: I was just testing you. Seeing how you’d react. I don’t want a scrotum tuck. Who the fuck is gonna see my balls to care, but you’d let me have that surgery?
S: I didn’t know what to say. I was trying to be supportive. You know if it was gonna make you happy and all – give you some confidence – who am I to say no? Course you’re right. Only me and a medical professional will see your bits.
E: And that S is my point.
E: I fancy you and I’m the only one you fuck so if I find you sexy what do you care what other people think? Do they actually matter in respect of your weight? Are we braking our entire sex life because of what you think other people, that don’t even fuck you and never will, might think about your looks?
S: Errr so are you sorting your ball sack out or what?
I’m not sure why it is I’ve never pulled off a successful threesome despite many opportunities arising (and that includes combos of female/female/male and male/male/female). Because my leanings tend to be more heterosexual in nature (I played the lesbian thing in the minors but never went pro) the majority of situations opening themselves to a little three-way action have included myself and two guys. For some reason though I’ve always pulled out (as it were) at the last moment. I’m not sure if this is due to a psychological reason, some sort of catholic guilt, being frightened of not being able to be in complete control of the situation or just overwhelmed at the realisation of a sexual fantasy.
There was one night though I committed to a threesome. My friend at the time was dating a barman and so we sauntered down to his place of work to keep him company and abuse the privilege of free drinks for the evening. After about 8 hours of solid drinking home was beckoning (actually it wasn’t but the bar was closing up and we had no option but to change environments).
I had for my part of the evening played the dutiful friend, keeping my mate entertained (not so much singing for my supper as dancing for my drinks) while knocking back cocktails and keeping the seats warm when she went out to join the new fella for his intermittent cigarette breaks.
But it was Friday night and as any good singleton knows when finishing work and going for end of week drinks it is not so much Friday night but Fuck Night and by 3am I still retained that goal. Many may think I wasted my evening by being a companionable third wheel but any club on a Friday night is filled with men and women mirroring my intention. Thus the 8 hours hadn’t gone to waste, all that it meant was when the lights went up and people began pouring out into the London streets I had to work a little harder, linger a little longer and find a suitable partner to complete my night.
And with relatively little effort I did. I was coming on for 30 (only a month or two short), he said he was 21 but looked significantly younger. I’d have placed him at 17, he was extremely fresh faced but there was a distinct edge or attitude to him that gave him a maturity to what I suspect was his teen years. He was tall at 6’2 and very lean with Aryan good looks – short cropped blonde hair, almost frozen blue eyes on flawless skin. When he opened his mouth I was unsurprised to catch his east European accent – he was Polish. He was confident but not arrogant – boldly asking who I was with, where I lived and whether or not I wanted to carry on the party. He was demanding but not overbearing – draping an arm over my shoulder and assuring me he could guarantee a decent party if we carried on. I can’t say at that point I had any intention of not carrying on…until he waved his friend over.
Forgive me but I can remember neither name of the boys – not because they were both foreign but just because when you’ve clocked up 100 dicks it’s more 83 and 84 as opposed to Bazyli and Dritan. To flex my creative muscles instead of referring to them as numbers it’s easier to settle for Polish boy and Albanian boy.
So Polish boy’s friend was introduced to me. He was Albanian and whereas Polish boy had the sort of looks a Nazi would’ve gone crazy for, Mr Albania was dark and swarthy looking. Shorter than his friends he was barely 5’8 which meant in heels I matched his height. He was broader and more masculine (that’s code for hairy) and had intense brown eyes and a cute smile that spread wide over his face. Unlike his barely legal companion, the Albanian was easily in his mid 20s. Of the two he appeared to be the brawn, his Polish friend the brains – or perhaps his English wasn’t as strong so the Polish boy took the lead in terms of conversation and making plans. I saw him quite obviously eyeing me up approvingly and was suddenly unsure if I was not about to palmed off from the Polish boy to his friend as some sort of sexual leftover or cast off.
I was left in further confusion as to who I would be fucking when after a brief introduction to his Albanian friend, my Polish boy began pinning me against a wall, kissing me deeply and grinding his hard cock against my stomach. He dragged me away from my friend and her boyfriend. As luck would have it my mate’s boyfriend (called Zippy…or was it Zibby…of all things) was Polish and between themselves he somehow assured Zippy/Zibby that he would escort me home and guaranteed I was in safe hands.
The three of us began walking and I quickly went over in my head the potential outcome of the evening. In my mind I decided to commit to the threesome. After all I was coming up to thirty and I needed to tick it off my sex list. Tonight was the night. Both were suitably good-looking and I couldn’t see how I would regret spreading my legs. Until we arrived at the rather bright orange used gangsta-esque car and a third member of the gang. A three-some I was up for; a gang bang I wasn’t so sure of. He was Albanian as well – not as good-looking as his cousin whom he was chauffeuring around that evening. He was also significantly older. He looked in his early 40s. Short, dark, furry and generally physically revolting. I began to waiver and wonder what was the best way to avoid having to deal with all three cocks.
I dragged my Polish boy to one side. His lips were all over me and when he stooped low enough for me to whisper in his ear I managed to bleat, ‘I don’t want to sleep with your friends. Is that okay?’
He pulled back suddenly and put his hands on my shoulder. It suddenly felt weird looking to someone who wasn’t old enough to drink for sexual reassurance. ‘You’re not going to sleep with them. I’m not into that and I don’t want someone that’s been used like that.’
We squeezed into the not-so-roadworthy car and headed from the West End of London to my pad in Stockwell. Parking the car was a nightmare. I was a public transport user (who wouldn’t be living so centrally) and had no knowledge of where one could or should park near my gaff. The guys managed to sort it out. I let them into the house and we traipsed up the stairs to my semi-studio.
Unfortunately living alone in central London and on a tight budget due to minimal wage, my studio didn’t have a personal bathroom and the front door opened straight into my double bed. There was a second room (with no door) to the kitchen. But the main room or living area was the double bed and I couldn’t quite see how I was going to have the privacy to get laid.
With so many people squeezed into the small living space I was unsure how exactly the party would continue. I had no food, no drinks, no space and a rather uncool music collection. But the Polish boy was ever resourceful and asked where the nearest corner shop was. In the wee hours of Saturday morning I assured him that we wouldn’t be sold alcohol because they weren’t licensed. He smiled knowingly at me and assured me he’d be back with some vodka and orange juice. He nodded at the Albanian chauffeur who was edging closer and closer to me on the bed and told him to accompany him to the shop, thus leaving me in the care of his more reliable and better looking Albanian friend. The minute the door closed and we heard the outer front door shut Mr Albania laid back on the bed and stretched out. I saw his shirt rise up and noticed the dark hair trailing from his flat stomach down to the button fly on his jeans. I have a feeling even though he looked as if he were dozing he could feel my eyes drinking in his dark beauty. He rolled over on the bed and faced me saying nothing. I could taste his pleasant scented but heavy aftershave. I could actually feel how badly he wanted me and my lips found his. He let my fingers unbutton his jeans. Despite the dark unruly mass of pubic hair a thick uncut penis protruded from his cotton boxers. My hand gripped it and I moaned at the thought of how it might feel filling me up. It felt so good I began to straddle him.
