Category Archives: Disappointing Sex
I have no idea why when I think of Sweden I think of porn. Is it a porn nation or are the associations with pornography now very dated? Perhaps it’s just that the Swedes are such a beautiful race they could all be porn stars, or over-whelmed by their physical attractiveness they instigate pornographic thoughts on an unsuspecting public.
I won a trip to Sweden back in 1999 when I had barely lost my virginity. I was a virgin twice removed. It was the year the musical Mamma Mia opened and as an Australian worshipping at the house of Abba naturally I entered every competition going to score tickets to see it. The particular competition I won resulted in flying first class to Sweden for a weekend at the first class section of a Radisson hotel. I have to say I was somewhat dismayed that it didn’t include tickets to see the musical itself. No that was second prize and the one I felt more coveted. Still never one to knock a freebie L and I decided to trip over there in September 1999.
Be in doubt Stockholm is like one big fashion cat walk. Beautiful boys everywhere.
Although there had been a small débâcle on the flight over (the stewardesses clearly felt our attire didn’t match that of first class passengers and decided to check our tickets and make a little scene when we joined the fast lane – L & I got them back by pocketing a dozen miniature bottles of Baileys from the drinks trolley when the air hostess’s back was turned) everything was luxury from the minute we arrived that Friday afternoon.
That we were put in a first class room and greeted with a bottle of champagne was positively thrilling for two innocents like us. But innocents we were not to be for long because you see First Class rooms at the Radisson come with free porn channels.
Apart from watching a few of my brother’s will hidden soft porn videos when I had an empty house to myself as a teen I hadn’t really experienced any hard core porn – on screen or in my own burgeoning sex life.
But we watched the porn with relish. At that point it was so hardcore some of it made me quite ill. Baring in mind I had only had one cock in my mouth, it hadn’t ejaculated and my treatment of it was like a vomit flavoured ice lolly; watching endless men spunk over tits, faces and even in a pair of shoes made me quite nauseous. L did her best to assure me I’d get used to it and it wasn’t gross at all (she was right) but I found it visually strong and uncomfortable viewing.
After a few hours of that, both of us squirming on our beds with oestrogen clouding the room we decided to hit the town. I’d done my research and discovered a club that had a retro room with 70s, 80s and 90s cheesy pop. The club was huge and L and I were clearly the tourists. Though neither of us could ever be described as unattractive we were missing the ‘Swedish porn vibe’. In fact it was all going horribly wrong because the club seemed to be all dance music. We sat there, two little cute tubbies, lost in a mass of towering long legged svelte blonde women. We must’ve had faces like slapped arses because eventually a beefcake came over and asked what was wrong. Rather curtly L said, ‘we were told this place played old pop music.’ The lovely man pointed and said ‘maybe try over there in the pop room.’ We were so used to the Norbury nightclub with its one floor, L and I had no concept of night clubs having different rooms with different music in them. Joyfully we bounced in there and as ‘Love Really Hurts Without You’ came on got lost in the dance and the drink.
We did attract some guys. The first two men to approach weren’t so traditionally Swedish in our idealised eyes. One was phenomenally good looking but short – shorter than L so I’m thinking 5’2 – maybe taller as she’d have had heels on but still short. The other was pleasant looking but I wondered if maybe he was visiting from Norway because I wasn’t getting a massive wetness in my knickers.
Eventually another two came up. One was Mr Personality – again pleasant looking and good company but not the highest standard looks-wise. His friend however. Oh my lord it was like he’d stepped off the cover of GQ magazine. He wasn’t blonde but he was tall, slim, broad, dark curtained hair, chiselled features and he took my breath away. I was envious knowing L would score with him. I’d get the character but she would get the looks – that’s how it always seemed to work in my eyes.
When Mr Personality asked for a dance I nodded enthusiastically. I went to him, arms ready to wrap round my neck and rather embarrassingly he stepped back quickly and said ‘no – with my friend.’ He literally shoved me into his male model friend and it was a moment I will never forget. What an achievement. The downside was he was probably the only Swede that didn’t speak perfect English. He barely knew English but I was in heaven for the duration of the dance. L later commented how sweet it was that I had been looking up at him all gooey eyed and sung Take That’s ‘Back For Good’ at him. The club closed and they invited us on but the spell was broken.
If I’m honest and I may be off base, I felt L was a little reluctant to allow herself to be courted by Mr Personality for the evening and perhaps put out that it was the male model that had squeezed me so tight on the dance floor. Thus the evening reached a natural conclusion and we went home in the early hours of Saturday morning.
I had been in contact with Abba’s Benny and Bjorn’s studio and had a very nice email giving me details as to where it was. Not one to waste a tourist opportunity I had booked L and I on a sightseeing tour of Stockholm, planning to jump off at the studio on the off chance my heroes may be there. It didn’t work out so well. L and I got on the bus, next to the window, decided to put our heads on the table for a little rest and were woken up four hours later by some angry fellow passengers saying the tour had ended and tutting that we would waste the window seats everyone seemed to want.
Handily McDonald’s was across from our hotel so we grabbed a few meals for lunch and headed back to our room for an afternoon of porn. It was compulsive, even though the movies were on rotation we stayed glued to the screen. So compelling was it that when we realised it was dinner time we rang McDonald’s across the road and ordered room service so we could continue our porn marathon. As evening turned into late night and our hormones were in overdrive we both decided we wanted sex that night and needed to go out.
We got dressed and after taking a few saucy photos of each other (one I really need a copy of because I myself look like a plus-size porn model) went back to the one club we knew in Stockholm.
There had been significant discussion regarding sex in a room with twin beds. At one point we thought of dragging a mattress into the bathroom so we could have privacy but felt so much preparation may jinx our intention of getting laid so decided to play it by ear.
Our beaus from the previous night weren’t there but the initial two (Short & beautiful and Norwegian pleasant) were. At this point it was pretty much an equal match. L’s had the looks but being vertical challenge did impact on his appeal, mine was nice looking and normal but nothing to write home about. So we spent the evening with them. For the first time ever when the club closed we begged them to take us onwards. I wanted to go to a thump-thump-thump dance club. The kind you see in Ibiza movies with laser lights, podiums and a mad throng of people dancing. Polite and happy to play tour guides the boys took us to one of those very clubs. I hated the music but I loved that we were in a club open till 9am for the very first time.
But sex was on our minds and the music wasn’t to our taste so we invited the boys back to our hotel to drink the ‘champagne’.
I would’ve thought an invite back to a hotel room was evident of what we were after but seemingly not. As we crashed into our hotel room it didn’t become an orgy but a very civilized affair. The champagne was supped and merry as we all were conversation flowed but not in any sexual way. L and I were desperate and thought we’d ‘put the TV on’ to help the atmosphere. Thus we ‘accidentally’ found ourselves on the porn channel. The boys remained clueless; as if it hadn’t been a deliberate mistake. Perhaps we were better actresses than we thought or perhaps they were masters at playing hard to get. We exchanged glances as to what other options were available to get things moving but were unable to telepathically come up with anything creative.
By now the boys, having told us they were in National Service together, were fooling around and rough housing on the twin beds that had been pushed together. The fell between the crevice, laughing and grappling. It was all a bit homo-erotic; like they were having a sex party in our room and we weren’t invited.
The only solution that came to mind was just to say we were tired and going to bed and they could join us if they wanted.
And they did want.
This immediately posed the privacy problem – I knew we should’ve put that mattress in the bathroom.
Lights off was easy enough but made for guaranteed fumbling. We tried to find a music channel on the TV to at least muffle whispering but the music was highly inappropriate – it seems at 6am Swedish folk and skiffle music is the choice of radio broadcasters which isn’t conducive to cocks being invited to enter vagina’s.
The first difficulty were the beds were too close. Within the beds it went L’s man, L, me and my man. L and I were so close our flesh was brushing and we were getting a fit of the giggles. When my man was groping in the dark his hand was grabbing L’s thigh, which sparked a squeal from her and an embarrassed retraction from him.
