My soon to be husband said to me very early on in our relationship that the the great thing about monogamous sex was that it could really improve over time as you got to know how each others bodies responded to certain stimuli and also, knowing how each other’s minds operated meant you could improve your sex life with creativity and imagination. Foolishly I pooh poohed him on that, under the misapprehension sex could only ever stagnate and become vanilla.
Four years on and I have seriously had to review my initial opinion.
There comes a time when one must reconcile one’s self with age and physical capability. A sex marathon should never be passed on but it needs to be prepared for and in our case it needs to be drug fuelled. With age and a decreasing level of fitness non-stop excessively athletic sex needs a little help and if you can get your hands on a gram of go-gaine you’ll be set for a good 8 to 12 hour session. And after a little sex drought that’s what we decided to do in a bid to kick start things and get our sex life back on track.
That little buzz it gives once snorted immediately relaxes and clears the mind. For us cuddles naturally progress to some very slow warm up sex; both lying on our sides with him raising my left leg slightly and sliding in. In that position our bodies are pressed against each other, we can maintain eye contact and the movement of his cock in me is slow and intense. It also allows time for a little dirty talk to discuss what activities can be undertaken on the night ahead.
What was great for me here was that leading up to this night I had been having sever hormone treatment which had all but stolen my orgasm so had to prepare him that I might have difficulty being my most orgasmic self but to not worry. How wrong I was. Even with slow intimate sex and a little filthy suggestion I began cumming on his cock. The ultimate vaginal orgasm. I don’t know if he was placed in such a way he could rub my g-spot but three times I came on his cock and then it was time to ramp it up.
It was decided he should wear the ‘whore’ colour first. This allowed me to put make up on him and after pissing myself in my pink frilly knickers making him wear them: thus he really was bitch.
There is one thing that brings me to instant orgasm and that’s seeing my man wanks his arse with an object. Our chosen one is a 8 or 9 inch glass decorative object. It stars with a small glass ball and towards the base of the object they get thicker and thicker. Normally I would instruct him in detail as how I like him to use it but on this particular occasion I requested that he wank his arse as he would if he was by himself but warned if unhappy with his performance I’d instruct him and he would oblige. But he was being a good little whore and knew what I liked. Taking to all fours, facing the end of the bed end and raising his arse for my viewing pleasure; he slowly slid the glass dildo into is arse hole and began to work it in there – ball by ball. Given how out of practise we both were I was super impressed at the depth he achieved so quickly. Every so often he would raise on his haunches and begin to siit on the dildo to allow it to go further in. He managed to imbibe all but the last huge ball of the dildo. Then he resumed on all fours and begin rapidly moving the dildo in and out of his hole. With the thicker balls he would stop and rotate the dildo in a bid to stretch his arse hole. He knew I liked this. Done effectively and stretched properly it meant when he worked the item out as the smaller balls cam into view I could see a space in his arse where he’d stretched it to accommodate the bigger balls. This gap, the space, knowing I could slide a finger in there alongside the object at the same time drove me crazy. Sitting spread legged at the head of the bed with a pink vibe working my clit, as expected, my orgasm was phenomenally intense. The shudders of my body reverberated into him where my foot lay rested under his leg. I had promised if he did a good job with wanking his bum that I would not only rim but probe as deeply as possible with my tongue as a reward. Unfortunately after he heard me cum he immediately removed the object and turned round and asked if he could lick my cunt. I acknowledged the gesture but reminded him who was in charge. I spanked him twice with the leather paddle that leaves the imprint of the word ‘slut’ when struck on bare skin, but given the generosity of his univited offer I did spread his bum cheeks and tongue him. I would’ve allowed him to sit on my face had he been completely obedient but it’s all a learning curve.
Visual stimulation isn’t always associated with women, it’s considered more of a male trait on he sexual side of things. Whether a result of me being a gay man trapped in a woman’s body or the fact that I watch too much porn there are certain ‘pictures’ I like during a sex marathon. A favourite is porno cock – that is a nice hard large cock clearly visible through the underpants. With piss stained translucent lacy French knickers I wanted porno cock. I asked him to play with himself and he put his hands in his pants and began to wank. But the wait time was annoying. In the end I took over and moments after my hand clamped round his dick I felt it firm up. Now standing to attention I placed it back in the knickers so I could see his big cock straining to break free.
But I was in charge and he was wearing the collar so really I shouldn’t have had to wank him. For that there was punishment. Loving and gentle but disciplinary. I grabbed the leather paddle an the word ‘slut’ was soon emblazoned on his left buttock as a reminder that it was not my job to get him hard; he needed to do that himself.
The thing with go-gaine is that you get very dehydrated and drink – A LOT. Soon enough you need to go to the toilet. I instructed my partner to get on the floor on all fours. He obliged me and I grabbed a deep plastic bowl and put it under his head. Quickly but not cruelly I grabbed his head and said if he wanted to lick my cunt now would be the time. He pushed his face there and I held his hair firmly preventing him from withdrawing and pissed on his face. He had his tongue out wanting more so I picked up the bowl and allowed him to drink the piss from the bowl.
