Category Archives: Cyber Sex / Online Sex
There was a period in 2006 when internet dating was becoming more of a job than a hobby. I was literally fitting my employment around my sex life. Organising my diary was reaching a point whereby I’d need a skilled professional to juggle all the sexual engagements; so I knew where I was going, who I was meeting and what I was expected to do.
Young lads (legal teens) were easy. They tended to have the emotional capacity of a tea spoon and really just wanted to get laid. Whilst there was minimal emotional labour involved, these dates were physically draining. When presented with the opportunity of no-strings fu*king for one night only, sex starved, horny young boys liked to make the most of the time they had. Bought up on a culture of internet porn, not only was I competing with a high level of fitness and stamina, but I was expected to recreate and execute acrobatic pornographic feats ‘just like on the web’. A good pounding was always welcome but nearing thirty I couldn’t maintain the pace or endurance required to satiate these beautiful young men on a regular basis. Thus my schedule offered a degree of sexual freedom as I accepted ‘dates’ from men my own age or older.
My preferences in these situations were to accompany older gentlemen. Men my own age were far more critical in regard of appearance (and I had piled on the pounds), plus they were very ‘modern’ and ‘pc’ – treating women as equals in the one situation where you’d rather not be considered an equivalent. I’d offer to split the bill. They’d accept my invitation. I hope I don’t come across as a bitch here, but I think if a man asks you out, it’s his job to pay on the first date. Might be harsh and feminists round the world may castigate me, but if a man accepted my money to pay for half the check there would be no sex and certainly no second date.
These kinds of incidence were rare with the previous generation. Nearly thirty, if a man in his fifties of sixties was taking me out, I knew I’d be treated like a lady (and guaranteed my credit card balance was kept to a minimum). Plus (again a cruel observation) these wealthier, well educated, middle-aged men appreciated the beauty in youth.
Writing this at thirty-six, let me assure you, only this week I was sitting on a train observing a nineteen year old university student. He was probably a virgin. I doubt he had a girlfriend. I suspect he was shy and inexperienced with women. I imagine girls barely notice him, let alone fancy him enough to take time to get to know him. But he was beautiful. He radiated youth. Spectacles, spots and slimness were irrelevant; it was his youthfulness enticing me to the degree that I found myself staring intensely at him (possibly considered freaky on public transport).
On reflection, many of the more mature men I dated didn’t see a fucked up, fat, twenty-something; instead they saw someone twenty or thirty years their junior still in possession of the ever elusive quality of youth.
Hence I sacrificed a right old ramming for a taste of expensive wine and fine dining.
Enter Mike (shocked I remembered his name, right?).
Mike was in his early sixties. He was head teacher at a prestigious bordering school. Mike had the banter. He wasn’t your average, pompous, stick up the arse Brit; looking down on the lower classes (especially those originating from a colony of convicts). Having adhered to a reasonable ‘just ensuring you aren’t a psycho’ timeframe, participating in successful textual intercourse and engaging online conversation, we agreed it was time to step it up and press the flesh.
I vividly remember this one night for various reasons.
Firstly he was driving his own car to come and collect me from my home. Bonus – private transport and no paying for public transport.
Secondly he was happy to dine in my local area. Bonus – close to home and a short journey whether things went good or bad.
Thirdly he invited me to choose a restaurant. Bonus – there was only my favourite tapas bar La Rueda up the road that my budget didn’t stretch to and I’d spent months dying for a fix of Spanish cuisine.
Waiting outside on the stairs, leading to the terrace house which had been converted into studios and bedsits, I must’ve appeared quite swish because I was complimented by various locals – all offering to keep me company or wanting to exchange numbers. I politely declined because I was going on – a – date!
Unfortunately his car was black and it was winter. Seemed like every car driving up Stockwell Road was dark and I found myself dashing into traffic waving people down only to discover none of them was Mike. In one case, a driver happily wound down the window and opened the door to take me for a ride, but I retreated hastily – Stockwell and Brixton do not possess unblemished reviews in respect of activities and the residents.
Eventually a four-wheel drive pulled up. The door was flung open for me to observe Mike’s arrival. I’m told it was a 4×4 Range Rover an expensive automobile. Struggling to haul myself in, I was less than impressed with the car irrespective of its price tag.
Not unexpectedly, Mike raved about my looks – a spell we now know which was conjured by the thirty plus age gap as opposed to me genuinely being blessed as extremely attractive (oh my false modesty!). It Thursday night and Clapham was bustling and busy. By the time we found a parking spot, I could’ve walked from home. We then had to contend with a packed restaurant, but the time passed speedily as we enjoyed umpteen sangrias.
He’d never married nor had children, preferring a bachelor lifestyle – which allowed him a very nice residence in his very posh school.
Each Christmas he held an exclusive party, which he couldn’t wait for me to join him as his date this year, whereby he would supply the most delicious food (including a pig on a spit) and a wealth of delectable and tantalizing alcoholic beverages. BUT, it was a Christmas party and people were expected to bring gifts.
Turns out Mike was a connoisseur of wine, with (yawn) an extensive and pricey cellar stocked with the stuff. Although unspoken, it was implied attending guests would present Mike with a suitable and appropriate vintage. The party amounted to almost £100 a head per person, so Mike felt this wasn’t an unreasonable expectation.
Two years previous, a new member of staff was invited to the party and bought with him a £5 bottle of Sainsbury’s Own red wine. Suffice to say the following morning, Mike returned the bottle to the teacher’s pigeonhole with a post-it saying ‘Keep it. Your palette will enjoy it far more than mine’. I need not wrap up this tale with the inevitable conclusion enlightening you as to which of the teaching staff never received a return invitation to the annual party.
Whilst I was discovering these insights into Mike, we wolfed out way through at least ten plates of tapas and two bottles of red wine.
Settling on a third bottle of wine for dessert (I actually would’ve preferred the mudcake with fresh strawberries if you’re reading this Mike), Mike disclosed he was a rugby fan (no surprise to the middle and upper classes) and played a lot in his youth. In fact, he carried on coaching the school team throughout his prolonged career. However all that impact on his joints had taken a toll. He proceeded to drop the bombshell that he’d recently had a hip replacement.
I suddenly became aware of how dark and soft the candle lit restaurant was. The lighting prevented me from examining his looks with a degree of scrutiny. He sounded bright and funny and charming, but hip replacement smacks of ‘granddad’.
I was thrilled when we left the hazy, fuzzy ambience of La Rueda. Not solely because it permitted me the opportunity to study Mike properly, but because the rich food and wine was having a funny effect on my tummy.
I advised Mike to hail a cab, but he was confident he could drive. The car was a monster so in all likelihood if there was an accident we’d be safe. However as a civic minded person and having lost people to drink driving, the trip was an endless white-knuckle rollercoaster. My eyes clenched shut as I prayed to a God. In a bid to ensure everyone returned safely, I barely uttered a word for fear of distracting the driver
Obtaining a parking spot near my house was infinitely easier than in popular Clapham. I can’t deny (for his age) Mike was handsome. He did have a rugby players build. He was very personable. I certainly wasn’t deterred from having sex with him.
Neither was he.
As soon as we were through the door, he was lifting my black dress up and hooking his fingers into my one-size-too-small control knickers to drag them off. Lust can bring out the beast in anyone. The aged sixty-something yanked my knickers down, tearing my tights in the process.
That he was bedazzled by my pussy, I let myself follow his lead. He was desperate to bury his face in there and who was I to deprive him? I was irresponsible. Dress hitched up, I sat on the edge of the bed, spreading my legs wide to reveal the shaven haven. Bare, soft plump lips he was frantic to part and taste. Too keen in hindsight. To let his tongue wander he needed to get on his knees. His firm hands were gripping and spreading my thighs further apart, but he was kneeling and rocking noisily as he performed oral sex on me.
