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.