The second difficulty was both the guys had consumed excess alcohol and I suspect weren’t physically in a position to deliver the shafting we were both so desperate for. L wasn’t quite as sluttish as I. Drunk and up for a good time she doesn’t include her Mr Sweden in her official numbers because it slipped in and then slipped out. According to her ‘Slutty Value System’ one thrust and / or an entry of less 5 seconds doesn’t constitute a sexual encounter.
I on the other hand was as persistent as ever. My insecurities got the better of me and I was concerned he just wasn’t that into me. Any kind of sexual or physical rejection is too much for me so I worked his cock as best I could but it was like an air mattress with a leak. As soon as I got it hard and I let go to position myself for entry, all too soon it would deflate, slip out and I’d have to go through the entire process again. Whether he did it out of sympathy, obligation or a genuine desire to try and sexually pleasure me he began fingering me. If I’m honest this kind of sexual activity I find pleasing. It’s just that he was lazily using one finger – which is like a slim line tampon. I’m all about the girth so found myself instructing him on what to do to please me. The first instruction being ‘two fingers’. So there was foreplay and eventually some barely conscious pumping and then sleep for both us; him sliding out as our eyelids closed.
They left a few hours later. Civil, polite, friendly but without any real warmth nor indication whether their night in our hotel would be one they told friends about, one they had as pleasant memory of sex and youth or one they never wanted to repeat.
It was disappointing for me on the grounds that I’d spent so much time researching ejaculation and what to do with cum when it….comes….to not have had the climax to conclude our weekend in Sweden seemed a little unfair.
The only person who walked away better informed on my sex life and how to pleasure me was L who found it necessary, after being seated at the breakfast buffet, to utter just five words to mortify and embarrass me for life – ‘Two fingers is best then?’
Very short post this week because unfortunately I have spent most of the past week in hospital – I’d love to say it was because of a sexually sustained injury but given my sex life seems to have been sucked into some chastity vortex that would be a lie.
So it’s a quick tale this week.
And due to the popularity of the older woman younger guy scenario I thought I’d introduce you to a young Mr Ho.
As I was closing into thirty and exploring younger flesh I was also branching out and decided I’d like to fuck (or in the very least kiss) my way around the world.
In Australian we refer to the good folk of China, Japan, Malaysia, Taiwan, Singapore and Hong Kong as Asian. I realise in the UK it extends to India, Sri Lanka, Pakistan and so on.
Thus my newest conquest is best described of being of oriental descent. Definitely mixed race because (without being a stereotypical Australian racist) he was well over 6ft. He was awfully posh and came from Oxford but was at 6th form college; not the university. He was also a rugby player so for someone not on the petite side was physically a good match. Because of his age and athleticism he was also presumably full of stamina.
Once again the teen had to travel to visit me. We’d been communicating online and he seemed confident enough to see me one weekend. Only the Friday night beforehand I started getting my period. Having sex on my period doesn’t bother me, if anything it’s a bit of a turn on and a lot of men feel the same. However someone with minimal experience could find the thought of pumping a bloody vage quite off putting; psychologically traumatizing even.
I texted to let him know the situation; suggesting a reschedule saying I completely understood having never had sex with a bleeding cunt before he may want to take a rain check. He assured me it would be no problem and he’d be there Saturday afternoon. On reflection I think he didn’t want his bus ticket to go to waste- he probably had to work really long hours at McDonald’s to save up for those babies. No menstruating cougar was gonna put his dick off his game…..or so he thought.
He actually managed to make his way to my flat (my flatmate having cleared off to his boyfriends for the evening) saving me having to meet him at the station and play nanny for the duration of the trip.
I’ve always been into slighter men, but the sheer height of him and the broadness was overwhelming. Coupled with the tones of his skin colour, hairless body and completely defined chest and ripped torso I could barely believe my lust…errr luck. He was like a giant Manga cartoon with brains and an awfully posh accent. There was just one downside with this giant man-boy. He had a very tiny todger. Perhaps had he not been so tall it wouldn’t have been noticeable but it was. It was like a little chipolata. I wanted to wrap it up in bacon and serve it at a dinner party.
Perhaps I should’ve removed the tampon first, perhaps I should’ve trusted my guy instinct and talked him out of attempting sex, but as he pulled my knickers down and I (discretely I thought) removed a tampon his face became very pale. When two fingers slipped into something more than watery warmth, he removed them. Clearly that particular cherry pie was not to his taste. When he looked at his his bloodied fingers I didn’t think he was imagining himself on some massive rock stage with an air guitar singing ‘Sweet Cherry Pie!’
All his good Oxford manners went out the door – he was anything but an English gent.
It was simply a case of his dick going limp and hearing him suddenly overcoming his previous youthful shyness and boldly stating, ‘I’m sorry I can’t do this. I thought I could but I can’t.’
it was pretty brutal on the old ears. I must say and talk about a pink (or rather red) elephant in the room. Although unspoken, the word ‘awkward’ reverberated all around. Unashamedly he clearly had no intention of finding alternate accommodation. Worse still he felt given he’d at least shown willing I could recompense him in some way for his monies and menstruation massacre. So I took the the chipolata and let it flop round my mouth and in all honesty within less than 2 minutes he’d come. He was verbally very grateful – by then he’d found Mr Manners and informed me I gave the best blow job ever. Ever? But that poor excuse for a stout infant-fish had barely had my lips round it before it was spewing man milk in my mouth. The best ever? He mustn’t have had a lot cause I hadn’t even got started – still at that point I needed an ego booster so it wasn’t an unwelcome compliment. Turned out Mr Manners was a passing visitor and he fell asleep immediately so I sneaked into my flatmates covers to feel safe and reel from the indignation and humiliation flung at me by some college teen.
Ever the hospitable host I woke at 6am and put myself back into his bed, all showered and fresh. When he woke to find me there, I confess there was an absence of regret or sensitivity in how he broached the monthly issues of what is considered normal for mature women. Perhaps that was the problem. You go to bed as a mature woman with an immature man you are likely to experience these inwardly excruciatingly undignified moments.
Not Mr Ho though. His first words were, as he put an arm round me and pushed my head to his groin was, ‘That was an amazing blow job last night, the best – do it again for me please before I have to catch my bus.’
I really should have mustered a little courage and backbone and told him to fuck off and learn a little bedroom etiquette or man up and remember not every rugby game was played on a dry pitch – sometimes it rains and gets muddy but you still gotta play the game.
I didn’t though. I had two minutes spare so finished him off. I’m guessing my ‘oh-so-amazing’ micro blow jobs were enough to counteract the mental scarification of seeing his index and middle fingers covered in dark red cervical mucus, vaginal secretions, and endometrial tissue.
A year or so later he was doing an intern-ship at Price Cooper Waterhouse and got in touch (he really must have liked that blow job). He asked if he could visit and knowing there was not a clot of blood in sight and remembering that huge hunky body my resolve weakened and I told him to come round.
And he was a specimen of perfect physical beauty, even his titchy penis was beautiful. His cock hadn’t matured so I could only hope his attitude and technique had.
How wrong I was. It got hard and managed to slip into the entrance of my vagina but it slipped out after cumming within all of two minutes.
‘I seem to have a problem with this,’ was the best he could offer.
I did the thoughtful girly thing and said it was normal and natural and encouraged him that the next time he would last longer and it’s be better and all those platitutdes. Once recovered though he plopped it back inside me and the duration was even shorter than the original encounter.
Did he apologise, offer to take me to dinner, offer to perform oral pleasure on me or offer any physical comfort or stimulus? No – I got a ‘I better drive home now before my aunt and uncle miss the car and wonder where I’ve been.’
With the launch of facebook and having graduated university Mr Ho got in touch with me. By now the boy had become a man. I had a message on facebook saying: ‘I really fucked it up didn’t I? You were so pretty and lovely and kind and I treated you awfully. I’m so sorry. I see your single at the moment and would love to catch up with you. Be my friend?’