He pushed my skirt up and pulled my knickers to one side. I ground down on his cock and he felt how wet I was for him. We mimicked sex without penetration our hands beginning to reach under garments. Had he moved his cock, had I repositioned myself we could’ve gone all the way. What little English he did possess in his vocabulary he knew enough to be wary of actually fucking me properly – his Polish friend was obviously not a boy to be crossed. He murmured that he really shouldn’t be doing this but he began pulling me by the hips more forcefully and his cock began rubbing further at the slippery entrance to my vagina.
His mobile phone rang. He swore (in English), answered the phone, then hung up quickly and jumped up even more quickly adjusting his clothes saying he was going to let the boys back in.
Sombre as ever the striking looking Polack entered saying he was only able to obtain Russian vodka and was disappointed there was no vodka from his country of origin available. From the kitchen as I poured the drinks and listened to how effective the threat of a teen Polish mafia type and his Albanian heavy with a ten pound tip for the trouble of serving out of licensing hours was, I realised they were rather a motley crew and quite menacing. I was quite interested in how they actually made their money (or what they did to supplement their wages to afford the clothes and the upper class West End clubs they frequented). Dangerous sorts and all locked in my bedroom; on the whole I was pretty defenceless.
But the baby faced man with a plan obviously had an idea of how to make the night work and set about it. For his two friends he poured very large vodkas with barely a drop of juice and handed them their glasses as they sat cross legged on the bed. My more modest drink was left for me in the kitchen. The beautiful, tall, considered youth rested against the doorframe between rooms chatting to his friends and occasionally throwing a look and smile my way. His intention was to ensure his friends dropped off and the quadruple vodka meant they were soon snoring gently on the bed. His plump lips curved into a smile at the sight of the two rugged manly men asleep almost in each others arms.
He strolled back into the kitchen and took my glass from my hand and put it on the sink as he began to kiss me. I knew what had to be done but not sure exactly how. There wasn’t a door to close so we were forced to softly move to the back of the kitchen where the partitioning between the rooms blocked out any observers from the bed. There was no blanket or anything for the lino but he seemed unmoved by the less than comfortable environment. He had already removed his jeans and was wearing tight legged pristine white Calvins. His prick was lengthy, moderate in its girth but against his tightie whities it looked like a porno cock and I licked my lips at the thought. I had dropped to my knees and tugged at the shorts and he let me suck him for a while. The lack of pubic hair made me wonder just how long it had actually been since he hit puberty, but his cock was not that of a boy. He pulled himself out of my mouth and got to his knees, his hands were powerful and literally tore my knickers off. Part of me was slightly perturbed because they were quite costly but I kind of like the idea of being ravished by a hungry, young foreigner.
My skirt was pushed up and he removed the remainder of his heavily labelled clothes. Because of his age his cock was standing to attention and was so long the head of the cock almost touched his belly button. He pushed me straight down on the lino and climbed on top ramming himself straight in me. I cried out in surprise and he put his hand over my mouth and began to fuck me fast and furiously. It felt great. He was young and full of energy. His icy exterior remained in tact as did his strong sense of Catholicism and decency as he ensured we were unlikely to be interrupted. I began trying to pull away from his cock. It was long like an ice lolly and was beginning to hurt. The minute I pressed against his hips to shallow his thrusting he withdrew and gently tugged my hair and put a firm hand on my hip inclining me to get on all fours.
It felt weird someone so young being so demanding and so sexually and physically potent in his prowess. He entered me roughly again and as he ploughed into me he pulled my hair as a warning not to cry out. So he fucked me hard like a dog on heat, getting deeper and deeper, only when I started to buck and struggle against the hand that held my hair did he very quickly pull out and cum over my bottom. He smeared it in and gave my rump a quick slap. Then dressed himself quickly and assisted in making sure my clothes looked decent.
‘I’m going to have to go soon. I have school tomorrow (21? Yeah right!) and I need these two to wake up to drive me home. It’s been nice though – you were good. Sweet girl (Girl! I’m turning thirty in less than sixty days!).’
‘And are you a sweet boy?’ I asked.
‘Yeah I think not and I think you know that. I’ve got your phone number from the club. I’ll pass it to my friend. He wants to fuck you, but…tonight you’re mine. Another time if you want you can have him. If you have him, you’ll not have me again.’ (His friend did harass me via the phone for some time and with great persistence but he looked better alongside his friend as a package deal, he didn’t warrant my attention in terms of a one on one night.)
‘But I may not ever get you again anyway.’
‘Perhaps not. But I like how you move and I like how you feel. I love how you fuck little Australia.’
‘I’m not sure you could call me little.’
He shrugged, not complimenting me but refusing to participate in my self deprecation.
‘What is it you do anyway?’ I couldn’t help but want to solve this enigmatic babe to some extent. How could someone so young possess such confidence and magnetism, and assert so much authority with such ease over all those he interacted with.
He looked at me icily and smiled taking the chill out of his inevitable departure as he called to his friends to get up and move. They headed out the door sleepily and he went to follow. Leaning down he kissed me affectionately on the lips and for the first time he looked like the little boy I suspected he actually was. He pointed at my washing machine.
‘I saw this while we were fucking. Your spin cycle only goes to 1000. That’s actually considered really slow so I think your machine is very old. With a slow spin cycle you don’t get all the water out. You don’t have a drier so in the winter your clothes will smell of damp. I know these things. My father managed a shop that sold these types of electrical household things, I learned a lot. Talk to your landlord about installing a new washing machine, it’s out of date.’
That parting advice was the most disappointing and anti-climatic moment I’ve ever encountered on a one night stand. Here was I thinking he was rampantly ramming me because my sexual prowess had forced him into a lusty trance, when in fact he had been slamming his shaft deeper hoping to fuck me across the lino to get a closer look at the washing machine which was infinitely more appealing than me. I’m crushed to confess he then left without a goodbye or thank you. They were his final words and I never saw him again. I suppose in his mind the expert assessment and advice on my kitchen was the equivalent of a goodbye – better even because it had real value that could improve the quality of my life. I wish the fucker had said nothing. Sometimes the allure of mystery surpasses the honesty of reality.