I should’ve laid back and enjoyed the sensations, but I was inclined to watch the commotion between my thighs. One of Mike’s legs was sticking out crookedly. As he smothered his face in my juices and tried to tongue fu*k my slit, he was rotating left and right like a remote control robot without full functionality. The odd angle of the leg where his hip had been replaced had me transfixed.
I think mentally he wanted sex, but physically his body was putting up resistance. Like a feral dog with a twisted, bent, broken leg and no veterinary service, the attention to my pussy became ineffective and chorish, as he squirmed to position himself to taste a woman (for the first time in a long time I suspect).
The picture was totally wrong. He was in a suit – bold and brawny. Whilst his top half remained solid and sturdy from his rugby playing days, his lower half was withered and warped as he dragged himself on the floor like a peg-legged pirate.
I didn’t want to emasculate him by audibly suggesting changing positions. The suggestion might be classed as bad mannered, but something had to be done as the oral sex had become a trial to me.
Wriggling back on the bed, I stretched out to encourage him to join me. In my head I had real concerns me on top would shatter the newly replaced hip. As he awkwardly hoisted himself to stand, his face was beet red from the effort and shiny from my lubrication.
‘Would you mind bending over the bed so I can take you that way – it’ll be easier on my hip?’
I was grateful for the instruction. In that moment there was no giggle to suppress but looking back, my relief there was an end to the evening in sight had me as overjoyed as the girl that escaped the house of the Texas Chainsaw Massacre.
Squatting slightly, bending over the bed and supporting my weight with my arms stretched outright on the mattress, his lifting if my dress and caressing of my buttocks was in fact quite sensual. Stroking my thighs, I parted my legs to let his pleasingly hard cock slide into me.
The sensuousness of the moment passed as he reverted from teacher to school boy, fumbling to find the right hole. Repositioning myself, I reached under to guide him in. He groaned so loudly at the initial penetration I was worried the neighbours would complain. Firmly embedded in my slit he began pounding me hard – much harder than any of the other elderly men I bedded. His hands were on my hips so he could slam himself into me (at a comfortable angle given the restrictions of his surgery).
The snag was the force of his fu*king had turned my stomach into a washing machine. As I bounded and rebounded off the bed and he banged hard and deep into me, my dinner became dreadfully unsettled. Unsettled to the point where I thought I was in danger of encountering an accident of the brown variety.
This could not be allowed to happen. The longer and harder he went, the more delicate and unreliable my digestive track became.
I needed to end it fast, so literally crawled onto the bed, spat in my hand and worked that cock quickly and rhythmically till he came.
Pleased at his climax I thought he’d leave (it was a school night after all), but he was attempting to kneel again for some Australian bush.
I’d no real option but to eject him kindly with a sorry, pathetic excuse of an early start at work in the morning. The second he was out the door I had tapas escaping both ends when my arse hit the toilet bowl. It was regurgitated red wine in the bathroom sink, and garlic prawns, chorizo, and patatas bravas in the toilet bowl. It got to the point where was I was forced to leave reading material in the bathroom I shared with three others, my visits were so regular.
Subsequently, Mike was always arranging dates and cancelling them for one reason or another (well he did twice: one was for a school trip the other was to do with…his hip replacement). In the end, despite his promise of an invite to the big Christmas party (to which I’d assumed as his date I wouldn’t be bound to adhere to the ‘bottle of wine’ rule) when he finally secured a time and place, I chose to cancel. Sure the pig on a spit was alluring, as was that cellar full of expensive wine, but the memory of an old man literally grovelling and crawling on his knees for pussy did kill any passion or romance the relationship may have potentially had.
PS – Yes I know it was bad manners on my part not to reciprocate the enthusiastic oral sex I’d received.
Apologies for the radio silence for the past three months – what can I say? Deadlines for paid novels, family visiting from Australia, Christmas, jet setting to Lapland – all the things a poorly paid writer shouldn’t be able to afford.
I thought I left 2013 on a hard note but it was more sour so the first post for 2014 will be a little cheekier.
If I haven’t mentioned it in a previous post, but as a precursor I should alert you to the revelation that I haven’t had sex with an Australian. I left Australia a virgin and can say, hand on heart, apart from the odd kiss (or ‘pash’ as we used to call it back in the day) First base is as far as I’ve gone with an Aussie ‘bloke’.
It’s actually a fact I’m quite proud of. Sure I can see the rest of the world’s attraction to these bronzed, brawny, brutish, beef heads but give me a sallow looking, finely chiselled, pale, complicated Brit any day of the week.
Having lost some weight, become addicted to casual sex via the internet, acquired unlimited access to broadband and scored an acceptable semi-studio flat in Stockwell (a rough but cheap and very central London location) my sexual adventures became infinitely easier to execute.
Raising a hand, despite the fact that London runs through the blood in my veins, I miss the brazen, bold, open, honest, frankness devoid of malice that Australians possess. Thus when a message appeared from ‘Illicit Encounters’ (a website specifically targeting those unhappy unfortunates people unable or unwilling to divorce or separate from their partners) from a married New Zealander living in London, I didn’t immediately delete the message.
Yes, I wrinkled my nose at the fact he was a kiwi. It’s a culture thing. I have relations from New Zealand. I love them. But there Kiwis – we’re Aussies and never the twain shall meet….at least not whilst located in the southern hemisphere. Hurl us into the Northern hemisphere and suddenly that shared Union Jack on our respective flags, our distinct but different twangs and the small geographical distances from our homes are what bond us.
His email was refreshingly friendly. Not a simple message indicating ‘like’ or ‘kiss’. Not a long sad message about being misunderstood and the confines of a loveless marriage destroying his soul. Not a seedy, sordid, saucy message looking for someone less prudish than his wife to carry out depraved sexual acts on (or with).
Whilst disinclined to act on the message in any physical way, I found myself engaging in conversation via email, which quickly led to text.
A problem had arisen. Having put on three stone I really should have updated the pictures on my online profile. My appearance at any date was widening the eyes of my future beaus (not widening as in their optical senses were tested to the max as their huge expansion was required to fit me fuller figure within the parameters of their vision, but just the marked variation between me and my photo). Fully aware of this and with dreadfully low self esteem, whilst I enjoyed the banter via email and the flirty by text, I had no set plan to actually meet the man. He was a Kiwi after all. Is there that much difference between Australian and New Zealand c*ck?
I lived at 106 Stockwell Road. Through our cyber conversations I learnt that he lived at number 86 on the same road. You’ve heard the saying about sh!tting on your own doorstep? I don’t think it’s good to drop a load ten doors away either. London was a big city. He had an important job (well he must’ve to pay the fees male members of ‘Illicit Encounters’ had to fork out without heir wives finding out) and a wife. London has over 8 million people living in it. Given the hours he worked, the constraints on his personal time and the population statistics, the chances of ever running into him were highly unlikely.
I’d made one rookie mistake.
I worked in a rewarding but low paying job in the music industry. Stockwell Road was long enough and had the demand to warrant two ‘Morley Chicken’ (cheap chain of KFC-esque takeaways [complete with bullet proof, closed in counters]) shops on the street. They had a deal where you got 2 mini southern fried chicken burgers and a portion of chips for £2.00. At such a bargain I was a regular there. I let it slip in conversation that although my residence was placed equidistant between the two shops, my preference was for the first shop closest to Stockwell tube station…closest to my house…closest to his house. I note the second shop has since closed – reinforcing my preference at the time.
I sauntered in after work one evening and as I skipped out with my burger and chips, I bumped into an extremely tall, broad, bronzed, brawny, brutish looking guy that actually didn’t look like a beef head. He looked normal….professional…..intelligent…..attractive.
‘I thought I recognised you. It’s Brooke isn’t it. I caught sight of you leaving the station, thought I’d follow you and say hi before we meet properly.’