I was careful not to completely empty my bladder because I knew what came next. From our box of goodies I retrieved a 3ft length of tubing and a large funnel. I attached the tubing to the funnel and then lubed up the open end of the tube, as well as my man’s arse. Very slowly I began to insert the tube into is bottom and then slide the length in. Here I allowed him to tell me when it was in as far as he was comfortable with. I have him some poppers to help him relax and then took the funnel and squatted over it. I pissed into the funnel and began to watch my piss be absorbed into his body. It was intimate and filthy and wonderful watching his arse consume literally a litre of my piss. This action while incredibly pleasurable to receive does evoke an almost immediate desire to use the toilet. But wearing the ‘whore’ collar I felt he needed to be tested a bit. So as quickly as I pulled the tube out of his arse I replaced it with a small black but plug. I went round to the front, grabbed his hair and thrust his face in my cunt and pissed a little into his mouth. I straddled him and just pissed on his back – like his body was a urinal and then massaged my warm urine into his skin as he moaned. Not to let him off lightly I removed the plug and straight away began easing back in the tubing. Before he had time to complain he was being filled with my piss again and moaning in delight and despair at having to keep it all in.
Once done I put the but plug in and squatting over his arse let the final drops drip from my cunt so the piss fell down on his balls. He very quietly asked if he might be excused to the toilet to remove the butt plug as he felt he may have an accident and wasn’t coping with the excess of liquid inside him. Pleased at his efforts I allowed him to go to the toilet and even gave him a cigarette to have.
When he returned I cuddled him and fondled his cock. It was half way to an erection, I pissed a little on it and he whimpered as I sat on it. That spongy feeling of him pushing it in me felt good. I could move around on him and rub my clit against his pelvic bone. It bought me to orgasm and the contractions on his cock meant I felt him firm up completely while inside me. I sprung off – this time of the night was about my pleasure not his. His would come later.
Aware that as a result of our recent lack of sexual inactivity his posterior I had to be a little gentle. The idea was an attempt to recondition it, not abuse it to the point where it would be out of action. But I am a gay man in a woman’s body and it wasn’t long before the strapless strap on was out. I had him on his side and soon enough, after some rearranging and pliable body parts my 8 inch purple cock slid into his arse. I held him close in my embrace as his bottom became accustomed to the girth of my faux member, but soon enough he was begging for me to fuck him so I began sliding it in and out. In order to go deeper I knelt up and forced my cock in his ask while he remained on his side.
I rolled him on his back to admire how pretty he was. Decided he’d be much prettier if I shaved his pubic region. With a warm bowl of water, electric shaver, shaving cream and a razor I delicately shaved his pubic hair. He had a pre pubescent look and with the make up looked like a youthful gay boy made someone’s prag in a prison. Truth is I often fantasized about showing him off to gay men knowing how desperate they’d be to have a slice of his arse. Teasing and taunting them, showing them what he could do, how beautiful and flexible he is and knowing that his arse is all mine. The straight woman’s.
I requested he suck my cock, stroke it and mind the sensitive head. The drugs and being that high on intimacy I actually managed to orgasm from him sucking my cock. There was a definite physical reaction with my body shuddering and convulsing in delight. It was amazing that plastic strap-on didn’t spurt semen cause it felt like it should’ve.
So turned on I had his arms over my shoulder and had my cock in him. Rather than going for slow and seductive I let my lust dominate me and fucked him furiously and deeply. He never complained once. Moaned and groaned and tried to shallow the depthness but he didn’t say no or stop, until I made the executive decision to. But there was no rest for the wicked. I raised hi arse with two pillows and reached for the tubing and funnel. The tube was inserted into his arse and I stood on the bed so he had full vision of me pissing into the funnel. Better still for him he could see my piss moving down the clear tube and into his arse. Once he’s taken it all I removed the funnel and removed the collar.
‘You’re turn next,’ he said.
I have no idea why when I think of Sweden I think of porn. Is it a porn nation or are the associations with pornography now very dated? Perhaps it’s just that the Swedes are such a beautiful race they could all be porn stars, or over-whelmed by their physical attractiveness they instigate pornographic thoughts on an unsuspecting public.
I won a trip to Sweden back in 1999 when I had barely lost my virginity. I was a virgin twice removed. It was the year the musical Mamma Mia opened and as an Australian worshipping at the house of Abba naturally I entered every competition going to score tickets to see it. The particular competition I won resulted in flying first class to Sweden for a weekend at the first class section of a Radisson hotel. I have to say I was somewhat dismayed that it didn’t include tickets to see the musical itself. No that was second prize and the one I felt more coveted. Still never one to knock a freebie L and I decided to trip over there in September 1999.
Be in doubt Stockholm is like one big fashion cat walk. Beautiful boys everywhere.
Although there had been a small débâcle on the flight over (the stewardesses clearly felt our attire didn’t match that of first class passengers and decided to check our tickets and make a little scene when we joined the fast lane – L & I got them back by pocketing a dozen miniature bottles of Baileys from the drinks trolley when the air hostess’s back was turned) everything was luxury from the minute we arrived that Friday afternoon.
That we were put in a first class room and greeted with a bottle of champagne was positively thrilling for two innocents like us. But innocents we were not to be for long because you see First Class rooms at the Radisson come with free porn channels.
Apart from watching a few of my brother’s will hidden soft porn videos when I had an empty house to myself as a teen I hadn’t really experienced any hard core porn – on screen or in my own burgeoning sex life.
But we watched the porn with relish. At that point it was so hardcore some of it made me quite ill. Baring in mind I had only had one cock in my mouth, it hadn’t ejaculated and my treatment of it was like a vomit flavoured ice lolly; watching endless men spunk over tits, faces and even in a pair of shoes made me quite nauseous. L did her best to assure me I’d get used to it and it wasn’t gross at all (she was right) but I found it visually strong and uncomfortable viewing.