There is nothing that puts a dampener on one’s sex life then when you both agree you want children but don’t set a date AND practise unsafe sex – that is my husband and I don’t use contraception. As a thirty-something woman the biological clock is ticking away, as someone nearing fifty with an ex-wife and two kids and a brand spanking new wife I suspect the conception of new children isn’t quite as high on his list of priorities as it is mine.
Now we both love a bit of porn and filthy sex but with real life imposing greatly on our once vivid and active imaginations which provided some seriously steamy and depraved sex, I haven’t been getting my five-a-day of late…not even five-a-week – in fact I’m lucky if I get sex once a week (I do normally get a minimum of five orgasms in the weekly session though so if you go for the quality not quantity argument…).
Anyway this discussion on children has made his ejaculation something of a delicate subject when the moment is about to present itself. When he breathlessly asks where I want him to cum as my head is bouncing up and down on his penis I almost stop myself on the spot considering the answer. I don’t though, at his age he remains rock hard and can go for hours without climaxing and sometimes I get lock-jaw so daren’t break the rhythm for fear of having to prepare myself for the onset of a sore jaw and repetitive strain injury in my wrist. The thing is I quite like him cumming inside me. I like the squirt of his semen filling me up and hitting the back wall, I like feeling him pull and wipe his cum soaked cock on my thigh and I LOVE that moment when I stand up and feel his sperm swim out of my wet cunt and down into my panties at some point later that day. Only in light of recent conversations on the progression of our relationship I feel if I ask him to release inside me he’ll assume I want a baby like…yesterday and be scared off. I’m already starved of cock on a once a week diet so if the sex dries up any more I suspect my hymen may grow over and I’ll be re-virginalised.
Last week – aware that his balls were full up of seven days of milky-white tadpoles – when he popped the question I decided to play it safe and go for one of his visually stimulating favourites and said I wanted him to cum on my face. When he asked if I wanted him to kneel over me so I could bring myself off one last time while vibing my clit, him manually finishing himself off as I licked his balls so he could see himself over my tongue and face, I nodded (as I continued my mouth working his cock). Trouble was as it had been such a while since we’d had sex (for us any way) he came before he had time to reposition himself. My peripheral vision caught site of a thick white stream flying past my head in a moan of his ecstasy, akin to someone stomping violently on a pot of yoghurt. I moved my face in a bid to catch the airborne sperm on my tongue and ended up taking the majority of it on my face. However a droplet had hit the corner of my unfortunate open eye.
It stung like fuck and no amount of eye baths took away the pain. Having been accosted briefly by his 90 year old father (asking all sorts of probing questions about this week’s online Sainsbury’s order whilst I cradled my eye and felt my skin tightening as the spunk dried on my face) I eventually returned to be to discuss the distress of my right eyeball. My partner’s was empathetic (as a youngster he was once wanking and spurted with such a force and at such an angle he came in his own eye) towards my bad case of squid eye and I discovered the existence of a very sadist sexual practise which involves a guy coming into a shot glass (or with accurate and effective aim) then forcing a woman’s eye open and dumping the load in there. Severe stinging sensation! I speak from experience. Not from this minor bedroom mishap but a larger one some years ago.
Back in the day when I was a pretty(ier) young(er) thing I made quite the impression on a young man visiting London from Bradford. He was of Indian descent (I do like my brown boys) and a PE teacher to boot (who doesn’t like a six pack and toned body???.) I must’ve quite liked him because I didn’t sleep with him the night I met him – I obviously held off hoping he may like me enough to want to consider me as potential girl friend material. Not succumbing paid off, although he was travelling overseas for six months, he literally called me from the airport when his plane returned to home soil (clearly he hadn’t scored a lot of foreign pussy on his travels).
I was flattered to be his first call and we quickly organised an evening for him to trek to London and ‘see’ me. Sadly I was very young at this point and still couldn’t quite comprehend why such a fittie was interested in me. In addition to this I was inexperienced with the whole dating scenario. I got as far as meeting him in the pub after work for a drink but was unsure what to do from there. Did I suggest dinner? More drinks? A movie? Clubbing? No after two alcopops I found myself inviting him back to my place.
As we walked up there (bare in mind I was living at the Young Women’s Christian Association which didn’t allow overnight male visitors, nor even visitors after 9pm) I knew I had a limited window of opportunity to legitimately get him into my room. Once signed in there was every chance after 9 o’clock the guards would come a-knocking to boot him out.
On the way back my phone started bleeping with texts from a new beau I was sure I was in love with – now not only did I need to fuck this guy before curfew but also I needed to speed things along in order to allow me to return the call of my current obsession. Gorgeous Asian PE Teacher asked if it was my other boyfriend on the phone and I nervously laughed off his all too accurate laughing accusation. Still he was so tactile and affectionate, and I was so besotted by his muscular frame that by the time I got him into my small single bedroom I was tearing off his tight grey shirt and running my hand all over his hard body. The slim waist and rippled torso had my hands undoing his belt and working down the button fly on his jeans. I could see his hard on pressed against his pristine white briefs. The bulging of his pants and thighs (built up undoubtedly from punishing fat kids mercilessly during PE lessons at school) distracted me from contemplating whether this underwear was acceptable or not – it looked like maybe mum still bought it. He was pushing me onto the bed whilst my hands were grabbing desperately at his cock.
He removed my top off and I was wriggling out of my jeans while sucking hard on him. He was groaning so loudly the girl next door thumped on the wall. Fully aware of the time restraints and the possibility of angry neighbour calling security; once free of my jeans I extended my toe towards the CD player (yes this was pre-iPod era) to hit play. Sadly I had left on Backstreet Boys but my handling of his cock was enough to make him stay hard while he sat bolt upright and said ‘Backstreet Boys? Seriously What are you 13?’ (I was 22.) To avoid answering the question I quickly leapt on his cock and rode him like I was a prizewinning rodeo jillaroo – I only lasted the 7 seconds because he was soon begging for a blowjob. I pushed my mouth on his cock and went in for some intense deep throat action. He pulled my head to shallow his thrusting in my mouth, withdrew completely and said ‘I haven’t done this in so long.’ Then he promptly ejaculated all over me. It’s one thing having seven days of spunk flying at you but seven months worth was like a tsunami – unavoidable. It went everywhere but mostly it went in my eye.
