There are three things you need to know about me before I enlighten and possibly enrage you with the truth about love as it see it.
My husband’s name is David;
The most romantic moment of my life is linked with a boy named Romeo.
It’s possible you may conject on the significance of you the above or why I’m telling you this. That my heart was broken by Romeo and I ‘settled’ for David? That Romeo died and again I ‘settled’ for David? That fate tore me away from Romeo and – guess what? – I ‘settled’ for David.
Please let me put your mind at rest. I’ve never ‘settled’ for anyone, least of all my husband. David is the love of my life. I knew the minute I laid eyes on him he’d be the man with whom I’d spend the rest of my life.
He is romantic and completely devoted to me. But that hat doesn’t alter the fact the most romantic, the most powerful moment of my life was shared with Romeo. If when I die life flashes before me, I swear my most vivid memory will be that of Romeo, or, rather, Romeo and me.
I’m no different to the majority women my age, which is mid-thirties. I was, like most others raised on a diet of trashy romantic novels handed down by my mother and culturally saturated in filmic rom-coms where the Grand Gesture comes – as it inevitably does – when the heroine gets Mr. Right.
TV shows like ‘Sex and the City’ have a lot to answer for. If you yourself a woman in her mid-thirties and continue to hold that dream close to your heart, I hate bursting your bubble but you could be waiting another thirty years; you could be waiting your whole life for something that will never come. The promise we’ve been fed is a lie. If you set your standards up there with Bridget Jones or Carrie Bradshaw be prepared for heartache and devastation – although I truly hope your knight in shining armour rushes in to save you and keep you safe, secure and happy for the rest of your living years.
Brand me a cynic. I prefer the term realist. When you’ve fucked over one hundred men, one tends to acquire a degree of experience from which to draw in matters of heart and boudoir.
I’m not sure what people think the instant they hear the word ‘London’. It obviously depends on your age, location and direct experience of the city. Some may remember the glory days of Brit Pop in the mid 90s, others the current British invasion of manufactured bands like One Direction and The Wanted. Then again people may thing of the ‘Swinging Sixties’ and Carnaby Street. Others, more removed from the Capital, may imagine The Queen, St Paul’s or a red double decker bus. Maybe the Queen on a bus going past the cathedral, I really don’t know particularly care.
Having spent fifteen years in the place, let me recount a darker side to few will ever encounter. The majority – including for a while time myself – endure that awful grind of nine-to-five, spending what free time they have enjoying the delights of London’s vibrant nightlife. It is those working to create the vibrant and diverse scene of London at night who inhabit a completely different world to those ordinary people living ordinary lives.
I left a routine office job to immerse myself in Theatre-land, becoming duty manager of the small but (to us) perfectly formed Players’ Theatre underneath the Arches at Charing Cross. Sadly it went bust, but that’s story alone in itself. Visit it now and you’ll still find the premises buried in the dim, cobbled backwater of Villiers Street which forms the Station’s foundation..
Nowadays though, having been renamed, re-branded and renovated it has become a dull, lifeless place, unimaginatively named ‘The Charing Cross Theatre’. When I managed it, it had gone sixty-five years without the smallest refurbishment. The box office literally seated one person; you couldn’t swing a cat (and we actually had a theatre cat who on occasion helped himself to fish in the kitchen prior to restaurant staff started their shift and if caught was punished by the head chef who somehow did find enough space to swing him).
The carpets and walls were a dark plush red. The upstairs reception was furnished with couches with fraying covers and rickety wooden chairs and tables begging for someone fat to break them so a personal injury claim could be made on the venue’s insurance. The small bar was awkward to navigate in because of the massive supporting pole standing bang in the centre of this tiny space. The two hundred-seat auditorium retained its original red and gold decore with similarly-coloured and incredibly cheap-looking tables and seats. The basement toilets were permanently blocked threatening to flood with a single wrong flush.
The theatre itself was sweet. And diminutive to say the least, it included a minuscule balcony and two dinky boxes. A bar at the rear and the little wooden tables between seats allowed patrons to eat and drink as they watched the show.
The walls were scattered with ancient paintings of Queen Victoria and black and white pictures of bygone stars of Victorian Music Hall. It was unique in its own dingy way holding (as most theatres do) years of secrets, and was run by an eight-five year old man who continued taking the stage for the full six nights a week we were open. He had white hair, a white goatee, moustache and no concept of Employment Law (I kind of liked this because it meant if I didn’t like a staff member or their performance was poor we’d instantly sack them without warning or the slightest official procedure).
There’s a rule of thumb in theatre: never run a performance if there are more actors on stage than audience in seats. Sadly this rule resulted in a lot of cancelled performances for us at the Player’s. Where did it all go wrong? Turns out as the theatre entered the 21st century, people no longer wanted Victorian Music Hall. The owner did his best to keep that most traditional of genres afloat but it was futile.
What went right? Mainly one thing – a bright spark working there had the idea of getting a late night licence and opening membership to all and any employees within Theatre-land, thus offering an intimate and in its way quite exclusive watering hole for when they themselves finished work. The location was perfect for the crowd of heavy drinkers toiling in heart of London’s West End. After the negligible audience trickled out of the Players’ 10.30pm, by eleven a throng of parched musicians, actors, dancers, sound and light technicians flooded in. That late night bar was the cash cow keeping that kept the theatre afloat.
I beheld many in time there and experienced much, but none so important as my genuine sexual awakening. I didn’t lose my virginity till I was twenty-one, by then I was that cock-hungry I was basically (and literally) sex-mad. Taking charge of a venue that stank of pheromones and was so charged with oestrogen and testosterone when I was twenty-three was the equivalent putting starved a kid in a candy shop and leaving her with no supervision. With the monstrous libido like mine, even I had my fill at the Player’s.
The hours were mental; 4pm to 4am six days a week. The upshot of these hostile and unimaginably exhausting hours was that both customers and work colleagues became my social circle de facto family. It was inevitable I’d eventually seek a semblance of romantic involvement – something maybe even permanent – with someone or another found there.
Trying to find staff to work those kinds of hours for less than the minimal wage was difficult. Of the five interviews arranged, Romeo was the only candidate who showed up so was therefore employed on the spot. He was from Albania with a strong grasp of English and previous bar experience so I figured he’d survive. On his advice I recruited his younger brother (a self-confessed rapist with poor English) and his cousin (an out and out racist who verbally abused our Polish restaurant staff). Sadly those particulars weren’t on their CVs when they signed their terms of employment.
My routine at the time was work, drinking and or fucking till 8am, home and bed till 3pm before starting over again. Because Romeo was one of the few full-time staff crew, we spent at least sixty hours a week together. You can’t fail to form a bond or mutual understanding working so closely for that length of time.
We were liberal with ‘after-work’ drinks. One night Romeo decided he’d invent new cocktails from the array of spirits behind the bar. By 7am our numbers had diminished to three; me, Romeo and my Gay Best Friend. As a youngster you know fewer (if any) limits. Actually you do, but you ignore them confident in your ability to recover.
Tequila was my undoing. One minute I was the life and soul of the party, the next I was by the disabled toilet heaving my guts up. Romeo and I were kissing, crumpled by the toilet door, lips locked, groping to remove each other’s clothes.
Gay Best Friend subtly announced his departure. For some reason which shall forever remain a mystery, he insisted I not walk him out and even forgot his usual goodnight hug and kiss.
Romeo was not as hygienic as my friend. Despite the unlocked theatre door immediately opposite the heaving and infamous gay nightclub ‘Heaven’, he pushed my skirt up, tearing away my tights went.
He wasn’t traditionally good looking but he had something. At five foot ten, he was incredibly lean with short cropped brown hair and the darkest brown eyes I’ve ever stared into. Being slim his stomach was rock hard and each muscle of his six-pack was prominent. His chest was solid, not bulky and the bone structure of his face was chiselled and masculine.
At 21, I thought of him as a baby, being two years younger than me, though I wasn’t body confident. Not that I was bad looking, with brown hair and brown eyes, set against a peaches and cream complexion. An ample bosom, and a perfect hour-glass figure, had I been six stone lighter people might have described me as stunning.
Having this lithe young man urgently removing items to access my cunt was extremely flattering. I liked him. I knew him and he knew me. I think that’s possibly what made him overlook the fact that I was never going to be the trophy girlfriend he desperately sought.
If you’d asked me back then, I’d have said the sex was ‘lust-driven’. Ask my friends who saw the bruises and bite marks I was often left with, they would have said ‘violent’. Romeo and I were impulsive, resolute to unite sexually physically to reflect our emotional and mental connection.
Having torn off my tights, pushed up the regulation black skirt from my ‘office’ suit and yanked my knickers aside, his hands gripped my knees spreading them wide. His fingers kneaded the soft white flesh of my womanly thighs as he worked up. I’d raised myself into a half sitting position to undo the belt of his uniform trousers.
He was keen on image and labels hence the tight-legged Calvin Klein boxers were unsurprising. He pushed hard on my shoulders forcing me down to the carpet. If I turned my head I could see – too close for comfort – the puddle of own vomit though I far too far gone to be bothered by merely by that. He shifted to shove his cock in me.
It wasn’t the best I’ve had as cocks go (or perhaps more accurately, come) – average in length but with no girth whatsoever. Having a tampon shoved up would have been more satisfying than his pencil-like dick. Sex though isn’t always about adjuncts and anatomy. Having someone thrust furiously inside you, with gritted teeth and a determined look in their eyes can be reward enough in itself.
He pounded hard. I loved the feel of him crashing his full length into me, his balls slamming against my splayed thighs. It wasn’t imaginative or original. It was animalistic, carnal in nature.
I loved that he was young and fit and hard and could power on for ages. The constant shafting of my slit rubbed the lips raw. It was as if he wanted to consume me. He lifted my ankles over his shoulders, then heaved me down onto his needy prick. He couldn’t get enough of himself into me. The penetration was as deep as it was going to get. He stopped grunting to study my face. It was if he was aware the leanness of him was expressed by the size of his dick and he wanted to grow a few inches longer and wider but couldn’t. It was rutting rather than love making but desire existed on both our parts.
Romeo went to get my sheer black top off. I could handle the ripped tights but I couldn’t afford to replace a torn blouse, thus removed it myself. I’m a C cup, which isn’t massive but pleases most men. I chose to wear black bras so the pale flesh of my breasts would spill over the cup. Romeo went to my breasts, took them in his mouth and suckled as if he was expecting milk. I started to squirm when he pinched my nipples between his teeth, then graduated to gulping my breasts in his mouth – biting hard. I found little pleasure in that.
It was about then Barbara the cleaner entered the building. We scarpered like two naughty kids from the theatre’s reception, fleeing to the back offices, frenziedly punching in the access code.
Once locked in safely, Romeo asked me to get to my knees and suck his cock. There was something in the demand that didn’t sit well with me. I somehow had a feeling he’d get off on the idea of reporting back to his family that ‘the boss’ had got to her knees to drink him dry.
To remind him I actually was boss, I pushed him into my private office to sit him on the edge of my desk. I kissed slowly and tenderly as I took his erection in hand to manoeuvre his skin and asked him to spit in my palm so I could lube him with his own saliva. Now it was a gentler scene. When I felt he’d calmed, I sat on my black leather office chair and spread his legs. It was only then I took him in my mouth. I refused to let him have the upper hand but I happy please him, though I noted didn’t reciprocate.