After a few hours of that, both of us squirming on our beds with oestrogen clouding the room we decided to hit the town. I’d done my research and discovered a club that had a retro room with 70s, 80s and 90s cheesy pop. The club was huge and L and I were clearly the tourists. Though neither of us could ever be described as unattractive we were missing the ‘Swedish porn vibe’. In fact it was all going horribly wrong because the club seemed to be all dance music. We sat there, two little cute tubbies, lost in a mass of towering long legged svelte blonde women. We must’ve had faces like slapped arses because eventually a beefcake came over and asked what was wrong. Rather curtly L said, ‘we were told this place played old pop music.’ The lovely man pointed and said ‘maybe try over there in the pop room.’ We were so used to the Norbury nightclub with its one floor, L and I had no concept of night clubs having different rooms with different music in them. Joyfully we bounced in there and as ‘Love Really Hurts Without You’ came on got lost in the dance and the drink.
We did attract some guys. The first two men to approach weren’t so traditionally Swedish in our idealised eyes. One was phenomenally good looking but short – shorter than L so I’m thinking 5’2 – maybe taller as she’d have had heels on but still short. The other was pleasant looking but I wondered if maybe he was visiting from Norway because I wasn’t getting a massive wetness in my knickers.
Eventually another two came up. One was Mr Personality – again pleasant looking and good company but not the highest standard looks-wise. His friend however. Oh my lord it was like he’d stepped off the cover of GQ magazine. He wasn’t blonde but he was tall, slim, broad, dark curtained hair, chiselled features and he took my breath away. I was envious knowing L would score with him. I’d get the character but she would get the looks – that’s how it always seemed to work in my eyes.
When Mr Personality asked for a dance I nodded enthusiastically. I went to him, arms ready to wrap round my neck and rather embarrassingly he stepped back quickly and said ‘no – with my friend.’ He literally shoved me into his male model friend and it was a moment I will never forget. What an achievement. The downside was he was probably the only Swede that didn’t speak perfect English. He barely knew English but I was in heaven for the duration of the dance. L later commented how sweet it was that I had been looking up at him all gooey eyed and sung Take That’s ‘Back For Good’ at him. The club closed and they invited us on but the spell was broken.
If I’m honest and I may be off base, I felt L was a little reluctant to allow herself to be courted by Mr Personality for the evening and perhaps put out that it was the male model that had squeezed me so tight on the dance floor. Thus the evening reached a natural conclusion and we went home in the early hours of Saturday morning.
I had been in contact with Abba’s Benny and Bjorn’s studio and had a very nice email giving me details as to where it was. Not one to waste a tourist opportunity I had booked L and I on a sightseeing tour of Stockholm, planning to jump off at the studio on the off chance my heroes may be there. It didn’t work out so well. L and I got on the bus, next to the window, decided to put our heads on the table for a little rest and were woken up four hours later by some angry fellow passengers saying the tour had ended and tutting that we would waste the window seats everyone seemed to want.
Handily McDonald’s was across from our hotel so we grabbed a few meals for lunch and headed back to our room for an afternoon of porn. It was compulsive, even though the movies were on rotation we stayed glued to the screen. So compelling was it that when we realised it was dinner time we rang McDonald’s across the road and ordered room service so we could continue our porn marathon. As evening turned into late night and our hormones were in overdrive we both decided we wanted sex that night and needed to go out.
We got dressed and after taking a few saucy photos of each other (one I really need a copy of because I myself look like a plus-size porn model) went back to the one club we knew in Stockholm.
There had been significant discussion regarding sex in a room with twin beds. At one point we thought of dragging a mattress into the bathroom so we could have privacy but felt so much preparation may jinx our intention of getting laid so decided to play it by ear.
Our beaus from the previous night weren’t there but the initial two (Short & beautiful and Norwegian pleasant) were. At this point it was pretty much an equal match. L’s had the looks but being vertical challenge did impact on his appeal, mine was nice looking and normal but nothing to write home about. So we spent the evening with them. For the first time ever when the club closed we begged them to take us onwards. I wanted to go to a thump-thump-thump dance club. The kind you see in Ibiza movies with laser lights, podiums and a mad throng of people dancing. Polite and happy to play tour guides the boys took us to one of those very clubs. I hated the music but I loved that we were in a club open till 9am for the very first time.
But sex was on our minds and the music wasn’t to our taste so we invited the boys back to our hotel to drink the ‘champagne’.
I would’ve thought an invite back to a hotel room was evident of what we were after but seemingly not. As we crashed into our hotel room it didn’t become an orgy but a very civilized affair. The champagne was supped and merry as we all were conversation flowed but not in any sexual way. L and I were desperate and thought we’d ‘put the TV on’ to help the atmosphere. Thus we ‘accidentally’ found ourselves on the porn channel. The boys remained clueless; as if it hadn’t been a deliberate mistake. Perhaps we were better actresses than we thought or perhaps they were masters at playing hard to get. We exchanged glances as to what other options were available to get things moving but were unable to telepathically come up with anything creative.
By now the boys, having told us they were in National Service together, were fooling around and rough housing on the twin beds that had been pushed together. The fell between the crevice, laughing and grappling. It was all a bit homo-erotic; like they were having a sex party in our room and we weren’t invited.
The only solution that came to mind was just to say we were tired and going to bed and they could join us if they wanted.
And they did want.
This immediately posed the privacy problem – I knew we should’ve put that mattress in the bathroom.