Being a tough Australian and keen to keep my options open (there was no guarantee my new text relationship would become realised) I tried to ride it out and be sexy. I rubbed his cum into my plump breasts and my stomach, massaging it down to between my thighs while he watched. As I moved my hands erotically round my voluptuous figure I tried to flick my hair seductively but it was matted from man-milk. What I could feel was the vision in my left eye diminishing. I was rubbing some cum into my face, smiling as if I knew I was going to look ten years younger from having done so when I realised my eye was on fire. It was swelling up so that I couldn’t see out of it all. I wanted to run round the room screaming ‘It burns, it BURNS!’ or fill the little sink up with water and dunk my entire head in it but those actions were decidedly unsexy…but so was a big red swollen eyelid.
The phone began ringing again. My one remaining good eye caught my new love’s name flash up very visibly on the phone’s screen. I suddenly had gone from Australian sex goddess to smelly, slutty girl masquerading as Popeye in drag. There was no sexy way out of the situation other than to literally push him out my bedroom door and say ‘Call me next time your in town!’ As the door slammed shut on his confused face I didn’t hear his foot steps petering away because I had the cold water tap on full blast filling up the sink; my face was pressed to the plug hole waiting for some relief.
There was little respite to be found. Blindly my hand grabbed a flannel and the other my phone so after soaking the flannel I could let it rest on my eye while I hit redial. The voice at the other end of the line asked if I hadn’t answered his calls because I’d been with my other boyfriend. Once again I nervously laughed off the all too accurate gentle accusation. I tried to maintain a conversation being witty and sexy while I nursed my eye. After my appalling dismissal of the body beautiful asian it was evident he was one option no longer available to my heart or vagina – my poor conduct ensured he never did call back. Sadly my eye, now resembling a puffer fish, was affecting my phone manner. My text love decided his suspicions were warranted or that I wasn’t 100% committed to the call and hung up quickly because of my evident inattention. A five minute phone conversation didn’t satisfy my emotional needs any more than a fifteen minute blow job satisfied my cunt which continued aching to be stuffed by a cock. Neither were satisfied that night – this story, akin to my night, was without a resolution.
Even a cynical, seasoned professional purveyor of penis can get caught off-guard by someone saying the right things at the right time. Drunk with a desperate heart; hearing the right words at the right time can trick your mind into thinking the man saying them can only be Mr Right. One’s expectations are raised, hope begins to bloom and you relax thinking after years of searching he’s finally turned up.
At times I wonder whether I clocked up so much cock on account of my relatively appealing good looks or if it was due to the fact that my pheromones and general behaviour just screamed slut to any passer by-er. A little of column A, a little of column B perhaps
Once you reach the phase where random fu*cking is your fix; like a proper junkie you’re more concerned about getting your fix. The whys and hows of how you get the fix become irrelevant. But if you have a decent dealer the relationship is as valuable as the drug itself.
As mentioned oodles of times previous, Great Yarmouth was a fertile playing field for me in terms of easy guaranteed cock, but low self esteem ensured I was never brimming with confidence. Hence when a tall, dark stranger appeared to be checking me out one night my natural instinct was to quickly survey the dance-floor to see which lucky bitch was the object of his blatant admiration. A few sharp neck swivels (in time to the music of course) and I realised it was me his eyes were lingering on. And I was flattered. Whilst I tended to go for a more mature man there was no getting away from the fact that he was very good looking. At least 6’2 (which given my size – especially in heels could only be a blessing), broad, dark hair carefully and deliberately moulded into porcupine spines all over his head, hazel eyes and an open, symmetrical, good-natured face. Coupled with a casual dress shirt left hanging out over smart trousers and shoes as he lent against the wall leading to the toilets (giving him full view of the antics of the entire venue) he certainly stood out from the usual clientèle at the run down Pier Bar with it’s stonking cheesy pop tunes from decades ago.
I assumed it was a general glance from him so when I was forced to walk past him to go to the loo I was pleasantly surprised when I felt him intentionally yet casually brush up against me as I passed him. Things were starting to look positive so on my return I purposely, yet accidentally touched my entire body to his. It was then he grabbed my hand and when I looked up at him I almost melted in his eyes – they were so kind and friendly…and genuine.
His warm hand prevented me from returning to the dance-floor and I allowed him to gently drag me past the toilets and out onto the pier. The air was cool. Whatever time of the year in the wee hours of the morning by the sea the air is always fresh on the skin. It seemed there was little time for words and yet I’m sure we talked. Perhaps it was just that the immediate connection allowing for a comfortable silence because before long I was pressed against the wall of the closed arcade lost in his lips and feverish kisses. What few words were spoken were enough. Pinned to the wall, his hands eventually found mine and I felt him directing them towards his cock which was trying to burst out of his trousers. But I didn’t want that. I didn’t want to be just some holiday slut for a night. Funnily enough when I told him this he was completely fine. He didn’t accuse me of being a prick tease, become abusive in the face of potential sexual rejection or shrug his shoulders and find some other easy lay. We stood together again and spoke and after a time he took my hand and returned me to the club and my beloved side-kick, L. So it was a nice moment and one I had the sinking feeling I was going to have to write-off as just that. A nice boy on a nice night.
But it wasn’t. Allegedly he had just moved to Great Yarmouth and was beginning work as a barman in the venue (our favourite and most frequented no less). He asked how often I came to Great Yarmouth and after a quick conference with L and the potential this new encounter promised, I confirmed I’d be back in 4 weeks time. We didn’t exchange numbers but he said he’d wait for me and left it at that.
I was kind of seeing a married man at the time (quite a significant ‘relationship’ at that) and was emotionally committed to him but I couldn’t push away this young man – whose name I now can’t even remember – from my mind. Working in an open planned office, I discussed both the guy and my married man at great length and the general consensus from the girls (ranging in age from 18 to 48) was the Yarmouth bloke sounded like a sweetheart and it was definitely worth following up on. Four weeks later we travelled up to Great Yarmouth again, myself with Great Expectations.
A little to keen and over eager we took up residence in the Pier Bar early afternoon and keenly watched the going ons as staff clocked in and out for the evening shift. Bizarrely enough true to his word he turned up, gave a friendly smile and began to work. Like a little school girl and keen to avoid any form of rejection I sent L up to the bar. He chatted with her and spent a lot of his time serving with an eye constantly on me. At one point I was given a drink by a random stranger who said it was a gift from the man behind the bar who also sent him with the message that I was easily the most beautiful girl in the bar that night. At this stage even L swooned at his authenticity. Sometimes small gestures and simple words are the most effective way to pierce a heart. I was smitten and refrained from my normal motto of ‘keep your options open!’ I declined any invitation for a dance and was happy to hang outside on the pier when he had his ten minute breaks. By 4am L was being walked home by an ‘old friend’ which left me with my man.