Suddenly in my casual jeans and funky original Camden off the shoulder black jumper with the Bee Gees logo screaming across the front didn’t seem quite so cool. The ‘Morley’s Chicken’ plastic bag holding my dinner was a poor accessory to the outfit.
Again, his name escapes me. Whatever it was, I stuttered and stammered it out as I held his hand to shake it. It wasn’t an unfriendly greeting, but it lacked in sensuality whatsoever. In fairness his semi-stalkerish behaviour threw me, as did the fact that his home was visible from where I was standing outside the entrance of Morley’s.
He offered to walk me home. I was in such a state of shock, I found myself nodding dumbly and strolling alongside him. That he held my hand naturally, knowing the other half was metres away was daring but endearing. Irrespective of my lack of savoir-faire, he brusquely kissed my cheek with a whispered goodnight before departing to his chic new built apartment block.
My phone beeped notifying me of an incoming text and I saw it was from him. Closing my eyes and preparing for the most awkward rejection ever, clicking on it, I read ‘I’m relieved you’re as gorgeous in real life as you are in your pics’.
I had completely forgotten, this tall, handsome man was a New Zealander. He wasn’t accustomed to the pear-shaped English Rose appearance of women. He was familiar with the rangier, broader, fuller figure of the Antipodeans – robust to deal with the harsher climate (that is an actual evolutionary FACT…I read it on the internet!).
The spontaneous introduction did throw a spanner in the works. Having met face to face, short of saying I didn’t fancy him (I kinda did) I couldn’t really postpone the date on any valid grounds such as location, timing, work etc.
By the time I got into work the next morning, he was texting saying he was working in the West End that day and was I free for lunch. Softened somewhat by the previous night’s text, whilst I could produce a valid excuse for demands on work time, I decided I’d better face the music.
God I liked him. There was no going overboard and taking me to secret, tucked away, restaurant with French cuisine and extraordinarily expensive wine I’d be expected to taste and praise knowledgeably and appreciatively. He asked me where I wanted to go. We went to an upmarket pub, stayed away from Fosters, had a nice pub lunch and a few beers. It was relaxed and fun and the company of the man was the best I’d had in years.
I remember walking through 60s swinging Carnaby Street, still filled with fashionable youths but also the flurry of office workers on their lunch break. Right by the sign of Carnaby Street, he kissed me goodbye – properly. When my lips accepted his approach, I parted them and his warm tongue slid into my mouth increasing the intimacy of the moment. Finished he looked to the clear sunny sky, a rarity in sunny Blighty, even though it was summer. He was at least 8 inches taller than me, slim, but broad and muscular, his dark hair curled to the collar of his suit, his hazel eyes were squinting into the sunlight and the high cheek bones and Roman nose gave me the opportunity to confess to myself how strikingly handsome he was.
Glancing down I realised I was holding his hand. It was massive. I wondered if it gave an indication to other parts of his anatomy and not just his towering six foot two frame. I dropped it suddenly.
I’m Australian. We’re renown for our racism. It was our final meeting. Prejudice clouded my judgement. He was from New Zealand. New Zealand was close to Australia – too close. I vowed never to have an Aussie c*ck and my antipodean cousin’s c*ck was too close for comfort for me to be breaking my few sexual barriers. It was out last meeting and that was that. He didn’t realise, but I did. Thus I drank in his unusual beauty for a few seconds genuinely having to hurry back to my office.
My responses to his texts and emails the two following days were sparse and sporadic to say the least. Texting on Thursday night he informed me he was in a shared personal garage situated in the far more upper-class area of Clapham, working on his motorbike – alone. Aware something was wrong, it seemed, for him, an opportune time to call and discuss. It wasn’t that I felt guilty about his newly-wed British wife sitting only doors away pondering the growing emotional chasm and eroding connection they’d once shared that bothered me. Nor was it the possibility that she’d somehow track my address and throw acid in my face (okay the acid in the face would be bad given it compliments how I make a living) – psycho bitches I can deal (and on the very odd occasion have dealt) with. It was solely down to his birthplace.
I think because I had such a difficult time growing up in Australia I wanted to distance myself from the country…and its country men and even people within a perimeter of the country. Perhaps subconsciously I associated spending time with him as running the risk of enduring the troubled encounters I’d had in my misspent youth.
This is a sex blog not a psychological blog. The thought of those toned thighs clad in leather, sweat, grease and a motorbike were an instant aphrodisiac. Having spent a brief time in Clapham kipping on someone’s floor for a few months, I was familiar with the area and found myself back at Stockwell tube station heading to the address he gave me.
It may have been a small garage under the rail tracks but the rent must’ve been exorbitant. He wasn’t in leathers, standing with his bike upright and a spare helmet to whizz me round London town. He was in torn jeans, an open flannel shirt and dirty trainers. His smile curled half a lip as he opened the door to my knocking. I had come for to bid farewell and inform him this wasn’t an affair I could embark on, but the grease on his jeans and the few buttons open at the top of his shirt revealing a gym honed bare muscular chest had me looping an arm round his neck to kiss him.
I’d love to say there was a car present that he fu*ked me on, but it was a motor bike garage only. The length of him hardening as we kissed more feverishly, had my trembling fingers fumbling with the buttons of his jeans to free the beast.
To me there was only one potential place for the sex to place. It was on one of the two worn out bean bags shoved in the corner of the garage. I manoeuvred him over as we kissed. Choosing to wear jeans was a faux pas on my part. They were stretch jeans I had squeezed into, I’d worn boots, which meant I had socks on (bare legs and socks is not an attractive look). Self-conscious and not wanting to kill the moment I stripped as quickly and graciously as a Jesse the Elephant can out of my jeans, underwear, shoes and sock in one almost seamless movement.
Collapsing on the bean bag I pulled him on me, his pleasingly long prick pulsating in my hand. I don’t know how many bums had been on those polystyrene balls, but it offered little support. It did provide a barrier, albeit one of mere centimetres, between me and the cement floor. I was hoping for just a fu*k, he was clearly a breast man and wanted a little more visual simulation. The slipping and sliding of the bean bag, and the beast dominating me was a challenge I couldn’t contend with, whilst also guiding his hard-on between my dripping lips.
I succumbed and hurled off my jumper, revealing the juicy pale breasts clad in a silver wonder-bra he appeared so desperate to get to. The trouble was as he sucked and nuzzled my boobs, the penetration was shallow and he kept slipping out. He was adept and experience to reposition himself without direction, but he was as frustrated by the uncompromising beanbag as I was.
I’d have struggled on, but he clearly didn’t want to. And he had no intention of giving up on the uncomfortable fu*k. The next think I knew, his wide hands were on my hips dragging me off the beanbag and onto the floor. There was at least enough beanbag to pillow my head, but my back was on the cold greasy cement, my bum and legs had found their way to a tarpaulin of sorts. The faux velvet material of the beanbag, the rough garage floor, and sticky, heavy plastic fibre tarpaulin had my sense of touch in overdrive trying to balance them in a bid to remove the pain.
I heard him growling he wasn’t able get in deep enough. Once he had me on the floor it was no longer a complaint of him. His dick, which was in direct proportion with his height, hands and shoe size, charged straight in making me cry out. He was so long (not memorably thick but it was a satisfying member to have visiting my vagina) that every thrust warranted a grunt. I tried to bit back but without even trying he was hitting the back of my uterus. Each groan encouraged him. I tried to wrap my legs around him a) to shallow the penetration and b) to lift my legs and buttocks from the tarpaulin which they were sticking to and making unfetching ‘fart like’ noises when his shafts moved my whole body. This minor alteration to the missionary position only invigorated proceedings. Enlivened the constant, deep delving continued but at double the speed. To keep up with his stamina (with that six pack and defined pecs I was pretty sure he was a regular gym user – any excuse to avoid the wife) I found my thighs gripping tighter round his waist and my hands clutching his shoulders and my shirt nails clawing his back to keep up. The strain on my muscles to ensure my head didn’t hit the cement and that my body avoided being slammed down with the gusto of his pumping resulted in other internal muscles tightening and convulsing – for this I was grateful.