It wasn’t a demanding blow job, which given my lack of sobriety and sheer exhaustion from his unstoppable pounding, was a shame. It’s nice to gag on a cock. I have a serious oral fixation. To have something in my mouth akin to a straw as opposed to a bratwurst is boring. However fat girls do it better because they like having things in their mouths; we relish and respect food. I worked that cock like a chocolate finger easily working the entire thing in my mouth. I switched between hands and mouth and ended up inching him down till my face was buried in his pubic hair. The smell was sexy – like sweat and aftershave. I swallowed so the muscles in my throat massaged his prick. I released to breathe and appreciate the full view of him when he stood from the desk.
Completely naked Romeo was beautiful in way that only youth offers. His long legs were firm and sinewy, his stomach flat with prominent hip bones prominent. There wasn’t a hair on his chest, merely a small trail running to his tame pubic region. His buttocks were flawless and pert, the muscles visible as he pressed his pelvis forward for more work on his cock. I took him back in my lips, determined to let my mouth and tongue demonstrate how much I wanted him. I sucked hard, using my tongue in swirling circles. Occasionally I’d pull the foreskin back over the head then push my tongue underneath which had him groaning. My free hand cupped his balls, exerting a slight pressure before tugging them.
When he was close he withdrew his cock, put his hands on my small waist and spun me round to seat me on the desk. He reached under my knees, pulling me to the edge of the table. Reaching behind me, he pulled my hair hard, tipping my neck back and forcing me to hold back a scream. When he slid his rod in one last time he fucked hard, wrenching my hair so brutally my head hit a shelf. I threw him off and stood, only for him to grab my hair and drag me until I turned to face the desk once again. I knew exactly what he wanted and I wanted it too. To be dominated by someone earning less money than me, younger than me and someone who wasn’t my superior was the disciplinary fuck I so needed. Lowering my head to the desk by gripping my neck, I spread my legs waiting for his entry.
Entering me from behind, finally gave him the penetration we both craved. He forced my arse cheeks apart to get in as far as he could, rocking his hips fast and furiously. He pulled out to come purposely over my arse. I was highly irritated because he insisted on watching me wipe myself dry before dressing. The passion remained as we kissed deeply and angrily, resentfully acknowledging ‘we’ could never be and frustrated by the inevitability of it all.
We had sex a couple more times before calling it quits. He’d met some girl. To preserve our close friendship I accepted the state of affairs and returned to fucking regular bar punters.
On the eve of my twenty-fourth birthday Romeo and his brother Jimmy stayed back to drink and see in my birthday. Jimmy felt the need to divulge Romeo had strong feelings for me, which stung given his earlier, gentle rejection of any potential relationship. As always when the sun rose our secret world disappeared. The boys headed off to catch a train, I walked to the cab rank. As I waited, watching the stark orange skies of London dawn, I heard my name called. Romeo was sprinting towards me.
‘I’m glad you haven’t left. Thought I might’ve missed you,’ he said panting.
‘Why, what’s up?’
‘Sorell, I really like you. I think it could be much more than that. It’s only that I want to be with you. I had to tell you.’
After months of intimacy and what I wrote off as meaningless sex I felt my heart beat. He showed me the screen of his phone.
‘See here, that girl’s phone number?’
I nodded as he selected the delete option.
‘I’m deleting it. I wanted you to see me delete it because I want you to know I’m serious about us, about being with you and only you.’
I heard his brother call.
‘You better go.’
Without warning he put cupped my face in his hands and kissed me. As the kiss lengthened he pulled me closer as our tongues could entwine. I experienced only deep affection and possibility in his warm, moist lips.
‘Happy Birthday, Sorell.’
‘It is now.’
He kissed me again. I realised for the first time in twenty-four years I finally had a boyfriend. I was no longer a one-night-stand-slut unable to find a man or hold down a relationship. What sweeter moment can there be in the catalogue of anyone’s of love life than to have someone choose you over another on the morning of your birthday in the empty streets of London one cold December morning. Talk about grand gestures and romantic endings.
Two weeks later, I answered the phone from my office as I completed the payroll.
‘Player’s Theatre, how can I help?’
‘Can I speak to Romeo?’
‘May I ask who’s calling please?’
The ten step walk from my office to the bar was the longest I’ve trekked. The standing in front of my staff and saying in a cold lifeless voice – ‘you girlfriend’s on the phone’ still pains me now.
I could scream at him in the privacy of my office. I could take him off the bar and force him to work on the door (sitting on a stool signing members in for five hours straight). I couldn’t however force him to love me or like me or want me as his girlfriend. That morning of my birthday was unforgettable. The most romantic moment of my life eternally tarnished.
Eventually I was forced to sack Romeo. He was running a scam at the bar stealing in excess of ten thousand pounds with his brother and cousin (hence the theatre bankrupting). As I fired him, I asked why. Why did he do it? I employed him. Why steal from somewhere and someone who’d always been good to him? Why steal when I’d have given him the money if he asked? He shook his head shamefully. We kissed one last time. We both cried. I never saw him again.
You won’t see this story on TV or at the movies any time soon – but don’t think it never happens.
Discovering Cougar Town (young guys wanting older women, not the Courtney Cox comedy) after I hit thirty was a bit like Lucy discovering Narnia in ‘The Lion, The Witch And The Wardrobe’. Everyone I told didn’t believe that I was for real. They thought I was fabricating the truth to account for my single status as a thirty something. Fortunately for me technology had moved on significantly since I’d first lost my virginity.
Nowadays there are profiles on the internet laden with numerous photos and even better body proud young men happy to send photos via text or BBM to tease you with their gym sculpted bodies. Even better than that, there are the real exhibitionists willing to send over pictures of their youthful erections – trust me a there is nothing better than a big, fat, hard teenage cock. That sounds crass, but it is in fact super sexy and legal!!!
Hence, while I regaled the open plan office where I worked, with tales of my conquests ranging of men between ten to twelve years younger than me, if ever I saw a couple of doubtful faces or heard whispers that I was exaggerating my experiences, I needed only to whip out my phone to produce pictures and texts pertaining to the boy in question.
I have always liked my ‘brown boys’ with a particular penchant from those with origins in India, Pakistan and Sri Lanka. It seems fitting with England competing against India tomorrow in the cricket that the sexual exploit that first springs to mind was a teenage gym bunny I met over Face-party (a more sexual precursor to Facebook) was of Indian descent.
Call me racist or stereotypical but in regard to my social and sexual encounters with Indian men they have always been hugely appreciative of my plumper figure; their eyes widening lustily with all that soft, white, ample flesh against their own dark naked bodies.
I remember his six pack, I remember his prick, but I’m very sorry to say I don’t remember his name.
I had been somewhat precarious about arranging to see him because he was so body conscious. I thought my figure would repulse him. He’d seen pictures of me online but to my shame I had taken a few liberties with my profile photographs which were not only taken from a flattering angle but were a few years old and portrayed me as slightly slimmer version to what I actually was.
Greeting him at Stockwell tube station I had the knot in my stomach of him being either completely insensitive and calling me on the faux photo scam that I myself had been caught out with over my online dating experience or even worse be polite by visiting my house but evade all my sexual overtures.
He had a big smile for me which was slightly reassuring. He was whippet thin. At 5’10, I doubted he weighed more than 9 stone – say 57 kilograms for those using the metric system. I had a couple of stone on him easily and made a mental note not to even attempt going on top of the lad for fear of crushing him. I knew he worked out daily but he appeared to be more of a cardiovascular guy rather than a weights man.
His teenage libido took over the second I opened the door to my bedsit and let him in. He pushed me straight on the bed and started kissing me hungrily. It was quite nice but I had a nasty next door neighbour and didn’t want him peering in or pushing open the door to see what the ruckus was about. As the lithe lad clambered up me like a horny puppy I was trying to wriggle down the bed to kick the door shut with my foot.
He was so light it wasn’t actually that difficult and after hearing the familiar click of the lock, I allowed myself the pleasure of whipping off his shirt to see if his photos were for real.
I am happy to report all was present and correct. His washboard stomach was almost as rock hard as the cock that was pressing into my tummy as he smothered me in kisses. He was going a little overboard and almost licking my face which I wasn’t overly keen on.
Hands were trying to squeeze in the waistband of my already too tight jeans.
In the end I had to tell him to calm down for a bit. His big brown eyes and attempt at designer stubble made him look younger than his nineteen years. Part of me is always flummoxed why these gorgeous, fit boys were scouring the internet to get laid and not making the most of their hedonistic university lifestyle. Whether girls sharing classes with them were too close to see their appeal I don’t know, but I know that in that particular moment I was glad he’d been driven by rejection or alack of pussy to Faceparty and fate had him stumble across my profile.
Looking like a chastised child I took the time to run my hands over his body and it was perfect; fit, firm and fuckable. I slowed the pace by undressing him and was thrilled to see an erection, snug in his black tight legged boxers – undoubtedly with Calvin Klein imprinted on the waist-band. Fashion and image were everything to this guy so why he was hard for me was far beyond my comprehension, but I didn’t draw his attention to the obvious difference in our appearances.
When I removed my top and freed my breasts of the push up bra, he ran his hands over my feminine untoned tummy and suckled my nipples like a baby. It was sweet that his hand was desperate to make contact with what was under my knickers but those jeans weren’t budging for him to slip his fingertips under.
I released the button of the jeans and knew I was spilling out. It possibly would have been prudent to wear control knickers but the tight elastic would only have furthered hindered his endeavour to get between my lips.
When his fingers delved into my wetness he released my breasts from his mouth and groaned. He could tell from the warm slipperiness of my minge that I was ready and willing to take him. Thus he rolled my knickers down and I spread my legs for him to enter.
I have to be brutally honest and say he wasn’t the biggest I had – if I was to be really accurate I’d say he was below average, but it wasn’t size that rendered the session difficult to bear; it was his abundance of energy. The guy was like a Duracell Bunny. At first I’d loved feeling his young cock penetrate me. I loved that he (thought) he was slamming it into me. I loved that his hands were under my shoulders in an attempt to plough deeper. I loved seeing his brown skin glued to mine with sweat from the effort of his exertions. I didn’t love that he continued in missionary for at least a good twenty minutes with nothing else going on – no kissing, no nipple squeezing, no nothing. I could see my remote control on my bedside cabinet and had to refrain from turning on the television to catch up on the news while he made the most of my vagina.
Trying to spice things up, I shifted into doggy-style to hopefully end the spontaneous work-out he was inflicting on me. I had the utmost respect for his dedication to the gym and I appreciated the results but I wasn’t the sporty type (nor will I ever be!). Constant sex in the same position was tedious, unimaginative and unsexy.
The trouble with doggy-style was that there was a lot of white ass he had to plough through to get to my slit. His dick just didn’t have the length to give the position justice, no sooner was he inside me thrusting furiously then he’d slide back out. It was frustrating for me but I was prepared to write the event off. Rather than tell him he’d dislodged I let him continue thrusting between my thighs. He was grunting and moaning so I figured he was enjoying the sensation. In fact I even had time to open the graphic novel I’d had on my pillow to read while he exercised his cardiovascular system. I’m pretty sure he was too heavily into the rutting to notice what I was up to. Once I’d finished reading the adventures of ‘Invincible’ I discreetly closed the comic and put my hands between my legs; clearly the only person bringing me any satisfaction that evening was going to be me.