Nice boy, but friendship request rejected. Sorry Mr Ho, I’m busy painting the town red!
I have mentioned before, it wasn’t all about devouring 100 dicks but more a journey to find ‘The One’ (yes even sluts dream this dream). Thus it may come as some surprise that I abstained from sex for a period of two years. Sex of course for me being defined by vaginal penetration – anal and oral sex were fine. The reason I decided on this course of abstinence I shall divulge another time, but what’s important is that I was going through a ‘no sex’ phase until I deemed a dick worthy of being my boyfriend (or potentially ‘the one’).
With all the good will in the world though, my iron will did not mean my sex drive in any way diminished but I could at least control it. Continuing low self esteem though meant any attention showered on me I continually lapped up.
At this period of my life I lived at the Young Women’s Christian Association, which is conveniently located opposite the British Museum, a five minute walk from Tottenham Court Road station. Being the YWCA the rooms were very cheap, clean and the location was great, so scoring a room (under the guise that I was living in a bedsit with a violent drug seller and needed safer accommodation) was no mean feat. At that point they did in-still strong Christian values. Residents couldn’t have visitors after 10pm and if you wanted a guest to stay the night you had to pay for the privilege and notify the manager 2 days in advance. If, like me, you are a girl whose sex life is comprised of endless one night stands, these particular guidelines did not suit the lifestyle.
Now there’s obviously something in my demeanour that screams cheap slut because very often when walking through the West End after work (I worked nights in a theatre) I would have random strangers come and approach me asking if I wanted to have sex – not in a paid prostitute way, more as in taking their chances. It could just have been that in the West End after 11pm most men in Soho are drunk, horny, beer goggled up and willing to try it on with anything with a pulse.
As I began to saunter up to Centre Point, wearing (it has to be said) some funky but very casual cargo pants and a green converse top with a massive star on it a giant of a man stopped me in my tracks and asked if I wanted to go for a drink. Even though I felt under-dressed for Bar 101, his approach was so brazen and forthright I was impressed and found myself agreeing to go for a drink. He was paying after all and turned out to be a Canadian tourist so I wanted to be a good ambassador for London.
I can’t say the conversation was sparkling – after all he asked if I was a sportswoman given my attire (I still don’t know if he was genuine with that posited question). Given how overweight I was I couldn’t fathom what on earth made him ask it but seemingly a Converse t-shirt says Olympic athlete…perhaps he though I was a hammer thrower or in the shot putt….maybe though because he was 6’4 and almost excessively broad and muscular, I looked tiny in his eyes and he thought I was a figure ice skater. Maybe….
After the ‘What sports was I involved in’ and Olympic reference I knew he wasn’t ‘The One’ and sex was out of the question. I thought I’d cut my losses and go (there was a kebab with my name written on it on the walk home) until he asked if I fancied sharing a spliff.
If I’m not having sex, I’m substituting it for something else – food, alcohol, drugs. The offer of a free fat dooby pushed the kebab to the back of my mind. I found myself telling him I lived down the road and we could go back to mine for a puff.
Fate smiled at me that night and the night receptionist smiled and nodded as I pointed at my Canadian gargantuan and mouthed a silent ‘can I bring him in?’. We went up to my room and I played the good host.
Blown away by my CD collection – extending to about 500 at that time – he leafed through endless mammoth travel cases of my CDs picking out his favourites. I found favour with him by having Canadian artist Amanda Marshall in my collection. He plucked out her most recent album, an obscure expensive purchase it had taken me ages to locate in London (and this was when Virgin Mega-store and Tower Records still reigned supreme).
As he rolled the joint, I began playing his respective CD choices from the small stack of my CDs he’d piled up. In a haze of marijuana I relaxed a little and lay on the bed chatting. I like to think I was being eloquent, witty and knowledgeable but I was probably talking shit. Inevitably things were to take a sexual turn. How could they not with Madonna warbling Justify My Love?
It was a little difficult dropping the bombshell that I was refraining from sex, but both being gently stoned it wasn’t greeted with anger or disappointment. Rather he enquired as to whether or not I’d be up for some mutual masturbation. It seemed a reasonable offer so I didn’t decline it – after all it wouldn’t involve any vaginal penetration.
With Madonna on repeat, I re-enacted the Like a Virgin bed masturbation scene from her Blond Ambition World Tour on my single bed, as he arranged the armchair opposite the bed for a better view and began to undo his jeans.
One has to understand the average cock size is between 5 ½ to 6 ¼ inches. Now put the average penis onto someone who is significantly above average in height and even though it’s a perfectly nice penis it looks like a tiddler. Put the same average sized penis on someone more vertically challenged and it looks like they are carrying the tackle of a beast from the equine family. Mr Canada however had a penis in-proportion with his 6’4 frame and I was indeed looking excitedly as if I’d somehow been transported to a stable and was in a scene from Equus.
Watching his hand slowly move up and down his thick fleshy pole and seeing it grow longer and wider had me transfixed. Could I really pass up a cock that big? Did I really want to miss the experience of playing Mountie to that stallion?
Turns out I could…up to a point. My will began to crumble and when he politely requested permission to come closer and get on the bed to finish himself off, I head my voice eagerly inviting him on the bed. Worse still I found myself responding to his huge hands manipulating me onto all fours – his hands reaching between my legs and moving expertly from my wet cunt and stroking my soft belly, as if in fact I was the mare being tamed. My body began to give way as his donkey cock slid between my vulva and began pressing at the entrance to that warm tight hole, but somewhere in the recesses of my mind the reason for my celibacy marched to its forefront and I slid forward on the bed (rather like a cat stretching when it wakes) to avoid any accidental penetration. I mumbled that I really couldn’t have sex with him.
As forthright as his initial invitation to got for a drink he asked if I’d mind him cumming over my buttocks. Seeing he’d been so good natured about my conflicting words and behaviour I told him to go ahead and from his massive cock a small pot of yoghurt ejaculated all over my peachy bottom.
I was faced with an immediate conundrum, being a good host and ambassador for London it seemed only right that I walk the intrepid traveller back to the tube station so he could get his bearings and find his way home. Being a good catholic girl and very hygienic it didn’t really seem appropriate that I go out in public with dried spunk on my dairy air. I grabbed my favourite large blue towel and said I’d pop into the shower quickly then take him to the station. As I opened the door to head to the communal showers my eyes caught the light reflecting off the shiny stack of CDs he’d chosen as the soundtrack for the night. I opened my mouth to say ‘Don’t pinch any of my CD’s’ but worried it would sound rude and accusatory, casting some dispersion over his character. My brain filtered the thought so this half hearted warning was never voiced. He’d been perfectly polite, generous with his goods so there was no reason to make the throwaway comment. It may be misinterpreted and given his stature I didn’t want to risk the wrath of his anger.
After a quick jump in the shower and towel down, I flung on my clothes, nodded to the night receptionist appreciatively and, taking him by the hand, walked him to Tottenham Court Road tube station. We had a peck on the cheek and with his holiday visa status there seemed no obligation to go through any façade of exchanging numbers or making promises to hook up again. Cordiality and civility were the order of the farewell and we left on good terms.
On a high (from the sexual play and the spliff) and with a serious case of the munchies I decided to pick up the kebab I’d foregone in the frenzy of public flattery. When I got home and opened up the doner, splashed some lea & perrins over the chips I could finally relax. Almost. I still had to put the CDs back into their books – I was a little OCD in relation to this and my music collection was my pride and joy. As Madonna and various artists were assigned there place in a plastic sleeve with their respective CD booklet I noticed one particular artist was glaringly absent from the book.
Amanda Marshall – Canadian singer/songwriter – unknown to most British people
She was nowhere to be seen. I checked to see if she was still in the CD player, got on my hands and knees to see if the CD had fallen to the floor (or under the bed or behind a shelf), retraced the inserts to see if I’d inadvertently put 2 CDs into the one sleeve but there was no sign of her. The £23 CD that had taken me three years to purchase was gone. I don’t like to point any fingers but I suspect she was in a discman waiting to be played on the long return flight from Heathrow to Ontario.