Assuming he’d stimulated me to orgasm (he hadn’t), he finally freed himself to climax (not before me telling him I wasn’t on the pill to avoid any bastard births) on the garage floor.
I can’t lie and say it wasn’t good sex. It left its marks (gravel rash is a bitch) but it was hot in an awkward way.
I can’t lie and say I wasn’t surprised that afterwards, he remained in an upright position as if partaking of push-ups, gazing into my eyes wordlessly and kissing me for a length of time.
I can’t lie and say I didn’t feel greatly relieved when he offered to drive me home to save me the time, money and care warranted for late night public transport in London (especially south London).
I can’t lie and say I felt guilty jumping out of the car and knowing he was driving five seconds up to the road and would be greeting his wife with the scent of another woman smothered on him.
I can’t lie and say I ever replied to any of his texts or emails again, however sweet or whatever limited promising for happiness may have been present.
I can’t lie and say I’m overly proud of my behaviour in the past – especially when it comes to my sex life.
Real sex stories fall in a variety of categories. Some will be sexy. Some will be pure filth. Some will be romantic. Some will be funny. And some will be downright depressing.
Now, back before social networking took off in a major way the ‘sex’ contact website for younger people was Face-party. I had more than my fair share from it. In fact in terms of getting laid it proved infinitely more successful for me than My Space, Face-book or Twitter ever has.
I was almost addicted to the sight. At the time I was taking a ‘break’ from full time employment and spent three hours a day working in a pub and the remainder of my time was spent on Face-party finding suitable men to fuck. They weren’t always nice men. I was happy to instantly message anyone BUT that didn’t mean I was automatically going to sleep with them.
Still grasping the remainder of my innocence, I was a good lay but not as smutty as I am today. When one man opened with an introduction of how much he wanted to ‘fist’ me, I said I wasn’t really into that so maybe we should terminate the conversation. He was clearly affronted because he told me to ‘Fuck Off’ and that he ‘didn’t care’ because I was ‘overweight’. It wasn’t a nice thing to read but it made me laugh out loud. I was overweight but that word does not have the emotional and psychologically traumatic impact that ‘fat’ does. Had he said ‘I don’t care cause you’re fat anyway’, I genuinely would be in tears. Instead I was quite chuffed because it was an honest observation. I couldn’t take offence. It was a bit like someone saying ‘I don’t care because you’ve got black hair anyway.’ Fine, no problem. ‘I don’t care because your hair is like a Halloween witches wig’ would have more of a bite to it.
I digress. Men are at times so desperate for a shag they’ll sleep with anything – including me! Thus on my online journey I had encountered men that were substantially out of my league that were more than willing and wanting to do the deed with me. When a guy made contact with a picture of him topless with a rippled torso, I wasn’t unconcerned. Warning bells didn’t sound in my head that the picture mightn’t be accurate. Common-sense did not incline me to check if the picture existed elsewhere in cyberspace thus proving it a fake. No, fully inflated ego I assumed someone of his calibre would happily select me out of the thousands of girls online.
It didn’t take long to arrange to meet. Given his looks I wasn’t in a position to play hard to get. I was so addicted to sex at the time (my friends observations not mine) that I actually took time off work (baring in mind I only worked fifteen hours a week) to fuck the guy.
The night before he was due to come he asked how I’d feel about a three-some. Sexually charged, I threw caution to the wind and decided it was time to expand my sexual repertoire and stories to tell over dinner. I asked if his friend was as handsome and well-built as himself. With a ‘smiley face’ on screen he assured me he as attractive but not as hot as he was. Exchanging phone numbers, I spent the evening preparing for my big three-some.
An hour before I was due to meet them at Holborn station, I had a text from my hunk saying he couldn’t come. Crushed (and pissed off because I’d taken a shift off work) he said he’d told his friend to go along any way so that I didn’t miss out completely. The text asked if I was okay with this. Truthfully it wasn’t ideal, but if he was anywhere close in looks to his friends it wouldn’t be the worst encounter in the world. Given I had time to kill as I wasn’t working and my sexual appetite had yet to be abated, I agreed and said I’d meet the guy at the station.
Stepping out from the ticket barriers at Holborn he seemed unsure of himself and nervous, which made it easier for me to identify him. He was tall like his friend, had a solid broad frame, but he wasn’t ever going to be talent spotted by a modelling agent. At 23 he was six foot two, had sandy hair cut short back and sides but with length on top, blue eyes, symmetrical features but he was lacking something. Spark or energy – personality. He was devoid of personalty. Fortunately we were meeting for fucking not discussing current affairs.
We walked in silence for the ten minutes home. I took him up the six flights of steps and ladder into my loft bedroom in the top flat above a cafe. Living rather bohemian my double bed was on the futon on the floor. Rather than encourage any painful attempts at conversation, I kissed him. He may have been nice-looking but no one wants a droopy, wet tongue flopping in their mouth like a fish out of water. Warm and wet, his tongue was lifeless in my mouth and did nothing to excite or encourage me.
I stripped his t-shirt off. There was no sign that he’d ever visited a gym. Medium build, whilst not overweight he was un-toned. Very English, very pale, very gangly it just wasn’t a turn on. I struggled to find anything physically attractive about it. I knew he wasn’t bad looking but the idea of sex with him was becoming an inevitable chore rather than a cheeky mid-week shag.
Sitting on the futon, I patted a spot next to me as if signalling for an animal to jump up. He sat obediently. I don’t mind playing the dominatrix, but to know someone is only ever going to be submissive (particularly a tall butch man) is a drag in the bedroom department.
I pulled open the button fly on his Levi’s to reveal tight white legged boxers. His bulge was satisfactory. Average length and width. The minute I put my palm on it, I could feel it growing. That was mildly rewarding – at least I was doing something right. When I slipped my hand into his boxers to wrap my warm hand round his thickening dick he was panting like a dog. That was more off-putting. It was more like a hound dog than a horny wolf. I could feel the blood pumping through his erection as it stood proudly to attention, but his face was contorting in pain. Wondering if I was squeezing too hard or working the shaft too vigorously, I slowed down. I realized this guy was trying to refrain from climaxing. He hadn’t had sex in so long he was going to cum merely from the touch of a foreign woman.
Wasting no time, I pushed him flat on the bed and grabbed a condom. Tearing it open with my teeth it was a race to get him inside me before he off-loaded.
I won. Just.
I rolled it down roughly, as he was moaning and grabbing the sheets in an attempt to slow his pace. I could see his balls tightening. I got one leg out of my jeans to give me the freedom to straddle him, bunched my panties to one side and squatted on his cock. As I plumped myself down his full length he squealed in a feminine way and shot his loads.
Whether it was embarrassment or the fact that he didn’t really fancy me in the flesh, his words were (as his dick diminished inside me, shrivelling in the sheer rubber sheath) ‘I better get going now. I’ve got an assignment to do tomorrow.’
It was the worst parting words I think ever uttered in my sexual history. I was stupefied. Gobsmacked. Normally I’d walk someone back to the train station if they weren’t familiar with the area. With my knickers on and one leg still in my jeans it would literally have taken less than a minute to return to a fully dressed state. Given his poor etiquette (and regular readers will know I’m a stickler for exercising excellent bedroom etiquette) I decided to abandon my good manners and show him where the ladder was. Yeah that’s right. I didn’t even bother taking him to the front door.
As he walked off nonplussed, pleased he’d got hit his climax I rang the number of his friend to lambaste him for setting me up with such a lousy shag. Sadly I heard the phone ringing by the front door of my flat. I terminated the call, realizing the threesome was never going to occur in the first place. My hunk never existed, some bored college kid decided to use a fake pic to get laid (if you can call the single act of penetrating a slit without fucking sex).