There is always something romantic about sunrises and empty beaches and walking hand in hand with a man that makes your heart sing for joy.
It’s not so romantic trying to have sex while standing underneath a pier. Romance was high but a pounding need to consummate this blossoming relationship was also present. Lips pressed together, probing tongues and lusty hands groping, feeling and undoing meant there was only one direction this was going. Strangely enough despite some minor protestations I was happy to oblige because he seemed so wanting and firm and…true.
However fab my new outfit was I was regretting wearing jeans. The fitted top accentuating my curves and high heels may have made a killer look but in terms of outdoors sex it just was not good. Frankly speaking rolling down tights and pushing up a dress is easier to access, more graceful and just that little bit safer for being busted for indecent exposure than tight black jeans. In all honesty the guy only needs to unzip for his member to do the job, for me it was trying to wriggle out of my jeans as elegantly as possible to allow the sex to take place. But I was keen enough so ended up kicking my jeans off. As luck would have it my top was long enough to cover my modesty should any early morning wanderer find their way under Great Yarmouth’s main pier.
Whilst I can’t recall his name, I can recall the sex. Pleasingly his cock was in proportion to his 6’2 broad frame. There was a length and girth to it that could only be rewarding for a willing recipient. I remember in my hand his cock was not only hard but it was hot and literally I could feel the blood pulsating through it as he moaned. His main concern was coming too quickly because he hadn’t had sex in some months after a break (well that was his story). Still there was no chance of premature ejaculation because the logistics required for sex meant a lot of stop starting and position changing – which didn’t kill the ambience thank God. I didn’t feel comfortable fu*king standing in heels so removed them, which immediately had me 8 inches shorter than him. Additionally being on the big side, however ripped and fit he was, it wasn’t like he could just lift me up to enter me for a good shagging,
He ended up turning me round to face a pylon – I guess if it could support a pier, it wouldn’t crumble with my weight resting against it. At this point he ran his hand down my buttocks and pushed his hand between my legs, forcing me to open them wider for his eagerly anticipated entry. His groaning in my ear increased as he felt how wet I was for him, his fingers slipped in and out of my dripping c*nt and I could feel my own juices on his fingers as his body pressed firmly against mine and the length of him slowly penetrated me. It was as if time stood still, or slowed right down as I felt my kegal muscles involuntarily clamp round his cock and I moaned in tandem with him – vocalising how full my vagina felt. The sex remained slow, his cock rhythmically reaching the back wall and internally stimulating all the right places. The weight and warmth of him against me only made me feel safer, protected and sensual.
He refused to speed up, determined to take his time as if I was some present to slowly be unwrapped. Eventually though all good things must come to an end. As he whispered into my ear, ‘I can’t wait much longer’ he withdrew and asked if I’d finish him off. It was a reasonably new request and while I was keen to have him in my mouth I wasn’t so sure about my juices being all over it. Still I didn’t want to kill the atmosphere so dropped to my knees, as he gently held my head and guided himself into my mouth.
I have to say – I tasted pretty good. There’s a lot to be said about diet dictating the taste sensation of someone’s excretions. Given my penchant for sweet food it turned out to be a delicious dick. There was far more than a mouthful there so I did my best to relax my reflux which allowed him a little deep oral. Fortunately when I did, unsurprisingly, gag on his cock those muscles rejecting his size seemed to tip him over the edge as he pulled out and allowed himself to cum over my chest – his cum dripping down the deep v-nect cut of my top all the way to my milky white breasts which were all but overflowing from the garment.
I stood up and we kissed (which I felt okay about cause clearly he was now tasting his cum too). I went to grab my jeans, realising the sun was taking away what little cover there was left under the pier when he dropped to his knees. Realising what he was going to do I pulled his head back and insisted that he really didn’t have to but he was adamant he wanted to. I spread my legs at his soft command so that his tongue could work it’s way around me. Clearly he approved of my diet of chocolate and ice cream because not only did his tongue skim over my clit but he seemed desperate to get his tongue where his cock had been ploughing only minutes before. Because of my sizeable thighs to allow him to do this I had to assume an almost yogic position raising a leg and attempting to balance on the one remaining grounded leg. He may have been wanting to bring me to orgasm but this acrobatic feat had put that idea to bed, so I faked it in order to finish up.
His demeanour didn’t change as he gallantly kept look out whilst I got dressed and we took a slow walk home. He lived and looked after his mother in a flat above a shop in one of the main streets in Yarmouth. In the flush of first love, our goodbye at the door took another hour and I promised to meet him that evening.
I got home, slept, woke up, filled L in on the details, showered, changed and headed back to the Pier Bar to continue my perfect weekend. Only he wasn’t working in the Pier Bar, he’s been sent to the opposite end of Britannia Pier to work in Long John’s nightclub for his shift. This venue had thumping music and was filled with all the beautiful, young, pretty things. When we headed up there I felt fat, frumpy, old and out of place. Whilst he did his best to catch the odd conversation with me there was no time for him to take breaks, send over free drinks or sweet messages. In fact he was so busy and seeing endless girls flirt outrageously with him I opted out and headed home. We said goodbye but I felt pretty flat about things. Could it all have been a lie to get a free fuck (please let that bit about him not having sex in months be true because if I was one of a long line of holiday fucks it was even more meaningless to him)???
Back at work Tuesday, after the Bank Holiday and the girls at work were as taken as L and I had been with his behaviour and treatment of me. In fact my mother figure, M, convinced me to drop the married guy and go for it with this new fellow. It had been busy in the club that night and I had stomped out so I guess it hadn’t been entirely practical to exchange numbers. On M’s advice I rang his workplace and left a message with my phone number. Later that evening he returned my call, said he was surprised and a little hurt at my departure but was happy I’d contacted him. He took my mobile number and gave me his, making sure I called his whilst on the land-line to ensure I had the number correct.
Turns out soon after divulging his contact details Mr Right promptly ceased even being Mr Right Now – he was Mr not so Right…or just plain Mr Wrong, Not a response to a text did I ever get back. Not an answer to me calling him ever took place. Just enough missed calls and unanswered texts for me to get the hint. Four weeks later when we returned to Yarmouth he’d disappeared from working at the Pier (sacked or moved on I’ll never know). With a cock like his I have to say it was a good servicing on his part but very poor after care and follow up support – still I hadn’t dumped the married guy so at least I’d kept my options open.
When you meet a guy named ‘Fox’ three thoughts enter your head:
- He was named by hippies
- He’s of Native American descent
- He works in porn.
