Category Archives: Disappointing Sex
The trouble with becoming addicted to sex is that the ‘desire’ to have sex soon eclipses the ‘real reason’ as to why you embarked on a sexual journey of self destruction. Thus, in my case, having regular sex with new partners became more important to me than actually blindly hoping one of these casual one night stands would in fact be the love of my life.
The most shameful thing about my alleged sex addiction – a label I still vehemently deny – was that there were times I was willing to drop my standards. Fortunately my standards were impeccably high which meant that when I did drop them, instead of sleeping with a guy ranked about eight or nine in terms of appearance, I’d sleep with a seven. Typing those figures my confession doesn’t seem so bad. Sadly the truth is … I vividly recall a liaison with a guy who I want to say was a six but if I’m honest… he was a four. That’s right, looks wise I genuinely believe the majority of the world’s population wouldn’t find him passable in terms of his physical presentation. I want to sell him to you as a six, but in my heart of hearts he wasn’t.
Let me pitch the guy to you. He was five foot five and slightly overweight (definite paunch) with dark hair (which was balding and medium in length with a comb over) and olive skin. His uber brown eyes were somewhere between feline, oriental and with pronounced epicanthal folds (i.e. were positioned in a southward diagonal direction on his face). He had quite high cheek bones, but the rounded jaw line made his face long like a horse and chubby like a chipmunk. The broad shoulders promised a masculine build despite being vertically challenged, but I was disappointed to discover his arms and legs were fleshy and flabby, as opposed to toned and muscular.
On the night in question he was wearing pale grey chinos and a white long sleeved shirt and smart, shiny black leather shoes. In fairness he made the most of his appearance and pay packet, but dress a frog up in Ralph Lauren or Georgio Armani and at the end of the night you’re still with a frog.
What was even worse was I met this particular man when I worked at the theatre come late night bar where me and the entire staff spent the whole time crucifying him as a complete sleaze that was only after one thing (weren’t we all???). Hypocrisy aside, it wasn’t his insatiable sexual appetite that turned our stomachs and I don’t think it was the fact that he wasn’t part of the ‘beautiful’ crowd (occasionally some non-entertainment bodies were able to wrangle a membership to the theatre bar) – what we objected to was his slippery, sneaky manner. He literally slithered around the theatre preying on women that were too off their heads with excessive alcohol to possess a clear state of mind to reject his advances. Truth was our bar was full of those kinds of women (staff like myself fitted the bill as well…in and out of work) so it was a playground for him.
There will be those readers thinking if those girls were careless enough to let themselves get into that state then they deserved all they got. But we actually cared about our patrons and that kind of devious, unchivalrous and dishonourable approach left a sour taste in our mouths. Thus as he took advantage of our pretty, merry members, we’d watch helplessly; knowing those girls would wake the following morning feeling severely disadvantaged at having experienced a devastating misadventure they would never be able to confide in even their closest of friends (hell it’s taken me over ten years to write about). Hence Mr Sleaze had nothing but our simpering disapproval and disdain.
I think the major criticism of me in this story is that Mr Sleaze had come to our attention because his efforts in seducing the theatre’s drunken and disabled women were generally with rejection and a significant dollop of revulsion. So my encounter with him wasn’t new or fresh; this potential sexual candidate and his background were very familiar to me.
Did my long term observations of this member stop have me rethinking him as a sexual suitor on a particularly dry night where I needed some action and an abundance of opportunities were not presenting themselves to me?
What’s worse is that I wasn’t off duty on the night, so can’t claim being drunk and disorderly as an excuse for the liaison. My drinking whilst managing the theatre was controlled and minimal on the night in question. When I called last orders and was badgering the patrons to scoot out of the bar, he was the one guy to catch my eye as the only possible shag for the night.
I want to say beer goggles pushed him to an eight, but no amount of alcohol can double someone’s score of attractiveness. I guess maybe the haze of needing a big fat cock made me see him as passable rather than dog ugly and unappealing in every possible manner.
I invited him to stay back and have a one-on-one lock in with me. I initiated the kiss. Yes I decided those thick, rubbery lips stretched wide on his face were deserving of my full, perfect mouth and expert technique.
For all those people I worked with, I’m going to ‘fess up (cause we all know who I’m talking about). He was actually a decent kisser. Those thick, rubbery lips were soft and his kiss was tender and intimate. Sleazy man knew what he was doing and I liked it. In fact the kiss was so good I was inclined to let nature run its natural course.
Within minutes we were lying on the couch opposite the bar (under the picture of Queen Victoria) and I was kicking my kitten heels across the theatre reception area as he was burrowing under my long full skirt. I let his fingers slip under the elastic of the waist band of my panties and peel them down. I let him breathe on my pussy and undoubtedly my lips would’ve been quivering having been exposed to the early Thursday morning air breaking into the theatre through the drafty locked doors. As his tongue swirled around my clit, I found myself lying back and focussing on the sensations he was lavishing on such a sensitive area. The wide tongue was lapping at me like a dog. I knew I was dripping because he was making noises not too different to what my husband sounds like when he’s tucking into half a chicken at Nando’s.
Pretty soon he was sucking on my clit and his tongue was edging ever lower to my slit. One of two things would inevitably come next:
1) He’d slither up me in a snaky way as he wriggled out of his chinos to mount me and slip his dick in or
2) He’d lie on the opposite end of the couch unbuckle his trousers to expose himself, inviting me to suck his cock
That’s when it happened.
A moment of clarity.
This was Mr Sleaze – a sly, snaky man who we all disliked with vehemence and passion. I needed to get laid, but did I need it badly enough to sacrifice my self respect and standards?
No I did not.
After all, I’d just had someone go down on me. That sexual action was enough to keep me going until tomorrow’s night shift (there was always more cock available on a Thursday night than a Wednesday). There was no need to continue this sexual liaison for the sake of proper, formal bedroom etiquette.