Reflecting on this event, I can’t honestly say that making him climb down a ladder, walk out the front door and navigate his way through the complicated streets from my place to Holborn station was a fitting punishment for his dastardly deed.
I’d like to say it was a lesson learned, but I got caught a few times like that. That’s sex online though I guess.
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.
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.
Since the birth of the internet sex has become much more available to even the most physically unattractive and socially inept persons. Apart from the numerous sites for relationships (E-harmony, Dating Direct and who can forget ‘The girl on the platform smiled…’ ), there are underground sites for people in relationships that aren’t getting sex and have to search elsewhere (Illicit Encounters), to those catering to all variation of fetish (Informed Consent). The internet opened up a whole new sexual playground for the desperate and horny; so if you wanna get laid now all you need is a computer with broadband (or even dial up if you’re still in the stone ages).
But if you’re of a shallow persuasion beware of online frauds. We’ve all heard and seen numerous accounts of the fake online photo but having been caught out myself, I can tell you first-hand it’s a shock to the system – especially if you’re the one accommodating the liaison; the situation becomes all the more stickier.
Way, way back before Facebook there was Face Party. At that time it was mainly frequented by younger internet users, but there was a place for mature frequenters searching for some no strings sex. My understanding of late is that Face Party has become ageist and you need a a special password from another Face Party member to create a profile – it prevents anyone over the age of 15 getting in…although I’m sure Face Party would argue it’s keeping paedophiles out.
I digress. In 2006 Face Party was my main source for young cock (that’s young not under-age!) and many a dalliance was fun and easy, but I too come with a story of being conned by the flattering photo scheme.
There was one gent on there in his very early twenties that caught my eye. He had a chiselled bone structure akin to that of a cat-walk model, was wearing a blue beanie to complement his ever so blue eyes and generally looking hot.
I personally can’t see the point in lying or faking photos. I mean if you’re going to meet at some stage the truth will out. Why risk being rejected in the flesh by lying to get them to meet you? ‘YOU’RE UGLY’ is a lot less hurtful to read on MSN messenger than it is to hear and experience in the flesh. Although clearly my potential beau had yet to be enlightened on this fact.
I always went with a kind picture of myself but was honest stating my body shape was voluptuous and continued on a self deprecating angle in online conversations stressing my size and that no one could possibly want to meet me, let alone have sex with me. This reverse psychology worked well for the most part; though I sometimes wonder if I was a fetish shag because many a man just wanted to ‘fuck a fat bird’ on the premise they tend to be grateful and great cocksuckers – there mouths used to relishing food when presented…and a cock is like a big sausage (or chipolata depending on the man).
Anyway Mr Model Photo fell hook, line and sinker and agreed to meet me. My flatmate agreed to go round to his boyfriend’s place for the night so I had the flat to myself.
Having beautified myself to the best of my ability I eagerly waited for the doorbell to ring and eventually it did. Only when I opened the door the man framed by the doorway was like the hulk; except he wasn’t green. His strong jawline buried among his many jowls, the sharp cheekbones lost in a mound of chub. The beanie was missing which was a shame because I was also visually taking in a large balding bonce accentuated by the fact he hadn’t kept up with shaving his scalp, so there were random wisps of hair growing back on a severely receding widow’s peak hairline. I knew exactly what the baggy skater-boy clothes were hiding; there was no defined muscles under the layers of t-shirts and jumpers or muscular thighs swimming in the excess denim.
For the first time ever rather than leap on my prey and drag it to my bedroom lustily I became a very civilized Australian and asked if he wanted a tea. Anything to distract me from the situation and buy some time to find a reasonable excuse as to why I couldn’t fuck him. And the truth is I’ve never fucked a fat man. It’s never been a fetish of mine. As far as I’m concerned there is only room in any relationship – however brief (often only a night) – for one fat person; and that’s always gonna be me.
But being fat myself I knew if I voiced this shallow view it would be absolutely crushing; it would destroy what little ego he had and it’s always difficult when you’ve been svelte and chubbed up to an unimaginable size. I drew on the age old excuse every girl has in their armoury – ‘I can’t do this – I’m not over my ex.’
He wasn’t unkind. While sympathetic, he encouraged me to consider that perhaps I needed to get under someone to get over someone else. It’s not a philosophy I oppose but in this case…actually in this case he was so polite and I empathized with him so much I thought I should give it a go. Coming close to fucking 100 men surely a slut like me needed a ‘fat fuck’ in her array of sex tales. So I undressed and jumped in bed, all the time convincing myself this shag was for research purposes only.
Mr Model Photo went down on me like a man possessed. It seemed fat people really do know how to use their tongues and bestow adoration and stimulation on whatever pleases their sense of taste. I let him burrow round me like my cunt was a jam doughnut. Then he looked up. And like that scene out of Sex and the City when Miranda dates someone from Weight Watchers and sees ‘herself’ all over his face, I too was now privy to such a sight. Only it wasn’t my juices all over his face that put me off (I quite like the taste of myself as it goes – all that sugar I consume makes me a very sweet delight!) it was the size of his face. Like a giant egg with a face painted on it beaming up at me through my own sizeable thighs; eager to climb up and enter having done a lot of groundwork (foreplay he might call it) to qualify for the main event.
I just couldn’t. Because while I felt for him and didn’t want to reject him, I knew if I slept with him I’d hate myself. I’d have dropped my standards to sleep with him. I’d be saying because I’m fat I can’t be choosy. Whilst I was concerned for his confidence; I had my own self esteem issues to deal with. I slept with good looking men to affirm my own attractiveness. If I compromised on that to spare someone else’s feelings then in essence I was sleeping around because I was a slut and the truth was I didn’t enjoy one night stands. I loved sex and I loved being fucked by beautiful men but deep in my heart I always held hope that they might be ‘the one’ and I knew instinctively this guy wasn’t. A sympathy shag might have him feeling better about himself but it would leave me deflated and feeling worthless; like a slut, skank, whore or whatever word is bestowed on women that sleep around – regardless of the reason behind their behaviour.
I had no choice but to turn on the tears and revert to ‘I can’t do this; I’m not over my ex.’
His first utterance was ‘Is it me? Is it because I’m fat?’ I should’ve said ‘Yes it’s you, yes you’re fat, and I won’t sleep with you because I don’t do fat.’ But I was branded with the same label and in that case honesty wouldn’t have benefited either of us.
Hysterical crying is always a good one to have men running. Only because this guy was so overweight and out of condition he wasn’t capable of running. No he was a public transport man and the tube was a good fifteen minute walk from the flat. He tried to cajole me to try again but I got swept up in my performance and he became impatient realising it wasn’t going to happen.
His departure was not so gentlemanly as his entrance. Let me recap. He led me on with a fake photograph, or more pertinently one that was some years old and far removed from the man he had, quite literally, grown into. I allowed him through the door despite this. Now I hold my hands up and say it possibly wasn’t appropriate for me to allow him to go down on me and not reciprocate – very poor bedroom etiquette on my part – but in my defence I was trying to allow myself to at least give him the opportunity to turn me on to wanting to fuck him. It’s not my fault that he couldn’t.
When ready to leave (not that he had even got round to removing all of his clothes) he asked me to reimburse him for the tube fare – a zone 6 travel card totalling all of £7 in 2006 – because he’d spent so much money on travelling to see me only to not ‘receive the goods.’ Unfortunately my purse was empty so, stunned by the brazenness of the request, I had to go rummaging round my flatmate’s room to see if he had enough change lying round so as I could repay the travel-card. Fortunately my scramblings didn’t uncover any hidden change drawer or piggy bank. I returned to the reception area without the money and with a balance of dignity and genuine effort to be seen to have ‘done the right thing’ to politely send him on his way. He could have a think on the long journey home on his Zone 6 travel-card as to whether or not his Face Party profile pic needed changing. I on the other hand could get my credit card out of my purse and pop over to Nando’s for a takeaway to complete my evening.