If his surname could also be a Christian name – something like….. ‘Tucker’ it’s more than likely he works in porn. Don’t be swept up in the uniqueness or impressiveness of such a name as it will more or less be covering for a flaw in the man’s character. And when you’re on a throbbing dance floor and are dazzled with a good looking, charming man buying you free drinks it’s easy to think ‘Wow I’m gonna marry a man called Fox Tucker and people will be like – shall we have S and Fox round for dinner?’. It’ll sound so cool in your head you won’t bother to question the man’s motives and 24 hours later you’ll really wish you spent more time being cynical and less time fantasizing merrily in a drunken horny state.
It turns out this particular evening would be the beginning of the end of a beautiful relationship…of L&B’s great partnership in Great Yarmouth. I was telephonic-ally, textually and cybernetic-ally on the verge of meeting my soul mate in the flesh, L was about to meet her future husband.
My mind is slightly vague in relation to earlier events in the evening – perhaps because later events became so prominent they overshadowed anything that happened previous. I know for a fact L and I used to limit ourselves to the Pier Tavern (a cheesy more mature ‘nightclub’ at the start of Yarmouth’s main pier. However on the night in question L and the general punter was considered old if they were over 21….so being 30 didn’t have every man in the venue turning their heads, revealing come-to-bed eyes and rushing us on the dance-floor for a little bump and grind.
In fact because we smacked of having a ‘3’ in our age we were relegated to swaying slowly whilst sipping our snakebite and blacks on the outskirts of the dance floor and dangerously close to the exist.
And then they appeared.
Two nice looking guys who were definitely mid-30s and veering dangerously close to being observed as in their early 40s…..undeniable prime beef to a woman of any age. Turns out they were best friends. L and I gave each other a sidelong excited glance at what might potentially result from this seemingly random interaction bestowed on us by the gods. The first ripple that fate had thrown us a positive lifeline was that both seemed actively interested in us. L’s guy wasn’t the tallest guy, but being with L he didn’t have to be. He was built like a brick shit house, broad and solid but had the face of something you’d expect to see on a boy-bander. She’d like that. He’d make her feel small and safe. And he had the chat and charm to go with it. His razor sharp wit would please her and engage her. Looks alone wouldn’t sit well but the fact that he had a good job, and good banter would see him in good stead. The pretty people…..
Which I used to think I belonged to until the man introduced as ‘Fox’ had cordoned himself off with me said ‘Don’t you ever get sick of playing Wingman for your friend?’ The words had the effect of a 1inch blade on a Swiss army knife catching me in the side. I had enough flesh to ensure the blade did no damage but it was a shock and it stung like fu*k. Especially as I knew L was not into One Night Stands and spent the majority of the time playing wingman for her slutty friend – ME. I also suddenly felt horribly unattractive and had an insight into a male’s perspective thinking of the two of us I was clearly unfavourable and seem as a chore. I mustered what courage I could to say I didn’t really see myself that way and it wasn’t how L and I operated.
He stumbled, embarrassed over his words, explaining what he meant were that people like L and his best mate M were all about the ‘game’, whereas folks like us (god did that immediately put us into the unattractive or worse just plain ordinary category….this face of mine has graced the pages of Cosmo magazine!) weren’t all about notching up conquests. It eased the pain a little and my ruffled feathers felt smoother. We talked some more and he looked at the two to them flirting outrageously together. Their body language textbook to that for any psychology or social science class. He nodded at them and turned to me. ‘They won’t last. They aren’t the type to. They’re both the same – players’. All I was trying to say was I really like you and if things don’t work with them, I’d hate for it to impact on any relationship we might have. Your lovely and a very cool girl. I’d like to think we might be able to go the distance but if they fall out or whatever PLEASE don’t allow it to prevent us from being together.’
Words I’d spent years longing to hear. And then his friend was coming over with vodka jellies, an alco-pops. The guys treated us – not like princesses, but like queens. It had been a very long time since I had someone mount up a bill of over £200 in a couple of hours being hospitable with us.
By the time Land I had conflabbed in the toilets I knew the night could only be going good places.
And it did.
It took us back to the generous Fox’s pad that he shared with his friend M. The house was magnificent. Tucked in the countryside, a hidden large cosy country house, where we found ourselves having a few nightcap in a large and well designed, thought very masculine in taste, living room. As would be inevitable eventually the talk would dissipate and L and I would allow ourselves to be invited upstairs to our respective beau’s bedrooms.
What L did…well she spent the night verbally bonding with M and he respected that, enjoyed a kiss and a cuddle and cunningly L left him fully aware that we was going to need a suitable investment (both emotional, financially and time wise) if he wanted the full goods.
I on the other hand was high on life and very merry and exceedingly flattered with the man. L was right – that new blue shirt cum dress that snugly fitted did look awesome on me. Almost as awesome as Fox Tucker would look when he pushed my dress up and began fucking me. Even though he had a porn star name (and over pillow talked it transpired he DID work in porn…he did the IT and maintenance of some websites for porn companies based in Canada) there was no mirrored walls or ceiling, or cannily installed web-cams I felt sure we looked pretty hot fucking – it a little bit old skool.
We certainly weren’t love’s young dream. There had been many moments on my lips of late that had cunningly migrated south to take up permanent residence on my hips. He was trim, but late 30s, early 40s. Manly. A proper man. Dark hair, nice, eyes, strong jaw, defined symmetrical features on his face, taller than me, broad, big hairy chest, fine fat cocked springing out from a voluminous bush of untamed pubic hair. He could only have looked hot fucking me. I mean the transition from charming and courteous to ‘get on all fours and spread your cheeks so I can fu*k that arse properly’ was rather winsome. After a rigorous pumping, missionary, me on top, standing bent over the bed and doggy style I felt obliged to comply with his final request. It had been a while since my bottom had been exposed to a beastly boner determined to bash my back doors in, but the force and enthusiasm it was delivered with had me gasping for pleasure rather than wincing and whining say ‘stop it hurts’ or crying and screaming ‘put some lube on that monster’.
No he was dripping with sweat and flushed when he pulled , asked for em to suck him until came all over my tits – I couldn’t have wanted a better introduction to sex with my future husband Fox Tucker – Ahhhh if only.
But wait. The morning after he didn’t throw us out, he woke up with his arms wrapped round me, reinforcing how great my performance had been (twas like music to my ears…worth risking that painful first poo after such action). He even gave me his mobile number telling me he’d meant everything he’d said last night. In fact I remember when L appeared, he departed laughingly, leaving the two of us giggling and discussing our antics. Mine gave L severe hysteria and hers were of a far more romantic nature which made my heart sing. Could it actually go somewhere?
Yes it could. Tired of the mirth and suspected lesbian antics that may be occurring the boys invited us to go for a carvery to recover from the previous night. The two of them and the two of us. L and I gave a look of ‘can this really be happening’.