Having cottoned onto what was happening he went strong for the home run. I obviously was clenching my thighs when I reached my own peak because the next thing I knew his cum was spurting between my clamped thighs. I suddenly realised, because of the stream of semen running down my thighs, he was going to cotton on to the fact that he’d basically been wanking himself between my thighs rather than fucking a youngish cougar for all she was worth.
To avoid any awkwardness afterwards, I was inclined to dress quickly and make up a pathetic excuse about having to meet a friend for a late dinner. I know I came across as rude and dismissive and I hate that I did, but I was prepared to shoulder that condemnation, rather than have him look downcast when he realised his invested energies had done nothing to sexually fulfil me. You take the good with the bad – that’s what happens sometimes in sex. Anyway the lovely boy at the Maharani more than made up for events earlier that evening by giving me complimentary samosas with my take-away curry, but I’ll go into the details of that another time.
I’m not sure how the Dutch see themselves from an international perspective, but aside from the fact you can smoke dope legally (although I hear they have cracked down on tourists visiting the country for that specific purpose), I believe the majority of people associate the country with sex. Maybe not the entire country, but when you here the word Amsterdam you tend to think of prostitutes in windows and live sex shows…and smoking dope!
I was fortunate for a time because my brother’s best friend from primary school (who I grew up with) was half Dutch and spent a good few years working in Amsterdam, which meant I always had free accommodation in a rather luxurious gay bachelor pad when I was inclined to pop over and taste the delights on offer. Since then he has decided he isn’t gay and was straight after all (bet his ex-girlfriend was pissed when he rejoined the hetero team). Now he’s married with babies and living in a far more ‘family friendly’ area of the country.
Anyway on my first visit, being my temporary GBFF (Gay Best Friend Forever – well for the duration of the long weekend) he was attentive and showed me all the wonders of the city. Because his father was Dutch he had family further away from Amsterdam and suggested we visit because they had their annual beer festival on – it could make for a good day. Who was I to refuse my host?
I have to confess it was an inspirational idea on his part in respect of immersing me in the culture of the people. I learned to love chips with mayonnaise and that 1 Euro for a pint of beer is not only cheap but will have you wasted in a very short space of time.
My mother had this theory that the Dutch aren’t keen on fat people (my host’s father had never been particularly kind to her) and I have to say my subsequent experience has made me realise her assumption wasn’t too far from the truth.
There I was, drinking and enjoying the atmosphere when a lovely young boy came and spoke to me. He looked about 16, but was perhaps a little older. I was in my mid twenties at the time but it was all harmless fun. He couldn’t speak a word of English and I couldn’t speak a word of Dutch, but when it comes to casual sex, conversation isn’t a necessity for the event to take place. Alcohol, body language and physical attraction is all that’s required. As we drank and became tactile, enjoying the crowds and music we got a little hands on.
He implied to me that he was going to visit the bathroom and signaled for me to mind his drink. I smiled and nodded and off he went. No sooner had he gone than his father, who’d be standing at the table next to us strode over; a man on a mission. Unfortunately for me he could speak English.
‘Stay away and leave my son alone when he returns back.’
I was somewhat taken aback and said I really felt the decision was up to his son. As I voiced this thought his son reappeared and spoke in Dutch to his father. He was irritated by the exchange and stood firm by my side, drinking his beer. His father, physically tried to drag him away and I was obliged to enquire as to what exactly the problem with him having a drink with me was.
‘You’re too fat. You’re grotesque. My son can do much better than you. Stay away, I will find him someone else.’
Sadly back then I wasn’t as good at disguising my emotions publicly as I am now. Outraged, embarrassed, full of self disgust and loathing and more than anything hurt, I retreated immediately, telling me host I needed the toilet. As luck would have it he had missed the entire scene, so I was spared the mortification of him hearing me referred to as ‘fat’ and ‘grotesque’. His 50% Dutch DNA may have had him applauding the man or joining in with the verbal insults about my weight, instead of defending me!
I left the alfresco drinking area and made my way into the heaving bar and headed straight for the ladies cubicle. I can’t deny I needed to break the seal after drinking an extraordinary amount of beer, but in truth I figured by the time I’d had a good old cry over the humiliating fat attack, father and son may have moved on to find someone skinny.
Allowing myself ample recovery time, I decided to venture back out to find my friend. The difficulty was the bar was massive and when I walked out, I couldn’t see my host for love nor money. Without a mobile phone and any concept of the national language, I had no other option other than circling and scrutinizing every patron in the bar in the vain hope that I’d spot him ordering drinks or coming up from the toilets himself. I was at the point of getting panicking when a brutish drunk asked if I wanted a drink.
What I actually wanted was to scream, cry, wail, drop to my knees and beat my breast with both hands but a drink with a hunk from Holland didn’t seem a bad substitute.
Whether it was because he towered over me at 6’4 and was built like a brick shit-house or he preferred a fuller figure I didn’t get an anti-‘fat’ vibe from the man. What I did get was a pint of beer and a rather nice kiss.
There’s something rather sexy about linking your arms around a stranger’s neck and forgetting yourself in the crowd of public onlookers as the kiss gradually develops into a more feverish and intense experience. A foreign tongue in your mouth in a foreign land.
Having been rejected, it was a relief to have it counteracted with lusty intent from another individual. Feeling his erection against my stomach took the sting out of my earlier encounter.
His English was very broken but when coming up for air he asked if I wanted to take a walk along the pier. I didn’t even know there was a pier. My first thoughts were related to the predicament of having lost my brother’s best friend and in that respect my guide; wandering away from where we’d last been together was unlikely to improve my chances of finding him (if anything disappearing would seriously hinder my tracking him down to return me home safely). That said, I knew he wasn’t going anywhere because we were waiting for the appearance of a few of his cousins. As we’d already been separate for over half an hour, I figured a tiny stroll couldn’t hurt.
The throng of an entire town being drunk had been a little overwhelming so I found it a relief that the pier was completely empty. It was only tiny, with few boats but it was pretty with the sun setting. An idyllic location to finish off what we’d started in the bar.
The soft lighting flattered his looks.; it was as if he’d stepped out of a Hollister or Jack Wills advertisement. He was tall and broad and as we resumed kissing I reached under his shirt to find the mass of the man was muscles. The toned frame combined with piercing blue eyes, buzz-cut length brown hair, even lips and a noticeable tan had me forgetting the boy and his fatist father.
Nothing’ beats a proper kissing section. Like when your teenagers and on the brink of embracing your sexuality. Too shy to go straight to sex, but keen to explore so starting at first base with kisses. That’s what his mouth felt like on mine. In my head it was a picture-esque image of a real man kissing me with the water behind and hazy orange skies.
He wasn’t, however, a teenager on the brink of embracing his sexuality. He was a man and I was a woman and as soon as my hands went from under his shirt to trying to edge down into his jeans it was game on.
I kicked myself for having dressed down that day. Had I worn a skirt or dress it would’ve made the sex easier, but I hadn’t. I had to kick off my trainers and lose my cargo pants within close proximity and cross my fingers there’d be no passer-byers to see us and no gusts of wind to sweep my clothes out to sea.
For the first and only time in my life, he actually lifted me onto the top of the rail of the pier which wasn’t to high and without a word smoothly slid in his cock. I have to say, his penis was in perfect portion with his build. Plentiful in length and girth my moaning aloud was a result of instant gratification. As he worked his massive shaft inside me, he refused to kiss but insisted on maintaining eye contact for the duration. His expression was one of determination. Upon each moan released in accordance with his ploughing, he would glide in deeper each time to elicit a more audible groan.
When the ramming became too powerful and I thought he might bang me into the sea, I was obliged to steady myself by wrapping my legs tightly round his waist and my arms round his neck. At this gesture he seemed please with his performance and broke into a smile. It was only then he kissed me. I could feel his hips wanting to jerk harder, but my vice-like thighs were restricting him. Before I knew it he had lifted my off the rail and was fucking me as he stood. It did give him deeper penetration, as well as a thorough work both aerobically and anaerobically. I was concerned his thighs might give way and he wouldn’t have the stamina to keep up the speed while supporting my weight. Full marks – he didn’t.
Bouncing up and down on his boner and his breath warm and panting in my ear had me, literally, dripping and wet for him. My self-consciousness prevented me from responding too ferociously to his vigorous pounding. Truth be told, while I enjoyed the stretch workout he was giving my vagina and the mental image of the stallion mating with me in public view, it was his fucking me without any aid of a bed, rail, wall or toilet that delighted me. Even then, I resisted revealing how much more of his cock I needed in me. I was wanton and wanting, but when you have issues around weight they can impinge on all aspects of your life – including sex.
I was actually relieved when he came. Disappointed because I was loved the rawness and roughness of his technique, but happy that I could clear my mind of the potential guilt I’d have if he gave himself a hernia by choosing that position.
He may not have had much grasp of English, he did fully understand the concept of chivalry and helped collect my clothes and shoes, then kept watch as I dressed. He escorted me back to the pub, bought me a drink and assisted me in circling the venue in search of my friend. Transpires the pub was two premises linked together. I’d gone to the toilets in premise one but exited the toilets into premise two and hadn’t noticed the difference. The alfresco area I’d been scouring wasn’t the section we had been drinking in. As soon as I was in the original alfresco area I saw my host and he waved me over (I was grateful the man that originally ruined my confidence had departed, with his son in tow, seeking a skinnier venue).
‘I take it you were having a poo and not a wee,’ said my friend.
People may condemn me for what I am about to commit to paper so to avoid excessive offence let me preface the fact that the following statement is based solely on my own personal experience.
‘It’s far easier for a woman to get sex than it is for a man’
The reason behind this gross generalization is the cold hearted truth is women are more discerning choosing their sexual partners as opposed to the majority of hot blooded heterosexual men who place greater emphasis on burying their cocks in something wet, warm which will allow them to achieve an orgasm. They place more value on the act of sex than women do. Brainwashed with romantic comedy after romantic comedy, growing young adults believe the men they select should resemble these hugely fictionalized, romantically extravagant and emotionally mature matinee idols whom grace the silver screen to steal a woman’s heart.
It’s a crushing disappoint in one’s sexual journey to discover most of these romantic heroes are merely portrayed and created to appeal to the emotional nature of women. The other strange factoid here is that the writers of such works are usually men. These authors know what women want and need but I’d love to know if they behave at home in a similar manner to the heroes they create when drafting a script.
The upshot of it all this is women are constantly seeking out unrealistic men and swatting away any man that doesn’t measure up. Women will refuse sex if, whether drunk or sober, they decide a guy can never compare to their ‘dream man’. They’ll skip the sex and remain on the lookout for Mr Right…at least until someone they really fancy buys them a drink and gets them feeling wet and wanton – in which case they may accept the proposition of sex.
Men aren’t as particular. As long as they can manage to avoid any features of a woman that may diminish their erections (that’s why doggy style gained such popularity), they’ll take whoever is available, capable, consensual and willing to allow them to unleash an orgasm and pound them until their cocks are satisfied.
Fortunately for me I cottoned onto this imbalance of the sexual scales between genders early on. If I wanted to get sex I could and very easily…as long as I was willing to adjust my standards. I tried never to lower them too much otherwise the experience, quite possibly, would’ve been crap. In which case I’d wake the next day with low self esteem and spend too much time dwelling on my inability to sleep with an attractive man. The new found knowledge on the lower standards men have did give me the injection of sexual confidence required to score the kinds of men I wanted to be having sex with.