Oh dear. Last week’s offerings apparently found their way to the computer screen of that post’s unfortunate subject, a character named Ben.
Whilst I understand fully premature ejaculation and finding out a woman faked an orgasm on you aren’t necessarily the kinds of sexual mishap you’d want in a public forum. Particularly so when it’s a close friend that brings it to your attention down the pub with a pack of friends. Still, I’m told it was taken in reasonably good part, though the now-married survivor of sand bunkers and sexual ineptitude did, I gather, feel a little stung. Via a third party through the medium of text we exchanged a friendly enough ‘hi’ and I received confirmation Ben expressed some degree of…. I’d love to big it up and say remorse but that’d be pushing it. In any case, there was at least a modicum of regret over his behaviour towards me which of course is like shutting the stable door after the proverbial horse has done its thing. Ten years or so previously. He’s married now as I say (lord knows what their sex life is like given my experience) and I’m loved up with someone that delivers multiple orgasms at will so all’s well that ends well – no hard feelings between us.
For the record I didn’t write to be bitchy, merely to entertain, but the feedback did heal a little hurt of my own.
Some of these dicks are now getting uncomfortable though as readership of this blog expands. Waiting for some kind of deliverance of verbal pugilism which seems strange given they were almost all one night stands. It’s amazing how on earth they even know about me.
Facebook. It’s got to be Facebook.
Only last week I received a curt message, unpleasant in tone, from one of my hundred saying – I’ll paraphrase here – he didn’t wish to receive any further promotional messages regarding my blog and did not want to be the subject of a post.
Rewind. Originally he’d asked to be my friend on that wretched site, because he wanted to ‘plug’ his aspiring music career. In fact he also harassed me to have sex with him again, this time as part of a threesome AND (if not up for that) a one-on-one repeat of our previous excursion because of my…..’sensuality’ I believe was the quote de jour. I immediately refused. Once had been quite enough for me (and I’ll say why in a second). He hadn’t even registered on my blog subscribers’ list, but he’s bought himself once more to my attention now.
I advised him the easy solution to his dilemma was to de-friend me – simples. He has, so hopefully he’ll never get to read this.
Everyone wants a famous fuck. Not all of us get it. I worked in theatre for five years and shagged a handful of Z-list celebrities (you know – the types that have been an extra on The Bill or starred in a pilot for American TV that then failed to get commissioned), but there’s occasionally one that most people would think ‘ah yeah I remember that’.
For me it was one the Baha Men (Boys). The what? you might ask. Well, they were the guys who sung ‘Who Let The Dogs Out!’ And let me tell you it seemed uber harsh having fucked one of them that L and I once went to enter a club spontaneously one night and the bouncers, as we approached, sung the refrain: ‘Who Let the Dogs Out? Who? Who? Who? Who?’. Not only were they mocking us in the cruellest fashion, but a song by an artiste with whom I’d been intimate was being used as a weapon to taunt me. Incidentally it worked – we fled, retreating immediately home.
Baha Boy and I met over the internet. Which seemed a bit strange, his using that method to meet women. I mean, he certainly wasn’t unattractive and every girl loves a musician (especially singers, which he was). Additionally of course, anything to do with fame and fortune increases a man’s attractiveness, irrespective of physical appearance.
In fairness to both of us though I didn’t actually find out about the Baha bit until we were in bed getting ready to get down (oh and he wasn’t singing it to get me in the mood in case you were wondering).
At this point in my sexual career I was going through a ‘try everything’ phase – and mixed-race guys appealed to me (and still do). There is of course a common racial stereotype that black men have big cocks. A previous experience had confirmed this but then, I’ve found white guys with huge cocks as well so….who’s to say.
Sadly though, genetically, my Baha boy’s tackle was not heavy on the aforesaid stereotype being more Caucasian in its dimensions. Acceptable but not exactly abundant, though this has never featured prominently in my list of priorities unless ridiculously stunted.
There was however something extraordinarily curious about this one that made the event particularly memorable. It had a curve. A bend. And by this I do not mean a slight one the required closer examination, or even one that you notice but which doesn’t really interfere with proceedings. It really was like an especially curvy banana…well lady finger to be more precise, almost mutant in aspect.
Getting it inside me, in the traditional missionary position reminded me of my first attempt of putting in a tampon without an applicator. It was in there, but you just know it isn’t in right, and sitting down feels distinctly uncomfortable. Only when the thing’s attached to a person how do you say to them ‘can you straighten that out a bit please, it’s pressing at angles that are making this a wretched experience. I can’t focus on giving you any pleasure or even enjoying myself because all I can feel is a stabbing at the side of my inner wall’?
To make matters worse, he thought his technique was a smooth as his beautiful skin. He kept gyrating his hips rhythmically like Mr Lover-Lover and doing soft porno talk – oohing and aahing and ‘did I like that baby’? I wanted to yell ‘You aren’t Mister Boombastic, you aren’t Shaggy, you’re a Baha Man.’
I decided to take control.
At this stage I lived in an attic bedroom in a flat above a cafe. You actually had to climb a ladder to get to my room. While a significant size due to a very steep roof there was only a small area in the middle of the room in which you could stand fully upright. To combat the problem and maximise space I had a futon bed on the floor. Although a rough and ready attic refurbishment I did have a skylight window, which I permanently had open to air the place thoroughly.
In order to rectify the bendy penis problem I thought I’d try going on top. That way I thought I could angle myself around it so the fuck wasn’t too bad a fit-fit. That was the theory anyway – the practise proved not so great given the open roof window. Because it was at such a peculiar angle, to get his cock in comfortably so it was a little more direct and straight in my grotto of earthly delights, I had to shift my body to the left to such a degree I felt I was on a roller-coaster taking a sharp turn. With the roof window open and me bouncing up and down almost sideways I could feel the wind through my hair and was worried I may in fact tumble out of the window. The more robust things became the more I could envisage the whole thing as a fairground attraction. I wanted to throw my hands up and wave them into the cold night air and scream – though, it has to be said, not orgasmically. The child in me had been released at the sheer spirit of how the sex had morphed into some kind of saucy unstable carnival ride, with no safety harness strapped on. Whilst my head and shoulders sprung in and out of the window, I hoped I could maintain my mass on this unbalanced mount, because I could feasibly end up a paraplegic with a single wrong move. A sex bungee jump gone wrong if he thrusted too hard and I rebounded too vigorously. It wasn’t just the concentration of the physical exertion dampening my fun but the dreadful scenario of being on a theme park ride and the operator leaving it unattended – the machine running relentlessly on and my being helpless to stop it. But this ride I could stop. The effort, the gripped thighs, well practised kegal exercises, the precarious position, the controlled yet wild movement finally bought him to a climax and me back to safety.
I don’t know who let the dogs out that night, but I have to say before being de-friended on Facebook I felt the world was a little safer seeing his status was now ‘in a relationship’. That is one particular canine that needs to be on a chain – a bendy penis is dangerous and not something that should be unleashed on an unknowing and uncoordinated woman like me.
Often in youthful exuberance one’s sexual (mis)adventures occur more by mistake than good management. While some of us carefully plan out and detail the perfect execution of our first introduction to something that strays (even if only mildly) from the path of playing it safe and straight, others – including myself, usually in a drunken and slovenly state – find ourselves inadvertently playing out some particular kink or fetish we (or perhaps nature itself) never intended.
This was certainly the case with the boy, Raymond.
The new millennium was the start of a good two year run for me, but by the time Raymond appeared I was nursing my first heartbreak – and as any woman knows first loves are the worst to recover from (if ever we truly do). Certainly for me the wound was still very raw. L and I decided (whether in a bid to mend my broken heart or just get ourselves a change of scenery) to head to Great Yarmouth for a week.
