Category Archives: Unusual Places For Sex
Ugly Sex (so wrong that it’s right)
What makes a guy attractive? And what makes a man physically irresistible.
I like to think the majority of men I’ve slept with have ranked pretty high in terms of their looks. Graded most women would place them at 7 or up on a scale of 10. It used to be phenomenally important to me to sleep with men extraordinarily good looking and far superior in their physical attractiveness in comparison with me in order to affirm what little self confidence I had and to ensure my conquests were boasts to be proud of.
But there were one or two that slipped through the net in terms of physical beauty and I question why I allowed it. The person in mind was not great beauty in fact he barely even made the grade as average or ‘plain looking’. In truth he was ugly.
It’s a harsh judgement to make; subjective and dependant on taste but had the man in mind and my liaison with him ever gone public I would have been ashamed. Yes that sounds shallow and horrid on my part and back then I suppose some aspects of me were but at 5’2 with a greasy blonde mullet, pock marked skin, buck teeth and a limp no reasonable person could have dragged him into any other category looks-wise other than …. unattractive.
Yet I was besotted with the man. For an evening or two – just till I’d bedded him…well fucked him in the downstairs toilets of the theatre I worked at.
And so what lure did this goblin like creature have for me, particularly as I was stone cold sober and drug free? He had a confidence to him and he had ‘the chat’. He was conversationally engaging. The words dropping from his tongue seemed to give him some kind of aura that made me want him. His sheer dismissiveness of me when I was or should have been the toast of the theatre as its manager, calling the shots with music, free drinks and lock ins had me annoyed and sexually hungry.
I was furious with myself for wanting him, knowing I could do better and with great ease. Perhaps it was the challenge or just to prove to myself that he was all chat and no little repugnant hobbit could really resist my charm.
I was on charm offensive. It took three nights hard work. I bore 36 hours of back handed compliments and physical brush offs, but by Friday night I had exercised my tongue (not on his cock but in competition with his sharp wit) so that he took me seriously enough to linger with a last drink…as I let the normal punters head home at closing and invited my naughty gnome to stay for another pint.
His height was problematic. Fortunately the bar stools were quite high so sitting on the stool and me standing behind the bar we were roughly about the same height so I could go in for the kiss. His bugs bunny teeth banging against my own perfect pearly whites. My hands twirling the ends of his mullet and wondering if I could wipe the grease from his hair into the oil vat out the back of the restaurants to cooks the following nights chips in.
I gravitated from the behind the bar to between his legs, testing the cock and to my surprise finding it wasn’t as stumpy as his shorter leg.
I admit it I was drunk. It was Friday night and Friday night was FUBAR night (that’s a drink abbreviated for Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition consisting of two shots of vodka, two shot of gin, two shots of bacardi and a bacardi breezer all poured into a pint glass) and I had indulged. I must have because I cannot for the life of me recall how we somehow made our way from the bar downstairs to the toilets by the entrance to the stalls of the theatre.
But I do recall sitting on the row of sinks, skirt hitched up, with a pugly pygmy’s face buried between my spread legs. And I remember loving it. I mean it was ugly sex but maybe that was the appeal or turn on for me.
Clearly there was no way (unless he stood on a beer crate or slipped into some mammoth platforms from the 70s) he was going to be able to fuck me on the sink so I did an unforgivable (in terms of hygiene) and allowed myself to be fucked on a toilet floor.
You have to remember the west-end (fringe) theatre I was managing at the time had a late night bar and the clientèle were musicians, actors and dancers from surrounding theatre-land. These were not restrained or orderly in their social habits. So the floor had already been subject to at least 8 hours of spilt alcohol, god knows what may have been on the soles of the toilet users shoes, possible pee from having to drip dry (my fault for not ensuring the toilet rolls were kept full and fresh in each cubicle), possible other mishaps from bowel or uterus and most definitely spunk from other Friday night filthy encounters patrons had been engaging in.
And there I was, in the mess, knickers and tights down round my ankle having ugly sex on an ugly and smelly floor.
That sex has stayed with me. Because it was hot. Because it was wrong. Because I should never have allowed it to happen. I used to wear all black and by the time I’d been shafted severely by a midget with the sex style of a pneumatic drill my attire did not in any way disguise my antics.
There’d been something about having something so little and ugly working its way round and relishing all of me that had made me wetter than ever. I still find it repulsive as I write and yet can still get wet at the sheer disgust he evoked in me combined with the pleasure he actively bestowed on me. I’m not sure what it was…seeing my juices all round his plump lips with those protruding teeth; those tiny little hands with sausage fingers – one resting on the mound of my vagina a thumb pressing against my clit while the other hand slipped two deliciously short fingers furiously inside me; that grimy unwashed body sweating over me as he fucked away – the grubby droplets being massaged into me as he clambered over me to get his dick in as far as it could go. Whatever it was it worked. It was sexy and unforgettable.
By the time I arranged myself and watched the minuscule excuse for a man dress with morbid fascination that I had just had very intimate and exciting relations with I was holding his hand and walking up the stairs of the theatre and passed the box office to find the Saturday Box Office morning shift were starting – which meant it was 9am and I had been caught hand in hand with someone very ugly and very obviously another shag from the numerous punters I was clocking up from that particular venue.
She was disapproving – not of my choice (she was no stunner herself), more that I was her boss and was clearly conducting myself in a manner she felt not befitting a manager.
She was probably right.
There was no more ugly sex with him. Or ever again. Which is a shame really because looking back it was definitely worth a revisit. My only opportunity though was when our paths crossed at another theatre. The theatre and my position was far more civilized and orderly….and the sinks were way too high for the initial foreplay.
How Old Is Too Old For Sex? (Fu*king A Grandfather With Glorious Giant Genitals)
Whilst fucking barely legal boys was fun and in no way emotionally draining; one predictability with every lusty youthful encounter was that you weren’t going to be treated like a princess in public – in fact it was guaranteed you’d not be leaving the bedroom. Older men on the other hand were so inept or unused to the dating game they would lavish attention (and money) on a pretty young thing some 20 years their junior. And there are many tales there I will draw on at a later date.
What sticks out most in my mind in terms of old sex is sleeping with a guy that was 63…when I was 30…and he thought I was 25 (I lied on my online profile). There is another story that eclipses that one in terms of age difference but it doesn’t involve cock so it can wait.
There may be those that have heard of, subscribed to or read about a sordid little website called ‘Illicit Encounters’ – a ‘marriage dating website’. At its inception it pretty much hooked up disgruntled, unsatisfied people in marriages (or long term relationships) looking for a little sexual side dish outside of their dreary lives.
At the time to join you couldn’t actually be single, so I had to opt for separated of divorced. It was all very hush hush and under the guise that everyone respected the vows of marriage and concept of family but appreciated certain aspects of a relationship may diminish or be completely eradicated. Sex starved married men could hook up with equally sex starved wives and neither person’s marriage would be jeopardized – usually. Indeed the website comes with a warning: Not everyone is suited to having an affair. They are not an alternative to working on or ending a marriage. Not all affairs have a positive effect on a marriage, some can be very damaging (no shit Sherlock!). Always consider other people and if you are going to have an affair, please select your partner wisely (have you seen Fatal Attraction???).
What appealed to me about the website wasn’t so much the no-strings sex, or that I didn’t have to stress about getting involved in something heavy like an actual relationship but the fact that while females joined for free, male memberships ranged from £100 – £250 per month. Any man that could afford that sort of money usually had additional disposable income to share with their selected date.
Believe me I cashed in big time on that particular aspect. I’ve never eaten or drunk so well. Allowing for such a huge age gap worked in my favour, they were flattered and in some ways I was paid accordingly for being presentable, educated, young and slutty. It was a win-win situation (well not always but no need to dampen the mood with the horror stories of the darker side of this seedy sleazy website).
It wasn’t the man that bestowed the most money on me, or was the most in awe of my beauty that won me over: It was the sixty plus someone that was confident enough to make me do all the chasing that had me desperate to bed him.
After an exchange online and a few texts we decided to meet. Did he take me to a posh restaurant, make a grand gesture like the others? No Grandfather George* in his Saville Row pinstripe suit was happy to see us slum it in a Samuel Smiths pub – no music, no decore and £2 pints. His off-handish manner changed him from being a piggy bank or doormat to a conquest. And boy did I have to chase.
He teased me with texts suggesting possible meetings and all sorts of lewd activities but nothing came to fruition. It drove me mental. What little dignity I did have I cast aside. I had a text some 4 months later asking me to met for a drink one Friday evening. Had I possessed any self respect I’d have said no and to call in advance and take me somewhere befitting a lady of my style (that last part suggests unrealistic ideals of grandeur but a girls gotta dream). Instead I agreed immediately.
We met at the pub with a brisk kiss on the cheek and ushered me into the same cheap, bland pub and literally said: ‘I’ve only got time for a quick drink but next Tuesday I’m attending a work function in London and staying overnight in a hotel. Do you fancy staying in the hotel and fucking me?’
He’d played so hard to get, regardless of his arrogance, lack of style and manners, for me bedding him became the game. That was the end result. Whatever indignities I would endure of the journey was irrelevant. I would not have someone twice my age turning me down for sex.
After that drink. Nothing. I didn’t even know if Tuesday was on. Given his prick-ish behaviour I assumed he would call it off (and not even bother informing me of the change of plans) so didn’t come prepared for an evening sexual dalliance. After returning from lunch I had a text with the address of the hotel, room number, my expected arrival time and the time he was leaving to go to his work function. It was cold and calculated and we both knew I was going to obey.
Only I looked a mess. I could borrow my work colleagues make-up and even a pair of decent shoes but because I was significantly overweight in relation to my peers I just didn’t have a choice of clothes to borrow form. Working in a music company meant the dress code was lax and my preferred choice of attire to disguise my significant bulk tendered to be jeans, trainers and huge oversized sports tops. It was comfortable but not in any way sexy or flattering to the figure and despite all the creative types present there was no way to sex it up.
Working in a music company also meant we were paid a pittance because everyone wants to work in music so with demand outweighing supply I had didn’t have the money to buy a top in any shop in the West End where my work place was based. Instead I had to run up to Tezenis on the corner of Oxford Circus. For those of you that don’t know Tezenis is a cheap underwear and pyjama shop. The best I could do was find a low cut skin tight pyjama top to masquerade as a blouse for the evening.