Very short post this week because unfortunately I have spent most of the past week in hospital – I’d love to say it was because of a sexually sustained injury but given my sex life seems to have been sucked into some chastity vortex that would be a lie.
So it’s a quick tale this week.
And due to the popularity of the older woman younger guy scenario I thought I’d introduce you to a young Mr Ho.
As I was closing into thirty and exploring younger flesh I was also branching out and decided I’d like to fuck (or in the very least kiss) my way around the world.
In Australian we refer to the good folk of China, Japan, Malaysia, Taiwan, Singapore and Hong Kong as Asian. I realise in the UK it extends to India, Sri Lanka, Pakistan and so on.
Thus my newest conquest is best described of being of oriental descent. Definitely mixed race because (without being a stereotypical Australian racist) he was well over 6ft. He was awfully posh and came from Oxford but was at 6th form college; not the university. He was also a rugby player so for someone not on the petite side was physically a good match. Because of his age and athleticism he was also presumably full of stamina.
Once again the teen had to travel to visit me. We’d been communicating online and he seemed confident enough to see me one weekend. Only the Friday night beforehand I started getting my period. Having sex on my period doesn’t bother me, if anything it’s a bit of a turn on and a lot of men feel the same. However someone with minimal experience could find the thought of pumping a bloody vage quite off putting; psychologically traumatizing even.
I texted to let him know the situation; suggesting a reschedule saying I completely understood having never had sex with a bleeding cunt before he may want to take a rain check. He assured me it would be no problem and he’d be there Saturday afternoon. On reflection I think he didn’t want his bus ticket to go to waste- he probably had to work really long hours at McDonald’s to save up for those babies. No menstruating cougar was gonna put his dick off his game…..or so he thought.
He actually managed to make his way to my flat (my flatmate having cleared off to his boyfriends for the evening) saving me having to meet him at the station and play nanny for the duration of the trip.
I’ve always been into slighter men, but the sheer height of him and the broadness was overwhelming. Coupled with the tones of his skin colour, hairless body and completely defined chest and ripped torso I could barely believe my lust…errr luck. He was like a giant Manga cartoon with brains and an awfully posh accent. There was just one downside with this giant man-boy. He had a very tiny todger. Perhaps had he not been so tall it wouldn’t have been noticeable but it was. It was like a little chipolata. I wanted to wrap it up in bacon and serve it at a dinner party.
Perhaps I should’ve removed the tampon first, perhaps I should’ve trusted my guy instinct and talked him out of attempting sex, but as he pulled my knickers down and I (discretely I thought) removed a tampon his face became very pale. When two fingers slipped into something more than watery warmth, he removed them. Clearly that particular cherry pie was not to his taste. When he looked at his his bloodied fingers I didn’t think he was imagining himself on some massive rock stage with an air guitar singing ‘Sweet Cherry Pie!’
All his good Oxford manners went out the door – he was anything but an English gent.
It was simply a case of his dick going limp and hearing him suddenly overcoming his previous youthful shyness and boldly stating, ‘I’m sorry I can’t do this. I thought I could but I can’t.’
it was pretty brutal on the old ears. I must say and talk about a pink (or rather red) elephant in the room. Although unspoken, the word ‘awkward’ reverberated all around. Unashamedly he clearly had no intention of finding alternate accommodation. Worse still he felt given he’d at least shown willing I could recompense him in some way for his monies and menstruation massacre. So I took the the chipolata and let it flop round my mouth and in all honesty within less than 2 minutes he’d come. He was verbally very grateful – by then he’d found Mr Manners and informed me I gave the best blow job ever. Ever? But that poor excuse for a stout infant-fish had barely had my lips round it before it was spewing man milk in my mouth. The best ever? He mustn’t have had a lot cause I hadn’t even got started – still at that point I needed an ego booster so it wasn’t an unwelcome compliment. Turned out Mr Manners was a passing visitor and he fell asleep immediately so I sneaked into my flatmates covers to feel safe and reel from the indignation and humiliation flung at me by some college teen.
Ever the hospitable host I woke at 6am and put myself back into his bed, all showered and fresh. When he woke to find me there, I confess there was an absence of regret or sensitivity in how he broached the monthly issues of what is considered normal for mature women. Perhaps that was the problem. You go to bed as a mature woman with an immature man you are likely to experience these inwardly excruciatingly undignified moments.
Not Mr Ho though. His first words were, as he put an arm round me and pushed my head to his groin was, ‘That was an amazing blow job last night, the best – do it again for me please before I have to catch my bus.’
I really should have mustered a little courage and backbone and told him to fuck off and learn a little bedroom etiquette or man up and remember not every rugby game was played on a dry pitch – sometimes it rains and gets muddy but you still gotta play the game.
I didn’t though. I had two minutes spare so finished him off. I’m guessing my ‘oh-so-amazing’ micro blow jobs were enough to counteract the mental scarification of seeing his index and middle fingers covered in dark red cervical mucus, vaginal secretions, and endometrial tissue.
A year or so later he was doing an intern-ship at Price Cooper Waterhouse and got in touch (he really must have liked that blow job). He asked if he could visit and knowing there was not a clot of blood in sight and remembering that huge hunky body my resolve weakened and I told him to come round.
And he was a specimen of perfect physical beauty, even his titchy penis was beautiful. His cock hadn’t matured so I could only hope his attitude and technique had.
How wrong I was. It got hard and managed to slip into the entrance of my vagina but it slipped out after cumming within all of two minutes.
‘I seem to have a problem with this,’ was the best he could offer.
I did the thoughtful girly thing and said it was normal and natural and encouraged him that the next time he would last longer and it’s be better and all those platitutdes. Once recovered though he plopped it back inside me and the duration was even shorter than the original encounter.
Did he apologise, offer to take me to dinner, offer to perform oral pleasure on me or offer any physical comfort or stimulus? No – I got a ‘I better drive home now before my aunt and uncle miss the car and wonder where I’ve been.’
With the launch of facebook and having graduated university Mr Ho got in touch with me. By now the boy had become a man. I had a message on facebook saying: ‘I really fucked it up didn’t I? You were so pretty and lovely and kind and I treated you awfully. I’m so sorry. I see your single at the moment and would love to catch up with you. Be my friend?’
Nice boy, but friendship request rejected. Sorry Mr Ho, I’m busy painting the town red!
Proposed Bestiality, Inadvertent Indecent Exposure, Pee & Other Pitfalls From A One Night Stand (That Became My Fiancé)
It’s not to say he’s not romantic – that I don’t adore every part of him, that I don’t cherish him and that I’m in any way unsatisfied in bed….but I don’t think I’ve ever been there with him where I’ve not inwardly shrivelled in embarrassment or mortification at something he’s said or done.
Examples??? Here you go.
- Ours began as an internet relationship, as so many do these days. Our first ever meeting involved my travelling 2 hours North to his cottage and arriving at 5pm. We had a cuddle on the couch, sashayed upstairs to share a spiritual lecture and by 6.30pm he boldly asked me to take my clothes off. Being body shy and less than verbally communicative or assertive in bed, I ignored the request. Eventually he said ‘Are you going to take your clothes off or not, I’m tired of asking’. Worried I was going to miss my chance I said I was going to the bathroom to change. He perked up. ‘Great could you do me a favour while you’re in there? Grab a wet flannel, because my cock needs to be cleaned and if you’re having a wee can you bring back the tissue paper you use and just shove it in my mouth?’ I couldn’t help but feel he was being a little over-familiar on a first date with someone he’d met in the flesh only 90 minutes before. The shock of it aside I think part of my mortification – in being a first timer to those sorts of requests – was because I was so turned on by him and, frankly the idea itself – I was concerned the tissue would be a little too…creamy. So I wrapped it in another one and bought it to him, reluctantly inserting it into in his mouth. ‘Did you even use it – it just tastes dry and of paper?’ he barked at me. Ooops
- From that somewhat uncomfortable start we managed to engage in more everyday sex – me on top. It was good; it was nice, pleasurable and very natural-feeling until he opened his mouth. What would you utter mid-act the first time you’re ‘doing it’ with someone you claim to care about and who claims to care about you? ‘Sorell, it’s just a shag,’ he said, quite matter of factly. I flounced off him, hurt and insulted. He desperately tried to explain what he meant was this was ‘just sex’ and the two of us were so much more than just that to each other. He turned out to be right, but still, this was after all out first date.