I was well mannered and polite, but did that require me licking and sucking the prick of someone I found repulsive and repugnant?
I told him so.
Not brutally you understand. It was more of a ‘sorry, I really can’t do this – you’ll have to go’ way. (I was well mannered and polite after all).
He didn’t like the rejection.
He thought I was bad mannered and impolite by not reciprocating.
Even though I thought he had a valid point, it still wasn’t going to happen.
What concerned me was that he and I were alone in the theatre.
What concerned me more was that he was bulky and broad and easily stronger than me.
What concerned me more than that was that I was a 23 year old duty manager; NOT the owner of the theatre. It wasn’t really in my job description or roles and responsibilities to be inviting psycho, sexually deviant patrons to keep me company in the theatre when I was cashing up and responsible for the entire venue and all the stock and profits.
The scene had the potential to get ugly. It’d be terrible id I ended up being raped or succumbing to sexually pleasing the man out of obligation. It’d be even worse if I resisted and the struggle drew attention or came to the notice of my employer.
Frightened and unable to analyse the situation objectively, I did the only thing a voluptuous, outgoing Australian duty manger could – I called in a favour.
How thankful I was that in the winter our kitchen often gave free hot soup to the security guards, doormen and medics on Heaven nightclub (infamous gay club owned by Virgin’s Richard Branson – it’s since changed hands). I unlocked the door. Mr Sleaze’s hand went to pull it shut. I threw it open and politely called under the Arches of Charing Cross for Heaven to come lend a hand.
Never has my generosity and fag hag tendencies been so useful. Two of the Heaven staff jogged down the cobbled stones to the theatre door. The tugged it open and Mr Sleaze’s hand went slack. He looked up to see two ‘9s’ glaring down at him from above six foot. Athletic, muscular, protective, respectful of women and drop dead gorgeous I wished I could grow a cock on the spot to get me a little action there and then. They were far too good looking to ever join the heterosexual team. Distracted by their beauty, I forgot the menacing hazard I was currently embroiled in. My peril was short lived when the boys asked how they could be of assistance and Mr Sleaze (I kid you not) literally slipped under the arm of the tallest security man and crept down the arches in the shadows of the closed shops littering our street.
I recounted the entire story to the men. They didn’t bother searching for Mr Sleaze (although they offered to) because (as strictly homosexual guys) the thought of having to go down on a girl and not getting a blow job in return was punishment enough.
I figured they had a point. The next time Mr Sleaze was at the bar I gave him one of my most winsome smiles and was generous enough to extend my hospitality to a free drink as well. It would’ve been bad manners and impolite not to and as this story demonstrates – that’s just not me.
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.
Discovering Cougar Town (young guys wanting older women, not the Courtney Cox comedy) after I hit thirty was a bit like Lucy discovering Narnia in ‘The Lion, The Witch And The Wardrobe’. Everyone I told didn’t believe that I was for real. They thought I was fabricating the truth to account for my single status as a thirty something. Fortunately for me technology had moved on significantly since I’d first lost my virginity.
Nowadays there are profiles on the internet laden with numerous photos and even better body proud young men happy to send photos via text or BBM to tease you with their gym sculpted bodies. Even better than that, there are the real exhibitionists willing to send over pictures of their youthful erections – trust me a there is nothing better than a big, fat, hard teenage cock. That sounds crass, but it is in fact super sexy and legal!!!
Hence, while I regaled the open plan office where I worked, with tales of my conquests ranging of men between ten to twelve years younger than me, if ever I saw a couple of doubtful faces or heard whispers that I was exaggerating my experiences, I needed only to whip out my phone to produce pictures and texts pertaining to the boy in question.
I have always liked my ‘brown boys’ with a particular penchant from those with origins in India, Pakistan and Sri Lanka. It seems fitting with England competing against India tomorrow in the cricket that the sexual exploit that first springs to mind was a teenage gym bunny I met over Face-party (a more sexual precursor to Facebook) was of Indian descent.
Call me racist or stereotypical but in regard to my social and sexual encounters with Indian men they have always been hugely appreciative of my plumper figure; their eyes widening lustily with all that soft, white, ample flesh against their own dark naked bodies.
I remember his six pack, I remember his prick, but I’m very sorry to say I don’t remember his name.
I had been somewhat precarious about arranging to see him because he was so body conscious. I thought my figure would repulse him. He’d seen pictures of me online but to my shame I had taken a few liberties with my profile photographs which were not only taken from a flattering angle but were a few years old and portrayed me as slightly slimmer version to what I actually was.
Greeting him at Stockwell tube station I had the knot in my stomach of him being either completely insensitive and calling me on the faux photo scam that I myself had been caught out with over my online dating experience or even worse be polite by visiting my house but evade all my sexual overtures.
He had a big smile for me which was slightly reassuring. He was whippet thin. At 5’10, I doubted he weighed more than 9 stone – say 57 kilograms for those using the metric system. I had a couple of stone on him easily and made a mental note not to even attempt going on top of the lad for fear of crushing him. I knew he worked out daily but he appeared to be more of a cardiovascular guy rather than a weights man.
His teenage libido took over the second I opened the door to my bedsit and let him in. He pushed me straight on the bed and started kissing me hungrily. It was quite nice but I had a nasty next door neighbour and didn’t want him peering in or pushing open the door to see what the ruckus was about. As the lithe lad clambered up me like a horny puppy I was trying to wriggle down the bed to kick the door shut with my foot.
He was so light it wasn’t actually that difficult and after hearing the familiar click of the lock, I allowed myself the pleasure of whipping off his shirt to see if his photos were for real.
I am happy to report all was present and correct. His washboard stomach was almost as rock hard as the cock that was pressing into my tummy as he smothered me in kisses. He was going a little overboard and almost licking my face which I wasn’t overly keen on.
Hands were trying to squeeze in the waistband of my already too tight jeans.