It did the trick – well it didn’t stay on for long so I looked feminine and reasonably presentable.
I got to the hotel and knocked on his door.
And I was faced with a 63 year old naked and fresh out of the shower with a towel wrapped round his waist. Before you start gagging at the mental image and branding me a gerontophile (that’s a person who has a sexual preference for the elderly – think opposite of a paedophile) let me tell you he was actually pretty buff.
He was a silver haired fox and rather good-looking but short; shorter than me in heels so maybe 5’6. Broad but his body looked like it frequented the gym regularly. He had a defined hairless chest and a flat stomach – okay there was no six pack but it was hard and tight. He was muscular, I’ve heard from a male friend that’s a little vertically challenged that it’s a lot easier to stay in shape when you are smaller and maybe this was the case with Granddad George. Don’t you just hate it when someone is phenomenally good looking but a foot too short for their beauty to be truly appreciated? Man that must’ve been him when he was younger. With money, sharp suits, an acerbic tongue and high level of intelligence his attractiveness was now off the scale at 63.
I kept remembering the episode of ‘Sex and the City’ (The Man, The Myth, The Viagra) where Samantha goes on a date with a 72 year old billionaire and convinces herself the sexual side of the relationship will be fine because ‘all cats look the same in the dark’; when faced with the bottom of a 72 year old she realises the sight cannot be forgotten no matter how dark the room.
By the time he dropped the towel I was so mesmerized by his cock I didn’t have time to be repulsed by any wrinkles. It was a whopper. Like a pepper mill. Long and thick…..and limp, but not unattractive – quite wondrous in truth. There was no viagra available and believe me getting enough blood down there to support such a beast was hard work. Clearly my low cut pyjama top did not scream ‘lady of the night’ so my hand was working his cock like a water pump on a well. Once it was hard though it was a magnificent creature. Upon entry I could feel vagina stretching to accommodate him and once he was in there he thrust away – robotically almost. Then his watch beeped, he withdrew methodically and said ‘Right I’ve got to go to dinner now. Not sure when I’ll be back so you can go home now if you want.’
No way was I leaving that luxurious hotel – particularly as I felt a little like I’d been a disappointing shag. I needed a chance to rescue my reputation (didn’t want a bad rap on ‘illicit encounters’ and risk jeopardising my new posh social life) so smiled sweetly saying I’d wait. I watched a film, ordered room service and rang all my friends from the room’s phone (wonder how he felt when he got the bill on departure).
He didn’t like my brazenness, the bold way I insisted I would stay but he had shades of an English gent and knew he couldn’t really throw me out without being a complete cunt and in fairness, desperate as I was, I was a nice enough girl. So I waited it out. I can’t have been that bad though because he only attended for an hour and a half (or maybe he was concerned I was going to ransack the room) and then returned back to the hotel for a little more.
Once the bratwurst was standing too attention it was all stations go. I rolled out a variety of positions from missionary, doggy style, cowgirl, reverse cowgirl, sultry saddle, the squat, standing up, legs on shoulders – the lot. He went solid for over three hours. Had I not been so busy trying to manage my exercise induced asthma I’d have applauded his stamina. He’d put most young men to shame with his solid shafting of me. I could feel my vagina lips puffing with each pump. Changing positions in an attempt to generate a splurge of semen within me became chore-ish. To have him re-enter my swollen labia was excruciating. As he banged away like a pneumatic drill for twenty minutes all I could do was go through my mind’s catalogue of sexual positions in a bid to find the right one to generate his orgasm and resolve myself to the fact that I would have to endure another penetration from his pepper-mill when it was time for a position changeover.
I can’t tell you the climax of my imaginative and acrobatic workout. I certainly didn’t climax and to my shame, despite being less than half his age I fell asleep mid fuck and thus couldn’t possibly comment on whether he did or not. I’m guessing given I didn’t wake entangled with his body or snuggled against him, that I wasn’t invited to stay for breakfast, nor did I render an utterance of a goodbye from his state of slumber or even a thank you text the following day he didn’t attain the desired pinnacle from his unwelcome overnight guest at the Ritz. He really should’ve saved me for an illicit encounter at the Travelodge – bad judgement on his part
* His name was Steve not George, I just thought Granddad George sounded funnier.
Easter Erotica (3 men, 3 nights & a sexual kidnapping)
Easter is upon us and like ‘Festive Fucking’ it got me thinking as to whether I had any sexual association with this religious holiday. In all honesty Easter has never featured to highly on my sex calendar. I put this down to my parents shoddy attempts at playing Easter Bunny when I was in Grade 7 and still a believer. Seriously mum, you buy duck shaped meringues in front of me during the weekly shop and didn’t think I’d put two and two together when they turned up in my Easter Bunny stash Sunday morning? What I did love was the fact that I disgustedly called Mum up on the ‘Easter Bunny isn’t real’ revelation but continued along nicely for another 6 months steadfastly and stolidly believing in Santa Claus (why I shed so many tears over St Nic, given my previous enlightenment on Easter Bunny will forever remain a mystery).
But I digress. Rather like Christmas sex there is only one story that I can attribute to this Christian celebration – unsurprisingly it took place in Great Yarmouth where L had invited me to spend the weekend in a caravan with her parents.
This is a more a slutty story than an amusing one, but it had its moments.
Having been the recipient of a uneventful but teasing ‘booty call’ on Thursday evening (I had signed up for no strings sex but desperately wanted to be the subject’s girlfriend – the invitation had not been forthcoming) I found myself feeling lonely, used, a little soulless and somewhat depressed at the prospect of four days without human contact or social intercourse – unless you count the cashiers at McDonald’s down the road (which I didn’t).
L, of course, came to the rescue and told me to jump on the train and she’d pick me up from Great Yarmouth station. And I did.
It all started well enough, fresh home-made sandwiches, walnut whips and endless cups of tea provided by L’s hospitable and the mumsiest of mums. A dabble on the camp site’s bingo hall accompanied by a few orange Bacardi Breezer’s and then it was time to head into town to find some less family more femme fatale friendly action.
We found ourselves in the Pier Bar – Yarmouth’s nightclub for the more mature demographic of the population. Good music (if you like cheesy 80s and 90s pop) not so good talent. However being young and gorgeous at the time I at least had my pick of the …(I hesitate to say boys because with an average age of 45 they were anything but) men in the club.
I opted for my normal type. Dark, broody, good looking and a bit of a loner. Anyone who reads this blog will know I love Norfolk (it forged a pivotal part of my sexual career) but the accents… I’m Australian and I annoy myself with the whining sound of mine so I’m not really in a position to point any fingers, but there’s something about the Norfolk accent that smacks of simpleton. I know there’s a lot of bright, talented people from Norfolk (for fucks sake don’t ask me to name any I’m just trying not to offend here) but when they open there mouths you just think – wait I haven’t said thick…uncomplicated and without any intellectual complexities (so yeah simple). My choice for the night fitted my preferred criteria but when he opened his gob to tell me he was visiting from Norwich for some motorcycle fair I knew I wasn’t in for an evening of scintillating conversation. In fairness though that wasn’t what I was after.
Clearly feeling so stung that my ‘booty call’ from the previous night (he hadn’t professed his undying love for me, he hadn’t even declared that despite the good sex I warranted the label of girlfriend) I opted for finding some comfort in the arms of a stranger. It made for a pleasant change being invited back to someone else’s Bed & Breakfast, rather than me having to worry about how to sneak someone in and then out again. There was something refreshing retro about creeping round the house and shagging silently in a single bed – recapturing my ever eluding youth. I had been caught out with erectile dysfunction. Having hardened the damn thing I was resigned to straddling him and bouncing up and down until the point of ejaculation, which given his alcohol related numbness took some time. As his hands reached up to juggle my breasts and stroke me from my neck, down to my stomach around to my behind, all I could do was try in my mind to distract myself and escape the pain my thighs were feelings at hefting my weight rhythmically up and down on his cock. I wished I had been more adventurous or assertive enough to request doing the reverse cowgirl. Had I done so, I may have been able to pick up a magazine and lazily leaf through it, avoiding hurting his feelings as I methodically went through the motions. Still maintaining the position and with impeccable timing I reached my goal which was not give him an orgasm but rather give me a window of opportunity to head back to the caravan.
Yarmouth is small and I had ample time to saunter from the seafront B&B to caravan site without fear of attack or coming in looking like I’d just been having some drunken fuck.
Saturday shone bright and once again I was faced with a day of cosying on the couch with L and I nursing our respective hangovers and eating for England. I was grateful for the abundance of comfort food…until Saturday evening. As I slipped into a new little black dress I purchased earlier that day (from George @ ASDA I have no shame in you knowing) a button round my tummy shot off, pinging off the caravan wall. L and I were not classical housewives and in this instance it was L’s father who was left with the task of sewing the button back on for me. Knowing how fragile the outfit now was I realised instead of being a ‘slutty no-knickers’ night it would be an ‘uncomfortable unsexy control knickers’ night.
L and I had structure and routine to our nights in Yarmouth – particularly where Vauxhall Caravan Park was involved – more Bingo, more Bacardi Breezers, more cheesy nightclubs on Britannia Pier.
We headed further north up the pier in search of a younger clientèle. I felt out of my depth. Unfamiliar with the music I was painfully aware we were the eldest in the club so my potent sexual advances were a little more contained and restrained. In fact I did the almost desperate male thing and waited til the end of the evening to select from the dregs – assured someone would be desperate enough for a shag. At least they would be young and there is an inescapable beauty in youth however the face is painted.
My guy was a shy guy. He was 23, short (my height 5’6), slim but taut, blond hair and a lean, sharp face with a smattering of freckles across his nose. He was cute but his obvious nervousness made him a sweet choice. He appeared flattered that he was the object of my attention and blatant sexual advances which further endeared him to me. Transpired it was his birthday. Somewhere from under his long eyelashes as he studied the floor I deciphered his mumblings and retrieved an invite back to his house. 3 in 3 nights – it seemed a little foolish to interrupt my run so I agreed. L headed home and I said I’d catch up in good time.
I have to say I was more than impressed when he hailed a cab to take us home. Until I realised he didn’t live in Great Yarmouth. He resided in Waxham which was 15 miles north of Great Yarmouth. I suddenly felt a little uneasy: a) I wasn’t sure I had cash for a cab home (let alone enough to split the cost on arrival) and b) I had no idea where I was or any familiarity with the town. This was now an encounter that could not afford to go wrong.