Lights off was easy enough but made for guaranteed fumbling. We tried to find a music channel on the TV to at least muffle whispering but the music was highly inappropriate – it seems at 6am Swedish folk and skiffle music is the choice of radio broadcasters which isn’t conducive to cocks being invited to enter vagina’s.
The first difficulty were the beds were too close. Within the beds it went L’s man, L, me and my man. L and I were so close our flesh was brushing and we were getting a fit of the giggles. When my man was groping in the dark his hand was grabbing L’s thigh, which sparked a squeal from her and an embarrassed retraction from him.
The second difficulty was both the guys had consumed excess alcohol and I suspect weren’t physically in a position to deliver the shafting we were both so desperate for. L wasn’t quite as sluttish as I. Drunk and up for a good time she doesn’t include her Mr Sweden in her official numbers because it slipped in and then slipped out. According to her ‘Slutty Value System’ one thrust and / or an entry of less 5 seconds doesn’t constitute a sexual encounter.
I on the other hand was as persistent as ever. My insecurities got the better of me and I was concerned he just wasn’t that into me. Any kind of sexual or physical rejection is too much for me so I worked his cock as best I could but it was like an air mattress with a leak. As soon as I got it hard and I let go to position myself for entry, all too soon it would deflate, slip out and I’d have to go through the entire process again. Whether he did it out of sympathy, obligation or a genuine desire to try and sexually pleasure me he began fingering me. If I’m honest this kind of sexual activity I find pleasing. It’s just that he was lazily using one finger – which is like a slim line tampon. I’m all about the girth so found myself instructing him on what to do to please me. The first instruction being ‘two fingers’. So there was foreplay and eventually some barely conscious pumping and then sleep for both us; him sliding out as our eyelids closed.
They left a few hours later. Civil, polite, friendly but without any real warmth nor indication whether their night in our hotel would be one they told friends about, one they had as pleasant memory of sex and youth or one they never wanted to repeat.
It was disappointing for me on the grounds that I’d spent so much time researching ejaculation and what to do with cum when it….comes….to not have had the climax to conclude our weekend in Sweden seemed a little unfair.
The only person who walked away better informed on my sex life and how to pleasure me was L who found it necessary, after being seated at the breakfast buffet, to utter just five words to mortify and embarrass me for life – ‘Two fingers is best then?’
What makes a guy attractive? And what makes a man physically irresistible.
I like to think the majority of men I’ve slept with have ranked pretty high in terms of their looks. Graded most women would place them at 7 or up on a scale of 10. It used to be phenomenally important to me to sleep with men extraordinarily good looking and far superior in their physical attractiveness in comparison with me in order to affirm what little self confidence I had and to ensure my conquests were boasts to be proud of.
But there were one or two that slipped through the net in terms of physical beauty and I question why I allowed it. The person in mind was not great beauty in fact he barely even made the grade as average or ‘plain looking’. In truth he was ugly.
It’s a harsh judgement to make; subjective and dependant on taste but had the man in mind and my liaison with him ever gone public I would have been ashamed. Yes that sounds shallow and horrid on my part and back then I suppose some aspects of me were but at 5’2 with a greasy blonde mullet, pock marked skin, buck teeth and a limp no reasonable person could have dragged him into any other category looks-wise other than …. unattractive.
Yet I was besotted with the man. For an evening or two – just till I’d bedded him…well fucked him in the downstairs toilets of the theatre I worked at.
And so what lure did this goblin like creature have for me, particularly as I was stone cold sober and drug free? He had a confidence to him and he had ‘the chat’. He was conversationally engaging. The words dropping from his tongue seemed to give him some kind of aura that made me want him. His sheer dismissiveness of me when I was or should have been the toast of the theatre as its manager, calling the shots with music, free drinks and lock ins had me annoyed and sexually hungry.
I was furious with myself for wanting him, knowing I could do better and with great ease. Perhaps it was the challenge or just to prove to myself that he was all chat and no little repugnant hobbit could really resist my charm.
I was on charm offensive. It took three nights hard work. I bore 36 hours of back handed compliments and physical brush offs, but by Friday night I had exercised my tongue (not on his cock but in competition with his sharp wit) so that he took me seriously enough to linger with a last drink…as I let the normal punters head home at closing and invited my naughty gnome to stay for another pint.
His height was problematic. Fortunately the bar stools were quite high so sitting on the stool and me standing behind the bar we were roughly about the same height so I could go in for the kiss. His bugs bunny teeth banging against my own perfect pearly whites. My hands twirling the ends of his mullet and wondering if I could wipe the grease from his hair into the oil vat out the back of the restaurants to cooks the following nights chips in.
I gravitated from the behind the bar to between his legs, testing the cock and to my surprise finding it wasn’t as stumpy as his shorter leg.
I admit it I was drunk. It was Friday night and Friday night was FUBAR night (that’s a drink abbreviated for Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition consisting of two shots of vodka, two shot of gin, two shots of bacardi and a bacardi breezer all poured into a pint glass) and I had indulged. I must have because I cannot for the life of me recall how we somehow made our way from the bar downstairs to the toilets by the entrance to the stalls of the theatre.
But I do recall sitting on the row of sinks, skirt hitched up, with a pugly pygmy’s face buried between my spread legs. And I remember loving it. I mean it was ugly sex but maybe that was the appeal or turn on for me.
Clearly there was no way (unless he stood on a beer crate or slipped into some mammoth platforms from the 70s) he was going to be able to fuck me on the sink so I did an unforgivable (in terms of hygiene) and allowed myself to be fucked on a toilet floor.