In the end I had to tell him to calm down for a bit. His big brown eyes and attempt at designer stubble made him look younger than his nineteen years. Part of me is always flummoxed why these gorgeous, fit boys were scouring the internet to get laid and not making the most of their hedonistic university lifestyle. Whether girls sharing classes with them were too close to see their appeal I don’t know, but I know that in that particular moment I was glad he’d been driven by rejection or alack of pussy to Faceparty and fate had him stumble across my profile.
Looking like a chastised child I took the time to run my hands over his body and it was perfect; fit, firm and fuckable. I slowed the pace by undressing him and was thrilled to see an erection, snug in his black tight legged boxers – undoubtedly with Calvin Klein imprinted on the waist-band. Fashion and image were everything to this guy so why he was hard for me was far beyond my comprehension, but I didn’t draw his attention to the obvious difference in our appearances.
When I removed my top and freed my breasts of the push up bra, he ran his hands over my feminine untoned tummy and suckled my nipples like a baby. It was sweet that his hand was desperate to make contact with what was under my knickers but those jeans weren’t budging for him to slip his fingertips under.
I released the button of the jeans and knew I was spilling out. It possibly would have been prudent to wear control knickers but the tight elastic would only have furthered hindered his endeavour to get between my lips.
When his fingers delved into my wetness he released my breasts from his mouth and groaned. He could tell from the warm slipperiness of my minge that I was ready and willing to take him. Thus he rolled my knickers down and I spread my legs for him to enter.
I have to be brutally honest and say he wasn’t the biggest I had – if I was to be really accurate I’d say he was below average, but it wasn’t size that rendered the session difficult to bear; it was his abundance of energy. The guy was like a Duracell Bunny. At first I’d loved feeling his young cock penetrate me. I loved that he (thought) he was slamming it into me. I loved that his hands were under my shoulders in an attempt to plough deeper. I loved seeing his brown skin glued to mine with sweat from the effort of his exertions. I didn’t love that he continued in missionary for at least a good twenty minutes with nothing else going on – no kissing, no nipple squeezing, no nothing. I could see my remote control on my bedside cabinet and had to refrain from turning on the television to catch up on the news while he made the most of my vagina.
Trying to spice things up, I shifted into doggy-style to hopefully end the spontaneous work-out he was inflicting on me. I had the utmost respect for his dedication to the gym and I appreciated the results but I wasn’t the sporty type (nor will I ever be!). Constant sex in the same position was tedious, unimaginative and unsexy.
The trouble with doggy-style was that there was a lot of white ass he had to plough through to get to my slit. His dick just didn’t have the length to give the position justice, no sooner was he inside me thrusting furiously then he’d slide back out. It was frustrating for me but I was prepared to write the event off. Rather than tell him he’d dislodged I let him continue thrusting between my thighs. He was grunting and moaning so I figured he was enjoying the sensation. In fact I even had time to open the graphic novel I’d had on my pillow to read while he exercised his cardiovascular system. I’m pretty sure he was too heavily into the rutting to notice what I was up to. Once I’d finished reading the adventures of ‘Invincible’ I discreetly closed the comic and put my hands between my legs; clearly the only person bringing me any satisfaction that evening was going to be me.
Having cottoned onto what was happening he went strong for the home run. I obviously was clenching my thighs when I reached my own peak because the next thing I knew his cum was spurting between my clamped thighs. I suddenly realised, because of the stream of semen running down my thighs, he was going to cotton on to the fact that he’d basically been wanking himself between my thighs rather than fucking a youngish cougar for all she was worth.
To avoid any awkwardness afterwards, I was inclined to dress quickly and make up a pathetic excuse about having to meet a friend for a late dinner. I know I came across as rude and dismissive and I hate that I did, but I was prepared to shoulder that condemnation, rather than have him look downcast when he realised his invested energies had done nothing to sexually fulfil me. You take the good with the bad – that’s what happens sometimes in sex. Anyway the lovely boy at the Maharani more than made up for events earlier that evening by giving me complimentary samosas with my take-away curry, but I’ll go into the details of that another time.
I’m not sure how the Dutch see themselves from an international perspective, but aside from the fact you can smoke dope legally (although I hear they have cracked down on tourists visiting the country for that specific purpose), I believe the majority of people associate the country with sex. Maybe not the entire country, but when you here the word Amsterdam you tend to think of prostitutes in windows and live sex shows…and smoking dope!
I was fortunate for a time because my brother’s best friend from primary school (who I grew up with) was half Dutch and spent a good few years working in Amsterdam, which meant I always had free accommodation in a rather luxurious gay bachelor pad when I was inclined to pop over and taste the delights on offer. Since then he has decided he isn’t gay and was straight after all (bet his ex-girlfriend was pissed when he rejoined the hetero team). Now he’s married with babies and living in a far more ‘family friendly’ area of the country.
Anyway on my first visit, being my temporary GBFF (Gay Best Friend Forever – well for the duration of the long weekend) he was attentive and showed me all the wonders of the city. Because his father was Dutch he had family further away from Amsterdam and suggested we visit because they had their annual beer festival on – it could make for a good day. Who was I to refuse my host?
I have to confess it was an inspirational idea on his part in respect of immersing me in the culture of the people. I learned to love chips with mayonnaise and that 1 Euro for a pint of beer is not only cheap but will have you wasted in a very short space of time.
My mother had this theory that the Dutch aren’t keen on fat people (my host’s father had never been particularly kind to her) and I have to say my subsequent experience has made me realise her assumption wasn’t too far from the truth.
There I was, drinking and enjoying the atmosphere when a lovely young boy came and spoke to me. He looked about 16, but was perhaps a little older. I was in my mid twenties at the time but it was all harmless fun. He couldn’t speak a word of English and I couldn’t speak a word of Dutch, but when it comes to casual sex, conversation isn’t a necessity for the event to take place. Alcohol, body language and physical attraction is all that’s required. As we drank and became tactile, enjoying the crowds and music we got a little hands on.