The residence was a sizeable cottage. This was not a mummy’s boy living at home. In fact he worked in a mountain rescue team which explained his lithe, ripped body – and a strength you wouldn’t expect on someone so slight. On the tour I saw two large bedrooms upstairs, with polished wooden floors and minimalistic male décor, a bathroom that would have been glorious if it hadn’t been inhabited by two boys who has never been introduced to Toilet Duck or Spray & Wipe, a farmhouse kitchen and large cosy living room.
You know how you have the odd one (or hundred in my case) night stand and the other person says ‘I don’t usually do this’ and you inwardly roll your eyes thinking ‘I’m not judging your moral stance on sex so cut the bullshit’? This guy didn’t say it but I knew it was true. It was all so gentle and unpractised and tentative. Immature approaches like turning on the huge flat screen TV, flicking through the channels and ‘stumbling’ across some already paid for porn channels. The porn may have got him in the mood but it was his inexperience that turned me on. It wasn’t long before he was clambering on top of me on the couch pressing his erection against me. I took the the lead and suggested we go upstairs.
Then something strange happened. He received a text and then phone calls. A string of them completely interrupting the mood and he seemed determined to ignore them. Soon enough the phone was ringing and at the same time the caller was beating on the door. Fortunately the door of the cottage had withstood some hundred years of knockers so this caller wasn’t going to get in but he wasn’t to be deterred. I was told it was his flatmate, who was drunk and had forgotten his keys, but there was no explanation as to why he wasn’t letting the flatmate in. I can only speculate: 1) he didn’t want the flatmate cramping his style; 2) the flatmate was a relation or landlord disapproving of this type of activity or; 3) I was too much of an eyesore to be presented as a sexual conquest to his friend. Either way after much ringing and beating of the door (‘I know you’re in there I can hear your phone ringing, please let me in’) the unwelcome resident had no option but to retreat. God knows where he spent the night but I bet he hasn’t lost his keys in a drunken Easter stupor since then.
Back to bed, fully clothed, embracing, grinding against each other, kissing and me desperate for cock. Once again I was left to take the initiative but there was something sexy about having to undress him, releasing his huge erection. His cock was nowhere near as slender or slim as his build but despite its size and strength he was not using it like a power tool. Very gently and traditionally he climbed on and began to fuck me missionary style. It was good sex. Delectable to have something thick and throbbing inside but its insertion so tender. His entire body defined and hard but pressing intimately against my own out of condition soft body. I found the whole unfrenzied approach had me frantic for more of him. So I blurted out ‘did you want to change position?’. His shy, appreciative demeanour in tact he nodded gratefully saying ‘yeah if you want to that’d be really good’.
I sprung onto all fours, only to feel his slow deliberate hands gripping my hips and him sliding into me as thoughtfully as ever. But in this position I regained some control and could at least experience him at the depth and speed I wanted. Having put myself into a more dominate position seemed to appeal to him as he got vocal about his enjoyment of the situation. It wasn’t long till he was wildly thrusting and I was screaming out ‘I’m not on the pill’ so he confusedly ejaculated – outside of me. I suspect that particular orgasmic confessional utterance from me may have dampened his orgasm somewhat.
And then, like having been shot with a tranquilliser he crashed. Straight asleep. Lucky he’d been so romantic in the sex or the lack of pillow talk would’ve hurt. But with cum dripping between my thighs, a mobile phone flashing a time that was later than I thought and the realisation that I had no idea where I was or how to get home…I knew it was prudent to depart promptly. L’s parents were early risers and a missing girl would paint an accurate picture as to my absence from the caravan.
He was sweet and the sex was good so he deserved a goodbye. Only he didn’t want one – at least not then. I tried to wake him but he was just moaning and telling me he wanted to sleep. In fairness he tried to grab me for a hug but I was on a tight schedule and there was no time for ‘the morning after the night before’ pleasantries.
I hoped my quick brusque kiss and thank you pervaded his lucid dreaming. I went downstairs and the door was locked – double locked. I could release the bolts but the door was locked from the inside and I had no way out. I searched the house for another exit but nothing. No door, no window for me to escape from. I suppose had there been an alternate way in his flatmate would have used it earlier on. The minutes were speeding by every time I looked at my phone.
I rushed back upstairs and tried to wake him but the powerful orgasm had rendered him useless. I heard my voice raise an octave in pitch and becoming a lot louder. Trying to be assertive and nice. Begging for the keys. He was clearly annoyed at my attempts to wake him and murmured to just let myself out. I tried to explain I couldn’t because the door was double locked and before collapsing into a deep sleep he said the keys were downstairs.
My heels clattered all the way down the stairs again and I searched the kitchen high and low for the keys. Literally. I could feel myself getting hysterical. I was a prisoner in this house. The house of good, gentle sex but still a prisoner. I was literally on my hands and knees again (without cock or orgasm) looking for the keys. Checking the sugar pot and fruit bowls. I even ventured into the living room and was hurling the cushions from the sofa and checking down its sides. There were no keys.
By now I was in tears. I was shoulder charging the door but realised it opened inwards not outwards so that was not going to work. I dragged myself upstairs. And tried talking to him, but the sandman had taken him far from me. I was so desperate I thought my only option was to physically carry him downstairs to open the door. I began to lift him but he was a dead weight. How could an elfin like creature weigh so much? As I lifted him into my arms he slipped out and slouched on the bed. I felt myself getting rougher, hoisting him up under his arm pits, realising I just didn’t have the strength to do this. I had no option but to shout as I did my best to manipulate his body into a position so uncomfortable he would have to conform to my efforts and come down to help me. I grabbed his legs and dragged him from laying vertically in the bed to horizontally, his legs now dangling out of the bed. I climbed round the other side of the bed and dug my hands under his back to push him into an upright sitting position. Each time he tried to slump to the side I positioned him straight again. Eventually I was behind him, my legs spread round him in a sitting position so his torso rested against mine. I bumped him as far forward to the bed edge as possible and began to try and stand myself up and, with my arms secured round his waist, dragging him with me.
My plan wasn’t executed how I hoped but my efforts were rewarded with him groaning, extracting himself from me and standing, unaided, to head down the stairs. He went to the door and tried to open it.
‘Oh you were right. I have double locked the door, sorry.’
‘It’s fine, can you let me out though.’
‘Mmmmm dunno where the keys are.’ His eyelids were getting heavy again and he seemed to be eyeing up the couch.
‘Please. I begged I have to go.’
He headed up the stairs and I saw him sitting back down on the bed. I wanted to drop to my knees, look to the heavens and scream ‘Noooooooooooooooooo,’ but he had picked up his jeans and I heard a jangle. I grabbed the jeans from him as he fell back on the bed. The keys were in his pocket. I raced down the stairs with renewed vigour and after a few tries found the key to unlock the door.
Praise be. I raced out to feel the early morning sun hitting my face. I breathed in the country air, or was it sea air – where the fuck was I?
Back inside the house I rifled round the kitchen until I found letters addressed to the house. 118118 may cost a fortune and be crap but they did get a cab winging its way to the address on the letters, which as I astutely guessed was my hidden location. The driver, possibly glad to have a customer that had been sobered up by a bout of unintentional kidnapping and wasn’t abusive, happily stopped at a cashpoint so he could be paid.
I got back in the caravan at 6.15am and quarter of an hour later L’s mother was making tea and saying she had stayed in her room for as long as possible so’s not to wake me sleeping in the lounge. Whether my entrance had been obvious or not was irrelevant. I’d been in the van when they came out so my character and morals couldn’t be called into question – well at least not directly.
Later that afternoon I headed back to London to give L some quality family time and me a much needed break from Yarmouth, its dramas and my own insatiable libido. On the train ride back a text bleeped out in the carriage from my ‘booty call boy’ asking if I was going to be in that night…
Pregnancy, Fanny Farts, Poo & Other Pitfalls From A One Night Stand
One of the main problems in going for a more casual approach to sex is that you run the risk of encountering members of the opposite sex (if that’s your persuasion) who have a different set of values to yourself or even just different views on what is socially acceptable or not.
I remember a friend, K, telling me once he was going in for an anal attack on a one night stand and as his cock entered Vegemite valley, the guy receiving tried to force out a poo. Yes he tried to poo onto a cock that was inside him. So outraged was K that he flung him out onto the street – I’m guessing definitely without a cab fare and I suspect without directions to the nearest public transport.
I thought this behaviour was excessive. Not because I’m into scat (it’s one of three things I don’t indulge in) but because it seemed a little bit harsh, dare I say an over-reaction. Don’t get me wrong, had I been in possession of potentially pooey penis I wouldn’t have been best pleased but how is anyone to know what a one night stand is into? K felt it just wasn’t something you should do on a one night stand or at best you would at least discuss it with your bed partner for the evening before straining away.
I always felt if it’s a one night stand and I was never going to see again, then I could do as I please – try to get the best and most out of them. But in doing so, if it’s not one’s own house their wrath and reaction is one you have to deal with. Which means you either restrain from anything too unconventional or kinky, always take them back to your place so you’re in charge or take your chances.
I used to take my chances.
That wasn’t always the best idea for someone as thin-skinned as myself.
I remember when we were doing regular jaunts to Great Yarmouth one summer I fell for a Hugh Grant type fop – a Londoner in Great Yarmouth, wearing a scarf in a nightclub and looking like someone I used to fancy. I got involved in a rather public intense and deep display of kissing one night but thanks to my dalliance with another man earlier in the evening my outrageous flirting resulted in the first guy becoming possessive, aggressive and looking to rough it out in the car park to decide the matter. Crushingly enough for me, my lovely fop held a hand up to stop him and said ‘you can have her!’ – just as the song petered out for the entire club to witness my being cast away like a used tissue. I was left with a dented pride and the predicament of fending off the attentions of someone I wasn’t even keen on.
But, as Great Yarmouth is a small town, the fop came back. The next time though I was actually in the midst of some imagined love affair with a married man and desperate to try and be faithful. But with an unfinished conquest my monogamous stance went flying out the door. Fortunately for me he was very drunk and my boobs that night were particularly large, soft, white, buoyant, perky and exposed. As I kissed him outside the toilet, the waft of vomit on his breath from what had obviously been a long day of drinking, I tried a little of my Australian charm. It worked – in private. Transpired he was engaged and his father-in-law to be was also inside the club. Not to be deterred I threw my relationship in his face and that was enough of a carrot for him to talk me into leaving the club early.