Great Yarmouth, you’ll find, is writ large in this saga – indeed each and every summer as Ra took flight we were beckoned for end-of-week forays to that most traditional of seaside towns. It was L’s routine and regular holiday destination as a child, a world to which I was then introduced, at first dubiously but later fully embraced. So after T broke the news he was back on with his alleged ex-fiancé, a girls’ holiday was swiftly arranged.
It was arranged (and funded) by questionable means with L and I taking advantage of our position in the Company for which we worked, under the guise of my having won a holiday to Ireland. Earlier I’d genuinely won one to Sweden but in order that we could both get the same week off, we’d concocted another prize-winning break, so dates were set and we had both to be off work the same time. I must’ve seemed the canniest person at the company just then. That is until my mother called reception and was told I was on holiday, to which she responded ‘Oh I forgot the girls are camping inYarmouth.’ Even though we’d gone to the bother of buying fake Irish souvenirs I suspect our cover had been well and truly been blown by our return to work.
Nonetheless, L and duly I booked onto the Vauxhall Caravan Site for the town’s ‘Gala Week’, the glamorous last seven days of the holiday season. The site was fully booked and we had no option but to take a small pitch and buy ourselves a tent. There’s a whole other story about that week – one deserving of a book in itself – so I’ll leave this for another time.
Anyway, with the tatters of my heart in tow (it was somewhat ironic and possibly telling I burst into tears by the Vaseline shelf at Superdrug onYarmouth High Street) we made our way onto Vauxhall bringing more than tantrums and tiaras that year.
In my misguided and desperate state I decided to opt for the philosophy of ‘the quickest way to get over someone is to get under another’ and went on the prowl. At that time we were young enough to do so – later we were ill-placed on a site catering to ‘families’ as opposed to single girls. But at twenty two there were enough young men to keep us interested so while L focussed her attentions on a security guard (dare I say guards Mrs J?) I played for patrons as opposed to the staff.
And there among them he was – the boy Raymond. 6’2”, carrying just a little puppy fat, chubby but cute, like he’d lose both in time to come. He was 18 and I was secretly pleased he’d chosen me, despite his father trying to persuade him to consider a few other options available that year. Although Dad was British, Raymond was fromHollandand English was by no means his forte. I managed to gather he’d slept with four women. I’d slept with six men so it seemed an even enough match. I liked his boyish looks and was hugely flattered by the attention. That is until he kissed me, grabbed my quadruple Baileys, threw it away, then pushed a chewing gum into my mouth and told me I was reeking of booze. His English did not let him down at that moment.
L went ballistic at the four shots of Baileys rocketing across the car park (I wasn’t best pleased myself, but cock always came before alcohol even then, so I gritted my teeth and smiled sweetly through the comet of creamy beige). L initiated an all-out war of words til he promised to replace all drinks the next night.
Thus, given the circumstances – he Dutch and eighteen, me twenty two, drunk and a bit of a mess but both full of a youthful sexual zeal – I can’t quite remember exactly what night I had my first foray into to watersports.
I suspect though it wasn’t that first night (Raymond, his father and two workmates were staying in the chalets). Raymond and I got as far as the campsite male toilets before surrendering to a bout of frenetic, foolhardy sex. It was all locked chipboard doors, hitching up of skirts, knickers down, him trying to undress himself enough to penetrate me in the restrictive space of the gentleman’s cubicle kind of thing. I really had no idea if this could be classed as good or bad sex. But it was fun, the location was (then anyway) unusual, and it had an element of danger because we knew the grounds were patrolled.
But our age, the fact we were with there with companions and the barrier of language did complicate matters somewhat. We knew we had to get home and the site was large and difficult to navigate especially when drunk or needing to guide someone who was. And the fumblings, however short and inadequate, had us still hungry for each other. We were at that delightful time when kissing for ages is as physically pleasurable as the act of intercourse itself. We mooched around the site, all longing snogs and yearning hands groping for what had been unclothed only moments earlier. Until eventually we found our respective trails back to habitation.
The second night, I suspect was the night ‘it’ happened. The scene was exactly as it had been the night before. L and I would primp and preen ourselves before descending on the Regency Room (this was the location for ‘family entertainment’) to flirt outrageously with everyone we took a fancy to. I made sure I secured Raymond’s attention early on (just so we were both clear sex was on for later) and enjoyed the rest of the evening.
Once again by the end of the night, we were drunk and slovenly. L, who if you know her, is not suited to the harsher side of life so a little high maintenance for the tent, headed back to the apartment of her beau-to-be. I don’t recall her spending even one night in that tent for which we had both shared costs – not that I can blame her after I’d sullied it mind you, but Raymond was not quite as fussed.
The difficulty with camping, and not having one of the mobile homes or even a flashy caravan is the whole lavatory debacle. If you need the loo it’s a trek to the site’s showerblock (which invariably has bugs flying round it and is rarely as clean as you’d wish). Once more I’d been drinking all evening. A fountain of alocopops and sweet milky baileys (true to his word he’d replaced my quadruple shots from the night before) and the seal had already been burst at the club. Now though, back in private with this boyish hulk, sex – rather than the relief of my bladder – was at my mind’s forefront. Bad mistake. We tumbled into the tent, rolling around on two double air mattresses, undressing each other, stroking, playing, examining and exploring. That wonderful sensation of new hands examining the softness of one’s body as your own delight in the firmness of his was exquisite. Only I was desperate for a wee.
In all honesty I could’ve just said I’d needed the loo and been up there and back in five minutes but somehow I thought I might be able to hold it. Yeah right. Ten orange Bacardi Breezers and eight shots of Baileys, that’d be easy.
In the darkness and drunkenness as he forced himself (perhaps not as forcefully as he might have had he not been battling with numerous pints of beer) into me I could feel pressure mounting. By the time he’d entered me and built up a degree of confidence his member was firmly in its intended warm, wet opening he decided to increase the pace a little changing from entering me splayed sideways to the more traditional missionary position. This manoeuvre was no friend to my bladder. The weight of him was exerting huge strain. Being drunk, slovenly and lost in the act I really just couldn’t exert the restraint required and began to wet myself freely, thus the next thing I knew as we were at it like rabbits I was inadvertently at the same time giving what is in polite circles referred as a ‘golden shower’. He didn’t seem to mind (then again his English wasn’t great so perhaps he didn’t have the words, or was merely being gracious). It wasn’t an unpleasant sensation for me at all. If anything it was a great relief, although I don’t remember it feeling particularly sexy. There were in any case two thick duvets to soak up everything. At first when it started sprouting out of me I thought perhaps I was having a female ejaculation but as it went on and the size of my bladder subsided I realised what was happening.
Looking back I wonder if it was a turn on for him. He certainly didn’t stop, anyway – in fact, if memory serves, he removed himself from missionary, spread my legs, tilted me sideways and took me that way again. My exceptionally lubricated cunt was more than willing. On reflection, the fact that he could keep going, despite an initial brewers droop must have been a positive.
I don’t remember much more. I’m ashamed to say to I fell asleep while on the job.
It wasn’t the last occasion Raymond spent in the tent though. He came the following night. This time his Dad insisted on accompanying him with his friends to see where this ‘young lady’ was entertaining his son. I wonder now what the odour must have been like.
Sadly, and in total fuckedupness on my part, I was heartbroken for an older guy and somewhat desperate for a father figure. Thus when Raymond’s Dad excused himself to go to the gents (as opposed to just pissing himself there and then in the tent as I had the previous night) I offered to walk him to there. Once inside I found myself attempting to do with his father what I’d done with Raymond the first night we met. He made no effort to stop me, but I stopped myself from anything more than a kiss….and a grope…and a….no that was it – HONEST!
That night was Raymond’s last in the tent staying over and I must confess there was a repeat golden shower. I kind of figured if he’d coped the night before, he could cope again and perhaps that was my mistake. The second time it was more overtly sexual; something about his accelerated breathing when he felt me do it, the way he deliberately rubbed his cock in the fluid before thrusting it into me.