He implied to me that he was going to visit the bathroom and signaled for me to mind his drink. I smiled and nodded and off he went. No sooner had he gone than his father, who’d be standing at the table next to us strode over; a man on a mission. Unfortunately for me he could speak English.
‘Stay away and leave my son alone when he returns back.’
I was somewhat taken aback and said I really felt the decision was up to his son. As I voiced this thought his son reappeared and spoke in Dutch to his father. He was irritated by the exchange and stood firm by my side, drinking his beer. His father, physically tried to drag him away and I was obliged to enquire as to what exactly the problem with him having a drink with me was.
‘You’re too fat. You’re grotesque. My son can do much better than you. Stay away, I will find him someone else.’
Sadly back then I wasn’t as good at disguising my emotions publicly as I am now. Outraged, embarrassed, full of self disgust and loathing and more than anything hurt, I retreated immediately, telling me host I needed the toilet. As luck would have it he had missed the entire scene, so I was spared the mortification of him hearing me referred to as ‘fat’ and ‘grotesque’. His 50% Dutch DNA may have had him applauding the man or joining in with the verbal insults about my weight, instead of defending me!
I left the alfresco drinking area and made my way into the heaving bar and headed straight for the ladies cubicle. I can’t deny I needed to break the seal after drinking an extraordinary amount of beer, but in truth I figured by the time I’d had a good old cry over the humiliating fat attack, father and son may have moved on to find someone skinny.
Allowing myself ample recovery time, I decided to venture back out to find my friend. The difficulty was the bar was massive and when I walked out, I couldn’t see my host for love nor money. Without a mobile phone and any concept of the national language, I had no other option other than circling and scrutinizing every patron in the bar in the vain hope that I’d spot him ordering drinks or coming up from the toilets himself. I was at the point of getting panicking when a brutish drunk asked if I wanted a drink.
What I actually wanted was to scream, cry, wail, drop to my knees and beat my breast with both hands but a drink with a hunk from Holland didn’t seem a bad substitute.
Whether it was because he towered over me at 6’4 and was built like a brick shit-house or he preferred a fuller figure I didn’t get an anti-‘fat’ vibe from the man. What I did get was a pint of beer and a rather nice kiss.
There’s something rather sexy about linking your arms around a stranger’s neck and forgetting yourself in the crowd of public onlookers as the kiss gradually develops into a more feverish and intense experience. A foreign tongue in your mouth in a foreign land.
Having been rejected, it was a relief to have it counteracted with lusty intent from another individual. Feeling his erection against my stomach took the sting out of my earlier encounter.
His English was very broken but when coming up for air he asked if I wanted to take a walk along the pier. I didn’t even know there was a pier. My first thoughts were related to the predicament of having lost my brother’s best friend and in that respect my guide; wandering away from where we’d last been together was unlikely to improve my chances of finding him (if anything disappearing would seriously hinder my tracking him down to return me home safely). That said, I knew he wasn’t going anywhere because we were waiting for the appearance of a few of his cousins. As we’d already been separate for over half an hour, I figured a tiny stroll couldn’t hurt.
The throng of an entire town being drunk had been a little overwhelming so I found it a relief that the pier was completely empty. It was only tiny, with few boats but it was pretty with the sun setting. An idyllic location to finish off what we’d started in the bar.
The soft lighting flattered his looks.; it was as if he’d stepped out of a Hollister or Jack Wills advertisement. He was tall and broad and as we resumed kissing I reached under his shirt to find the mass of the man was muscles. The toned frame combined with piercing blue eyes, buzz-cut length brown hair, even lips and a noticeable tan had me forgetting the boy and his fatist father.
Nothing’ beats a proper kissing section. Like when your teenagers and on the brink of embracing your sexuality. Too shy to go straight to sex, but keen to explore so starting at first base with kisses. That’s what his mouth felt like on mine. In my head it was a picture-esque image of a real man kissing me with the water behind and hazy orange skies.
He wasn’t, however, a teenager on the brink of embracing his sexuality. He was a man and I was a woman and as soon as my hands went from under his shirt to trying to edge down into his jeans it was game on.
I kicked myself for having dressed down that day. Had I worn a skirt or dress it would’ve made the sex easier, but I hadn’t. I had to kick off my trainers and lose my cargo pants within close proximity and cross my fingers there’d be no passer-byers to see us and no gusts of wind to sweep my clothes out to sea.
For the first and only time in my life, he actually lifted me onto the top of the rail of the pier which wasn’t to high and without a word smoothly slid in his cock. I have to say, his penis was in perfect portion with his build. Plentiful in length and girth my moaning aloud was a result of instant gratification. As he worked his massive shaft inside me, he refused to kiss but insisted on maintaining eye contact for the duration. His expression was one of determination. Upon each moan released in accordance with his ploughing, he would glide in deeper each time to elicit a more audible groan.
When the ramming became too powerful and I thought he might bang me into the sea, I was obliged to steady myself by wrapping my legs tightly round his waist and my arms round his neck. At this gesture he seemed please with his performance and broke into a smile. It was only then he kissed me. I could feel his hips wanting to jerk harder, but my vice-like thighs were restricting him. Before I knew it he had lifted my off the rail and was fucking me as he stood. It did give him deeper penetration, as well as a thorough work both aerobically and anaerobically. I was concerned his thighs might give way and he wouldn’t have the stamina to keep up the speed while supporting my weight. Full marks – he didn’t.
Bouncing up and down on his boner and his breath warm and panting in my ear had me, literally, dripping and wet for him. My self-consciousness prevented me from responding too ferociously to his vigorous pounding. Truth be told, while I enjoyed the stretch workout he was giving my vagina and the mental image of the stallion mating with me in public view, it was his fucking me without any aid of a bed, rail, wall or toilet that delighted me. Even then, I resisted revealing how much more of his cock I needed in me. I was wanton and wanting, but when you have issues around weight they can impinge on all aspects of your life – including sex.