I should have been prepared for his thoughtless words given his quick disposal of me on our first meeting. As we strolled along the beach, hand in hand, walking back to his house he said ‘I really want to have sex with you but I just want to make sure it’s okay given your condition. How many months gone are you?’
I wasn’t pregnant AND I was wearing control knickers – clearly the knickers were not doing their job of holding in my tum. Perhaps I should have been more outraged or mortified but when you take your chances you have to expect these things…and no I didn’t go out and buy an abdominizor nor start a regime of excessive sit-ups each day.
Anyway he wasn’t all insensitive. He had Fosters flop and was unable to ejaculate. In the end I gave up, finished myself off and began to make a move. Rather politely he asked if I wouldn’t mind him wanking off (he clearly still believed he’d be able to orgasm) to the image of me after my departure. As if I had some control over his imagination or could prevent him from storing me in his wank bank. Flattered (anything was an improvement on the pregnancy blunder) I left feeling rather pleased with myself.
It seemed physics were in full flight that night and indeed every action is accompanied by a reaction of equal magnitude but opposite direction. Thus his verbalising the high degree to which he found my faux pregnant form attractive cancelled out any offence taken at him mistaking me for being with child.
Yet another time, a birthday in fact, I found myself at the in the Roadhouse in Covent Garden, a notorious cattle market where almost anyone could pull amongst the 80s rock anthems and array of fluorescent cocktails. It must’ve been somewhat slim pickings for me that night because I recall deciding my birthday fuck would be a ginger – normally recounting this story I would describe him as strawberry blonde but…the pubes gave it all a way.
Having done his best for the ginger brigade and in fairness he did fuck me all night – I found myself for the majority of the night pogo-ing on top of an albino cock and a springing nest of gingerness. At one stage he had me on all fours like a tomcat mounting a fat persian. He was thrusting so hard I could feel my uterus blowing up like a balloon – to the point of bursting. Desperately trying to angle myself to temper the wind I could hear whooshing into my vagina.
Once finished (his sperm was white not ginger) I somehow managed to turn over onto my side ala Kate Winslet when being sketched by Leo Dicaprio in Titanic. The only problem was the bubble of a fanny fart bobbing at the entrance of my vagina. I knew it was coming and decided as we were both adults and given the pumping he’d given me it wasn’t to be unexpected. So I parted my legs slightly to let the excess air out. I had intended it to be a burp but it was a bellow – a long aching, rip-roaring non stop vibrato fanny fart tearing into the silence of the night. Not only did we hear it but I suspect all the neighbours did as well. Neither of us mentioned it and went straight to sleep.
When he woke early the next morning to find me frantically scrambling in my clothes with less than half an hour to get to work he scrutinised me carefully (minus beer goggles and without the ringing sound of my front bottom flatulence) and said ‘wow you’re actually really pretty – fancy fucking again tonight?’
The answer was a resounding ‘No’. NOT because of the back-handed compliment – he was clearly as desperate as I was by the end of the evening – but because I was due to fly back to Australia that day…also my reputation couldn’t survive being attached to someone with such vibrant hair.
You’d think now being engaged I would no longer have to concern myself with these types issues in respect of my sex life but sadly it’s not the case. Whilst our current sex life is non-existent due to an excessive amount of stressful external circumstances that doesn’t mean I haven’t in the past, nor will in the future avoid these kind of awkward sexual situations. The fact they’re unrelenting and delivered ferociously are magnified in the realisation that these ‘playful quips’ will haunt our bedroom ‘to death do us part’….more next time on the 22nd March 2012.
Faking It! (A sticky sandpit and a cold kebab)
Throughout the numerous liaisons in my twenties, I can’t honestly say I viewed every one of them as a one night stand – a story attached to a penis to recount when I hit my 30s and began settling down a little. But somewhere the naïve romantic in me was half-heartedly hoping that shag-of-the-night might leap from close encounter of the genital kind straight to husband-to-be.
For the most part this wistful ideation remained firmly locked in my head (or heart) but – emotionally expressive type that I am – I would confide these traditional and at time stalker-esque notions to my best friend L.
Once we’d outgrown the Norbury, we spent a lot of time, especially come summer, clubbing in Great Yarmouth on an unhealthily regular basis.
It had always been my and L’s dream to find two friends (or brothers) and marry them. We figured this convenient arrangement would mean we ourselves would remain best of friends. Fate though has dealt us a hand where we didn’t meet such a duo and immediately espouse them. Thus whilst still being incredibly close, time, relationships and children have meant that intimacy has dissipated somewhat – though friendship and shared past experience has not. Sad but I suppose life moves on….and it’s a real bitch getting from South East London to Essex.
Anyway that was the plan back in our early to mid 20s…and beyond. On one particular occasion however the Universe threw us a lifeline.
L was…shall we say encouraging(?) an on again off again long term flame from Great Yarmouth, but making no promises. They’d always try and implement the ‘let’s be friends’ façade which worked well for L – she was the one that always dumped him and pulled the strings so her heart was somewhat safer. Kenny on the other hand, while desperately trying to behave platonically, could never quite get over his intense feelings for his former love. Rather than just telling her he couldn’t be do it, or even just staying away, he would attempt to play the game they’d set up only to find himself awfully wounded when he found L enjoying her single status. I felt for him, but since she didn’t exactly lie to him, nor, if I’m honest, did she actively discourage his advances. She had nonetheless verbally confirmed the state of play.
And that’s what L and I wanted; to play!
And we did.
There are two clubs on Great Yarmouth’s main pier, the Britannia.
The first and aptly named ‘Pier Tavern’ as you approach Britannia, is for the more mature folks and has a resounding set-list of cheesy songs from the 60s to the noughties. The other – ‘Long John’s Show Bar’ at the pier end stretches out over sand and sea. ‘Long John’s’ was where the younger set of gentlefolk inhabited; it was bigger, had a long bar and played modern music – some to my and L’s taste but only for short durations.
In true form what started out as a ‘friends night out’ ended with Kenny becoming rather irate at the attention L were receiving and to mask his feelings he began acting like a complete …..what’s that word again that rhymes with ‘hunt’?
So L and I played hide and seek leaving him with the fogies in the Pier Tavern, ourselves hot-footing it up the pier, (as best we could with our high heels getting caught in the spaces between the planks of wood), to Long John’s to join the pretty young things there. Fortunately this establishment seemed more attractive to tourists and we stumbled across what I vaguely recall was a stag night – or just a boys weekend of some sort. Despising the music, but eager to avoid Kenny we were grateful to the invite at the table this group had colonised outside the club.
As the only two girls present we seemed to have quite a choice. Two men were vying for L’s attention but I was happy with the guy that approached me. He was named Ben and in my mind he seemed like a shorter, slightly less attractive version of Andrew Lincoln of ‘Walking Dead’, ‘This Life’ and ‘Teachers’ fame. There also seemed to be a sincerity to him which I think now was actually a combination of desperation and beer goggles. He was all too keen to exchange numbers and reiterate how he was looking for a girlfriend. This caught me hook, line and sinker. Once the club closed we didn’t really want the party to end.
L had hooked up with a beefy blonde sweetheart called ‘C’ who was, without doubt the personality of the two with a masculine caring aura around him. This put me at ease and made me feel like he could quite competently look after out little quartet.
Determined to carry on the proceedings, L confessed she’d borrowed Kenny’s house key earlier in the night mid-argument with him and suggested we return to his flat to retrieve the booze we’d left there, pinch a bottle opener then head back to the beach for a very early picnic breakfast of…..alcopops.
Being young, brazen and unashamed we pulled it off. Kenny, desperate to keep dignity intact and not weep at L having found some amatory fun, girded his loins and (I’d like to say while managing a watery smile) verbally abused us but not to the extent of jeopardising the remaining strands of his relationship with L. We marched out waving the bottle opener victoriously, confident our overnight bags would not be on the street when we returned.
Trooping off to the beach, we separated with our respective men.
I was fortunate enough to find some children had dug a sizeable bunker in the sand – it was an at least two foot deep hole that could spaciously accommodate myself, Ben, four bottles of Smirnoff Ice and plenty of drunken lust.
Now, boyfriend, one night stand, or anything else, what I do expect is sex. And my kind of sex is real. Honest to goodness vaginal penetration – a pushing, grinding, pounding, slapping full flesh fest. I didn’t get it. My magical musician hands, now so used to firmly and rhythmically playing an array of instruments (some musical, some fleshy and snake-like) not only slipped off Ben’s pants but also found their way to his cock, kissing him passionately as the sun rose over Yarmouth beach. By then I was so deft in the delivery of hand-jobs that within a minute I felt that familiar, warm, sticky fluid seeping over my hand. I didn’t feel I could wipe it on his clothes and I didn’t want to soil my own, and the more I tried brushing it off the more my hand began to look like it was transforming into some sort of sand sculpture.
You’d think, wouldn’t you, that having performed such a successful operation I might at least have gotten a cuddle, a kiss….or even a cheeky finger or two; something, anything – some reward…..even a bloody ‘thank you’ would’ve been welcome. But other than sand on my hand all I did get was a quiet resentment at his embarrassment for his premature and amateur shot. Suddenly the bunker didn’t feel like such a romantic hidey-hole anymore – it felt full of his inadequacy. Him thinking it, me knowing it. Not that I was a bitch. I couldn’t have been more pleasant or polite. Waved away his excuses, told him it wasn’t unusual, said I was happy, tried to kiss and engage in conversation. But it it seemed though my magic hands had once again performed the amazing trick of turning a guy off instantly. Fortunately I was youthful and unknowing. I assumed my words and his advances of earlier still meant something and held some sort of genuineness.
Despite the exchange of numbers and promises of ‘I’ll text you’, he didn’t. Worse still, throwing my own dignity aside, I attempted to initiate contact with him. Occasionally he’d return a message or two but would steadfastly apply the ‘three day’ rule before deeming me worthy of a response.
C on the other hand proved the knight in shining armour. His words to L had actually been honest and earnest. He had wanted to see her again and also respected as her best mate that to make such a thing happen it would have to be a package deal (L and I didn’t really do ‘alone’ back in those days). So it was he who persuaded Ben to head back to Yarmouth in order to have a weekend with us.
Ben had flung a few crumbs of attention my way in the shape of the odd text, but there was no call and only cold confirmation he would be attending that forthcoming weekend.