But as I have said, this aside it was his last night. I don’t know whether Dad had said something or the fact I’d promised to meet him the following night at a proposed time and ended up arriving a few hours later to find him dancing with another girl which sent me into a lunatic rage. But screaming at someone who doesn’t speak great English did not satisfy the psycho in me and his behaviour sent me straight back into the arms of his father for one final last dance. I did not, in any case, ever sleep with Raymond again (although I do recall his father popping round for a visit to the tent without his entourage that night).
As for the duvets, they belonged to L’s mother. I’m told when she returned home and her mum began to assist her unpacking the car boot, she took one look and smell of the bedding and said ‘I don’t think we need to keep those anymore, they can go straight in the bin.’ Sorry Mrs B, even if belatedly.
Minimal internet access at the moment and short of time. Following the ‘How to make a blog successful’ website has urged me however to ‘post regularly’, rather like my grandmother advising of the absolute necessity for at least daily bowel motions. Having taken on board as best I can this homely advice, the following little Malteaser of a post is short, sweet yet, actually, extremely important as far as manners within the boudoir are concerned.
Thus far I’ve delved into my own early sexual inexperience and given just a little insight into the deviancy I relish today. Yet certain encounters with certain dicks have, more notably than others, shaped my bedroom etiquette – as opposed to expertise. Thus comes the story of David The Trumpet.
Within about 18 months of unleashing my vagina to the world I’d left the safety of a 9-5 office job and moved into theatre land, securing a position first as Office Manager before moving into full throttle as Front of House chief and immersing myself in the hub absolute of the action. What was unique about our theatre was that after the show finished, the venue played host as a late night bar which was frequented by a mass of actors, musicians, dancers and backstage workers from surrounding West End theatres once they’d finished their respective shows each evening. Those in the know will recognise instantly the establishment to which I refer.
My foray into this industry would pave the way for me in terms of sluttiness and upping the kink factor by vast notches at once. However my first experience in that role contributed little in way of all that but did nonetheless teach me a good lesson in life.
Still on the large side myself, I discovered bodies inhabiting the entertainment industry, in their own way, far less discerning looks wise than those of the City Boys with whom I’d been previously known to frequent. It was my experience that personality and perception of one’s talent and position was far more an attractive proposition in the West End market than superficial good looks. So there I would flourish, see myself cross into double figures sex partner-wise, becoming ever more open and experimental with each of my evening antics.
Originally, I was just the fat, funny office girl that stayed behind for drinks, but having been embraced by the ‘family’ of out-of-work actors, dancers, designers and so on otherwise known as the Front of House Team to members of the soi-disant ‘IT Club’ that haunted our particular drinking hole, I was seen as some pretty, young (albeit plump) witty thing that could potentially hit the headlines at some point.
For headlines, or stories of them, do keep watching this space.
Obviously not wishing to disillusion my patrons I was happy to be considered ‘beautiful by association’ which led me to one of my own, who shall forever be known as ‘David the Trumpet’.
Insecure, I was shallow beyond belief with my choices in men (hypocritical I know) and bid constantly for physical affirmation.
David took looks to a whole new level; he was, I thought then, totally out of my league under normal circumstances. But these weren’t normal circumstances. This was a whole other world where David had beer goggles, was drinking alone and I was…happy to take advantage.
By no means the best trumpet player in the West End (if memory serves he was actually 3rd player in one of the nearby shows meaning there were at least two others in that show alone better than him – perhaps more depending on the size of the orchestra). But in all his gorgeousness he was fortunate to not be solely reliant on his ability to blow a horn. In his early twenties he was very much the pretty boy with long lashes, deep brown eyes, perfectly cropped black hair to match an equally perfectly chiselled face on an even more perfectly toned body. Boy did I throw everything into obtaining that shag. Ensured he was given unlimited free drinks, watched in awe at his pathetic matchstick tricks on the bar (god did they actually impress women when sober?) and listened to his inane drunken mumbling.
And then I scored the prize of an invite back to his place, which I more than readily accepted.
It turned out to be a booby prize though; the only thing I won was the experience. David was all too aware of his good looks and my gratuity at the attention, thus when it came to the nakedness bit he just laid back and let me do all the work…and I mean all.
By dint of sheer willpower and massive effort I somehow pumped the Brewer’s Droop from his cock – quite a feat on its own – but having overcome that obstacle (I could and did worry about the RSI later) David had no intention of thanking me less still repaying in kind for the investment I was left with the prospect of having to get on and ride the (almost) dead donkey – and this my first time on top. Whereas I should really have been concerned about how my boobs were jiggling, what bits were wobbling or how to position myself so he didn’t feel my full weight along with the effort of ensuring he didn’t slip out, I suddenly realised I was having bad sex.
I mean Really Bad Sex. Boring sex, rubbish sex, sex that was exactly what it should not be – i.e. completely devoid of the slightest pleasure or fun. As we al know (but seldom admit) the ‘member’ isn’t the all important factor here – but a little imagination is. I bobbed up and down on his wilting stem til I realised making him come was beyond my skill, patience and now utterly diminished desire. I’d been up for twenty four hours and was tired. Sleep was infinitely preferable to silently bouncing about on his less than impressive cock wondering how long was polite before accepting, without verbally communicating, his reaching an orgasm was not going to happen that night and my doing so even further off the scale.
I persevered – it seemed the right thing to do – but after what seemed a more than reasonable amount of time, got off and held his cock, unenthusiastically massaging it until he dozed off to sleep. Then I could breathe easily; I figured I’d catch a few hours and then slip away, not cause a fuss or outstay my welcome, but at least be there for a quick ‘hi’and ‘bye’ when he woke. Chances are I’d see him again and …well no one wants tension on their own turf.
I lay in the darkness, staring at the ceiling and replaying how horrendously bland it had been was and what a disappointing scene I’d just played part in. I reached the conclusion that so confident was he in his looks David had never been short of women and therefore had never been desperate for sex. No need then to rely on other skills. By never having to make an effort around the opposite gender, the misguided fool had allowed this to impact on his performance. He’d never had to be good at it because he could get it as and when, but I wondered about what repeat performances he’d achieved. I suspect the women he’d sexually encountered for the most part considered him a one hit wonder. I’d had drunken sex before but in the fumblings both parties had made an effort so as to at least ensure they themselves had gotten off and (I like to think) hoping in the process the other consenting person did too. But not this time. He assumed because he got women with ease, he pleased them as easily. Even an inexperienced girl lacking in self esteem like me realised just how insignificant looks were in respect of a good shag.
Then the cautionary tale. As I mulled all this over, David the Trumpet farted…on my thigh…in his sleep. Failing to make the effort in bed with a one night stand was one thing but not even bothering to hold back the flatulence in their presence was downright disgusting.
I fumed in his fumes (a mix of his dinner and my indignation), desperate to take a flannel to cleanse my thigh until the morning. I threw my clothes on (leaving a bra on his instrument case) and tried to wake him, asking if perhaps he could phone a cab. He waved me away like a fly. I asked equally politely if he had a Yellow Pages so I might find a the number so I could call one myself. This was met with a groan and sleepy instructions to leave the front door, take a left then a left and in ten minutes I’d be at the tube station.
I was outraged at the sheer dismissiveness of it all (which is saying something given I’m an Australian and not noted for perfect manners). It didn’t seem overtly rude or deliberate as far as I was concerned personally, just pig ignorance and poor manners on his part. I felt I’d observed all the unspoken rules of the one night stand, but it was as if he didn’t even acknowledge their existence.
I understood that night not only the value of sexual prowess but the necessity for a little bedroom etiquette in order to be considered a ‘decent fuck,’ one to be remembered with some degree of fondness rather than revulsion. I’d given him the gift of my luscious lips and a bloody good blow job and all I’d received in return was a blow off. Farting on someone’s leg is inexcusable. Okay in a relationship I might refer to it as brown kisses or excuse it as a bottom saying ‘I love you’ but please – at least exercise the sphincter for the sake of good impressions with a stranger.