You have to remember the west-end (fringe) theatre I was managing at the time had a late night bar and the clientèle were musicians, actors and dancers from surrounding theatre-land. These were not restrained or orderly in their social habits. So the floor had already been subject to at least 8 hours of spilt alcohol, god knows what may have been on the soles of the toilet users shoes, possible pee from having to drip dry (my fault for not ensuring the toilet rolls were kept full and fresh in each cubicle), possible other mishaps from bowel or uterus and most definitely spunk from other Friday night filthy encounters patrons had been engaging in.
And there I was, in the mess, knickers and tights down round my ankle having ugly sex on an ugly and smelly floor.
That sex has stayed with me. Because it was hot. Because it was wrong. Because I should never have allowed it to happen. I used to wear all black and by the time I’d been shafted severely by a midget with the sex style of a pneumatic drill my attire did not in any way disguise my antics.
There’d been something about having something so little and ugly working its way round and relishing all of me that had made me wetter than ever. I still find it repulsive as I write and yet can still get wet at the sheer disgust he evoked in me combined with the pleasure he actively bestowed on me. I’m not sure what it was…seeing my juices all round his plump lips with those protruding teeth; those tiny little hands with sausage fingers – one resting on the mound of my vagina a thumb pressing against my clit while the other hand slipped two deliciously short fingers furiously inside me; that grimy unwashed body sweating over me as he fucked away – the grubby droplets being massaged into me as he clambered over me to get his dick in as far as it could go. Whatever it was it worked. It was sexy and unforgettable.
By the time I arranged myself and watched the minuscule excuse for a man dress with morbid fascination that I had just had very intimate and exciting relations with I was holding his hand and walking up the stairs of the theatre and passed the box office to find the Saturday Box Office morning shift were starting – which meant it was 9am and I had been caught hand in hand with someone very ugly and very obviously another shag from the numerous punters I was clocking up from that particular venue.
She was disapproving – not of my choice (she was no stunner herself), more that I was her boss and was clearly conducting myself in a manner she felt not befitting a manager.
She was probably right.
There was no more ugly sex with him. Or ever again. Which is a shame really because looking back it was definitely worth a revisit. My only opportunity though was when our paths crossed at another theatre. The theatre and my position was far more civilized and orderly….and the sinks were way too high for the initial foreplay.
Very short post this week because unfortunately I have spent most of the past week in hospital – I’d love to say it was because of a sexually sustained injury but given my sex life seems to have been sucked into some chastity vortex that would be a lie.
So it’s a quick tale this week.
And due to the popularity of the older woman younger guy scenario I thought I’d introduce you to a young Mr Ho.
As I was closing into thirty and exploring younger flesh I was also branching out and decided I’d like to fuck (or in the very least kiss) my way around the world.
In Australian we refer to the good folk of China, Japan, Malaysia, Taiwan, Singapore and Hong Kong as Asian. I realise in the UK it extends to India, Sri Lanka, Pakistan and so on.
Thus my newest conquest is best described of being of oriental descent. Definitely mixed race because (without being a stereotypical Australian racist) he was well over 6ft. He was awfully posh and came from Oxford but was at 6th form college; not the university. He was also a rugby player so for someone not on the petite side was physically a good match. Because of his age and athleticism he was also presumably full of stamina.
Once again the teen had to travel to visit me. We’d been communicating online and he seemed confident enough to see me one weekend. Only the Friday night beforehand I started getting my period. Having sex on my period doesn’t bother me, if anything it’s a bit of a turn on and a lot of men feel the same. However someone with minimal experience could find the thought of pumping a bloody vage quite off putting; psychologically traumatizing even.
I texted to let him know the situation; suggesting a reschedule saying I completely understood having never had sex with a bleeding cunt before he may want to take a rain check. He assured me it would be no problem and he’d be there Saturday afternoon. On reflection I think he didn’t want his bus ticket to go to waste- he probably had to work really long hours at McDonald’s to save up for those babies. No menstruating cougar was gonna put his dick off his game…..or so he thought.
He actually managed to make his way to my flat (my flatmate having cleared off to his boyfriends for the evening) saving me having to meet him at the station and play nanny for the duration of the trip.
I’ve always been into slighter men, but the sheer height of him and the broadness was overwhelming. Coupled with the tones of his skin colour, hairless body and completely defined chest and ripped torso I could barely believe my lust…errr luck. He was like a giant Manga cartoon with brains and an awfully posh accent. There was just one downside with this giant man-boy. He had a very tiny todger. Perhaps had he not been so tall it wouldn’t have been noticeable but it was. It was like a little chipolata. I wanted to wrap it up in bacon and serve it at a dinner party.
Perhaps I should’ve removed the tampon first, perhaps I should’ve trusted my guy instinct and talked him out of attempting sex, but as he pulled my knickers down and I (discretely I thought) removed a tampon his face became very pale. When two fingers slipped into something more than watery warmth, he removed them. Clearly that particular cherry pie was not to his taste. When he looked at his his bloodied fingers I didn’t think he was imagining himself on some massive rock stage with an air guitar singing ‘Sweet Cherry Pie!’
All his good Oxford manners went out the door – he was anything but an English gent.