It was actually the first time L and I had travelled anywhere out of London for a real-life double date and the fact our dates were friends…..we still held firm to our fantasy of marrying two best mates in order that our own intense relationship would remain unchanged. Thus we let ourselves dream.
When we finally arrived and went to meet them, we realised we were in fact dating the male equivalents of ourselves. Like L, C was well dressed, calm, thoughtful, reserved, intelligent, generous, happy, content in the company and wanting to enjoy the evening. Ben, on the other hand, was a mass of neuroses, already stupidly drunk to build up his confidence, talking loudly, quickly and over exaggerating any and every story he told, wanting to be the focus of attention and not quite knowing how to behave when we lavished it upon him. His words were his costume and my words complimented my little black dress as well (I was funnier than him though – or so I like to think).
Not unexpectedly as the evening progressed we all got drunk. I could almost see Ben’s beer goggles growing thicker and thicker with each new bar entered and each new cocktail served. His body language changed from clinging to C like a child to gradually moving closer and closer to me, till he eventually whispered ‘I was really dreading this weekend, but I’m glad you came. You’re real pretty.’
Despite everything that had happened upon and since our introductory night, I could close my eyes, breathe out and start believing again. Hell by the end of the night we were holding hands stumbling from club to club (and I’d always said holding hands was naff and embarrassing).
When the clubs closed we headed back to the bed and breakfast we were all sharing. The nosy owners had been quite keen to meet us and guess if their pairings had been correct or not. I suspect they got it wrong. Because C was broader and more solid they would’ve assumed he was with the fat girl (me), Ben being slighter and prettier would likely have been matched with L.
I’m not sure how everything was sorted, whether there was any discretion involved or not, but because L and I had the double bed, Ben and I parked ourselves in this room immediately. L was happy to take the twin room allocated to the boys, allowing intimacy but with physical restraints to inhibit any unwanted libidinous compulsions that might potentially arise.
I began a ritual routine. Cuddle on bed, begin kissing, remove shirt, kiss chest, rub hand down crutch, undo zipper or fly buttons, reach in for…
‘Don’t touch it!’
My hand flew out of his pants like his crotch was made of molten lava…..or riddled with warts…or was in fact a vagina.
He was breathing heavily and muttered ‘I don’t want to come too quickly. Tonight it’s my turn to pleasure you.’
I couldn’t argue with that, nor did I want to – in fact I kinda thought he owed it to me. Suddenly I felt the warmth of his averagely satisfying penis enter me. I can’t honestly say there was a lot of pushing, grinding, pounding and slapping, but there was penetration and it wasn’t unwelcome. For me nothing felt better, more life affirming, more sexy than having the weight of someone attractive on me as they slipped in and out of my own warm, wetness. It was perfunctory though. I think that was the best he could manage at the time because clearly he was still racked with guilt over the sand-pit incident and had a set idea of how to make amends which was distracting him from any ‘game’ in bed. He was all too keen to visit my vagina to reciprocate the wonderful gift I’d bestowed upon him on our previous ‘date’ (it was a date in my mind; I appreciate it was a one night thing now).
I let him try. What woman wouldn’t – straight or gay. It feels good….unless you’ve had a particularly nasty prior sexual experience. But my god it seemed to drag. In fact, mid-way through, on all fours, faced buried between my legs, his arse raised proudly wiggling at the door, L and C thoughtfully entered the room to deliver my kebab and chips (not sure Ben had put an order in himself). The sight of the full moon up so close and personal had the two of them fleeing. I could hear their heavy, hurried footsteps and much giggling on the flight of stairs, escaping the room but, I assume, never able to escape the picture of Ben’s bare white bum from their mind’s eye (and no I haven’t offered to pay for therapy – learn to knock guys….or did you?).
In fairness Ben was committed, and, irrespective of the laughable interruption, he soldiered on like a faithful cavalier. But it wasn’t doing it for me. I was still chuckling at L and’ C’s faces and worrying whether my chips would still be warm enough to eat when the deed was finally done. I actually wanted to push his face away and finish myself off one handed. It would be infinitely quicker and I suspected more intense – plus I might still be able to devour that kebab and chips and savour the flavour. But when I thought about how inadequate he felt and how hard he was trying my softened heart knew I had but one option – to fake it.
So I did. I began moaning and tried wriggling orgasmically like I’d seen in my brother’s old porn movie collection. It did the trick. He came up beaming…or maybe it was the gleam of moisture on his face.
‘Did I make you come?’
I nodded enthusiastically. He looked so pleased I knew I’d done the right to thing. His fragile male ego saved, he was cuddling me again and talking about the future and I lay there contentedly thinking ‘finally L and I are going to date best friends, this is going to be my boyfriend’. But I was a romantic and boyfriends became husbands, and husbands were people you slept with forever – for the rest of your life, the ONLY one (good catholic girl that I was). And he hadn’t made me come. Hadn’t even come close. God if he believed he had, then chances were he was never going to be able to because he thought he could and didn’t need instruction. So how could I overcome such an obstacle in future? No, that would never do. If we were going to get married we had to have a good sex life. I had to be honest with him. Honesty in relationships is a good thing, right? It’s what makes them last.
‘Ben, BEN – are you asleep?’
‘You didn’t make me come.’
‘I know you tried and everything but I just want to be honest with you. You didn’t make me come earlier. I didn’t have an orgasm.’
His faced crashed harder than a Qantas Airbus.
I’d said he’d given me an orgasm then taken it back. It’s one of the worst things you can do to a guy. The epitome of bad bedroom language. A golden rule I’d broken in the silence of a quiet summer morning in Yarmouth. Honesty didn’t save that relationship.
I never saw Ben again.
Festive Fu*king – My First Christmas Cock
I thoroughly despise the Christmas song ‘Santa Baby’ and, frankly speaking, ‘I saw Mummy kissing Santa Claus’ is downright offensive. The reason I have such a violent reaction to both songs is that for me Christmas is about the kids….or pretending to be a kid again. Sexual overtures this season are inappropriate yet somehow innocence hard to protect. I don’t want to have sex with Santa (the soot would ruin my pristine white sheets) and I wouldn’t want my children (if I had any) to see me kissing…well..actually the whole thing is a myth (or giant lie, or giant fantasy) and really it’s your parents anyway (or should be). If they catch me kissing Santa Claus I’ll end up paying for their therapy for years to come.
So, sex and Christmas don’t work for me in combination, period.
Though I base a lot of my thinking on the word ‘but’, when retracing my sexual career I actually do find Festive Fucking has never featured prominently on my vaginal calendar.
Nowadays of course I have a boyfriend, so having sex at Christmas seems a weird obligation; kinda like a present in itself. What depresses me is that for the first two years of our relationship we did nothing but have sex. Birthdays, Christmas and other special annual events were an excuse to get out of bed and do something else; a respite from our compulsive rabbit-like behaviour.
After our recent ‘annus horribilis’ (that’s Occa Latin for ‘I’m an Australian Royalist that had a bad year’, rather than some sort of anal sex game turning sour) I feel we have edged closer to becoming one of those couples that fling on their lingerie or best boxers and trim or shave their bits knowing these dates are enhanced by a fuck – irrespective if either party actually wants to participate. Long sentence I know, but if you read it twice you’ll get the gist, and while you’re doing so, by the time I’ve written and posted, you’ll be reading and I’ll be busy fucking wild style.
I remember a friend once telling me her partner insisted she give him blow-job as a birthday gesture. Only it was her birthday, so how it was a gift for her remains a mystery between themselves, especially as I gather he was not particularly keen to reciprocate.
Suffice to say since meeting the love of my life I have always had Christmas Sex – albeit mostly tired, unimaginative and vanilla in style as a result of excessive eating, doing the unwrapping thing and very little else. A cold Norfolk beachfront just several yards (or metres) away was a nice option, but as in life generally, the knowledge it was there obviated the need to experience it too much.
It still fills me with certain warmth though, to be able to have perfunctory sex (or a walk on a beach) on these dates in the security I’m guaranteed these luxuries annually for the rest of my life, unless he dies first, and even then I wouldn’t rule it out (much as I prefer the thought of being the first to go).
Am I starting to sound like one half of the kind of suburban couple you’d already like to murder?
Having written this I intend to ensure that we don’t!
The Chinese may see 2012 the Year of the Dragon I’ve decided it’s the Year of the Rabbit for me, at least in my nether regions.
Pre-boyfriend, there’s only one specific encounter that falls into the category of my Christmas cunt becoming a nativity scene…a stable waiting for a donkey to arrive.
Every two years my parents fly from Australia to spend Christmas in the UK with their daughter. For years we have frequented the same hotel in Norfolk, minutes from the Royals at Sandringham and for years I was the only guest ageing without displaying any signs of my life maturing like a normal person. I wonder if for a time they wrote me off as a lesbian. While my brother appeared with a wife and then children a few Christmases on, I kept arriving constantly alone.
And then I lost 9 stone. I’d like to say I was a slip of a girl but it’s be a big fat lie, but I was no longer a heifer for some cattle-ranch owner to be proud of. It was this year I decided L should come and spend Boxing Day with us. In tradition steeped at the hotel, Boxing Day was cause for a gala dinner (shame on you for cancelling it this year Best Western!) and after so long solo I wanted company. Inviting my best friend and saying we’d share a room probably only fuelled the fires that I was of the homosexual persuasion, but she was my longest relationship so why not?
It was the first time as an adult I was comfortable in my own skin and confident in dresses. I remember sashaying into the reception to greet my parents and was informed heads literally turned. I headed to the bar to order drinks a well built man in a tux bounded over the room next to me to do the same. We exchanged pleasantries and he made mention of seeing me in the dining room.
Back then I used to drink, so L and I went for gold that night. My father tried to keep up but finally pulled out of the competition leaving L and I to it but warning me I might want to make every second drink a water….I don’t think so.
The age old flirtatious glancing game was played over the 5 course meal with the man from the bar, who was sat at a table with a friend. The set up seemed fine and par for the course for L and myself, routinal almost.
As the live band played cheesy cover songs, L and I took to the floor to bust a few moves. Rather embarrassingly the two guys got up and tried to shimmy over to us. It’s one thing for girls to be dancing together, it’s one thing for gay guys to be dancing together – it all looks so right and aesthetically pleasing, but two straight guys dancing together…neither being particularly skilled at the art looked awkward at best, visually and mentally disturbing at worst. Still fair play to them for going into some male heterosexual dancing to woo two fair maidens.