Again I revert to Great Yarmouth and our annual trips throughout the summer, with a lot of time frequenting Vauxhall caravan site.
Recollection is a little vague but I believe L and I were visiting Yarmouth for a bank holiday. We allowed L’s younger sister ‘A’ and the sister’s best friend to join us for the weekend. We took up residence in a B&B for the night. L’s sister couldn’t have been any more than sixteen. Regretfully as a demonstration of our own immaturity, inability to effectively manage and care for the two girls we ended up buying them drinks and getting them drunk.
Both L and I were drunk, but I was seeking a shag and L a kebab. We split with L taking the girls to the kebab shop and me choosing something a little sweeter as opposed to the savoury delights L was in dire need of.
Now Vauxhall caravan park, and I assume most caravan parks in general, tend to be very family friendly so it’s unusual to find singletons or small groups of young people holidaying there. It was our choice of preferred partying venue because L’s parents had chosen it as their regular holiday destination many years previous, plus L was the first person in England to befriend the mad Australian, thus our friendship had developed and grown stronger at that very location so our presence there was a celebration of our friendship.
The real reason responsible for us becoming permanent fixtures at the caravan park was because we paid a lot of attention to the security guards who managed the site. It was mandatory for people requiring access to the grounds to present their keys to the main entrance security man as proof that they were staying in the park and could make use of all its facilities. All we had to present was a very short skirt and a little harmless flirting and we had entry without having to fork out for accommodation.
Although it forever remains an alcoholic haze I undoubtedly collected a young man named Carl at some point in the evening and had either verbally or as a result of body language confirmed he was on a promise. However with two tired teens, one horny twenty-something and one hungry twenty-something we had to divide and split up in order that everyone’s individual needs and wants were achieved.
In fairness L did draw the short straw. Okay she got to have her kebab but she was also left as guardian to the girls because I needed cock. I think L had taken on the role of ‘mother’ that evening and informed me once she had her sister and friend settled, she would be back to collect me so anything I needed done I should hurry up with. L could be controlling at the best of times but this was only because she couldn’t bare the thought of losing any one of her nearest and dearest loves and as her best friend I suspect that’s why she was being so head misstressy responsible.
Once the girls had disappeared it was time for me to finally get what I’d been waiting for all night.
Carl wasn’t stunning or particularly good looking but he wasn’t unattractive be any means. He was about 5’10 which gave him an inch over me in my 4 inch heels. The fact he was so slim gave him an almost gaunt looking face, but he had soft features facially. His jet black hair had grown out of its original buzz-cut and needed to be styled. His eyes were a golden brown and his lips were in perfect proportion to his face. When he did his half smile I almost melted.
It wasn’t his looks that reeled me in. What drew me to him was there was a strong element of edginess and danger surrounding him, which I associated to him being from a particularly rough area of South East London. At that time whether 23 or 16 we were all kids. I remember he was three months shy of 18. He skinny as rake – too thin. When naked I noticed his rib cage visible, I’m ashamed to say as someone who carries a few extra pounds I was jealous rather than concerned about his dietary and nutritional habits.. As we walked the caravan site where silence had descended as holiday makers slept for the evening, he took my hand affectionately and walked us through row upon row of identical caravans trying to find the one he was staying in.
Weirdly what sticks in my mind was at that age it wasn’t all about one night stands so there was time to talk and get to know each other in the most innocent of manners. Somehow worked cropped up and he told me he was thinking of joining the armed forces. I was curious as to why and he explained he’d been a bit of a bad boy and felt the army may discipline him and give him a career path. I asked what he did currently and he laughed and I said he was a bit naughty but trying to change. I laughed aloud wondering how he could shock me with his line of work and blurted out, ‘You’re not a drug dealer are you?’
He didn’t deny it but shrugged and said,
‘It’s not hard stuff I sell but at least now you know why I’m thinking about joining the army when I’m old enough. It’s kind of the only way to get away from what I do.’
It was confusing hearing he was a drug dealer as he simultaneously held my hand in an open display of affection. It’s something men can struggle with at the best of times and even then it can take years to coax them that it’s okay to be tactile in public. This 21 year old drug dealer was so sweet.
‘This is it,’ he said at the front door.
We both stood observing it hesitantly. Someone needed to break the silence as to why we were still outside rather than inside and eventually Carl spoke.
‘My Dad and Uncle and two brothers are in there. I don’t know if they’re sleeping in the bedrooms or if one of ’em has crashed on the sofa bed thing in the lounge.’
I didn’t want to pass up the sex and I think he was trying to ascertain whether I was willing to consider alternative arrangements. The only sensible solution, in the dark night with the camp site all asleep was to fuck on the grass by the caravan. It was soft and being drunk neither of us thought about any possible ramifications.
He was wearing all black and when I lifted his shirt to see a six pack exposed I noted how pale he was. The black clothes made him quite striking to admire in the moonlight. He pulled his shirt down, implying he did not want to get naked. On reflection I suspect he was all too aware that his Dad or Uncle could wake any moment to see what was going on and he wanted to maintain some modesty if discovered.
That kind of stuff is easy for the guy but far more difficult for women. If I wanted his cock so bad I had no option but to undress significantly to give him full access to me.
Thank god he was young and thank the lord we were both drunk because it may have been easy enough to push my short skirt up but trying to get me out of tights and control knickers was nightmarish. Carl was attempting to be both seductive and of assistance in wrenching off everything. It was not a good look and sober would’ve been a major turn off. In a young hormonal state it was completely overlooked.
The grass was wet as it was well after 2am and in between my legs was just as wet. My lower half was fully exposed but all Carl wanted to do was unbutton his fly and drop his jeans enough to get inside as speedily as possible.
Aware his father was in the caravan right next to where we were having sex and knowing security patrolled the grounds and any other holiday-maker might stumble across us only added to the sexual charge.
He was incredibly lean and I was surprised at how strong he was. After much fumbling in the dark with exuberant French kissing and a thorough finger fucking, he finally managed to insert his cock in me after managing to get a condom on.
Not every cock is a porno cock and that’s fine. I loved having him shaft and thrust inside me. At that point in time I had little experience in sex so was satisfied just that I was being fucked. Technique meant little to me. However the location offered all sorts of sexually tempting goodies for me to delight in. The wet grass against my buttocks was an alien sensation. Reaching into his boxers to claw on his perfect bottom to draw him further into me, only to hear his audible moaning was tantalizing. The knowledge we could be caught at any moment was thrilling. All these external factors impacted directly on the sex. To force the deepest penetration in missionary position he grabbed my wrists with each of his hands and pinned them above my head preventing me from resisting or in any way controlling the rhythmic screwing of me. In his leanness I could see the muscles in his upper arms, defined and prominent holding me down with sheer brute strength. To be wholly dominated, not in a kinky or brutal way, was hugely sensual.
As a big girl, sometimes that’s all men see. Their initial assessments about my bedroom antics is that I’m some kind of dominatrix, but those assumptions couldn’t be further from the truth. To have a man exert his strength, keeping me trapped under him even when I did put up some resistance had me wetter and wanting more vanilla style fucking. It reminded me whatever additional weight I carried, ultimately men are stronger than women. This reinforced my perhaps naïve belief that there were men around that could make me feel my most feminine without me ever having to sacrifice my voluptuous figure.
Realising I couldn’t squirm away from this Duracell bunny combined with the fact I was almost powerless to control the depth or rhythm of his grinding and thrusting into me I decided to lose myself in the action.
I splayed my legs wider for him. When he rammed into me I rocked vigorously with each thrust. I wrapped my legs around his waist allowing him the deepest penetration possible and he kept his head down and continued battering me with his youthfully exuberant sex.
As I wound my thighs around his waist, I felt him try to wriggle out. With every effort I kept them locked tight and squeezed restraining him. His shirt rode up and I could feel him sweating. He panted and his breath was warm on my face. The more I clenched my thighs the deeper he ploughed. The restriction I introduced resulted in him only capable of continuous thrusts; small but violent as he bore into me desperate to orgasm. There was no time for changing positions and trapped between my thighs Carl was unable to withdraw his cock completely to change the motion of this childlike fuck we both were relishing. Eventually he released his cum and to stop himself screaming he kissed me hard on the mouth.
I saw him stand up, remove the condom and throw it under a caravan adjacent to his own. We had a laugh and exchanged mobile numbers. I felt for the first time in a long time this could well be the man to actually return a call or want to see me again.
By now it was getting on for 3am and as luck would have it the security van veered in our direction. George, a rather jolly but formidable Scottish man who was the head of security reached out of the window and opened the slide door on the van. I gave Carl a kiss and said I hoped I’d see him again at some point. Given he was a South London boy and my permanent residence was located in the same city, it was actually feasible this could develop beyond a one night stand.
When I got in the van there were two other security guards. Kenny who was trying his best to romance and form a long distance relationship with L and another random. I can’t say for sure but they recall Head of Security, George giving me a right telling off because L had returned to the camp-site and couldn’t find me any where to give me a lift to the B&B, thus the boys had been combing the camp-site in the van for ages trying to find me. That particular chastising I do remember.
They then allege I stood up in the van and my control knickers and tights dropped from under my skirt. Apparently I looked down, picked the under garments up and shrugged it off as a normal occurrence. Carefully stepping out of my knickers and tights and declaring I’d take them home by hand. More than ten years on and they continue to recall this incident with much mirth.
However given the van arrived, literally as we were getting up off the ground I can’t envisage how this could practically have eventuated. When did I have time between Carl withdrawing his cock from me and the security vehicle arriving to redress in tights and control knickers? It was a two man job necessitating enormous effort to remove them, so how did I get them untangled and redress myself in the brief time-line between the end of copulation and arrival of security. The other huge plot flaw is if I had managed to get them on, the control knickers were a size to small for me (squeezes you in just a little bit more girls) and given how tight and inflexible the control knickers material is in order to perform the wonders of shaping one’s body how could that style of underwear be lose enough to just ‘fall down’ to my ankles.
I have no doubt, being intoxicated I didn’t put my underwear on and chose to carry it on the van. As an open Australia I would have had no hesitation flashing them round to show everyone whilst bragging about my latest conquest. However the Vauxhall caravan legend this story became has been grossly exaggerated and embellished. I’d love to brand it a lie but I can never be 100% certain it didn’t happen. Ten years on I shoulder the teasing and continual references to this incident because after ten years of hearing about an event you participated in but can’t fully recall you start believing the gossip yourself – even if the evidence and facts don’t support the story.
My night, and indeed my sex life for that night did not finish there and then with me being taken back to the B&B, but I shall return to this night in a fortnight to complete what happened only thirty minutes later.
As an epilogue I was surprised and extremely flattered six months later after receiving a text from Carl informing me he’d been accepted into the army and because I ‘blew his mind’, he was wondering if I fancied hooking up to be his last shag before he started training. As I write this I do hope now this it wasn’t a ‘mass marketing’ standard text sent to every girl on his contact list. Anyway I had to refuse. At the time I was a committed North London resident and crossing the Thames to South London only ever happened out of absolute necessity or under enormous duress.