We’d finally found them after years of searching like loons. They drove us to our caravan and patiently waited in the car while we showered, selected suitable casual but sexy Sunday afternoon attire and (taking less care with my image and more keen with eating) I sat on the sofa texting Fox in the car with him replying with all sorts of lovely and promising sentiments as L glammed up.
The meals itself was a delight. The boys were happy to join us for ‘hair of the dog’ – a little prohibited being in possession of a car but by no means restrictive of judgemental on L and I’s alcoholic intake. Gentlemanly as ever they collected the tab and there was tiniest hope that there was a hint of suggestion that this would be the first of many.
Things got awkward when it was time to leave. Both guys had children from previous marriages and had agreed when kids were at the house girlfriends weren’t allowed. Both had their children coming over that day. It was L and mine’s last night in Yarmouth. L’s man M said he thought he’d be able to change things with his kid and see us in the evening. Suddenly Fox became non-committal saying he’d keep in touch via text but was seeing his kid so couldn’t make any promises. When they got out I got a kiss goodbye but I could already feel a chasm of despondency growing. While M was eagerly asking L where we’d be drinking that night and what time, Fox made no interest and avoided the suggestion. I felt silly asking to text. I respected the kid thing, but the coolness emanating from his attitude began to deflate my heart and my dreams. I said good bye and tried to remain bright for L’s sake. After all perhaps he took parenting seriously – that was a good quality not one to knock or begrudge.
We sat in a pub discussing our plans, our marriage to the two, the double wedding, how we couldn’t believe this was happy. But as the afternoon dragged on, whilst L stayed in contact with M, my texts to Fox went unanswered. Gradually rather than continue texting to try an initiate conversation, I took the hint and stopped. L did her best to get M to bring him or convince him to join us but by late evening when M turned up having spent time with his kid there was no sign of Fox Tucker. He’d either disappeared into a fox hole, was obsessed with internet porn and getting his fix or somewhere in the Sunday sun had thought me Coyote Ugly and scampered away while he still could. M was lovely, L was moving on ever so gently from a relationship recently gone soured and I sat there forever a third wheel. Both of them trying to include me and me fully aware they had no idea that I just wanted to disappear into a place where rejection wasn’t staring me in the face. That empty fourth chair at the table was mocking me, but as a good wingman I couldn’t leave L no matter how hurt I was. I played a good friend, I was a good friend. She’d done the same for me and that’s what makes best friends. Even the alcohol couldn’t strip the pain from me.
It was kinda ironic when I heard L & M were getting married. Don’t feel bad for me, I was engaged and with the man of my dreams – it just that my soul mate wasn’t Fox Tucker. What was ironic was I was immediately back at the pier where Fox nodded over at them and pointed saying ‘see those two, there that type, there players, they aren’t in it for the long haul, not after a relationship, not like you and me.’ How on earth did I buy into that bullshit. Did a vodka jelly and flash name render me so emotionally vulnerable?
He fucked like an animal: masculine, hard, fast, demanding, brutish, methodically, physically, without warmth. He fucked like a porn-star: scripted, unfeeling, wordless but for grunts and instructions, hands not caressing but manipulating the various porn style positions he wanted, moving me not out of lust for me but to ensure maximum satisfaction for himself. At the time it felt sexy. It was hot sex. I was satisfied. It was nice for a night but that’s what his heart was like. The words were just a trap and I walked in there wondrous and left broken.
Still I had the laugh last, quite literally when giving my best ‘bridemaids’ speech at L and M’s wedding. As I recounted the harsh, unfeeling judgement passed by porn expert Fox Tucker on how unlikely the relationship was and the fact he’d stamped them with an expiry date when he they were declaring there eternal love for one another I was forced to admit my best friend L had got it right that fateful night which is probably why it wasn’t a double wedding – no one wants to buy the cow if you’re giving the milk away for free.
By rite of passage most women at some point encounter their first gay-best-friend. This normally results in developing an irrational crush on an unavailable an impossible dream. That said depending on what age or even what stage you both are at sexually that doesn’t mean the gay-best-friend is without sexual benefit.
In my case I managed to avoid falling for some pretty boy that would woo me with attention, use my looks, status and wit as a public accessory and then eventually become so immersed in Gaysville I’d end up being yesterday’s news. No as I was being wooed and wheeled out to his posse of gay friends, I found another guy that was infinitely funnier who I thought was gay (he wasn’t) and focussed my attentions on him. Thus I never experienced any jealousy or feelings of being an attentive plaything or my presence required merely as a means to prop up an ego.
That doesn’t mean I escaped sleeping with a gay man (or two or three). The first though in question was at the bi-curious stage. But for me the old adage Bi-Now, Gay Later holds a lot of weight.
My heavy immersion into gay culture was helped by the fact that I worked in the theatrical industry which has (thank god) a high percentage of lovely gay men – because there is nothing better than being surrounded by pretty, creative men – does wonders for the ego (and image).
The place I found my gay liaison was in the old G-A-Y by Tottenham Court Road, on a night when me and my theatre’s gang had decided to see Erasure playing live there. You couldn’t have had a gayer evening, with Andy Bell dancing round stage with his feather boa and artificial hip.
Still they were only doing a short set so our evening was filled with a lot of alcohol, a lot of gossip, a lot of dancing to old skool cheesy pop tunes and much flirting and making friends regardless of sexuality.
As the minute and hour hand moved precariously round to the time the concert was due to start the auditorium filled up and the throng dancing on the stage began to climb down and push back the die-hard fans that had been dancing by the stage all night to reserve a pole front row position.
I myself was a die-hard fan so stood ground as the young boys climbed down and realised they were being sent by a tidal wave of bopping bodies to the back of the club. Our group were huddled close and I was feeling exceptionally excited about Andy and Vince taking the stage. I was also enjoying the friendly ambience of the venue (Erasure didn’t really warrant screaming teen girls so there was no heterophobic vibes emanating from Jeremy Joseph’s crew as is the case when McFly or One Direction play such gigs).
Sitting on the stage, looking rather wasted was a guy who was not a pretty, young, thing. He wasn’t unpretty and he wasn’t old, but he wasn’t ‘a type’. In fact I guess the term ‘straight acting’ could be applied. He was mid 20s, with a pleasant tanned mannish face and mousy blonde hair in curtains that had grown out and hung appealingly in his eyes. His thighs filled out his jeans and the bulge looked promising. He was wearing a loose t-shirt and in fairness is was not an outfit designed to peacock his gym acquired frame.