- He once had a work colleague staying around his place. I’m the first to admit, between ourselves, we’d be considered quite ‘adventurous – perverted even – by some and at times very dirty though we both have our boundaries and scruples and values, even if personal only to ourselves. He let the neighbour’s dog in. The dog was excited and running around. I was wearing a low cut top, exposing a lot of my bosom. In front of his work colleague he loudly and excitedly suggested ‘Ooooh Sorell, let the dog lick your tits.’ I froze mortified. I could feel his colleague’s shock. He didn’t miss a beat and continued fooling round with the dog as if nothing untoward or inappropriate had been mentioned. The colleague and I didn’t make eye contact or reference to it, but there was a stony silence between the two of us for the remainder of his stay. Even though I was desperate to blurt out –‘he’s mucking around, he didn’t mean that and I’d never do it’. But then I worried the colleague might think I protested too much.
- Another time he’d organised for his next door neighbour to come around and fix his boiler. He’d arranged for the visit between 5pm and 6pm. The day had got away on us and I hold my hands up here and admit we’d been fooling around all day as lovers are wont to do. But I’m a good catholic girl and modest to boot. I was in my pyjamas, which are in fact a t-shirt and shorts. He was running around like some debauched naked Eros and surprised at the neighbour’s appearance went down to talk to him, throwing a dressing gown on as he went. He claims he said ‘I’ve got the girl upstairs.’ I thought I heard ‘I’ve got a girl upstairs’. The neighbour, who was doing him a favour in any case, apologized and said he’d come back. But he insisted it was ok. ‘Sorell,’ he yelled up the stairs ‘have you got your clothes on?’ As if I ever flaunt myself. It was all a bit late though. I’d been painted as a scarlet woman spending all day in bed like a naked Venus in some rural brothel. The questionable nature alluded to ensured once again the neighbour never made eye contact nor spoke directly to me again.
- Having once used his lips and tongue on me for what I admit was a very a good session, he rose from between my legs. I looked down to see his enthusiastic face appear from my thighs as he piped: ‘I’m not sure if it’s down to your moon cycle or if you have an infection but you taste very yeasty.’
- His parents, given their age, had been reasonably lenient in allowing us to have ‘sleepovers’ on the surreal condition that ‘we don actually’t have sex’. Scratch that, so they couldn’t hear us. His father knocked at the door, the first morning I was there getting changed in the corner of the room. Aware I was getting dressed, he invited his father in as I stood, bare breasted, at the end of the bed, struggling into some jeans. I’m pleased to report I have now moved into his parents home and his father has caught sight of more than just my bare breasts – given he has interrupted extremely sordid and lewd acts of love this story now seems very tame in respect of what the old boy has been exposed to.
- He requested one night, as a treat for him, I get undressed and wait naked for him in bed to return to when he got back from his errand. I wanted to please him so reluctantly complied with instructions. I lay in bed, naked, shoulders bared, hair flowing down, smouldering brown eyes to seduce him upon his return. Without so much as a knock, his 80 year old mother flung open the door and asked if he’d left yet. I sat like a rabbit in headlights, going over in my mind quickly how to rectify the situation. If I brazened it out it might be okay, if I went to cover myself it may draw attention to my nudity. I calmly discussed her complaint that he’d left the study window open and the curtain had blown out and that she couldn’t reach it. Clearly she wasn’t willing to wait the five minutes for his return and since I was young, fit and able, I knew perfectly well what she was angling at. But I could hardly bound out of bed. I flashed a big, beaming, sun-shiney Australian and offered to do it myself. She looked pleased but expectant. ‘Just give us two minutes,’ I mumbled. I’m pleased to report his mother is now dead – I don’t mean that horribly, he hated her and I got to move in.
- He came round to my flat one night, specifically for the purpose of the sex. We both knew it, we’re both adults. Fine. But that doesn’t mean it has to be completely devoid of any ….romance, foreplay or insinuation. We were kissing and I was rubbing his crotch. Rather than reaching to assist in my undressing or physically prompting me to remove my garments, he said ‘you’d better get your kecks off if we’re going to do this.’
- Another few hours of illicit fooling at my flat, he took me to the bedroom and told me to drop my trousers and lie down in the bed. I’m not comfortable with my figure at the best of times. I’d spent the entire day at work so was self conscious I wasn’t my freshest and I hadn’t really been intending on what was likely to happen. In true girly fashion I’d been wearing comfort clothes – old comfy knickers and an oversized rugby top. He pushed open my legs and with all the sensitivity of a an autistic prison-guard announced ‘wow how old are these, the gusset’s nearly gone in them.’ I felt like closing my legs on the spot, mortified and embarrassed about the state of my underwear, but then had to stay in that position and endure a powerful orgasm.
- One of his favourite tricks is to wake me during the early hours and drag my hand so I can feel how hard he is. Now, it may not always be a welcome hour or great wake up call, but it naturally leaves me excited. Until that is, as soon as I grip it and gently massage he falls back to sleep. Apparently, as frustrating as it is for me, and as much as he moans and responds to my touch, he says he does it to help fall back to sleep. He insists on repeating the act with no intention other than as a natural method of assisting him back to his slumbers and knowingly leaving me wanting.
- Lying top to toe, limbs entwined he’s more than happy to not exercise any sphincter control and fart on me without apology. Worse still, when he was still drinking, he was known to nuzzle and suck my breasts releasing beer burps upon them then smile up at me as if for approval. I referred to him as my beautiful smelly balloon; I could die from the poisonous potency of his flatulence and could actually get drunk from the high percentage of alcohol contained in that belching. I’m pleased to report this alcoholic is now recovered.
- Both engaged in an episode of the bodice-ripping Henry the 8th drama, the Tudors, a scene that appealed to our respective loins involved Anne Boleyn being dominated in bed by King Henry. She slapped his face smartly and jumped on top of him to take control. I laughingly suggested I may have to try that myself at some point. His response was ‘Sweetheart, as much as I love you and have no desire for you to change, you’re never going to be able to do that. You’re too big to move that fast in bed, you’re just not physically capable.’ Outraged and determined to prove my point I felt inclined to slap his face and jump on to show him what ninja like stealth and speed I really do have. A flicker of doubt had been cast in my mind and I worried his observation might be correct – that I wouldn’t indeed execute the move as quickly as hoped, or worse, given we were on a dodgy sofa bed, concerned the sudden weight shifting would result in the entire bed upending, thus further proving his point.
Are there more? An endless list: from affectionately referring to me as a ‘silly slut’ and being miffed at my offence while being wrapped post coital in each others arms; to allowing me to roll around in chewing gum he accidentally left on the sheets; to laughing ‘it looks like a lamb has been slaughtered’ after an untimely monthly accident in bed; to telling me the room appeared like we’d had an orgy with a fire extinguisher in a sweet shop after I’d attempted a bit of pleasurable experimentation involving a cold tin of Coke and his masculine parts. No doubt I’ll add to these as other recollections occur. Stating the obvious and giving practical direction, with no regard to any embarrassment, shame or inexperience I might be feeling is a side dish with every bedroom encounter.