L was the master of executing ‘hard to get’ so we ended up playing a skewed form of kiss chase of us gliding musically into another area of the dance floor as the men rhythmically stomped there way after us. After much teasing and sadistic pleasure at the sight of their macho jerking we allowed ourselves to part and naturally pair up with our respective beaus for the evening.
Eventually my parents retired for the evening, my father somewhat disapproving of the age of the man attempting to keep up with me and the music and my mother observing that my dancing was so perfectly pretentiously postured I looked like I was dancing in a pop video – not sure whether that was an insult or compliment.
Ever desperate for attention and ever the more intoxicated I was not ready to call an end on the night. The band and hotel management, however, were, so L and I took our guests to the hotel bar. Full of Christmas spirit I decided to run up a rather exorbitant tab on my fathers bill quoting his room number with each round – always easy to be generous with someone else’s money. Baileys was flowing freely and the men were having whiskey, it all seemed awfully civilised. It was actually civilised.
The 4 star hotel was designed for those seeking large, cosy, plush traditional comforts. The taste and cost of the hotel was reflected in the majority of patrons (basically everyone else apart from the crazy Australians) in so much as the matriarchal or patriarchal heads of the families there were in their twilight years and from very financially comfortable backgrounds. Each immediate family followed type in terms of being well dressed and well behaved with a heavy dollop of upper middle class pompousness. Coming from a classless, careless, undisciplined and extroverted background I swung between the extremes of despising their attitudes towards the less financially secure, to a wonderment of being part of this picture. All this is why I hooked up with the guy. Don’t get me wrong, the fact that they were the only two bachelors there did play a big part but the guy I was with, while not unattractive, was no stunner. His clipped perfect Oxford accent, coupled with the fact that he was a pilot for the RAF (as I write this I wonder if he just made that profession up to get the girls-loving a uniform and all that) was enough for me to allow him to lavish attention on me for an evening.
In terms of the Royal Air Force, L had done her duty by playing wingman for me for the night. Sadly while the guy she had occupied was better looking he was also incredibly boring to the point where L pretended to go to our room and never came back. I checked in on her to find she was exhausted in her duties and refused to return, leaving me to entertain both men alone.
L’s departure had left both men vying for my attention. It got even better but I thought it dangerous to play them off against each other. I had done so in past situations and it wasn’t always wise (more on that another time). Whilst I gently flirted with Mr RAF’s friend, I tried to do it as discreetly as I could. Keeping my options open but not severing any ties either. L was right he was boring and ultimately whilst realising he was a third wheel he had no intention of removing himself from the picture. So I decided I would remove myself, with Mr RAF from the picture and invited him to walk me to my room.
The hotel had been recently refurbished with a new lift. Each lift entrance opened a small lounge come reception room. Given L was sleeping in my room, I was grateful for disability legislation requiring the installation of the lift and said mini lounge as it was the only available space for sex. I was also appreciative the hotel had yet to be sold to Best Western and was run by a family. This state of affairs meant neither the management nor clientèle were of the nature to be roaming the hotel in the early hours of the morning looking for couples in flagrante in public areas.
Unfortunately the sex matched the attitude of the man. He was certainly keen to put on a good performance, possibly to make up for his below average penis, but he was staid, conservative and restrained in his fucking.
The chair wasn’t the best, it was a lounge chair so difficult to position myself in such a manner that allowed him to perform oral pleasure on me for any lengthy time without my limbs starting to cramp. I had the feeling he wasn’t overly familiar with one night stands, and certainly not an easy girl prepared to give it up within a few hours in a public place. He was over eager and thus overexcited and it all finished rather quickly. This didn’t bother me in the slightest. By all accounts I could now say I’d officially had a festive fuck, made all the more christmassy by his chipolata masquerading as a cock, AND I’d slept with someone in the forces – allegedly.
We exchanged numbers and he and his friend left. Either my openness (sluttiness) or general performance on the night in question must have been appealing and left him wanting because he was texting me non stop – texting became sexting, which is always an enjoyable pastime.
No, I never saw him again. The texting stopped promptly when he informed me he was going up to see ‘Mummy’ one weekend. I literally felt sick in my stomach that someone in there late 40s would refer to their mother as ‘Mummy’. My wonderment of the posh and my pretending to be a part of it left me quickly and I felt disgust rise at this revelation of how different we were because of the great British class system. He backtracked and said he’s referred to her as ‘Mummy’ as a joke but it was too late. All I could think of was him stripping bare in that lounge and fucking with socks on. My head filled with the image of his face bobbing up between my legs, his perfectly groomed head asking if he was doing the right thing and was I enjoying him tonguing my clit, like a puppy eager for approval. I could never go back there again and I was no longer sure a man that had a ‘Mummy’ could actually fly for Queen and country. That one text stole my fantasy life of living with the upper-classes – the closest I would ever get is Downton Abbey on a Sunday night.
This year at the hotel I had someone who could provide a perfunctory Christmas fuck and on any given day of the week come up with some perverted creative way to blow my mind and send my body into sensory overload.
And his cock wasn’t the only one on show to me this festive period. A whale had washed up on the beach outside the hotel. I walked around it feeling rather sad at the death of the great creature, and the looting of its teeth and jaw (which apparently generate some serious cash – this is true I saw one in the Museum of London Docklands this week). Until my boyfriend excitedly pointed out that what I had thought a fin was in fact a jumbo whale penis. It too was magnificent. The fact that it was so ‘out there’ made me curious as to how it had sprung out in death. Was it a relaxation of muscles whilst comatose, had it died in the act or was it knocking out a quick one before it met its untimely end. I’ll never know for sure and no I wasn’t sick enough to sneak back that night and collect its cock for cash or any other perverse sexual act.
From a chipolata to a whale dick, I have seen them all over the last few Christmas’s. Unlike the children on the beach that were kicking and jumping up and down on the whale’s jelly flaccid penis, I did not incorporate such activities on the chipolata I had been presented with some years ago…although I have a feeling he may have quite enjoyed it if I had. Having received the large bar bill the following morning and realising Mr RAF hadn’t once put his hand in his wallet and had slept with his daughter, I don’t think my father would have objected to me violently manhandling Mr RAF’s cock in such a fashion either.
South London’s House Of Sodom
My sex life is so bordering on non-existent at the moment, I forget at times that I have had a hundred dicks.
Ages ago I did say I’d detail how I ended up losing my anal virginity. I’d like to say it took a long time, a lot of persuasion and seduction but that would be a lie. It took an Irish man, a slow dance and an awful lot of Red Bull and Vodkas.
Back in the time machine to the early noughties and back to the Norbury – February 2000 I do believe. By now L and I were practically part of the furniture. This isn’t too far form the truth. I remember one night the titchy toothless goon that mumbled broken English through his broken teeth, responsible for cleaning the decimated club at 4am on Saturday took it upon himself to empty an ash tray on L. I’m not sure why exactly. Perhaps he just wanted us out of the club so he could clean or perhaps it was because he had overheard L and myself discussing the sizeable owner of the Norbury in a rather unflattering way. Whatever the reason, we certainly didn’t hang around that night and left promptly brushing the ash off L’s favourite black skirt and not a man in tow.
The night resulting in bursting my bum hole open was on all accounts a success (as ashtray goon wasn’t around to reduce our leaving routine). Eoin was his name and being a solicitor was his game (I confess I still have his business card in a box tucked away in the loft). It all sounded so impressive, coupled with the accent and the combination of black hair, blue eyes and a rugby players build I found myself unable to refuse the offer back to his place to continue the night. L had scored with his model-esque friend – sadly she was in such a state of shock at his beauty and unable to comprehend his attraction to her she quite convinced herself it was too good to be true and decided that he would ultimately be unattainable and therefore gay. He wasn’t and spent a good part of the night trying to convince her of this.
Still for all her protestations, she decided not to end the party early and we all went back to Eoin’s place. It wasn’t a foursome though. Through the amber haze of excessive Red Bull I think there was at least four men, to the two of us. We crashed into there house and I can really only remember what I was after – and that was cock and some sexual attention.
L was not after this. She was after….some sleep.
On reflection, back in the day, we did some very careless and dangerous things. What on Earth possessed us to think going back to a strangers house with at least four men (that I recall) was a good idea is now beyond me. But in youth we see only our immortality and how good it might be, not how disastrous it could be. L was not in good shape. I grabbed a condom from her purse and hoofed it upstairs to Eoin’s bedroom, assuming she would entertain the others downstairs.
I’ve moaned about bedroom etiquette and how important it was but at this point in my sexual career it was certainly not something I had an abundance of. To my shame I vividly remember him ready and waiting naked in bed and me standing in the middle of the room, whipping the control knickers down to my ankles, peeling my tights down, bending over – big bumwiggling ungainly in the air – undoing the straps of my shoes, kicking the lot off and then hitching my dress up and climbing in the bed. I am fully aware there was nothing gracious or saucy about the strip tease. It screamed amateur and ‘use me’.
And he did. Or rather he wanted to. In those heady days he started in the most conservative way. A simple missionary style pumping. Still new to me, as he furiously thrusted, without any affection or tenderness I spent my time just trying to fully experience the sensation of having a cock inside me. This was only the second man I’d slept with, so I was trying desperately to learn what to do, how to lie, how to move rhythmically, how to touch, where to touch in a drunken soulless scenario. One thing that stuck out was that it hurt a lot less than the first time. In fact I half wondered if perhaps (having only seen one previously) he had a small, or smaller than average cock. Certainly his cock didn’t have me yelping out loud, nor did it bring tears to my eyes…but I still liked it. So much so that no sooner had he filled one condom than I was practically shaking him and begging him for more. More cock…but not in mouth…that practise was still unsavoury to me at that point.
At this stage, I think he realised I was a cock hungry bitch or rather my 22 year old vagina needed to be satisfied and was insatiable. It was dictating the terms of the action thus sleep after his first orgasm was not on the cards. He played a good hand and sent me downstairs for another condom if I wanted to continue – little did I know what I was in store for.