As the crowd heaved forward I took the opportunity to press myself between his thighs; him sitting on the stage, me standing between his legs. With more movement and bustle I steadied myself by gripping his upper things. This tactile and intimate physical contact mustered him out of his alcoholic daze.
I asked his name and he told me (I won’t pretend for a second I can remember it). He asked mine and given his drunkenness, the roar of a full nightclub my Australia accent and the announcer drumming up the ever enthusiastic crowd after about 50 repeats I got him to understand it.
From there the game began. Tact was never a strength when it came to me quickly assorting potential fucks in such a sparse sexual heterosexual hunting ground. So I just blarted out the question if he was gay. He slowly shook his head and shrugged that he was there with his mates. When I asked where his mates were, he didn’t know. When I asked their names, he couldn’t remember. Being open and honest I said I didn’t think he’d come with mates.
By now he appreciated there was sex up for grabs (maybe not in the package he’d been hoping for but every hole’s a goal as they say) so began to come round and add a little coherency to the conversation if the invitation was not to be be retracted. He amended his story saying his friends had told him Erasure were a really good band so on their advice he thought he’d come see them – it just so happened to be at a gay venue. I pressed on as to why he hadn’t seen them at the Albert Hall (or some such major venue) earlier in the evening with his friends rather than going solo to a 1am gig at G-A-Y.
Eventually he caved; mumbling about sleeping with women but…kind of liking men…trying it out. I’m not one to usually go down that path – it doesn’t do a lot for me – the sexually confused thing. Basically I’d done it myself some years earlier and been not so kind to some lesbians because I decided I was curious. I suspect in hindsight feelings may have been hurt whilst I wanted to try some new things out, selfishly considering my own feelings and emotions on the matter.
But as I smiled and went to walk away, Erasure landed on stage, he slid off the stage and had me in a clinch and I was unable to resist his lips pressing down on mine. It was like the merest hint of sex had sobered him and he was pulling me to him, kissing me feverishly and placing my hand on that ever expanding bulge of denim by his crutch. Coupled with Erasure belting out a more mellow number my resolve weakened. I began to feel wave of heterophobia growing as a seemingly ‘straight’ couple made a very public display of affection in front of a notoriously gay crowd, in a gay venue with a very gay band.
He grabbed my wrist to pull me a way, but I was with my friends. I shook my head and said he was here to try new things and doubtless in an hour or two he could walk out with the goods he intended rather than a substitute. As ‘Give A Little Respect’ came on, my friends enticed me back for a dance and the boy became lost in the crowd.
A few hours later though, whilst the club was emptying and I was waiting for my friends to return with their coats he appeared staggering up the staircase from the men’s toilets – alone.
‘I knew I’d get to fuck you tonight,’ was all he said. And he did.
Resigned myself I took him back to my single room at the YWCA. The security guards, either because they got off on the idea of illicit sex happening in a Christian residence, too tired to argue or just easygoingness let him through with me; without me having to sign him in or explain his nocturnal visit.
For a guy that was preparing to change teams, I have to admit, to his credit, he’d obviously served well and done a decent tour of duty with the heteros. I mean doggedly (though not in style) determined to rut he took his time undressing me. I was by no means dressed for play in tasselled cargos and singlet with netted top over it. But his masculinity was impressive as he dis-robed me item by item. The top was easy to get off. He reached round the back to unhook my bra only to find I was wearing a sports bra. Not to let that dampen the affair he at first just forced the bra down so both my boobs spring out and he nuzzled them for a good time – breathing in the scent of me. Almost delighting in the femininity of me. After spending what I was beginning to think an inordinate amount of attention on my breasts he pulled the sports bra back up and over my head and arms so I could slip out.
Still standing he dropped to his knees and pressed his face against my tummy. I felt the hands creep up to massage my boobs again. I’ve never been too keen on breast play (until recently) so whilst he honked them like some 4 year old in one of those 50p stable car rides you find in supermarkets with steering wheels and horns, I kinda felt it was getting a little Oedipus-like in nature.
Impressively whilst groping my breasts he managed to undo the button and zip on my trousers. The button ok, it was quite loose but I worried about his teeth pulling down the zipper – surely metal can do damage to teeth and the zipper was quite stiff? Once again he was nuzzling my snatch, breathing in from where all my woman hood stemmed. He peeled how my knickers and flicked his tongue round my clit. Without further ado he pushed me to the bed to continue his servicing of me.
The trousers were restrictive, making for an awkward leg spread. I was left rather ungraciously and certainly with allure was kicking at least one leg out of the trousers to allow for a wide spread and better access to my clit. I think maybe in his drunken stupor he didn’t have the faculties to see how unsexy the action being carried out was. He was so intent on not only attempting to give me a clitoral orgasm but taste all of me I had time to remove the trousers hanging onto my right calf and pull off the thick woollen socks that were a favourite of mine at that most wonderful time of the year.
After the correct amount of moans to provide him with the notion he’d bought me to orgasm (he didn’t) he pushed his face as deep in my slit as possible. Smearing his face in juices. Pushing 3 fingers from both hands in as deep as they could go, twisting them pleasurably and then licking them on exit.
He stood up and unbuckled his jeans, unleashing a hard average cock. I was grateful I avoided blow job duties as he rubbed it round my entrance. With the bi-curious thing in mind and my sexual background I insisted on a condom. As silent as he’d been since leaving the club he reached in his wallet produced one and slid it on and then slid straight into me. He remained in missionary the entire time, fucking; my hands gripping his buttocks. The biggest change was me raising my legs over his shoulders. This seemed to please him as he could get deeper and once in deep he went slower a lot harder. In fact the slower he went, the deeper he went the more I moaned in pain the more it seemed to pleasure him. It was almost as if when he went as deep as I could take it, so that my own hands were on his hips trying to prevent him hurting me by going deeper that he came to a complete standstill and came.
He shuddered and lay still on me. Face again in my tits. Suckling them like a giant baby which freaked me. It all seemed more maternal and a celebration of ‘woman’ rather than one night stand sex. He was clearly experienced with women but something was amiss and perhaps that’s why he was moving (or at least temporarily visiting) pastures new. A penis might provide the answers that that a cunt can’t. I moved to reposition myself and that was all it took.
He stood up, removed the condom, wiped his cock with his hand, smeared his hand with the remaining cum on my face as he tossed the condom in the waste-paper basket and did up his jeans.
I was a little lost for words if I’m honest. The breast suckling, then having my face used as a cum flannel was all a bit bizarre.
He sniffed, shook his head, opened the door (me exposed and naked on the bed for the other 300 residents to see), said ‘I knew I’d get to fuck you tonight’ and left. He was right.