It was simply a case of his dick going limp and hearing him suddenly overcoming his previous youthful shyness and boldly stating, ‘I’m sorry I can’t do this. I thought I could but I can’t.’
it was pretty brutal on the old ears. I must say and talk about a pink (or rather red) elephant in the room. Although unspoken, the word ‘awkward’ reverberated all around. Unashamedly he clearly had no intention of finding alternate accommodation. Worse still he felt given he’d at least shown willing I could recompense him in some way for his monies and menstruation massacre. So I took the the chipolata and let it flop round my mouth and in all honesty within less than 2 minutes he’d come. He was verbally very grateful – by then he’d found Mr Manners and informed me I gave the best blow job ever. Ever? But that poor excuse for a stout infant-fish had barely had my lips round it before it was spewing man milk in my mouth. The best ever? He mustn’t have had a lot cause I hadn’t even got started – still at that point I needed an ego booster so it wasn’t an unwelcome compliment. Turned out Mr Manners was a passing visitor and he fell asleep immediately so I sneaked into my flatmates covers to feel safe and reel from the indignation and humiliation flung at me by some college teen.
Ever the hospitable host I woke at 6am and put myself back into his bed, all showered and fresh. When he woke to find me there, I confess there was an absence of regret or sensitivity in how he broached the monthly issues of what is considered normal for mature women. Perhaps that was the problem. You go to bed as a mature woman with an immature man you are likely to experience these inwardly excruciatingly undignified moments.
Not Mr Ho though. His first words were, as he put an arm round me and pushed my head to his groin was, ‘That was an amazing blow job last night, the best – do it again for me please before I have to catch my bus.’
I really should have mustered a little courage and backbone and told him to fuck off and learn a little bedroom etiquette or man up and remember not every rugby game was played on a dry pitch – sometimes it rains and gets muddy but you still gotta play the game.
I didn’t though. I had two minutes spare so finished him off. I’m guessing my ‘oh-so-amazing’ micro blow jobs were enough to counteract the mental scarification of seeing his index and middle fingers covered in dark red cervical mucus, vaginal secretions, and endometrial tissue.
A year or so later he was doing an intern-ship at Price Cooper Waterhouse and got in touch (he really must have liked that blow job). He asked if he could visit and knowing there was not a clot of blood in sight and remembering that huge hunky body my resolve weakened and I told him to come round.
And he was a specimen of perfect physical beauty, even his titchy penis was beautiful. His cock hadn’t matured so I could only hope his attitude and technique had.
How wrong I was. It got hard and managed to slip into the entrance of my vagina but it slipped out after cumming within all of two minutes.
‘I seem to have a problem with this,’ was the best he could offer.
I did the thoughtful girly thing and said it was normal and natural and encouraged him that the next time he would last longer and it’s be better and all those platitutdes. Once recovered though he plopped it back inside me and the duration was even shorter than the original encounter.
Did he apologise, offer to take me to dinner, offer to perform oral pleasure on me or offer any physical comfort or stimulus? No – I got a ‘I better drive home now before my aunt and uncle miss the car and wonder where I’ve been.’
With the launch of facebook and having graduated university Mr Ho got in touch with me. By now the boy had become a man. I had a message on facebook saying: ‘I really fucked it up didn’t I? You were so pretty and lovely and kind and I treated you awfully. I’m so sorry. I see your single at the moment and would love to catch up with you. Be my friend?’
Nice boy, but friendship request rejected. Sorry Mr Ho, I’m busy painting the town red!
Whilst fucking barely legal boys was fun and in no way emotionally draining; one predictability with every lusty youthful encounter was that you weren’t going to be treated like a princess in public – in fact it was guaranteed you’d not be leaving the bedroom. Older men on the other hand were so inept or unused to the dating game they would lavish attention (and money) on a pretty young thing some 20 years their junior. And there are many tales there I will draw on at a later date.
What sticks out most in my mind in terms of old sex is sleeping with a guy that was 63…when I was 30…and he thought I was 25 (I lied on my online profile). There is another story that eclipses that one in terms of age difference but it doesn’t involve cock so it can wait.
There may be those that have heard of, subscribed to or read about a sordid little website called ‘Illicit Encounters’ – a ‘marriage dating website’. At its inception it pretty much hooked up disgruntled, unsatisfied people in marriages (or long term relationships) looking for a little sexual side dish outside of their dreary lives.
At the time to join you couldn’t actually be single, so I had to opt for separated of divorced. It was all very hush hush and under the guise that everyone respected the vows of marriage and concept of family but appreciated certain aspects of a relationship may diminish or be completely eradicated. Sex starved married men could hook up with equally sex starved wives and neither person’s marriage would be jeopardized – usually. Indeed the website comes with a warning: Not everyone is suited to having an affair. They are not an alternative to working on or ending a marriage. Not all affairs have a positive effect on a marriage, some can be very damaging (no shit Sherlock!). Always consider other people and if you are going to have an affair, please select your partner wisely (have you seen Fatal Attraction???).
What appealed to me about the website wasn’t so much the no-strings sex, or that I didn’t have to stress about getting involved in something heavy like an actual relationship but the fact that while females joined for free, male memberships ranged from £100 – £250 per month. Any man that could afford that sort of money usually had additional disposable income to share with their selected date.
Believe me I cashed in big time on that particular aspect. I’ve never eaten or drunk so well. Allowing for such a huge age gap worked in my favour, they were flattered and in some ways I was paid accordingly for being presentable, educated, young and slutty. It was a win-win situation (well not always but no need to dampen the mood with the horror stories of the darker side of this seedy sleazy website).
It wasn’t the man that bestowed the most money on me, or was the most in awe of my beauty that won me over: It was the sixty plus someone that was confident enough to make me do all the chasing that had me desperate to bed him.