I trotted down the stairs into the living room. I had assumed L would be there – or in a bedroom, but she wasn’t. I think she was in a reception room. Sleeping on all fours. A position inviting doggy style sex but communicating sheer exhaustion – dancing to Wham can take it out of you. I loved L and I was very concerned that she was sleeping with her shoes on. It looked uncomfortable. I felt inclined to make her more cozy. Did I wake her or find one of the flatmates to pop her on a couch or in a bed or find a blanket? No, I decided to take off her shoes. Only my minge was aching for more cock and that particular desire was far stronger than that of playing the good friend. After removing one shoe, I raided her handbag and grabbed two condoms. One condom I popped in her bra – just in case she should wake and decide to go for gold she’d have protection. The other I held like a precious flower and flew back upstairs.
I flung the door opened, hitched my dress up and hungrily handled his cock. However in the excitement of getting fucked twice in a night and having missed sex education at school due to band practise (thus bananas and condoms were never part of my school curriculum) I ripped the condom. Fatigue had gripped Eoin, he tried waving me away, as if the broken sheath was the Universe telling me that a second shot was not going to happen, but cock fever had gripped me and I was back out of the bed and back down the stairs into L’s handbag.
When I returned with a third condom Eoin looked a little perturbed, as if having access to so many condoms cast some sort of doubt as to my alleged innocence and ‘girl next door appeal’. That we should have actually bought condoms for this eventuality may have meant we were ‘professionals’. Maybe it was just his Catholicism, but me excitedly waving the third condom almost killed that second session. Perhaps though my childish excitation and the fact I was waving the Durex like it was a golden ticket to Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory reassured him of my sexual naivety. So he let me back into bed, and lulled me into a false sense of security by adopting the classic position. I thought it was very daring that he flung my legs over his shoulders. His cock ploughed much, much deeper and much much slower. This sensation was instantly more gratifying and because it seemed more about my pleasure I felt physically more content and emotionally more hopeful. But he’d adopted the position and pace for a vastly different reason.
I thought his cock slipped out naturally and due to my inhibitions and insistence the covers remain on he was struggling to replace it. Only he knew exactly what he was doing and there was enough natural lubricant from me and the rubber protective shield for him to force his cock into my arse. I didn’t say no, nor did I want to. My bottom though was naturally inclined to say no. After all it had 22 years of releasing things not ingesting them. As far as my virginal arse was concerned it was a one way passage, and the force of him stretching and sporadically sliding his hardness into me didn’t really persuade my bum into thinking otherwise. His assumptions I was eager, inexperienced and foolishly romantic were all bang on. I allowed him to because I thought it might mean more than one night. But it didn’t. It just meant I had anal sex. It hurt. In fairness though he did it the best he could – that is for a guy that wants to fuck a girl in the rear, knows she’s a virgin but has no real consideration of her feelings or her body. The position though made it bearable. The surprise of it all, the tension and tenderness of my ring-piece afterwards meant I wasn’t going to be getting a fourth condom and forcing him for another fuck.
I certainly scurried back down the stairs, but that was to grab L and flee before my bleeding bottom was penetrated again.
L was awake and in a panic when I found her (apparently someone stole her shoe)…until I pointed it out to her so we could go.
The sun had risen and bed beckoned us both. Given we were without transport and L’s home in Essex was a hike from Norbury she decided she would cajole her father, who worked at Liverpool Street in Central London, to allow us to take his car home. We could get home quicker and go to bed and he could rely on public transport to make his own way home from the weekend shift.
As fantastically well turned out as we were on the Friday evening, I’m not sure the façade was still in tact as we rocked into the factory L’s dad worked at on the Saturday morning. He didn’t look unhappy to see us, but I suspect he knew the reason as to why we were making an appearance at his half empty workplace. L was doing her best to please him and offered to make tea for the skeleton crew working the graveyard shift at the factory. Before she got down to milk, teabags, sugar and hot water she shrugged off her faux leather biker jacket, in front of all her father’s colleagues. And there it was poking out of the top of her bra and the low cut top – the corner of a Durex.
As I wasn’t in a position to sit down comfortably (at least not without an inflatable ring cushion) like a well practised magician I was able to snatch it out and slip it down the sleeve of my matching faux leather jacket. L looked flummoxed at my groping her breast so openly in public but my expression told her not to pursue the issue there and then. It wasn’t until I was sitting on an inflatable ring cushion in the car home that I explained alongside being the culprit for removing her shoe for the sake of comfort, I had also come to her aid offering emergency protection should her invitational yogic cat pose whilst sleeping be taken advantage of during our visit to South London’s House of Sodom.
Getting Wet At The Seaside (not quite what I had in mind)
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.
How I Didn’t Cum To Lose My Anal Virginity
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.
A Very Tame Beginning – woof!
I’ve thought long about where to start and it has to be the beginning. But please don’t think the unfolding of my Odyssey will follow chronologically; with the cock-numbers I’ve clocked up I really can’t remember it that way. Sometimes, on a tube or in the middle of a street, I’ll get a really vivid sexual flashback to some encounter – one I’d long forgotten. Thus for the purposes of this recounting I’ll write as I remember. It certainly couldn’t be done on an alpha-names-basis because I honestly can’t recall every one.
In fact, I’d quite convinced myself every guy I slept with whose name I couldn’t immediately remember was called ‘James’. Then I realised, statistically, it looked like I’d slept with an inordinate number of Jameses so I decided to ‘fess up to myself and admit at times I maybe hadn’t even bothered finding out. As per the title of this blog though, all but a tiny few of these ‘Jameses’ were complete and utter dicks.
But I digress.
First I’m going to tell you about my flowering (vomit inducing – but what phrase to use?). Fear not, for those of you with teak-like sensitivities when it comes to pure filth. I’ll get round to that, but just not here and now.
This tale is tame in comparison to what I get up to slightly later in life, but a girl has got to start somewhere – and like quite a few I did so hymen intacto, albeit later than most. I was 21 when I finally ‘did it’.
Losing your virginity will always be memorable. I think. Certainly for a lot of women, definitely for me.
I’m not a hair racist, I promise (though we have some floating round my family so the propensity is there. They’re called ‘rangas’ in Australia after the Great orange-coloured Ape. I apologise on their behalf.). But I nearly got fucked by a ginger. And not the best looking one at that. He would have been my first. He wasn’t unattractive, but had that kind of sallow, underfed, English look that weirdly appeals to me. I liked him. But this was back in the day when mobile phones were something you had glued to your hand permanently as status symbol and only a tiny few had discovered text.
Having met him the week before, I arranged to see him the following week at the same club. One we were routine regulars at in Norbury, South London, of which more shortly. Had it not been for my best friend and clubbing companion ‘L’s’ poor time-keeping and inability to value or prioritise the needs of others, the first cock that entered me would therefore have been attached to a bush of ginger pubes.
Still, ‘L’ was just…’L’ and, it’s important to note, that particular Friday she was ‘very ill’ but ‘forced’ herself to go to the place anyway ‘for my sake’ (and her own to some extent). But by the time we got there I was running well over an hour late for the pre-proposed rendezvous which had been arranged the week before and with no contact since. ‘L’, I (and my date) were such regulars there, that on waiting to be let in, the Bouncer himself delivered a rather short and infuriated message from my Ginger-(bread)-Man. He’d fucked off. So it was over before it even began.
‘L’ was indifferent. Her current fellow wasn’t present that night so she was happy enough to have me to herself – more so because Gingerbread had spilt two pints of beer over her the previous week (one of which we’d purchased).
But there that night was Gavin.
This was back in the late nineties, when boy-bands, particularly Irish ones, were all the rage. The nightclub we were at in Norbury (imaginatively called ‘The Norbury’) was at the back of an Irish pub so had quite a few Irish punters.
Gavin was every schoolgirl’s dream. I was a late starter at 21 so still possessed a teen girl’s heart and was immediately filled with a longing to just…just have a kiss actually. I wanted him as my boyfriend.
He wasn’t tall, maybe 5’7, very slim and had the hair style of boy bands at that time – curtains and beautiful blue eyes. Apart from the height issue (which is more to do with me being Australian and considered tall in comparison with my British counterparts – especially in 4 inch heels) he was undoubtedly my type.
But I knew from the rather meagre female pickings looks-wise in the club that night there were a lot of girls there thinking he was their type too, so competition was high. I was a big girl then, but not morbidly obese. With a great looking face and youth on my side, getting guys wasn’t difficult, but I was just on the cusp of discovering this.
My esteem and experience was low, but ever the determined dreamer and with wild youthful optimism, I thought I’d at least give it a crack. I felt very much aware of what I then thought were my physical failings so convinced myself I couldn’t rely just looks alone. The thumping music was hardly amenable to my dazzling him with personality, wit and intellect. I was left then with only one choice. It was this. For me to demonstrate – the dance.
I must’ve busted some serious moves on the floor. A fair criticism of my antics is that while I can execute some complicated moves and have great rhythm, I suspect if ever marked on grace I wouldn’t be standing with a gold medal round my neck. Others may differ. I AM good at this stuff so maybe I’m being hard on myself – because it did do the trick I wanted that night.
He boogied his way over to me. Then it was a dance off between me and some cougar-type who must’ve been in her odd-40s (which for me at 21 seemed ancient) but I shimmied her clean off the floor. One swing of my child bearing hips had her staggering back to the bar as I funked it up with my Gavin to the point where he said ‘It’s okay – you’ve got me now you don’t have to try so hard.’
I was completely mortified I’d been quite so obvious and more so at the thought of what my dancing must’ve looked like to have warranted such a comment.
It got to the end of the night and though I hadn’t had a kiss from him publicly – allegedly as a result of the presence of friends – he waited for me after as I collected my stuff from the cloakroom. Outside my best friend’s squeeze was waiting for her but I leapt at the invitation to go for a ‘walk’ with my prince.
He crossed the road heading us down some residential side street. I felt slightly worried here. My best friend and her boyfriend ware providing my lift home and I, completely unfamiliar with the territory was unsure how I’d navigate my way back to their car. But hormones and an abundance of intoxicants overpowered rationale. We’re not talking date-rape here, we’re talking lack of inhibition.
I remember walking to a front door. He reached in his pocket and drew out a ring of keys asking me which one to try. For some reason it hadn’t quite clicked this might be his house. There was a rush of adrenaline at the thought he may in fact be breaking and entering someplace. I got the keys wrong twice so the third time he chose and let us in to a very dark, modest and quiet dwelling. Period; typical suburban three up three down at a guess. He told me he lived there with his brother. Naively I believed him. Looking back, this might not have been a total lie but if it had been the case why wouldn’t he have taken me to his bedroom and why the necessity to ensure the lights were off and noise kept to a minimum? So I found myself in the kitchen, located at the back of the house.