In my online dating years and when I was pretty determined to sleep with someone from every country I decided I had to sleep with a South African. There’s actually a very healthy rivalry between South Africa and Australia so it had never been too high on my list of priorities, but it was a box that needed to be checked.
I scoured the internet for ages finding the right one. Now I was in mid-twenties. Younger boys held no appeal for me, my preference was for older men, but I was also happy to fuck someone in my own age bracket.
I wish I could remember his name because he’s sent me a thousand friend requests on Facebook (all of which I declined – what a bitch I am sometimes!) so I should be familiar with it. But I’m not. He’s just another face without a name in my sexual history.
Aside from being South African (I’ve been told I need to clarify here he was white Caucasian) he wasn’t a bad looking boy. He actually possessed more of an American look and was reminiscent of Tom Cruise, which is no bad thing if that’s your type. He was short, maybe 5’5 with shoes on, had blonde hair, perfect shiny white teeth and the body of someone who spent a lot of time at the gym but didn’t have the physique for it to be overly impressive or noticeable.
We’d chatted online briefly and I organised the hook up just as quickly. As with any cyber sex sessions, discussions of likes and dislikes had come into conversation and I do believe mentioning I was quite up for anal sex. In all honesty I wasn’t that up for it, but some men see it as quite slutty and sexy so I felt it would increase my chances of getting laid.
The only thing about dating younger guys, or at that time men in their mid twenties is their lack of confidence. Despite me giving him my address he asked if I might meet him a the tube station and walk him back to mine. It kind of seemed a role reversal in terms of traditional male/female roles but because I was pretty independent and desperate for cock I agreed.
Meeting him at the station I could see not only was I going to have sex with a South African but also a man that would’ve been classified as a dwarf if he’d been born an inch or two shorter -not great for a 5’7 Amazonian-esque Australian like me.
I had an inkling I would want it over and done with asap. Bit of a workout for my vagina, send him home and then a bit of fast food and crap late night TV.
The bedsit I was living in at the time was in fact in the loft of a top floor flat and I had to climb up a ladder to get in there. There was a single bed, which I used as a couch and a double futon which I slept in.
The sex was almost perfunctory. By the time we got up the ladder, there wasn’t really all that much to discuss. He was a trainee accountant at a law firm, which is probably why he could afford to buy the best brand of lube in the market, which he presented to me like a wedding ring, but his profession wasn’t riveting enough to warrant feigned interest and questioning about his job.
It was kind of a kiss and clothes off affair.
In hindsight I found the height difference a little off putting. I could lay on the single bed, my bottom perched on the edge, legs spread, wet and waiting giving him easy access but as he began fucking me I realised he didn’t even have to bend his knees to get into my cunt. Nor did he need to prop my bottom up with pillows so that he wasn’t squatting while he was thrusting. If anything I suspect he would’ve been happy if he’d had a few pillows or a small cardboard box to stand on while pumping away.
His inexperience and lack of technique was all too obvious. I liked his enthusiasm and the velocity. His thick cock going in and out of me was pleasing. But the man handling of my breasts, squeezing them, pinching them was all good until he suckled them. He didn’t suck quickly, or suck and nibble. He suckled them as one would imagine a baby would. Making slurping noises. Ths short South African had a fat stubby cock inside me while he suckled my breasts. Taking turns on each one. Resting on my chest and just sucking and pumping. Thank fuck he didn’t call me mum.
I was wondering how long I’d have to endure the child like sexual behaviour when he boldly said, ‘Your arse. Let me fuck your arse.’
‘Yeah sure.’ I agreed quickly enough thinking the sooner the experience was over the better.
‘Do it like in the movies please.’
Wordlessly I moved from the single bed onto my double futon on the floor on my hand and knees. I could hear him squirting the lube and telling me how much he wanted this. I was going to ask if he wanted it more than me putting him in a nappy and giving him a rusk but thought it may further delay this mortifying experience.
Things went from bad to worse. His pork sword may have been ready to invade but my anus was having none of it. It was as if my arsehole had been super-glued shut. This should have demonstrated how tense and unrelaxed I was in this encounter but the South African wasn’t taking no for an answer. He just put more and more lube on his cock and more and more lube around my bottom.
He pounded and grinded trying to force the slightest opening so he could then force his cock in. It was lucky he’d been working out cause he needed the strength and stamina for this nearly impossible feat.
I mentally applauded him because he did manage it. But the sheer power required had meant while I’d started on all fours with each thrust my hands slipped forward and I began to move downwards. I could see my hands pushing the duvet towards the wall and my face getting closer and closer to the mattress. Soon enough I was lying on my stomach. Pancaked on the bed. I’d have preferred to be a little more picturesque and described myself as more of a ‘crepe’ demolished on the bed, but my rather rolling soft curves meant I was more a fluffy, filling pancake. It wasn’t until I was plastered to the bed that he got in. I was face down on my bed as his cock stabbed into me. In an effort of my own, and I wasn’t a regular gym goer, I resisted the intensity of his thrusting just enough to raise myself and my arse up so he could penetrate a little deeper. Where I mustered the energy I know not where – at that time I did wonder if there wasn’t something in all this religious malarkey – but in returning to half doggy style position it gave him enough room to be thrilled enough by the anal sex to cum.
I disposed of his presence as quickly as I did the condom. To be honest I probably would’ve enjoyed visiting South Africa more via Google Earth rather than have someone bum me quite so viciously and vigorously. I don’t think I dismissed him in a nasty or harsh way because he very kindly offered me the exclusive expensive bottle of lube so we could have anal sex again next time he came round. He never came round again…but the lube was used up for more anal sex.
As a woman by the time you hit 30, if you’re still single, generally speaking society will still impress its traditional values on you that you have in fact been ‘left on the shelf’; are a spinster; will soon be buying kittens to fill the gap in your heart/life. It’s not said out loud but it is implied.
We thirty-something singletons cling to ‘Sex and the City’ like some sort of new age bible. A guide through the wilderness of being society’s silent spinsterish outcasts. You feel it though. The ring finger on your left hand is all to obviously naked to the eyes of other women. The continual ‘plus one’ or do we even need to include a ‘plus one’ on invitations to you (they can save the money on at least one head with permanently single friends) at large functions….normally weddings.
So how does one combat this unspoken discrimination and disdain from the women that somehow managed to nab a man in their twenties? We brag about being ‘good time’ girls and loving our ‘independence’ as well as embracing out first foray into cougar town. In order to do this though, one must at least hold up the pretence of these qualities in public. I did for a good 18 months – it’s hard work though.
My friend, L, who was always destined to be successful in her professional life and was wanted by many a man was actually discerning enough not just to settle in a rush before hitting 30. What she had done was not only secured a high flying position within an international company before 30 – financial director no less. This afforded us a couple of things:
- A taste for champagne thanks to easy access to the company credit card
- A rather swish new build one bedroom flat above Romford Market Square – kitted out for two ladies on the prowl. A comfy bachelorette pas as it were in a good location.
From the financially secure and rather lush surroundings we had those familiar with Essex, or more particularly Romford you may be surprised to hear it wasn’t Liquid & Envy or the Buddha Lounge we would glam ourselves up for to demonstrate the wonderfulness of being single and 30 (the closest we came to a trendy drinking hole was the Yates’ and it wasn’t all that trendy). Our preferred choice of location that had a romping good old 80s/90s/00s discos in a pub with a sticky dance floor and punters that were either locals, those strapped for cash or a more elderly clientèle was the Lamb.
We were there for a guaranteed good time but it was slim pickings on the male front. However at some stage throughout the proceeding you could guarantee that some hapless youths (maybe those that couldn’t face the queues of Liquid & Envy) would stumble into the Lamb and L and I would zone in quickly before any other potential femme fatale competitor could edge their way into the frame.
L loved that flat. I guess it was her home, she owned it and it was safe. Mostly if we got a slow dance and a snog we’d be happy for the night. We’d have kept up the façade of single 30 something good time gals. But me? I had an insatiable libido. And an insecurity that only having a cock inside me could possibly alleviate for a time and those Friday nights in Romford threw me that occasional lifelines.
One particular night stays vivid in my mind on the grounds that I managed to hook a young lad that was eager enough to pursue me beyond the obligatory slow dance and snog and was, in my opinion and to my tastes worth allowing a successful sexual pursuit. At 18 to my pending 31st birthday, the 12 year age gap was an attractive enough attribute. The fact that his fashion was neither ‘chavvie’ nor reflective of his work appealed – a simple paid of faded denim jeans, plain white t-shirt, skate shoes and hoodie ensured he wasn’t a fashion faux pas or an intimidating fashion statement to be compared with on the journey home by passer byers – the five minute walk from the pub to L’s plush pad still required us crossing a good deal of pedestrian traffic whose drunken shout outs and cruel comments could scupper the deal for me and my one night stand. What really sealed the deal the messed up brown hair that looked like it ought to have been cut and styled months earlier that hung in his huge caramel puppy dog eyes on his cherubic face, set off with plump lips that turned into an almost diagonal smile when he did take his mouth off mine long enough to ensure he’d secured a shag for the night.
But L was not a woman of compromise. Actually that’s not fair she was. She wouldn’t leave me to have sex in the street (not that I hadn’t previously on countless occasions) but she wasn’t willing to invite a stranger into her pristine flat to infect the house with boy sex germs either. This left me and my teen with the staircase.
At this point in our sexual careers both L and I had ditched glam for comfort. Jeans and a sexy blouse was as effective, given the rather low brow standing of our frequented venue, as a glitzy dress or short skirt. It did however mean urgent access for a quickie was out of the question. Trousers are no real problem for a guy – it’s a mere unzipping and perhaps a slight shift and the erection is out and ready to power in. For me, clad in jeans, the only way that erection was going to gain entry to the (not so) forbidden fruits was complete removal of the jeans (and the high heeled boots!).
For me I had alfresco sex numerous times and I wasn’t a permanent resident of the flats so any shame associated being discovered mid-act was minimal to me. Fortunately because the teen had joined us in downing numerous shots over the duration of the evening so any inhibitions he had or concern about his reputation (being a local and all) seemed almost non existent. Weighing up the pros and cons as a new build not all the flats had been sold or rented so the chances of being caught were low.
Getting the jeans off and being bare arsed was risky to say the least but I concede there’s an awful lot of scope for steps to be incorporated into sexual activity. In the initial neediness and desperation we felt to connect physically I could easily bend over and rest my hands on the fifth or sixth step up which allowed him to penetrate me quickly from behind. The stairs offered me the support I needed as he pounded me furiously – somewhat aware of the time and location.
Once the first burst of lust had been satisfied and we were secure that the lights had automatically timed out in the staircase leaving us lit only by the moon and the street lights of Romford market we had more time to play.
Young and eager to please he had me sit on the third step and parted my thighs so he could perform orally on me. At the end of the day in those circumstances experience is irrelevant. Any man wanting to put his tongue into your wet pussy and laps at it like a dog is a massive turn on – more so because this young thing was kneeling before me to perform the act. And the more he licked the more I moaned. I got a feel for the body beneath the skater boy looked when he came out from between my legs and hooked my legs over his shoulders and began fucking me on the stair. Pushing and trying to plough as deep as he could. The deeper he got, the more I whimpered caught in the pain pleasure scenario and the deeper he tried to go. When he started being vocal about the timing of his potential climax, I pushed hard at his hips to prevent him from doing so given there was no protection involved.