The following night when it got out round the workplace I’d had my first shag with a member, everyone was curious as to what ‘standard’ of guy I was capable of attaining. They assumed it would be Edwin, the morbidly obese stage hand from some theatre – desperate to confirm his questionable sexual persuasion. Instead they were in shock and awe that it was ‘David the Trumpet’. I on the other hand was not so surprised at my conquest those twenty four hours later. If anything, the only thing that mystified me was how this particular ‘air bender’ remained at 3rd Trumpet in his orchestra as opposed to first, given his penchant for the gusty bellowing of personal wind.
Once upon a time there were two DJs called ‘Pete Mac’ and ‘Dave the Rave’. Actually, I can’t say for sure whether Dave was a real DJ at all, but Pete Mac certainly was. He did Friday nights at that infamous cattle market described in my previous post – the legendary ‘Norbury’ which you’ll find, if you feel like you must, not far from…er…Norbury Station.
One night ‘Dave the Rave’ (as Pete called him) arrived in tow with Pete who was in fact so keen on my friend ‘L’, had driven from another gig to see her that night.
Looking back, I realise Dave was actually Pete’s wingman; God was I viewed as a ‘Grenade’ as Mike ‘The Situation’ would call the uglier of two girls in a Jersey Shore episode (cultural reference from trash TV – yes I do whore myself intellectually every now and then).
But going back. Maybe I had been a grenade that night. A pretty big one at that, although one with a pretty face and hopefully one that wasn’t a chore
So, to my best mate L.
L used to be let us say…pleasingly plump. I, on the other hand, was very voluptuous (my now boyfriend might call it Titian-esque – that’s Titian the artist, not Titan as the big ship) so the attention of two DJs (albeit one alleged) was, both to L and myself more than welcome at the time.
In the heady days of 1999 in fact it gave us real kudos. As any clubber knows, irrespective of the nature of the club itself, being ‘in’ with the DJ bestows on one great status. What was a huge bonus that night for me was to find that, as it turned out, of the two boys concerned, it was Pete Mac who was the actual ‘grenade’ (of the two boys), thus leaving me with the deliciously handsome intended-to-have-been-shotgun rider, Dave.
Don’t get me wrong, Pete was far from unattractive looks-wise, but the fact he had his own place and drove an Audi something-or–another meant little to me but much to those in need of a trophy boyfriend. What I can say for sure though is Pete the (real) DJ was definitely, infinitely further down the looks-scale than Dave The (perhaps, might be DJ) Rave.
I thus by chance inherited the looker of the two (Pete’s heat-seeking missile programmed to target the inside of L’s knickers). Allegedly Dave was ‘staying on the couch’ at Pete’s because he was ‘having problems with his girlfriend’. So there we were, the four of us.
How naïve I was then.
To this day, and with a now world-weary cunt (as well as brain) I wonder still whether Dave’s ‘staying on the couch’ was a bait to lure ‘L’ back to the flat; Pete had thoughtfully ensured her bezzie mate – that is I – would not be neglected so L would be more receptive to the lure of his bedroom.
So now here’s where some confessions are confessed. Over the past ten years it’s been believed I lost my anal virginity that night.
I don’t exactly know how that rumour came about either.
Except I kinda do.
Basically L was in Pete Macs room and they were indulging and he aimed for a hole which L prissily but innocently informed him, as if his navigation had gone a little awry – ‘Ooops, wrong hole’ (unsure whether this was squealed, murmured, or assertively announced).
I’m told his response was ‘No that was the one I was after’. I can neither confirm nor deny whether L let him do it; if accurate recollection doesn’t elude me my belief remains, she did not.
Later when L was regaling me with her antics, I exchanged what had happened with me – and herein lies the confession. Perhaps being a novice (you’ll recall I’d only had real sex once at his point) I wanted to look impressive and in all probability lied. I’m sure I didn’t mean to – that it was inadvertent; I genuinely believe there was miscommunication going on, but unfortunately it grew legendary, even disproportionate (between the two of us) as I didn’t feel I could ever correct the ‘mistake’ – until now.
Here’s actually what happened Mrs J as you are today, in case you’re reading this.
You and Pete Mac departed to his boudoir leaving me on the couch with Dave the Rave. Remember, I’m then at a time in my life when I was totally unaware of any physical appeal I may have had to any member of the opposite sex – or even mine, come to that,
Dave was the type of man I suppose I should have been ‘seen’ or coupled with in public. He was tall. Easily 6ft-more and broad. He had model-esque looks but on the traditional, bland, mannequin-type side. There wasn’t anything especially unique in his appearance. Attractive, absolutely; but not unusual. Brown hair, dark brown eyes, evenly proportioned face, wide shoulders, thick, hairy forearms – very masculine looking – a man’s man. I remember his build as medium, not overly toned but solid. Something in the physicality of him made me, overweight and tall for a girl, feel feminine while in his presence.
Just sharing a sofa with him seemed treat enough that night – any night in my youthful excitement. I wonder now did he see my chest heaving rapidly in anticipation. When his hand brushed mine as we reached for a drink on the coffee table, did he feel the same electricity as I, or was I merely a ‘favour to a friend’?
It was all so clichéd on reflection. To break the uneasy, randomly pleasant conversation he grabbed the remote and turned on the TV. And what appeared on-screen?
Porn – and not awfully good porn at that.
Oh how very predictable.
I wasn’t shocked – mildly embarrassed and a bit uncomfortable perhaps, but not shocked.
Nevertheless, the whole scenario was foreign to me (including the language of the ‘actors’ on the TV).
My first encounter with this kind of thing had only come only a couple of months earlier when L and I went to Sweden and found our ‘first class’ room furnished with free filth on demand. We spent eight marvellous hours, squirming hornily on our separate beds watching this hardcore new planet unfold. ‘White Angel’ remains a memorable title, if only by title alone.
At that time, babe-in-the-woods that I was, watching a woman swallow, or even have, semen in her mouth, disgusted me. It turned my stomach (oh god how times have now changed!). The material Sweden supplied was very different to the offerings I’d rooted from my older brother’s bedroom as a curious (some would say invasive) teen. Certainly though after the ‘Swedish Experience’ I was far more at ease with the kind of stuff Dave had flicked on than I would otherwise have been.
And then suddenly it was as if the porn somehow gravitated from the small screen into the very lounge room itself.
Dave looked at me and said: ‘You know what happens now, right? What would happen in this type of movie?’
His heavy arm snaked round my shoulders and he pulled me in for that first exquisite kiss. Back then I was still really romantic. I could get lost in a kiss for hours; well……lengthy durations at least. I still couldn’t get my head round the fact I‘d scored the looker, let alone that he seemed attracted to me.
His hands moved down and I allowed them to explore my upper thighs.
Scenes of losing my virginity flashed back, and I speedily removed my shoes; one less obstacle to worry about.
His hands became demanding. In my experience men prefer stockings and suspenders as opposed to tights. But as many a girl knows, tights are more practical and affordable for anyone prone to ladders like me. Anyway, I knew they needed to go and I was all too aware of the control knickers – those reliable friends both holding them up and tucking my tummy in.
Somehow in the time it took me to get off my shoes he managed to use his size and weight to have me lying on the couch, him on top, I had just enough freedom at my hips to wriggle out of the tights and knickers. It felt strange to feel my bare flesh on the couch. Another totally new experience.
I liked the experience of feeling a little crushed by him, I liked the physical dominance, the fact that he was totally in control. My senses were in overdrive, my dress riding up, my naked flesh feeling the material of the couch and his hands just stroking. The strokes were firm but there was something kind of forgiving in them. Forgiving of my inexperience I suspect.
Hunky as Dave was there was a boundary crossed that night though – the hairy back!
This is so not a turn on – speaking at least for myself.
Running my hands through the fur on his chest felt great; the knowledge of being with a man, not a boy, feeling safe and cradled – if only fleetingly.. But my hands, running over his shoulders and into a veritable forest of hair at the back – yuk! It’s still a no-no for me but that night I merely accepted his gorgeousness, finished at the top of his neck and restarted again, this time safely below the buttocks. This all happened just as Beckham was ruling the world, so being a Metrosexual wasn’t unheard of but for Dave, clearly waxing was not part of his Friday grooming ritual.