So, as for that first kiss….
OK. I’d only ever really been kissed by three or four boys previously plus a girl (and I liked it). But he looked so bloody gorgeous. Even my friend ‘L’ was shocked that I’d ‘pulled’ him (bit of a backhanded compliment there) but then…
Then smell of his breath. It was like he’d eaten a four cheese pizza made with the strongest blue cheeses going, rancid meat and hadn’t brushed his teeth for a week. I tried to push my disgust to the back of my mind but the smell is always the first association I have with this memory.
He began undressing and I watched, in an unbelieving way, realising, actually, tonight I was entering (I thought at the time) another world – the world of the fully initiated. I felt excited, ‘grown up’. And the knowing I’d made the decision to do this with someone completely random rather than waiting for a relationship made it doubly true. It felt like an empowering choice (which in hindsight it was) and one that would lay the foundations of the following ten years of my sexual life.
His build was slight and boyish and I inhaled sharply at the definition of his torso. The sinewy muscles in his arms, the hairless chest and the six pack stomach chiselled out of the leanness of him. I felt my desire for him increase and there was part of me wanting to thrust my fist in the air and shout ‘yesss!’ at the joy of having scored such physical perfection and overall prettiness. The foul, the previous liplock I could forgive in exchange for the sight of that young, hard body. He took my hands down to his jeans but my fumbling at undoing his belt frustrated him to the point where he finished stripping himself.
I was almost too scared to look and face the reality of ‘cock’ but he was eager enough for me to do it and grabbed my hand, forcing it down there. I gripped it and it felt firm and smooth and warm and huge. Intimidating in a way. I wondered if they were all so big (in time I would discover he was a rare find and while the term ‘hung like a donkey’ might have been applied to him this is not the general rule as most women will have found). Somewhere in the duration of his undressing I mumbled I was a virgin and he told me it would be okay.
He stood there naked in the moonlight, shining through the kitchen windows. I was dumbstruck, holding his penis and not sure what I was supposed to do.
‘You’re going to have to take your clothes off, or do you want me to do it?’
I assured him it was fine. But the thought of being totally naked in front of him frightened me. I had awful body image issues. I kept having to remind myself if he didn’t fancy me he wouldn’t be there, certainly he wouldn’t be standing to attention so aggressively.
As nice as I looked (and believe me as a woman there can be massive effort involved) to have to strip down and reveal the accessories and garments used to achieve this is a daunting prospect. It was all about where to begin.
I knew the large waist-high natural control knickers had to be removed pronto and the tights would have to go too. I imagined those items were the most likely to make that…thing I was holding decline rapidly into a state of floppy uninterest.
At the time I’d always insisted on wearing said knickers one size too small, really to ensure they held my tummy in in public. So I rolled them down and felt my tummy rolling out, toned-like appearance gone but the roundness of my stomach hidden by the kind cut of my simple black dress.
Then I realised I hadn’t factored my shoes into the equation. I looked down at the straps and tried to undo them. But it’s quite a feat (or perhaps feet) to remove strappy shoes while standing, kissing someone, massaging their cock and thinking about what a penetrated hymen is going to feel like.I got one shoe off, which then had me force one bare foot in tip-toe position so I wasn’t looking lopsided during the ongoing kissing thing.
The second shoe wouldn’t budge. The strap was so tight, it just wouldn’t slip through the link and because of its tightness I couldn’t just kick or rip the shoe off my foot. I was wrestling with it. It was now an enemy to the outfit, an enemy to my dignity and of the entire night. I saw my chances of sex slipping away.
Eventually I crouched down to do it. Not glamorous or seductive. The incident was traumatic, leaving deep psychological scars forever to echo through my life – sexual or otherwise.
But having flung the last shoe off and now able to kick off the tights and knickers I was left standing in my black dress. This I could slip off easily enough and the bra to follow, releasing my plump breasts in what I thought a downward swing.
Then I was standing – naked in the moonlight too. Nowhere near as pretty or toned as him I thought but the hard-on didn’t wither with his scrutiny of me. I could feel his blue eyes take me all in. Standing and being judged, purely on appearance.
‘Get down and suck my cock.’
I knelt down, self conscious of my nudity and all my wobbling bits. I gave it a try, a hesitant lick and put a bit in my mouth but it seemed…too much to take. My approach was unprofessional, amateurish. I licked it like a lollipop until he forced it in my mouth. I knew you weren’t supposed to graze it with your teeth so I was mindful of that but did one blow (as in the title of the job in question) or suck? He either took pity of my inexperience or was frustrated by it. He pushed me on my back and told me to spread my legs – wide. With no experience I could really only follow his direction.
The kitchen floor was hard and uncomfortable. It was summer and I could feel myself sticking to the lino but my curiosity meant the feel of the surface could be overlooked. Legs spread and my vagina exposed for inspection by someone other than myself had me quivering in the balmy summer night.
A lot of women I’ve spoken to discuss the pain involved with losing one’s virginity, especially if one’s hymen is intact – which, as I’ve said, mine was. But I’ve heard a lot say they suffered in silence.
Not me. I was very vocal about it all. He spread my legs even further, pulled at the sockets then gripped my wrists above my head and tried to slide his formidable cock into me.
Every time he tried to enter, he would be greeted with an ‘Ow!’ or ‘Ooh no that really hurts.’
I must’ve been talking ten to the dozen from nerves as well as the pain as he tried to insert himself. In the end he shushed me and told me to stop talking and put his hand on my mouth.
He forced his cock inside me. And yes it fucking hurt. Every thrust, the length of him going all the way in and then almost pulling himself out completely, repeatedly stretching me and causing pain.
But their was a pleasure to it too.. Eventually my muscles relaxed and began to accept, rather than reject this alien invasion of me. There was something soothing about the weight of him on top of me, sweat enabled him to slide his body up and down on mine, our skins as close as you can get which bought me to a state where I could more readily enjoy this new experience.
With that said, because I was quite a good girl and rarely stayed out late or went out more than once a week, the toll of our recent burst of socialising had taken its effect.. Once my cunt got used to the sensation of him moving in and out I began to feel my eyelids grow heavy at the rhythmic insertion and rocking. He must’ve noticed because then he told me to grip my thighs around his waist. I obeyed without question. He instructed me to do it tighter; as tight as I could. There really was a degree of fitness required to this new hobby, and I wasn’t the most energetic or gym-friendly of girls but I was still slightly worried about crushing him between my very ample thighs. Perhaps though, the warm, soft, silky pale flesh felt good because as I really gripped him he began to increase pace. His new vigour was sharp – painful again – but rather than risk a telling off or being physically restrained from verbalising any discomfort I bit my lip and endured it.
At this point, whether through noise, scent or both, a dog from outside made itself known but very unloved by barking, jumping and scratching at the kitchen’s back door. It immediately snapped me out of what at worst could have eventuated in an embarrassing slumber mid-intercourse or at best silent endurance of a consensual hard pounding. Gavin could see I was shaken by this and definitely put off my stride from our four legged friend announcing its presence at the door not three feet away.
‘Don’t worry about the dog; it’s okay.’
But by now though it had started to dawn on me that, given he was the same age as me, he probably lived with his parents and there was a chance they could walk in on us. By the time that thought popped into my head the reality of the situation really hit home. I was in a strange house, with a strange guy, in an area of London I wasn’t familiar with and no way of getting back to my bedsit.
I checked my watch – I’d really only been gone for a little over half an hour but if I missed that lift home I’d arranged on leaving the club I’d be lost. I endured more pumping but whilst he had his head down (in the work sense of the word) moving in deeper and more roughly I felt my attention drift to watching the minute hand move along on the watch face of my wrist.
‘I have to go,’ I whispered.
‘No you’re fine, just let me come.’
Great, I hadn’t even used a condom – one more thing to worry about.
‘No, I really have to. I’ll miss my lift.’
I began raising myself on my elbows muttering I needed to find my friend and put my clothes on. Possibly not in that order because I was getting quite hysterical and loud. As a result he withdrew his cock and let me stand and dress quickly.
I apologised profusely and walked to the front door. As I tried to open it, I found it forced shut. His hand was pressed on the frame, preventing any exit.
‘I want to finish fucking you.’ He was naked and his erection looked as angry as he did.
‘I want that too but…please I need to go home.’
I had the sinking realisation that irrespective of the difference in our weight he was infinitely stronger than me and could cause real problems if he wanted to.
‘I didn’t come. I want you to finish me off. It’ll be nice – for us both.’
I tried to push his arm away but it remained cemented. Whether he was fooling around, or he thought his parents may make an appearance or the tears welling up in my eyes hit a nerve, he moved, unlocked the door, and let me go.
A brusque kiss before I shot out, like a mouse released from a humane trap.
I found my friend’s car but no sign of her. Relief flooded me that I’d still get my ride. She turned up after five minutes, furious at me as she’ been walking the streets with her boyfriend (to be) in an attempt to locate me. Apparently I sat on the bonnet of her car swinging my legs like a pixie. I was shoeless. In the rush to leave the house I hadn’t bothered with retrieving my footwear. Getting them off took long enough, I couldn’t risk any more time in getting them back on.
So. What happened with Gavin?
The week after that incident I saw him at the nightclub, but was too shy to say anything. Eventually he came and found me at the bar and asked if I was going to avoid him all night. I was lost for words but thrilled that he found me and wanted to talk.. He told me he wanted to see me again, to fuck me again but couldn’t tonight because his girlfriend from Ireland was over visiting.
Then a sinking realisation in fact, this man, beautiful as he was, was never going to be my boyfriend. Chances were I would never sleep with him again. I swallowed the lump in my throat, and took drinks to my friend to update her. She did her best to protect me that night, ensure I kept my head held high and behaved in dignified fashion. And I did. But as we left the club on the last song (unlike us – we were usually to the last ones out) I broke free from her, ran back to his table where he was seated alone. I could see ‘L’s’ head shaking knowing what was going to happen.
‘Why?’ I asked, ‘I really liked you.’
‘I like you too but she’s…’
He shrugged and I knew where I stood in the scheme of things. It seemed somewhat fitting the last song of the evening was Ronan Keating’s ‘You say it best when you say nothing at all.‘
‘L’ was right – I shouldn’t have said anything.