I was actually relieved when he came. Disappointed because I was loved the rawness and roughness of his technique, but happy that I could clear my mind of the potential guilt I’d have if he gave himself a hernia by choosing that position.
He may not have had much grasp of English, he did fully understand the concept of chivalry and helped collect my clothes and shoes, then kept watch as I dressed. He escorted me back to the pub, bought me a drink and assisted me in circling the venue in search of my friend. Transpires the pub was two premises linked together. I’d gone to the toilets in premise one but exited the toilets into premise two and hadn’t noticed the difference. The alfresco area I’d been scouring wasn’t the section we had been drinking in. As soon as I was in the original alfresco area I saw my host and he waved me over (I was grateful the man that originally ruined my confidence had departed, with his son in tow, seeking a skinnier venue).
‘I take it you were having a poo and not a wee,’ said my friend.
In my online dating years and when I was pretty determined to sleep with someone from every country I decided I had to sleep with a South African. There’s actually a very healthy rivalry between South Africa and Australia so it had never been too high on my list of priorities, but it was a box that needed to be checked.
I scoured the internet for ages finding the right one. Now I was in mid-twenties. Younger boys held no appeal for me, my preference was for older men, but I was also happy to fuck someone in my own age bracket.
I wish I could remember his name because he’s sent me a thousand friend requests on Facebook (all of which I declined – what a bitch I am sometimes!) so I should be familiar with it. But I’m not. He’s just another face without a name in my sexual history.
Aside from being South African (I’ve been told I need to clarify here he was white Caucasian) he wasn’t a bad looking boy. He actually possessed more of an American look and was reminiscent of Tom Cruise, which is no bad thing if that’s your type. He was short, maybe 5’5 with shoes on, had blonde hair, perfect shiny white teeth and the body of someone who spent a lot of time at the gym but didn’t have the physique for it to be overly impressive or noticeable.
We’d chatted online briefly and I organised the hook up just as quickly. As with any cyber sex sessions, discussions of likes and dislikes had come into conversation and I do believe mentioning I was quite up for anal sex. In all honesty I wasn’t that up for it, but some men see it as quite slutty and sexy so I felt it would increase my chances of getting laid.
The only thing about dating younger guys, or at that time men in their mid twenties is their lack of confidence. Despite me giving him my address he asked if I might meet him a the tube station and walk him back to mine. It kind of seemed a role reversal in terms of traditional male/female roles but because I was pretty independent and desperate for cock I agreed.
Meeting him at the station I could see not only was I going to have sex with a South African but also a man that would’ve been classified as a dwarf if he’d been born an inch or two shorter -not great for a 5’7 Amazonian-esque Australian like me.
I had an inkling I would want it over and done with asap. Bit of a workout for my vagina, send him home and then a bit of fast food and crap late night TV.
The bedsit I was living in at the time was in fact in the loft of a top floor flat and I had to climb up a ladder to get in there. There was a single bed, which I used as a couch and a double futon which I slept in.
The sex was almost perfunctory. By the time we got up the ladder, there wasn’t really all that much to discuss. He was a trainee accountant at a law firm, which is probably why he could afford to buy the best brand of lube in the market, which he presented to me like a wedding ring, but his profession wasn’t riveting enough to warrant feigned interest and questioning about his job.
It was kind of a kiss and clothes off affair.
In hindsight I found the height difference a little off putting. I could lay on the single bed, my bottom perched on the edge, legs spread, wet and waiting giving him easy access but as he began fucking me I realised he didn’t even have to bend his knees to get into my cunt. Nor did he need to prop my bottom up with pillows so that he wasn’t squatting while he was thrusting. If anything I suspect he would’ve been happy if he’d had a few pillows or a small cardboard box to stand on while pumping away.
His inexperience and lack of technique was all too obvious. I liked his enthusiasm and the velocity. His thick cock going in and out of me was pleasing. But the man handling of my breasts, squeezing them, pinching them was all good until he suckled them. He didn’t suck quickly, or suck and nibble. He suckled them as one would imagine a baby would. Making slurping noises. Ths short South African had a fat stubby cock inside me while he suckled my breasts. Taking turns on each one. Resting on my chest and just sucking and pumping. Thank fuck he didn’t call me mum.
I was wondering how long I’d have to endure the child like sexual behaviour when he boldly said, ‘Your arse. Let me fuck your arse.’
‘Yeah sure.’ I agreed quickly enough thinking the sooner the experience was over the better.
‘Do it like in the movies please.’
Wordlessly I moved from the single bed onto my double futon on the floor on my hand and knees. I could hear him squirting the lube and telling me how much he wanted this. I was going to ask if he wanted it more than me putting him in a nappy and giving him a rusk but thought it may further delay this mortifying experience.
Things went from bad to worse. His pork sword may have been ready to invade but my anus was having none of it. It was as if my arsehole had been super-glued shut. This should have demonstrated how tense and unrelaxed I was in this encounter but the South African wasn’t taking no for an answer. He just put more and more lube on his cock and more and more lube around my bottom.
He pounded and grinded trying to force the slightest opening so he could then force his cock in. It was lucky he’d been working out cause he needed the strength and stamina for this nearly impossible feat.
I mentally applauded him because he did manage it. But the sheer power required had meant while I’d started on all fours with each thrust my hands slipped forward and I began to move downwards. I could see my hands pushing the duvet towards the wall and my face getting closer and closer to the mattress. Soon enough I was lying on my stomach. Pancaked on the bed. I’d have preferred to be a little more picturesque and described myself as more of a ‘crepe’ demolished on the bed, but my rather rolling soft curves meant I was more a fluffy, filling pancake. It wasn’t until I was plastered to the bed that he got in. I was face down on my bed as his cock stabbed into me. In an effort of my own, and I wasn’t a regular gym goer, I resisted the intensity of his thrusting just enough to raise myself and my arse up so he could penetrate a little deeper. Where I mustered the energy I know not where – at that time I did wonder if there wasn’t something in all this religious malarkey – but in returning to half doggy style position it gave him enough room to be thrilled enough by the anal sex to cum.