We somehow twisted to be lying side by side and I remember his fingers lightly stroking my bum. Normally I’m quite conscience of the size of my behind (these days I accept and embrace its roundness and bounciness) but in that moment I remember how intimate it felt. Ticklish. I had to bite my lip, unsure whether to laugh girlishly or purr like a kitten at the pure pleasure of having someone explore my body so delicately for the very first time.
Reality always bites back though, however young and idealistic you are.
He pushed the coffee table away with his leg.
‘Get on all fours,’ he instructed.
Obligingly I did as requested and felt my black dress bunch up round my waist. His hands gripped my breasts and massaged them. I was never keen on this. It felt weird having them pulled from a bra and I was self conscious they weren’t sexy.
On all fours and totally inhibited one becomes acutely aware of the concept (and power) of gravity -the underwire of the bra was markedly uncomfortable.
But pleasure can easily distract from the rational mind. I felt his cock rubbing against the wetness of my entrance. I didn’t grind against it, or apply any pressure myself. I put myself completely in his charge.
Pleasant as it was, feeling the length of him externally, sliding playfully, darting quickly in and out, teasing my cunt, what I was not expecting was the sudden force of him pushing against, what my darling of today refers to as my ‘chocolate starfish’ (I’ve yet to join the Hollywood elite for a good, old-fashioned anus bleach). My body didn’t have to resist much because my evidently iron-strong sphincter muscles weren’t having any of it. I suspect though the jolt from my entire self didn’t warrant me verbalising his intent was not only highly unpredicted but a nigh-on physical impossibility – certainly not without some severe and thorough prior attention.
Perhaps he was as embarrassed as I because I found us both gravitating back towards the couch, sitting now as two teenagers who fancied each other but couldn’t act on the urge – first cousins perhaps. I felt a little impolite. I was grateful for the attention after all. I instinctively knew I wasn’t going to have sex with him now and the disappointment was crushing. I wanted to rescue the moment or at least have a tale to tell.
I opted for a hand job. This too was a newie for me. I once touched an oriental man’s cock in the toilets of a cruise ship when I was 15, but ran away after he slipped his fingers into my knickers.
As his trousers were down I didn’t have to worry about looking unprofessional in releasing the beast – that bit was done. What was concerned me was the thing which that had been thrusting at my….’rusty sheriff’s badge’ (as my current boyfriend also calls it) seemed to have retreated, diminished – shied away in embarrassment like our words and previous actions had. The porn, still playing on TV, now seemed distant, contributing nothing positive to what ambience was left. Not even its blurred moans and Teutonic entreaties filled the space we so desperately needed to recover the place that we’d been.
Thank the lord I was a musician. I have a firm grip from the instruments I play and great rhythm – and with those talents I figured I couldn’t go too far wrong. What though – and I have no other word – frightened me was the sleeve of skin I found, all wrinkled and thick, like a fleshy nozzle that seemed to be overgrowing his cock. I’d never seen one. Most men in Australia are circumcised and the few I had encountered…well, let’s just say I’d never seen in that state. I was thus completely ignorant as to how best (or at all!) to deal with it.
The porn on the TV gave no clue or direction in respect of the matter, so I could only give it a guess by sliding my hand up and down. I noticed the head poking out depending on how low I handled this rumpled, alien entity called ‘Foreskin’ (which to this day still sounds to me like a nasty character from some sordid tale courtesy of Brothers Grimm, or maybe an adult Shrek).
But doing so made him moan. This was encouraging, as was the flesh firming up in my hand. Pretty soon that sleeve seemed to have disappeared and looked more like the penises I was more familiar with.
I was able then to get into my stride.
After the debacle of ‘my first’ not having cum (I refer once again to Dick # 1) and being significantly upset about it, I felt it of substantial importance I allow Dave the Rave to deliver his goods this good night. And he was keen enough. So keen in fact he was demanding I get back on all fours again, down on the floor. Whether the clenching of my buttocks, the knowledge there wasn’t a condom in sight, or my own mental image of how unflattering a position I felt myself likely to be in, I just pretended not to hear and pumped till the spout was nearly upon us.
Then though, what are you supposed to do with it? Where do you aim? God, it was someone else’s couch – that’s just bad manners at best right? Vandalism at worst. My head flooded with Swedish porn nightmares (not to say what was on the TV) so it seemed the only option was to direct the stuff back on him.
And there it was. A pool of cum – the first I’d ever seen; sitting (and I do mean sitting, like a person in a council-flat room wearing nothing but Y-fronts) there, on his hair-covered tummy.
What inspired me to do it I have no idea, but it seemed then and there a sexy thing to just rub it all in. Maybe I wanted to rub it out of sight. After my reaction to the Swedish porn cum-gargling thing it certainly wasn’t going anywhere remotely near to my tongue.
I suspect this lathering (because as everyone knows, it does whip up like shampoo) wasn’t what Dave wanted. He held me politely me for all of thirty seconds then nipped to the toilet to wash off his belly.
I will say it ended sweetly enough. L finished whatever she did or didn’t do that night with the DJ and I slept in Dave’s arms. Later I picked up my shoes, knickers, tights and then left.
But it’s here, I suspect, the miscommunication between L, I and the anal sex came in. Seeing my shoes off, (knowing the trouble they proved when I lost my virginity) L assumed I had had sex with Dave. Her reference to the ‘wrong hole’ and my mentioning Dave’s initial preference for the backdoor entrance somehow got confused. In my best friend’s mind I’d lost my anal virginity to Dave the Rave.
When as you now know I did not.
And, as per much of my life, sadly, all this it was a short lived love affair-cum-scene.
Excited by the two DJs and the potential for where it could lead, L and I were foolish enough the following week to pack overnight bags. If I were writing a ‘Hitchhikers’’ Guide to the Galaxy for Innocent but Sexually Adventurous Girl’ I’d have as Rule Two ‘Don’t bring overnight bag after first fuck.’ But we brought matching, satin, baby-doll nighties, clean clothes for the next day and considered hiring a limousine for our arrival. When we got to The Norbury, there was no Dave to be seen and Pete Mac was doing shout-outs and dedicating songs to someone called PAMELA!
Depending on your stance, age, gender or personal-political persuasion about the pros or cons of this, feeling outraged L and I nevertheless underwent a rite of passage most young women would admit to having experienced at some point themselves. We did a little stalking. Or, actually, in hindsight, by some standards, quite a lot, but we all know everything is relative. I suppose though over a period of several weeks we did it about five or six times in total
It was a simple series of sorties, and something that kind of became a night out in itself. We’d drive first to Pete Mac’s flat, I’d climb in the garden to see if ‘Pamela’ (or whoever) had gone there and sometimes we’d put chewing gum in the key-holes of his car. Innocent enough I think….or psycho? We girls know, don’t we, but never say. Neither Pete nor Dave had a clue.
But….times moved on (they do so more slowly the younger you are) and I remember getting an invite back at some later date and Pete being very surprised L ‘remembered the route’ while I innocently handed round chewing gum during the ride for all of us to feast on, one way or another.
But ‘Dave the Rave’ was for me one of the ones that got away. In a cock sense I mean.
Some years later, I found myself in that Club again with L and this time her younger sister. He came over to chat and bought me a drink which I took. We were babysitting L’s little sister, introducing her to clubbing and the whole clubbing scene. As we staggered out, siblings leading the way, Dave pulled up in a red sports convertible – top down, one arm on the wheel the other hanging out of the door.
‘So are you coming back with me or not – last chance?’
It came out of nowhere this invite, and after such a long time. Perhaps I exuded more sexual confidence than previously, or my slutty reputation in the club had by now grown out of proportion.
It was my last chance and I knew it.
I declined the offer though – for the sake of sisterhood.