After an exchange online and a few texts we decided to meet. Did he take me to a posh restaurant, make a grand gesture like the others? No Grandfather George* in his Saville Row pinstripe suit was happy to see us slum it in a Samuel Smiths pub – no music, no decore and £2 pints. His off-handish manner changed him from being a piggy bank or doormat to a conquest. And boy did I have to chase.
He teased me with texts suggesting possible meetings and all sorts of lewd activities but nothing came to fruition. It drove me mental. What little dignity I did have I cast aside. I had a text some 4 months later asking me to met for a drink one Friday evening. Had I possessed any self respect I’d have said no and to call in advance and take me somewhere befitting a lady of my style (that last part suggests unrealistic ideals of grandeur but a girls gotta dream). Instead I agreed immediately.
We met at the pub with a brisk kiss on the cheek and ushered me into the same cheap, bland pub and literally said: ‘I’ve only got time for a quick drink but next Tuesday I’m attending a work function in London and staying overnight in a hotel. Do you fancy staying in the hotel and fucking me?’
He’d played so hard to get, regardless of his arrogance, lack of style and manners, for me bedding him became the game. That was the end result. Whatever indignities I would endure of the journey was irrelevant. I would not have someone twice my age turning me down for sex.
After that drink. Nothing. I didn’t even know if Tuesday was on. Given his prick-ish behaviour I assumed he would call it off (and not even bother informing me of the change of plans) so didn’t come prepared for an evening sexual dalliance. After returning from lunch I had a text with the address of the hotel, room number, my expected arrival time and the time he was leaving to go to his work function. It was cold and calculated and we both knew I was going to obey.
Only I looked a mess. I could borrow my work colleagues make-up and even a pair of decent shoes but because I was significantly overweight in relation to my peers I just didn’t have a choice of clothes to borrow form. Working in a music company meant the dress code was lax and my preferred choice of attire to disguise my significant bulk tendered to be jeans, trainers and huge oversized sports tops. It was comfortable but not in any way sexy or flattering to the figure and despite all the creative types present there was no way to sex it up.
Working in a music company also meant we were paid a pittance because everyone wants to work in music so with demand outweighing supply I had didn’t have the money to buy a top in any shop in the West End where my work place was based. Instead I had to run up to Tezenis on the corner of Oxford Circus. For those of you that don’t know Tezenis is a cheap underwear and pyjama shop. The best I could do was find a low cut skin tight pyjama top to masquerade as a blouse for the evening.
It did the trick – well it didn’t stay on for long so I looked feminine and reasonably presentable.
I got to the hotel and knocked on his door.
And I was faced with a 63 year old naked and fresh out of the shower with a towel wrapped round his waist. Before you start gagging at the mental image and branding me a gerontophile (that’s a person who has a sexual preference for the elderly – think opposite of a paedophile) let me tell you he was actually pretty buff.
He was a silver haired fox and rather good-looking but short; shorter than me in heels so maybe 5’6. Broad but his body looked like it frequented the gym regularly. He had a defined hairless chest and a flat stomach – okay there was no six pack but it was hard and tight. He was muscular, I’ve heard from a male friend that’s a little vertically challenged that it’s a lot easier to stay in shape when you are smaller and maybe this was the case with Granddad George. Don’t you just hate it when someone is phenomenally good looking but a foot too short for their beauty to be truly appreciated? Man that must’ve been him when he was younger. With money, sharp suits, an acerbic tongue and high level of intelligence his attractiveness was now off the scale at 63.
I kept remembering the episode of ‘Sex and the City’ (The Man, The Myth, The Viagra) where Samantha goes on a date with a 72 year old billionaire and convinces herself the sexual side of the relationship will be fine because ‘all cats look the same in the dark’; when faced with the bottom of a 72 year old she realises the sight cannot be forgotten no matter how dark the room.
By the time he dropped the towel I was so mesmerized by his cock I didn’t have time to be repulsed by any wrinkles. It was a whopper. Like a pepper mill. Long and thick…..and limp, but not unattractive – quite wondrous in truth. There was no viagra available and believe me getting enough blood down there to support such a beast was hard work. Clearly my low cut pyjama top did not scream ‘lady of the night’ so my hand was working his cock like a water pump on a well. Once it was hard though it was a magnificent creature. Upon entry I could feel vagina stretching to accommodate him and once he was in there he thrust away – robotically almost. Then his watch beeped, he withdrew methodically and said ‘Right I’ve got to go to dinner now. Not sure when I’ll be back so you can go home now if you want.’
No way was I leaving that luxurious hotel – particularly as I felt a little like I’d been a disappointing shag. I needed a chance to rescue my reputation (didn’t want a bad rap on ‘illicit encounters’ and risk jeopardising my new posh social life) so smiled sweetly saying I’d wait. I watched a film, ordered room service and rang all my friends from the room’s phone (wonder how he felt when he got the bill on departure).
He didn’t like my brazenness, the bold way I insisted I would stay but he had shades of an English gent and knew he couldn’t really throw me out without being a complete cunt and in fairness, desperate as I was, I was a nice enough girl. So I waited it out. I can’t have been that bad though because he only attended for an hour and a half (or maybe he was concerned I was going to ransack the room) and then returned back to the hotel for a little more.