I disposed of his presence as quickly as I did the condom. To be honest I probably would’ve enjoyed visiting South Africa more via Google Earth rather than have someone bum me quite so viciously and vigorously. I don’t think I dismissed him in a nasty or harsh way because he very kindly offered me the exclusive expensive bottle of lube so we could have anal sex again next time he came round. He never came round again…but the lube was used up for more anal sex.
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’ve always thought people can be easily separated into two groups; those who favour Christmas and those who favour New Year’s. Personally I’ve always been a Christmas girl. People are more spirited, friendly and benevolent with their sexual favours (treating them like presents to give out to a stranger) in that party atmosphere where Santa and his elves peep in from the outskirts. It’s almost as if you have to be naughty to be nice in December. It’s a time of sharing and giving – so with beer goggles firmly attached people are more likely to hook up out of a general feeling of goodwill. It’s a fabulous feeling.
New Year’s though … people are out for themselves. It’s no longer about sharing and giving; it’s about cutting off old ties, burning bridges and creating a new and better life for one’s self. It’s about new starts and hopes and they spring from each individual’s wants and desires. Whereas Christmas is about being with other people and loving what we’ve got, New Year’s is about moving on from what we have in the hope of finding something better.
It’s always been fucking shambolic for me and absolutely dire in the sex stakes. I blame this solely on the fact that people become self absorbed, self obsessed and overly critical and analytical of themselves on New Year’s and thus are unable to focus on the people around them. They look at potential shag’s on New Year’s Eve as if they are potential life partner’s … and clearly I never quite made the grade. Christmas people are just looking for a good time in a warm setting where everyone leaves happy but knowing it’s all been easy Christmas fun. No pressure, no strings. New Year’s is all about the pressure to start anew so everyone becomes tunnel vision.
Hence I’ve always avoided New Year’s. It’s nothing but a constant disappointment for me.
I give you a few examples. When I lost my virginity in 1999 I pretty much became a cock hungry whore. I remember the evening before the work Christmas party my friend and I decided to go clubbing in the West End. I preferred to steer clear of the West End of account of my rather voluptuous figure and general lack of experience in more expensive (or classy) environment. This night though there was decorations and mistletoe. At a time when boy bands were at their height I found myself being approached by a little cutie that could easily have jumped off the cover of smash hits magazine with his black curtains haircut, chiselled features and perfectly packaged body. He’d come from work in trousers and a smart shirt but it wasn’t long before he had smiled and whispered to me he was going to the toilet.
I wasn’t sure how to read that but felt there was an invitation in his declaration of requiring use of the club’s facilities. I made my way down the stairs and he was waiting at the bottom. As soon as I appeared he grabbed my hand and dragged me into the women’s toilets, locking us into a cubicle. Without further ado hands were down pants, tights and control knickers were being clumsily taken off. I went to sit him on the toilet so I could ride him but he took one look at the state of the toilet and shook his head. For some reason it was okay to have sex in the toilet but not on the toilet.
Because he was short and I was in 4 inch heels the sex was quickly becoming a logistical nightmare. Soon enough I was slipping out of my shoes to lower my height. My hands pinned to the toilet wall and legs spread to allow him access. He just had an inch or two but the cubicle was so small my thunderous thighs couldn’t spread as wide as required. The next attempt I had my hands on the side of the cubicle. One leg on the floor, the other leg raised and rested onto the toilet bowl. This gave him the spread to enter me clumsily. Both young and somewhat inexperienced and overly horny and desperate to do the deed to go and brag to our respective friends. A few thrusts and I found my hands slipping. He was frustrated he couldn’t go deeper…and so was I. Again we tried a re-position. He stood, semi squat, over the toilet bowl and tried to life me up. I have to say he was a brave sex soldier trying given my bulk! He lifted me up and onto his cock but as muscular and wiry as his build was he would be no means have the stamina to continue supporting my weight while fucking me like a rabbit. I then attempted my own acrobatic feat by clutching the walls of the cubicle and supporting my weight while trying to ride on his cock. Being unfit and having no upper arm strength this only lasted a few more thrusts.
By this time it was painfully obvious what was going on. Did people make complaints, bang angrily on the door, call security??? NO! It was Christmas and people were happy. In fact I remember one girl finding my shoe, kicked down a few stalls and slipping it under my door wishing me well with my activity and reminding me not to forget my shoes.
He was desperate to cum; I was desperate to be more fully fucked. I decided to give my first Christmas gift. I braved the toilet bowl. I bent over and rested my hands on the toilet bowl. This gave me the stability and height for him to enter and fuck me like the Duracell Christmas bunny he was. Fortunately his cock was young enough, strong enough and determined enough to have me biting back cries of ecstasy rather than being deterred by the state of the toilet and what germs were there. Soon enough I could feel his cock swelling inside me, my vaginal muscles clamping tighter around him inside. I stood up preventing him from any potential explosion. Looked at the toilet seat…thought of what Jesus would want (a safe but heavenly experience I guesses…and sat on the toilet seat.
I began licking his cock up and down. It was to be my first proper blow job. I pulled the foreskin down and traced my tongue around the head of his cock. I sucked the top – he moaned. I didn’t know if I sucked it too hard but he groaned loudly. I continued licking up and down and all around and soon enough I decided it was time to take the beast in my mouth. I opened up and wrapped my lips around the head of his cock. I was careful not to let my teeth graze his prick – I’d read in some woman’s magazine that could cause pain. Slowly I began to ease him further and further into my mouth. I only got it so far before I started to gag. I got a shock and released straight away.