In some ways his less than perfect bedroom etiquette actually speaks volumes about the intimacy, honesty and openness we have in the relationship. To be able to behave in such a fashion, be so completely one’s self and exchange whatever thoughts, needs and desires are experienced kind of suggests we’ve created a very loving environment between ourselves – if an ‘acquired taste’. Yes there’s a constant anxiety as to what brutally honest observation or guidance he’ll impart next – me recoiling in a weird sort of delicious humiliation. It likens our bedchamber exploits those of an unpredictable fairground excursion, a rollercoaster of a thing. But it keeps them from getting boring so should I really be moaning here?
He thinks we’re well suited, well matched. The time I had to explain I‘d involuntary heaved with him buried deep in my throat leaving behind a small triangle of Dorito chip on the head of his shaft, I kind of saw what he was getting at.
Oh dear. Last week’s offerings apparently found their way to the computer screen of that post’s unfortunate subject, a character named Ben.
Whilst I understand fully premature ejaculation and finding out a woman faked an orgasm on you aren’t necessarily the kinds of sexual mishap you’d want in a public forum. Particularly so when it’s a close friend that brings it to your attention down the pub with a pack of friends. Still, I’m told it was taken in reasonably good part, though the now-married survivor of sand bunkers and sexual ineptitude did, I gather, feel a little stung. Via a third party through the medium of text we exchanged a friendly enough ‘hi’ and I received confirmation Ben expressed some degree of…. I’d love to big it up and say remorse but that’d be pushing it. In any case, there was at least a modicum of regret over his behaviour towards me which of course is like shutting the stable door after the proverbial horse has done its thing. Ten years or so previously. He’s married now as I say (lord knows what their sex life is like given my experience) and I’m loved up with someone that delivers multiple orgasms at will so all’s well that ends well – no hard feelings between us.
For the record I didn’t write to be bitchy, merely to entertain, but the feedback did heal a little hurt of my own.
Some of these dicks are now getting uncomfortable though as readership of this blog expands. Waiting for some kind of deliverance of verbal pugilism which seems strange given they were almost all one night stands. It’s amazing how on earth they even know about me.
Facebook. It’s got to be Facebook.
Only last week I received a curt message, unpleasant in tone, from one of my hundred saying – I’ll paraphrase here – he didn’t wish to receive any further promotional messages regarding my blog and did not want to be the subject of a post.
Rewind. Originally he’d asked to be my friend on that wretched site, because he wanted to ‘plug’ his aspiring music career. In fact he also harassed me to have sex with him again, this time as part of a threesome AND (if not up for that) a one-on-one repeat of our previous excursion because of my…..’sensuality’ I believe was the quote de jour. I immediately refused. Once had been quite enough for me (and I’ll say why in a second). He hadn’t even registered on my blog subscribers’ list, but he’s bought himself once more to my attention now.
I advised him the easy solution to his dilemma was to de-friend me – simples. He has, so hopefully he’ll never get to read this.
Everyone wants a famous fuck. Not all of us get it. I worked in theatre for five years and shagged a handful of Z-list celebrities (you know – the types that have been an extra on The Bill or starred in a pilot for American TV that then failed to get commissioned), but there’s occasionally one that most people would think ‘ah yeah I remember that’.
For me it was one the Baha Men (Boys). The what? you might ask. Well, they were the guys who sung ‘Who Let The Dogs Out!’ And let me tell you it seemed uber harsh having fucked one of them that L and I once went to enter a club spontaneously one night and the bouncers, as we approached, sung the refrain: ‘Who Let the Dogs Out? Who? Who? Who? Who?’. Not only were they mocking us in the cruellest fashion, but a song by an artiste with whom I’d been intimate was being used as a weapon to taunt me. Incidentally it worked – we fled, retreating immediately home.
Baha Boy and I met over the internet. Which seemed a bit strange, his using that method to meet women. I mean, he certainly wasn’t unattractive and every girl loves a musician (especially singers, which he was). Additionally of course, anything to do with fame and fortune increases a man’s attractiveness, irrespective of physical appearance.
In fairness to both of us though I didn’t actually find out about the Baha bit until we were in bed getting ready to get down (oh and he wasn’t singing it to get me in the mood in case you were wondering).
At this point in my sexual career I was going through a ‘try everything’ phase – and mixed-race guys appealed to me (and still do). There is of course a common racial stereotype that black men have big cocks. A previous experience had confirmed this but then, I’ve found white guys with huge cocks as well so….who’s to say.
Sadly though, genetically, my Baha boy’s tackle was not heavy on the aforesaid stereotype being more Caucasian in its dimensions. Acceptable but not exactly abundant, though this has never featured prominently in my list of priorities unless ridiculously stunted.
There was however something extraordinarily curious about this one that made the event particularly memorable. It had a curve. A bend. And by this I do not mean a slight one the required closer examination, or even one that you notice but which doesn’t really interfere with proceedings. It really was like an especially curvy banana…well lady finger to be more precise, almost mutant in aspect.
Getting it inside me, in the traditional missionary position reminded me of my first attempt of putting in a tampon without an applicator. It was in there, but you just know it isn’t in right, and sitting down feels distinctly uncomfortable. Only when the thing’s attached to a person how do you say to them ‘can you straighten that out a bit please, it’s pressing at angles that are making this a wretched experience. I can’t focus on giving you any pleasure or even enjoying myself because all I can feel is a stabbing at the side of my inner wall’?
To make matters worse, he thought his technique was a smooth as his beautiful skin. He kept gyrating his hips rhythmically like Mr Lover-Lover and doing soft porno talk – oohing and aahing and ‘did I like that baby’? I wanted to yell ‘You aren’t Mister Boombastic, you aren’t Shaggy, you’re a Baha Man.’
I decided to take control.
At this stage I lived in an attic bedroom in a flat above a cafe. You actually had to climb a ladder to get to my room. While a significant size due to a very steep roof there was only a small area in the middle of the room in which you could stand fully upright. To combat the problem and maximise space I had a futon bed on the floor. Although a rough and ready attic refurbishment I did have a skylight window, which I permanently had open to air the place thoroughly.
In order to rectify the bendy penis problem I thought I’d try going on top. That way I thought I could angle myself around it so the fuck wasn’t too bad a fit-fit. That was the theory anyway – the practise proved not so great given the open roof window. Because it was at such a peculiar angle, to get his cock in comfortably so it was a little more direct and straight in my grotto of earthly delights, I had to shift my body to the left to such a degree I felt I was on a roller-coaster taking a sharp turn. With the roof window open and me bouncing up and down almost sideways I could feel the wind through my hair and was worried I may in fact tumble out of the window. The more robust things became the more I could envisage the whole thing as a fairground attraction. I wanted to throw my hands up and wave them into the cold night air and scream – though, it has to be said, not orgasmically. The child in me had been released at the sheer spirit of how the sex had morphed into some kind of saucy unstable carnival ride, with no safety harness strapped on. Whilst my head and shoulders sprung in and out of the window, I hoped I could maintain my mass on this unbalanced mount, because I could feasibly end up a paraplegic with a single wrong move. A sex bungee jump gone wrong if he thrusted too hard and I rebounded too vigorously. It wasn’t just the concentration of the physical exertion dampening my fun but the dreadful scenario of being on a theme park ride and the operator leaving it unattended – the machine running relentlessly on and my being helpless to stop it. But this ride I could stop. The effort, the gripped thighs, well practised kegal exercises, the precarious position, the controlled yet wild movement finally bought him to a climax and me back to safety.
I don’t know who let the dogs out that night, but I have to say before being de-friended on Facebook I felt the world was a little safer seeing his status was now ‘in a relationship’. That is one particular canine that needs to be on a chain – a bendy penis is dangerous and not something that should be unleashed on an unknowing and uncoordinated woman like me.