I stood up and looked down at him kneeling. His youthful, bewildered expression looking up at me barely registered as his cock that looked fit to burst and dominated the picture I was gazing down upon. I raised my leg up to the third step and gently pulled his head to my wet cunt to let him lap a little more and lick my clit until I felt the orgasmic moment he so desired had been delayed.
I told him to sit on the steps and he obeyed without question knowing what I was attempting to do. When he was lent back and could support himself (and me) I sat slowly on his cock and bobbed up and down on it. My thighs were not in for a full workout so I eventually settled on his cock; rocking slowly and feeling his muscular chest against my back. Supporting most of my weight, I guided one of his hands to my breasts as I reached down and massaged his ball as I continued to gently move on his cock. When the panting in my ear graduated from a whisper to a more audible level and his balls tightened in my hands I jumped up quickly and before I had time to kneel between him to suck him to the moment of ejaculation he’d already released.
It was all over him, not me. This made getting dressed all the more easy for me. The goodbye was awkward. I would love to have invited him to stay the night, or even have a nightcap or to call a cab but it wasn’t my premise to offer out. Fortunately L had already made it very clear he wasn’t welcome in the flat so he headed down a flight of stairs and I headed up the stairs to the entrance to L’s place.
Simple, satisfying, sex. Two people. One staircase. No strings.
I was sitting on my therapist’s couch yesterday in a bid to determine why exactly I hadn’t updated my blog as regularly and routinely as in the past. A few points arose:
- I was getting absolutely no action in the present and therefore was as mentally distant from my sexual self as I was physically,
- Reflecting back on these posts I realised as fun and as frivolous as fucking a hundred plus men had been there had been numerous times I glossed over the reality of some of these situations which had in fact been somewhat psychologically traumatic and this fact was beginning to permeate my memory rendering the blog a more tortuous task than a body of fun work;
- We also considered the lack of direction, control and focus in my life but that really is the boring psychotherapy stuff.
So I’ll give you an example and I’d be interested as to who finds this story sexy and who finds it disturbing (and who finds it shit…maybe don’t comment on the last point given my low self esteem at this moment).
Many moons ago I fell for a married man. Chris – the inbetweener. I’d had my first love and was quite convinced I’d never love again. Now I’m married so my husband who is my true and grand passion, but Chris was the man that allowed my heart to realise it could love again. Now I’m married – no to Chris – clearly didn’t work out with him, but I’ll roll onto that story at some other point in time.
Because I was heart-broken and fully aware Chris himself hadn’t really wanted to end the relationship, it was just practically it couldn’t work long-term, I felt the best way to punish him was to fuck other married men. Enter the website ‘Illicit Encounters’ set up purely for married people (or those in long term relationships) looking for like minded people to fulfil the sexual side of their relationship that has gone wanting over the comfortable years with a long term partner.
I had put my age down as 27 when I was in fact 31 and tended to approach older men….like late 50s, early 60s. In this way they’d be so flattered and surprised by my tentative advances they would be less inclined to reject me. I have to say in most cases this was true. Occasionally you would get the odd ‘honourable’ (if you can adopt such an adjective for members of the website) gent saying he felt it wasn’t the best idea because of the age gap and that having daughters of a similar age made it inappropriate. However on the whole I’d get many an invite for dates and more because they tended to have daughters older than me.
One such man was called…..Peter…maybe…I think. He was a 58 year old engineer from Essex that had made his life in Ireland. He seemed an attractive enough man with a frame of 6’4, broad shoulders, a gentle but square face. He was literate enough over email to attract my attention and almost consumed by the fact that I wanted to ’embark on an affair’ with him – which wasn’t strictly the case but I felt we could iron out the finer points of the relationship upon meeting. What was spectacularly unusual was that he was actually willing to fly from Ireland to Dublin to spend a night with me under the premise, to his wife, that he was visiting his family in Essex.
In some respects I found this phenomenally becoming but I was also a little struck by the impulsivity given we’d never spoken on the phone r met in the flesh. I was completely honest and up front about my size issue – I was undoubtedly photogenic but was considered very voluptuous at a size 16. Perhaps warning bells should have gone off with me when he wrote back ‘so you’re a fat bird then – you can’t be that big given the photos’ (he clearly knew nothing of how to angle a camera for the best shot).
He was undeterred by my weight and decided to pay the fare (I assume he went Ryan Air – for a sex fuck you’d only risk a discount airline) to visit. I decided he was either smitten or a psycho. It didn’t matter which. Well not until I found myself typing a message that he was welcome to spend the night at mine – I felt a little mean insisting on a hotel given he was flying over to fuck me; free accommodation seemed a reasonable contribution on my part. This was, in hindsight, perhaps not my best or most considered decision. Heartbreak and payback sex are not a combination to bring out the ‘sensible head’ on anyone’s shoulders.
Friday came and I dressed accordingly. I was due to meet him in a pub on Carnaby Street, where my workplace was located. I worked in the music industry so my attire had to be casually flattering in a semi-professional manner. I opted for my jeans and a figure-hugging blue top which not only accentuated my curves and rather perky large breasts but the depth of colour accentuated my pale skin tone against the dark features of my hair and eyes – unassumingly stunning. Because of his height I could even afford to wear a pair of very high heels.
He was handsome for his age and dressed in cords with a collared shirt and some patterned knit-wear jumper. He looked me up and down and decided I’d do. I reached this conclusion as he delivered a hefty slap to my rump with an introductory comment of, ‘You weren’t kidding about your weight.’
That comment sat heavier with me, than I did on the pub stool I suspect. We chatted inanely about his work, situation and I’m sure I exchanged equally banal conversation. I saw his eyes light up when he spoke about how I was younger than his own children, and what a coup it was for him to nab someone so young at his age – what a topic for discussion down the pub at the village he lived at in Ireland (I didn’t think bragging about a young online conquest in a small village was the best idea given it could easily get back to his wife, but steered clear of advising him of this). The more I realised I was nothing but a boast, the more I realised how much my heart still hurt for Chris and how this man, whose name I honestly do not even remember, could not have been any further from being the man Chris was – or had been to me.
I stared at his over night bag as he reluctantly bought me alcopops (clearly he despised my common taste on that front) and felt my eyes well up with tears. It would sound clichéd, but it was true and if I said it and committed to the decision I may well escape the night unharmed. Through the tears I admitted the whole scenario was a bad idea. I apologised profusely that he spent the money flying here (even if he did have friends and relatives to see) but that I couldn’t sleep with him. I just wasn’t ready and to try wouldn’t be right for me.
It’s funny how quickly a man’s character will change for a bit of fanny. He became gentle and caring and tactile; in an instance saying how he completely understood my change of heart and it wasn’t a problem. He even offered to walk me to the tube station. It was a kind gesture. Feeling fragile I accepted. Then he offered to walk me down the steps into the tube station itself. I suddenly had a sinking feeling that I knew exactly where this was going. I gave him the goodbye kiss with as much fake passion and tongue as I could muster but it was the wrong move.
Suddenly he became overbearingly nice saying he’d accompany me home, I didn’t have to sleep with him, he could just cuddle me, he was in an awkward position having to ring friends and relatives for a place to stay at this hour (it can’t have been any later than 8pm). I suppose I wanted him to be genuine so I said as long as he understood the situation he could of course stay at mine. There’s nothing like being guilt tripped with the price of an air-fare (even if it was a discount airline).
As an aside when we got into my bedsit/semi studio which consisted of a large double bedroom and a second room which was a large kitchen I noticed my hamster’s cage which resided in the kitchen was vacant. I couldn’t find the creature anywhere and was slightly perturbed at the idea of him running round the walls and shitting everywhere. I’d given up handling him after a bite so I was as frightened of him as he was of me. I think shifting my focus to the obsessive need to recapture the rodent resulted in my guard coming down and my senses not being overly aware of my predicament.
The next thing I knew the 6’4 old man was behind me attempting to grind his hard penis against me as he tried to be seductive and grasp at my breasts. I felt flustered, completely compromised and very threatened. I muttered that I really didn’t feel I could have sex with him. My attempt to avoid his lechery in the kitchen meant my only escape was the bedroom. Here his physical dominance came into play; his stature and determination as he walked, talked and invaded my private space – his voice was almost calming and reassuring me this would happen and I’d be okay – I was eventually backing away until I had no where else to fall back to other than sitting on the bed.
I knew what was coming. I felt defenceless to refuse or stop it. I began crying saying I wasn’t ready but he said it’d be okay and we’d just cuddle.
I didn’t realise cuddling for him meant undoing his trousers and tugging them down enough so his hard old penis had room for some forceful action. I was unaware that cuddling meant pushing me down on the bed and telling me to just close my eyes and relax. I didn’t know cuddling meant he would undo my jeans and pull them off hurriedly. Who’d have thought cuddling would have involved him climbing on top of me trying to kiss my lips as I cried. Who’d have guessed cuddling would involve roughly grabbing and sucking someone’s breasts as they hopelessly repeated ‘I don’t want to do this, I don’t feel like doing this.’ I certainly didn’t know cuddling would result in someone forcing my legs apart, easing their cock in me and slowly and rhythmically working it in and out of me while pinning my wrists to the bed. I never thought a cuddle would eventuate with an old man moaning in my ear about how tight I was, how young, how much this meant to him, how grateful and thankful he was as he built up speed and came inside me.
He got off me and I felt anything but a boastful sexual conquest. I felt fat, my body manipulated into an unattractive position so he could get his one last young fuck for the wank bank. And I must’ve looked it because all he said as he pulled up his trousers was, ‘Don’t worry I’ve had a vasectomy.’ I stared up at the skylight and noticed how heavily it was raining. I wished the window would break and the rain could wash it all away – the pain, the shame and him.
I didn’t have to worry about him staying the night. Seemingly spending the night in a storm that didn’t look like it was about to ease up any time soon was far more appealing than spending it was me.
‘I’ll go now,’ he said.
‘You can stay – it’s silly if you’ve nowhere to go.’
‘I can walk round in the rain till morning. To be honest you’re really fucked up and you need to get help.’
And with that he left. I don’t know if it was unfortunate, foolishness or rape – who can say. I did feel though, as an outside observer, having witnessed both our behaviours in that situation, on a scale of fucked-upness he would’ve scored higher than me.
So that’s one more of the one hundred. That particular encounter brings back no fond memories or frisson as I write it. But fucking 100 men, one was never to expect a 100% perfection hit rate in all those sexual encounters. Good with the bad and all that.
What I will say, is after the absence and devastation this vile old predatory creature had left me stewing in and a good deal of comfort eating on my part the hamster eventually made himself known within the bedroom walls (And I thought my nightmare ended with the faux-rape but nothing will drive you mad than constant squeaking in the walls). By Monday morning the hamster had been moved to a dumpster with all his food and bedding. I hope nothing bad happened and he escaped the bin men. I like to think some rats adopted him and he’s part of a rough gang still going strong in Stockwell. He was better off out of the apartment – so would I have been on that particular night.
Not all sex is good sex – fact! Not all sex is memorable sex – fact! But unmemorable, ordinary sex can still leave you with a sense of personal achievement.