Aware of my inexperience he gently took my head and began to slowly insert himself into my head. Each time I gagged he pulled out. Eventually I began to relax and the more relaxed I became the more of him I found I could fit in my mouth. Feeling a little more in control I began to build up a rhythm. He released his gentle hold on my head and let me manage the job in hand – sorry mouth. Soon enough I could feel him swelling again and I stressed and panicked as the gag reflexes kicked in, but I’d done enough. Just as I was frightened I couldn’t breathe I felt my mouth fill up with a sweet salty liquid. I heard him moaning and could see his hands had gripped the sides of the toilet cubicle. He lent down and kissed my head. While he was zipping up I spat the substance from my mouth into the toilet bowl and began to dress up. We had a kiss, exchanged numbers, ensured our respective friends mingled for the remainder of the evening and went home. Me with a cum stained face and wearing tinsel like a scarf.
The following night at the works Christmas party we found ourselves sharing our venue with another company. Being a virgin – thrice removed – and still buzzing from the night before at 22 I found a lovely young trainee accountant throwing some haphazard drunken shapes to the sounds of Lou Bega and Ricky Martin. Before long we were shimmying on the dance floor closer and closer to each other. As our bodies got closer and closer so to did our lips. But we were both young and being lip locked wasn’t enough. Pretty soon we were almost dry humping on the dance floor. I was the cock hungry, uninhibited Australian within minutes my hands were down his trousers and working their way inside his boxers. Soon enough to allow me more freedom to wank his cock he was unzipping and I was literally performing a hand job in the corner of the dance floor in full view of the partner’s, managing and financial director. Fortunately for me the head of the secretary pool had taken the role of surrogate mother of me in my time in London and within minutes was pushing the boy off saying he ought to know better, seizing my arm and marching me off the dance floor then scolding me like a child at a private table.
But like all naughty Christmas elves once the Christmas party venue closed we somehow gravitated back together at the cloakroom and soon enough found ourselves fornicating at the fire exit of some office building in London’s West End. We literally got lost in the dark doorway, my hands found his cock, he got my dress up and my knickers down far enough for him to thrust into me quickly, desperately and without a sound. It was anonymous Christmas sex, a brief and cheeky pounding for me and something warm and wet for him to remember this particular party in years to come. Unsatisfying because due to time restraints and venue neither of us climaxed but a secret Santa fuck was definitely the order of the night – so once we’d scratched the sexual itch we departed to our separate after parties.
At our recovery party the night after the works Christmas do, L and I made our way to our favourite club in Norbury. The big, black bouncer I had always had a soft spot for allowed me to flirt incorrigibly with him and I made all sorts of promises about him taking me home and revealed all the private sexual thoughts I had carried with him throughout the past 12 months. After a few stolen kisses, by the time the end of the night came the thought of his big black cock became a frightening reality so I began to retract the vows I’d made earlier in the evening. Did he take offense? Refuse entry on our next visit? Start insisting I pay for entry? NO! Because he knew it was Christmas and there was no malice in my last minute rejection, everything was taken in good spirit and a light hearted manner.
That was just three nights over one Christmas. The Christmas of 1999. Do I have any similar tales of New Year’s Eve antics?
Let me think.
Okay so the raunchiest New Year’s experience I had in 32 years – and this is without a word of a lie. In 2003 we decided to do something very last minute for New Year’s. So last minute we didn’t leave home until 11.30pm.By the time we made our way through the throng of the humming West End the countdown had begun. I was wearing combat trousers and a bra covered by only a net top. I was looking pretty cute I think – sex in a girl next door kinda way. There was the smell of a million different aftershaves and perfumes mingling with the abundance of pheromones, the mist of the smoke machine and alcoholic cocktail haze the room was immersed. As the crowd roared the last count down 3 -2 -1 everyone whooped for joy. At the same moment a man got his watch caught on my net top. Whilst everyone was saying happy new year he was tugging his hand. He kissed me quickly on the mouth and shouted ‘Happy New Year.’ I smiled up at him, expecting a longer, lingering more sensual kiss. ‘Can you undo yourself from me there’s a girl over there I need to get to before someone else does.’ Stupefied in shock, my momentary pause took too long because he ripped his watch from my top, tearing the netting and didn’t bother apologising or looking back. As I looked round the room everyone seemed to be looking for the next best thing and no one was looking at me.
That was the closest I’ve come to sex at New Year’s so you’ll understand my reluctance to blog on this particular time of the year. It’s hardly scintillating stuff a story that can ever be considered ‘Gone Wild’….although his manners had clearly gone somewhere as they weren’t present around me. Fuck New Year and roll on next Christmas.
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.
Under-age sex is never right – mainly because you can get done by the police, thrown into jail, be called a ‘nonce’ and have a particularly unpleasant sentence if you actually survive your time there. So stay away from jail-bait…even those that are knowingly on the prowl. I’ve had a close call but managed to steer myself into quite a different position. More on this in a while.
Whether people like to accept it or not this generation are much more highly sexed than the last and exposed to sexual imagery and an abundance of porn that used to be almost a pilgrimage trial to acquire some ‘tits & ass’ mags – let alone the ever elusive ‘Women’s Own’ (Australian) magazine that used to have a nice centrefold with a gloriously long schlong on display.
I read in the Metro last year a teacher had allowed five 15 year old students to fu*k her behind a rail line. Unbeknownst to her all the passing trains saw exactly what was going on and reported her. Now I can’t remember if she was jailed or not but was does stick in my memory was the judge at least admitting the experience had been in no way psychologically traumatizing or upsetting for any of the minors involved – indeed for them it had been a welcome opportunity.
Why I remember one evening L & I launched ourselves onto Vauxhall Caravan park for the final gala week looking like sex bombs and at 30 we convinced two fathers to allow us to take their respective sons 15 and 17 into town for some clubbing. You’d think it a dream come true for the kids but it really identified we were women and they were boys. The 17 year old spent the night dancing, suctioned on my face to the point where I was debating on whether to say ‘calm down, you’ve pulled I’ll fuck you tonight but gimme some air so I can throw some funky shapes on the dance floor’. L spent ages with the 15yr old moaning about his older brother’s (or were they friends) antics being over the top in a public place. At best she wrangled a light unpractised peck out of him before he complained about being tired. It wasn’t even 1am and we had every intention of pushing on till 7am so called a cab for them (so no I didn’t get to fuck the 17 year old…that night!)
Respect the law but be realistic. Frankly kids don’t do it for me, nor will they ever (even writing this makes me a little queezy – and that’s not because the story involved kissing a man from the kebab shop) but there are boys that develop quickly and can throw out a number which you wouldn’t question.
Back in the early noughties L & I were still frequenting the high-brow night club of Norbury Heights – ‘The Norbury’. By this time it was all about the cock for me. Freed from my virginity and I wanted was cock and plenty of it. As is the mating game two guys, clocked us two girls. They were both significantly younger than L and I who were early 20s, these guys had to be late teens. L’s looked significantly younger, I wasn’t even sure he should be in the club. My guy was 19. He was a builder, had a skin head, broad shoulders and stocky build but there was a teen youthfulness to him.
The Norbury wasn’t so high brow – in fact it was rather sleazy. We’d managed to climb our way sticky panelled dance floor and acquire a few tables and couches low lit with blue and green lights. When I say I was cock mad I really was. Not an ounce of dignity to be spared. I ‘dropped’ my ear ring and while L was lip locked with her guy I had unzipped and wrapped my mouth round the youthful builders cock. I worked on it, until we saw security checking us out and I miraculously discovered my earring on that black drink stained carpet. I sat back to sup my Metz and L’s guy leaned over and said ‘This is awesome. My cousin is having the night of his life – he’s 15 and you’ve just made his year!.’
I didn’t laugh. In fact I felt quite scared. I felt quite sick.
‘I can’t do this,’ I said and solemnly walked to the bar. L laughed and told me not to take it seriously but I did. Because that wasn’t my style – it’s not just a law thing sexual activity with children (however old they look or close to consent age they are isn’t a turn on for me – it only presses no buttons for me).
I decided to go cock hunting and hit the dance floor. Even with shoes bogged down by spilt alcopops and red bull and vodka I had just enough strength in my 4 inch heels to boogie on down while my tight black skirt rode up with wear. Soon enough someone was ‘body-shaking’ next to me and we were edging towards the plinths on the corners of the dance floor. The plinths were till enough and dark enough for his hand to delve up my skirt and wriggle his fingers through my tights and knickers into the warmth, wetness of my wanting cunt and I could r against his hard cock that was pressing against his trousers. My hands fumbled with the zipper so I could undo him and wrap my hand round his pulsating warm flesh.
I looked over to the couched area for L and spotted her easily enough but what pulled at my gut was the confused, hurt face of the builder boy. As the final song finished and the lights rose. I quickly readjusted myself and went to the cloakroom to pick up our bits for the long walk home.
Builder Boy was there.
‘It’s not true ya know.’
‘What?’ I asked, knowing exact what he was referring to.
‘I am 19, he was just fooling round. Winding us up. Don’t just go with some him. I like you, like properly. You’re funny and pretty and stuff. I can walk you home or something.’
And it was in that sentence I knew he wasn’t 19. Because if he was 19 he’d have started a fight, verbally abused me or insisted we find somewhere to fuck as quickly as possible.
I looked at him, told him he was lovely and that he needed a girl his own age. Feeling tears prick my eyes I scarped over to the Kebab Shop. If L and I ever got separated it was our own private meeting point.
I was absolutely drunk and now I felt a loneliness supported by the fact that I was horrible and hateful and pretty hungry. I thought I could stoop no lower. Until I heard the bell ring on the Kebab Shop door and heard L saying ‘S what are you doing?’. I realised I was clutching a cold half pack of chips and kissing some 40 plus Turkish man who had a wife and kids at home waiting for him. To make things worse L hadn’t ditched the two guys. So now the baby builder boy bore witness to just what pathetic things women will do when they have low esteem.
What made the situation even more difficult, was that having seen such shoddy behaviour didn’t deter him.
He chased after me as I staggered round to the back of the nightclub to get in on any final action to wash away the sting of his authentic innocence.
‘Okay so maybe I’m not 19 but does it really make such a big difference? I mean if we like each other. I’m not a kid. I work. I have an income. I have plans. I’m not in school any more. Is it that you don’t like me? Please just tell me what to do to make you take me seriously’.
I didn’t answer. It was just one night wasn’t it? Isn’t that how we all learn how old and cruel the opposite sex can be.
I went round to the back of the club and asked L to hold my purse. She took it wordlessly as I reunited with my last dance of the evening. I found myself pushed against a white van. My head roughly pushed against the side of the van. I felt his hands carelessly pulling up my skirt and furiously pulling down my knickers and tights. He spat on his hand and rubbed it round my anus. Without warning he mightily pressed his cock into my arse. I’m not sure if I even cried out in pain. I think part of me liked it. Well I liked the sense of connectedness. I liked the feeling of being full of cock. I subscribed to the whole pain pleasure theory so even though each rough thrust tore something about the sensation pleased me. But it was all in slow motion. A sad amateur porn display in a car park in Norbury with a minimal audience. When he finished fucking my arse, as he turned me round he prodded his fingers in my cunt – as if he only just remembered foreplay should be included in sex or perhaps he thought a ‘finger blasting’ (as Keith Lemon would say) an equivalent of a post coital cuddle. With a kiss and a thanks, not even an exchange of numbers I walked passed L, took my purse and suggested we go home.
The baby builder and his cousin accompanied us to the taxi station and waited till our cab came.
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.