When I was working in theatre back in the early noughties I was somewhat obsessed with a particular patron who I thought looked like a chubbier version of James Redmond (an actor who played Finn in tack Channel 4 teen soap Hollyoaks and moved onto Casualty playing Abs). James Redmond was a model so looking like a slightly chubbier version of him was by no means an insulting comparison. If anything he was drop dead gorgeous. I shamelessly threw myself at the patron but with little success. He himself was a little overwhelmed at my attention and couldn’t quite appreciate why someone was so desperately attracted to him. I worked hard on his visits to the late night theatre but reaped very little of what I attempted to sow. In fact I think the closest we got to sex was when I walked him from the theatre to the tube station and in a dark alley he squeezed one breast and asked for a flash of my ample bosom. I obliged and he asked if I would like to dress up in leather and play the dominatrix to his submissive. Sadly, on the spot in public (however dark) I was caught off guard and unsure of how to respond to such a request. I had holding hands and romantic picnics on the brain, he clearly had other ideas that were at the reverse end of the relationship scale. People assume sometimes because one is voluptuous, outspoken, gregarious and sexually aggressive that they’ll be like that in bed. I wasn’t. I spent most of my time behaving like that so when I was in ‘fuck’ mode I wanted to be dominated so I could turn off that particular personality defence for an hour or two and reveal the gentler more sensual aspects of my soul. Thus taken aback from his bold request I pulled my blouse down and scurried back down under the arches of Charing Cross train station to attempt to recover some dignity.
Dignity was something I had little of with that patron. Another time I seduced him into staying back with free drinks and my obvious besotted desire for him and he moved in so close I could feel his breath and waited for him to finally brush my lips with a kiss I’d been wanting for months and he whispered ‘You are so lovely. You’re like an angel, but you’re never going to be the girl a man wants to marry – and I’m looking for a wife.’
I was crushed. In fact that comment crushed what little ego I had left. I soon let go of that crush. I wanted the wait of his gorgeousness crushing my body while we writhed around on the floor or in the toilet of the theatre. All he crushed was any self respect I had.
The one that got away. But there are more James Redmond look-a-likes out there I’m thankful to report.
One night a few years later my friend L and I were having yet another debauched weekend in Great Yarmouth – England’s premier seaside town. As I was getting my groove on (as much as one can throw shapes with the difficulty of moving effortlessly on a sticky alcohol drenched dance floor) I spotted at the bar another James Redmond look-a-like. He was not a chubby version. He was more like a younger brother. Similar hair, figure and features – not identical but still gorgeous.
I’d like to say I’d learnt something from my previous encounter chasing a TV/Model/Presenter lookey-likey but I hadn’t. Within seconds I was unglued myself from the dance floor, trotted over to the bar and declared my intense attraction to him alongside my intent to bed this beautiful man. Unlike London, Yarmouth is a small town. An Australian partying in the town is a news-worthy event in itself. To be the recipient of her affection is altogether very flattering. Perhaps London lookey-likey felt he could be more choosey, perhaps many had commented on his uncanny physical similarity to James Redmond, but Yarmouth James Redmond responded far better to my shameless, slutty suggestions…and who could blame him. With such blatant overtures I suspect he knew I was looking for a husband any more than he was looking for wife that evening – or maybe he was sensitive enough not to criticize my inexperienced approach to acquiring a shag for the evening.
Before long he had allowed me to drag him from the club onto the Pier, where behind closed arcade and seafood venues we could commence some serious kissing, quickly developing into heavy petting and fumbling. I could feel his hard cock through his jeans and when I unbuttoned his fly so I could get a grip on it it felt even harder. As hard as his cock was I have no doubt in my mind he could feel how wet I was for him as he slipped two fingers into my knickers, working them into me as I groaned and held his cock. He pulled them out, licked them and without even doing his flies up took my hand and quickly led me down the stairs from the pier to the beach.
There wasn’t much time for small talk – other than my babbling about how stunningly attractive he was. The need for fucking was so great, neither of us bothered with finding shelter under the pier or even attempting to find a place on the beach a little more secluded. All I was aware of was stumbling through the sand and then kissing and collapsing where we were – only metres from the pier (the lights of the clubs shining brightly on the beach).
Without wasting any time he had already pulled my underwear and tights down (I didn’t even have time to wonder what a passion killer tights and control knickers may have been). I quickly removed one of my shoes to free a leg from the underwear allowing him to slide into me missionary style. He never said a word but breathed heavily as he moved in and out of me deeply, thrusting forcefully. There was little technique involved but I was unconcerned. The fact that he seemed to want me (or the sex) as much as I did was reward in itself.
He pulled my dress down to expose my breasts and buried his face in them, suckling them as he continued to pump away.
Soon enough people moving up and down the pier changing clubs had spotted us and were wolf whistling and enjoying the free live sex shows. He swore under his breath and pulled out. As I went to sat up from the sand to rearrange my clothes he said ‘Fuck it!’ and grabbed me by the waist, telling me to get on all fours. I did as he said and he mounted me doggy style, switching between holding my hips for depth and grabbing my tits which he seemed very taken with. There was little talk apart from the odd expletive and dirty talk like, ‘Fucking yes’ and ‘You’re so fucking tight!’. I could feel him grow thicker inside me and the talk became less as the breathing became heavier. I had just enough time to say ‘Don’t cum inside me’ before he withdrew to a round of applause from the gathering crowd on the pier.
Fortunately his sperm missed my dress. Admittedly it was on my thighs but I wiped it away with the tights and discarded them. I wasn’t looking for sex again that night so could deal with having corn meat legs on the dance floor. It also meant I only had to put my knickers on and do without the fuss of arranging tights and checking for ladders so it was a sacrifice I was happy to make.
Having only to do up his jeans, he waited till I was dressed and we walked back to the pier on the lit beach to the comments (cheering and critical in equal measures). We waited under the pier in silence for the crowd to disperse. He rested against a plinth smiling shyly at me. After a time he nodded that we should go back. As I took a step, he put a hand on my shoulder, kissed my lips and said thank you. He judged the time correctly. The pier was empty. He held my hand and walked me back to the original bar we’d found each other. He kissed my hand and said thank you. Then strolled off down the Pier back into Great Yarmouth town centre.
I stepped back into the bar. L was busy on the dance floor dealing with her own complicated love life. She smiled and waved at me as I entered with a ‘where have you been?’ expression. I danced over to her grinning. Mid song, while waving her hands (like she just didn’t care) to the music she pointed at my suddenly bare legs. ‘Your hair looks fantastic,’ she said, ‘the sand and wind have given it real volume!’
Following on from last time’s post about the great divide of persons between I’m inclined to continue with a focus on sex related to Christmas and New Year’s. Whilst my previous post addressed life as a singleton finding sex at these particular holidays I feel this week I’ll focus on whether there are any significant changes in sex at these particular times when in a permanent solid relation ship.
In short – there’s not. Being single and slutty or wife-ish and whorish has absolutely no impact on the kind of sex available and on offer on these dates. Somewhere deep in the subconscious the preferred date is seared not only on the brain but the loins and one responds accordingly.
Me? I like sex all the time and having never been in a proper relationship until my 30’s one thing I was determined to do was make the most of having sex on tap and available to me. No longer would I have to go out on the prowl to ensure a festive fucks.
Christmas is a time of giving and sex is readily available. But it is still a family holiday and when you have one foot Australia and the other in the UK it tends to mean you and your family are joined at the hip – at least in terms of accommodation at this time of the year. If in Australia I’d be staying with my folks and was not in a position to insist on Christmas clubbing and then bringing a random dick back to finally christen my virgin bed (which still remains so and I’m now 35!). If my family were over from the UK we’d be staying at a rather posh Downton Abbey-esque hotel by the sea in Norfolk which limited the amount of dicks available considerably– normally nil because it was a ‘family’ hotel of the English genteel so finding a single man willing to shag a horny common slutty Australian was difficult to say the least.
After I found a man I assumed all this would change.
Not necessarily so. Because Christmas and New Year’s fall in close proximity the same problems plaguing my Christmas cock endeavours also impinged on my New Year’s nobbing.
For the first New Year’s I had my boyfriend rather romantically we had been separated – me with my parents, brother and wife and niece and nephew in a restored barn in Lincoln; my fellow with his newly wedded father in London. Irrespective of the emotional blackmail his father burdened upon him (‘This could be my last Christmas,’ he wailed. ‘And I could go under a bus tomorrow,’ quipped my boyfriend.) He spontaneously caught a train to Lincoln to join me for New Year’s Eve. This wasn’t just to impress my parents, nor was it a grand gesture on his part confirming our shared devotion. It was a lusty journey because he hadn’t had a New Year’s fuck in over 10 years. Thus he felt it worth the effort and I was excited because not being a ‘New Year’s’ person I had never had a shag to welcome in the New Year.
Sadly it was all a little disappointing. My boyfriend was a recovering alcoholic and having recently packed in the booze was low on energy and physically recovering from excessive alcohol abuse for 3 years on his 45 year old body. The valium may have eased his need for the drink but it did render performance problems. I had never really had sex before with my parents in the next bedroom so couldn’t really let loose and ride in the New Year with any vigour or vocalisation. It ended up being a very vanilla style session. We adopted a very last session laying side by side, my leg raised for his entry and then a slow, deep, constant penetration to ensure the bed wasn’t rocking audibly and the headboard wasn’t banging rhythmically to alert my parents to what activity their little girl was indulging in. My orgasm muffled by a pillow and his tampered by his inhibited English manners. His inhibition was so great he was reluctant to even cum for fear of him staining the bed. It was a short celebratory session. Both of us smiling in the dark that we’d finally broken the New Year’s sex drought (mine at 31 years significantly longer tan his ten year abstinence) but also realistic at the subdued nature of the act of love.
What made it so disappointing was that only a week earlier we’d been be staying at a rather posh Downton Abbey-esque hotel by the sea in Norfolk and I’d been riding him and screaming down the house for three nights and mornings on the trot.
Even earlier in the Christmas season his lust had been so frenzied that when I’d been drunk and returned home from my work Christmas party in a cab because I couldn’t stand up straight let alone string a sentence together with any coherence and had vomit down my chin, he opened the front door where I was being deposited with the greeting, ‘Wow you look like a movie star!’ (Really??? In that state???).
It was true, it was the first time he’d seen me fully made up and in a dress but 6 hours of non-stop binge drinking really should’ve taken the shine off me. Instead he looked at me like I was a mesmerising Christmas tree in Times Square and began pushing me up the stairs.
I got up stairs and collapsed on our bed, only to wake an hour later with his hard cock pushing at my buttocks. The minute I groaned, authorising my state of wakefulness he wasted no time in pulling at my control knickers and tights. I could feel his hard cock placing itself between my plump bum cheeks and as he continued to thrust he reached around my front to see how wet I was. And even drunk I was wet and wanting. His hand could feel how moist I was and his fingers slipped in easily. After finger-blasting my vagina, spreading it and bringing my to my first orgasm, my responsive moans had him demanding a little more action from me.
He insisted I get on all fours for a doggy style ramming. My head was in the bed already pounding with tomorrow morning’s hangover. We agreed later, given my state, it was borderline date rape, but kinda sexy cause it was safe. I was begging him no more but he wasn’t having it. If anything he was making me look in the mirror to acknowledge how allegedly beautiful I was and then thrusting his cock into my mouth.
Knowing I was unable to physically prevent him from having his wicked way he then started telling me he wanted to ‘fuck my arse’. I love anal – as does he – but am normally hygienic about it and like to feel comfortable. Because I was drunk and worried about muscle control (or rather the lack of) I pleaded with him not too. I said I was worried about a mess and knew I had to go to the toilet so felt uncomfortable about it. All this was mumbled and he shook his head and said we’d done far filthier and had far bigger messes take place in the bed. When I expressed my concern about the passage not being clean he was not deterred by my concern and confession of a few stumbling, brown obstacles that may hinder the process of an anal pounding.
STOP READING HERE IF YOU ARE OF A NERVOUS DISPOSITION
In a festive fucking frenzy whilst using his fingers and some baby oil to prime my arse and widen the entrance for his overly thick cock he reached up inside and pulled three malteaser size balls of poo from my bottom. I realise this sounds gross but for him to do that and not lose his erection I can only assume I must’ve looked fucking gorgeous that night. To my shame I was so inebriated I was fascinated that he’d done it and while he forced his cock into my ring piece I watched with an almost childish joy as I saw the three little balls roll down the mattress. I was about to grab them, marvelling at how perfectly symmetrical, smooth and round they were but was prevented from doing so as my boyfriend slapped my arse hard, pulled my hair and thrust deep and then came, making me cry out and forget the poo and focus on the pain and pleasure.
That was certainly a Christmas cracker and a great start to the festive season in 2009. It’s just a shame the sexual start to the New Year of 2010 involved a rather bland, conservative and restrained speedy almost teenage pump. So being single or involved will not influence your sexual takings for these festive holidays. I’m now married and I have to say Christmas remains a bonanza spectacular style attitude to festive fucking (thankfully there is no more forceful faeces extraction required) but New Year’s we don’t even bother with – better to have no sex than bad sex. Who wants to start the New Year with a lousy fuck???
I’ve always thought people can be easily separated into two groups; those who favour Christmas and those who favour New Year’s. Personally I’ve always been a Christmas girl. People are more spirited, friendly and benevolent with their sexual favours (treating them like presents to give out to a stranger) in that party atmosphere where Santa and his elves peep in from the outskirts. It’s almost as if you have to be naughty to be nice in December. It’s a time of sharing and giving – so with beer goggles firmly attached people are more likely to hook up out of a general feeling of goodwill. It’s a fabulous feeling.
New Year’s though … people are out for themselves. It’s no longer about sharing and giving; it’s about cutting off old ties, burning bridges and creating a new and better life for one’s self. It’s about new starts and hopes and they spring from each individual’s wants and desires. Whereas Christmas is about being with other people and loving what we’ve got, New Year’s is about moving on from what we have in the hope of finding something better.
It’s always been fucking shambolic for me and absolutely dire in the sex stakes. I blame this solely on the fact that people become self absorbed, self obsessed and overly critical and analytical of themselves on New Year’s and thus are unable to focus on the people around them. They look at potential shag’s on New Year’s Eve as if they are potential life partner’s … and clearly I never quite made the grade. Christmas people are just looking for a good time in a warm setting where everyone leaves happy but knowing it’s all been easy Christmas fun. No pressure, no strings. New Year’s is all about the pressure to start anew so everyone becomes tunnel vision.
Hence I’ve always avoided New Year’s. It’s nothing but a constant disappointment for me.
I give you a few examples. When I lost my virginity in 1999 I pretty much became a cock hungry whore. I remember the evening before the work Christmas party my friend and I decided to go clubbing in the West End. I preferred to steer clear of the West End of account of my rather voluptuous figure and general lack of experience in more expensive (or classy) environment. This night though there was decorations and mistletoe. At a time when boy bands were at their height I found myself being approached by a little cutie that could easily have jumped off the cover of smash hits magazine with his black curtains haircut, chiselled features and perfectly packaged body. He’d come from work in trousers and a smart shirt but it wasn’t long before he had smiled and whispered to me he was going to the toilet.
I wasn’t sure how to read that but felt there was an invitation in his declaration of requiring use of the club’s facilities. I made my way down the stairs and he was waiting at the bottom. As soon as I appeared he grabbed my hand and dragged me into the women’s toilets, locking us into a cubicle. Without further ado hands were down pants, tights and control knickers were being clumsily taken off. I went to sit him on the toilet so I could ride him but he took one look at the state of the toilet and shook his head. For some reason it was okay to have sex in the toilet but not on the toilet.
Because he was short and I was in 4 inch heels the sex was quickly becoming a logistical nightmare. Soon enough I was slipping out of my shoes to lower my height. My hands pinned to the toilet wall and legs spread to allow him access. He just had an inch or two but the cubicle was so small my thunderous thighs couldn’t spread as wide as required. The next attempt I had my hands on the side of the cubicle. One leg on the floor, the other leg raised and rested onto the toilet bowl. This gave him the spread to enter me clumsily. Both young and somewhat inexperienced and overly horny and desperate to do the deed to go and brag to our respective friends. A few thrusts and I found my hands slipping. He was frustrated he couldn’t go deeper…and so was I. Again we tried a re-position. He stood, semi squat, over the toilet bowl and tried to life me up. I have to say he was a brave sex soldier trying given my bulk! He lifted me up and onto his cock but as muscular and wiry as his build was he would be no means have the stamina to continue supporting my weight while fucking me like a rabbit. I then attempted my own acrobatic feat by clutching the walls of the cubicle and supporting my weight while trying to ride on his cock. Being unfit and having no upper arm strength this only lasted a few more thrusts.
By this time it was painfully obvious what was going on. Did people make complaints, bang angrily on the door, call security??? NO! It was Christmas and people were happy. In fact I remember one girl finding my shoe, kicked down a few stalls and slipping it under my door wishing me well with my activity and reminding me not to forget my shoes.
He was desperate to cum; I was desperate to be more fully fucked. I decided to give my first Christmas gift. I braved the toilet bowl. I bent over and rested my hands on the toilet bowl. This gave me the stability and height for him to enter and fuck me like the Duracell Christmas bunny he was. Fortunately his cock was young enough, strong enough and determined enough to have me biting back cries of ecstasy rather than being deterred by the state of the toilet and what germs were there. Soon enough I could feel his cock swelling inside me, my vaginal muscles clamping tighter around him inside. I stood up preventing him from any potential explosion. Looked at the toilet seat…thought of what Jesus would want (a safe but heavenly experience I guesses…and sat on the toilet seat.
I began licking his cock up and down. It was to be my first proper blow job. I pulled the foreskin down and traced my tongue around the head of his cock. I sucked the top – he moaned. I didn’t know if I sucked it too hard but he groaned loudly. I continued licking up and down and all around and soon enough I decided it was time to take the beast in my mouth. I opened up and wrapped my lips around the head of his cock. I was careful not to let my teeth graze his prick – I’d read in some woman’s magazine that could cause pain. Slowly I began to ease him further and further into my mouth. I only got it so far before I started to gag. I got a shock and released straight away.
Aware of my inexperience he gently took my head and began to slowly insert himself into my head. Each time I gagged he pulled out. Eventually I began to relax and the more relaxed I became the more of him I found I could fit in my mouth. Feeling a little more in control I began to build up a rhythm. He released his gentle hold on my head and let me manage the job in hand – sorry mouth. Soon enough I could feel him swelling again and I stressed and panicked as the gag reflexes kicked in, but I’d done enough. Just as I was frightened I couldn’t breathe I felt my mouth fill up with a sweet salty liquid. I heard him moaning and could see his hands had gripped the sides of the toilet cubicle. He lent down and kissed my head. While he was zipping up I spat the substance from my mouth into the toilet bowl and began to dress up. We had a kiss, exchanged numbers, ensured our respective friends mingled for the remainder of the evening and went home. Me with a cum stained face and wearing tinsel like a scarf.
The following night at the works Christmas party we found ourselves sharing our venue with another company. Being a virgin – thrice removed – and still buzzing from the night before at 22 I found a lovely young trainee accountant throwing some haphazard drunken shapes to the sounds of Lou Bega and Ricky Martin. Before long we were shimmying on the dance floor closer and closer to each other. As our bodies got closer and closer so to did our lips. But we were both young and being lip locked wasn’t enough. Pretty soon we were almost dry humping on the dance floor. I was the cock hungry, uninhibited Australian within minutes my hands were down his trousers and working their way inside his boxers. Soon enough to allow me more freedom to wank his cock he was unzipping and I was literally performing a hand job in the corner of the dance floor in full view of the partner’s, managing and financial director. Fortunately for me the head of the secretary pool had taken the role of surrogate mother of me in my time in London and within minutes was pushing the boy off saying he ought to know better, seizing my arm and marching me off the dance floor then scolding me like a child at a private table.
But like all naughty Christmas elves once the Christmas party venue closed we somehow gravitated back together at the cloakroom and soon enough found ourselves fornicating at the fire exit of some office building in London’s West End. We literally got lost in the dark doorway, my hands found his cock, he got my dress up and my knickers down far enough for him to thrust into me quickly, desperately and without a sound. It was anonymous Christmas sex, a brief and cheeky pounding for me and something warm and wet for him to remember this particular party in years to come. Unsatisfying because due to time restraints and venue neither of us climaxed but a secret Santa fuck was definitely the order of the night – so once we’d scratched the sexual itch we departed to our separate after parties.
At our recovery party the night after the works Christmas do, L and I made our way to our favourite club in Norbury. The big, black bouncer I had always had a soft spot for allowed me to flirt incorrigibly with him and I made all sorts of promises about him taking me home and revealed all the private sexual thoughts I had carried with him throughout the past 12 months. After a few stolen kisses, by the time the end of the night came the thought of his big black cock became a frightening reality so I began to retract the vows I’d made earlier in the evening. Did he take offense? Refuse entry on our next visit? Start insisting I pay for entry? NO! Because he knew it was Christmas and there was no malice in my last minute rejection, everything was taken in good spirit and a light hearted manner.
That was just three nights over one Christmas. The Christmas of 1999. Do I have any similar tales of New Year’s Eve antics?
Let me think.
Okay so the raunchiest New Year’s experience I had in 32 years – and this is without a word of a lie. In 2003 we decided to do something very last minute for New Year’s. So last minute we didn’t leave home until 11.30pm.By the time we made our way through the throng of the humming West End the countdown had begun. I was wearing combat trousers and a bra covered by only a net top. I was looking pretty cute I think – sex in a girl next door kinda way. There was the smell of a million different aftershaves and perfumes mingling with the abundance of pheromones, the mist of the smoke machine and alcoholic cocktail haze the room was immersed. As the crowd roared the last count down 3 -2 -1 everyone whooped for joy. At the same moment a man got his watch caught on my net top. Whilst everyone was saying happy new year he was tugging his hand. He kissed me quickly on the mouth and shouted ‘Happy New Year.’ I smiled up at him, expecting a longer, lingering more sensual kiss. ‘Can you undo yourself from me there’s a girl over there I need to get to before someone else does.’ Stupefied in shock, my momentary pause took too long because he ripped his watch from my top, tearing the netting and didn’t bother apologising or looking back. As I looked round the room everyone seemed to be looking for the next best thing and no one was looking at me.
That was the closest I’ve come to sex at New Year’s so you’ll understand my reluctance to blog on this particular time of the year. It’s hardly scintillating stuff a story that can ever be considered ‘Gone Wild’….although his manners had clearly gone somewhere as they weren’t present around me. Fuck New Year and roll on next Christmas.