Once the bratwurst was standing too attention it was all stations go. I rolled out a variety of positions from missionary, doggy style, cowgirl, reverse cowgirl, sultry saddle, the squat, standing up, legs on shoulders – the lot. He went solid for over three hours. Had I not been so busy trying to manage my exercise induced asthma I’d have applauded his stamina. He’d put most young men to shame with his solid shafting of me. I could feel my vagina lips puffing with each pump. Changing positions in an attempt to generate a splurge of semen within me became chore-ish. To have him re-enter my swollen labia was excruciating. As he banged away like a pneumatic drill for twenty minutes all I could do was go through my mind’s catalogue of sexual positions in a bid to find the right one to generate his orgasm and resolve myself to the fact that I would have to endure another penetration from his pepper-mill when it was time for a position changeover.
I can’t tell you the climax of my imaginative and acrobatic workout. I certainly didn’t climax and to my shame, despite being less than half his age I fell asleep mid fuck and thus couldn’t possibly comment on whether he did or not. I’m guessing given I didn’t wake entangled with his body or snuggled against him, that I wasn’t invited to stay for breakfast, nor did I render an utterance of a goodbye from his state of slumber or even a thank you text the following day he didn’t attain the desired pinnacle from his unwelcome overnight guest at the Ritz. He really should’ve saved me for an illicit encounter at the Travelodge – bad judgement on his part
* His name was Steve not George, I just thought Granddad George sounded funnier.
When you start clocking up so many shags you forget not only names but exact numbers it takes its toll on you. Not physically so much, but mentally. Somehow the dream of one of these random fucks turning out to be ‘the one’ becomes less and less likely. You realise you are no longer addicted to the dream of finding Mr Right, rather you are addicted to the sex – the ‘high’ of scoring the cock you demand inside in you; another ‘notch on the bedpost’; a funny fabulous story to recount down the pub; a boudoir conquest; an escape from the loneliness – just a couple of hours in the arms of another, even if the comfort and attention is all just pretend.
And it started to hurty by the time I was thirty. Constant disappointment as I left one bedroom without wanting a return invite (if one was even extended). With the crushing realisation my wonderful twenties were behind me and facing the inevitable reality that I was just a slag who’d spend their life alone I thought I’d at least diminish the prospect of allowing myself to be a doormat to beautiful men.
There’s a great line in a Blur song (before they completely creatively disappeared up their own arses) – ‘and the mind gets dirty, as you get closer to thirty’.
Mine did. It has ever since if I’m honest.
I’ve always said there are three things I don’t do:
1) Bestiality (it’s okay to have a sneaky watch on zootube)
2) Poo (accidents are sometimes unavoidable)
3) Paedophilia (it’s always wrong and makes me ill thinking about it, let alone writing about it)
But Cougar Town was approaching. A stream of married men, experienced men had an emotional edge on me, upsetting the balance of power. The only alternative was to stop chasing older guys and start seducing younger men. The rationale behind it was that if they were older they’d be less experienced with women which would allow me to feel more in control and chances were less complicated emotionally (I don’t mean that in a derogatory way I’m not sure how complicated emotionally men ever are – and I’m not a staunch feminist man hater). I could have saucy sex without any sticky heavy emotional ties. Young guys wanna fuck – not get married and have babies.
I have to say for the most part this new plan worked – there’s a few other stories tucked away in that catalogue that I’ll return to at another time. Young might be fun but it can be…..messy in an inexpert way.
I wish I could remember his name. He was a scouser and I met him on faceparty – just as they eradicated all the ‘oldies’ from the site. I was lucky to get a code to reboot my profile and access this young person’s domain.
There is an escapable beauty in youth. Youth aside though he would remain beautiful even as he aged. In a few more years he could easily have gone Goth, but when I met him he was ‘geeky’. A little scouser that was a good catholic boy, and spent his time painting famous scenes from cult movies and selling them on eBay. A comic book collector. I’d have loved him when I was 13, but I was 30 now and I had the ability to not have to lust from afar. I could use my feminine wiles to draw him to London. And I did.
There was an innocence to him. Despite my reservations that my size would put him off he assured me it didn’t in the slightest. He thought I was ‘interesting’ and ‘sensitive’. I don’t think he realised I was just emotionally retarded. At 16 I suppose to him I was interesting. When he asked about seedy Soho and how sexually adventurous I was I’m guessing given my sexual history and overactive imagination a teenage girl couldn’t really complete. Perhaps I was the embodiment of maternal sexuality – I wonder if it was that I was non-threatening but highly available? Whatever he clearly thought I was worth the risk so he told his mum (he was from a single parent family) that he was headed to London for a comic book convention one weekend.
Picking him up from Victoria coach station I did feel a bit mumsy. I was vamped up appearance wise but I was shocked at how boyish he was. I wasn’t even sure he’d have pubes and I hoped to god he hadn’t lied about his age. It’s gotta be legal!
He was so skinny and wearing all black. He had jet black hair and deep green eyes – like a cat that had transformed into a boy. All leanness – I remember him telling me he had something like 2% body fat. His arms were like twigs and I had a feeling I wasn’t sure he’d be able to execute my favourite sexual position of me on my back with my legs wrapped round his neck…but I was willing to give it a try.
I just hadn’t thought through how overwhelming it may have been for him. He’d been to London once before with his Dad who had warned him off Soho, which clearly piqued his curiosity so I felt it was the best place to start.
Regardless of him being underage I didn’t incur any problems in getting him into pubs in Soho. And I definitely needed a drink to take the edge off as I felt like a naughty nanny. He was awfully shy and confessed that he never ate in public with cutlery (McDonald’s for dinner then – I kid you not!). But after a few drinks he relaxed enough to let go of his backpack and sidle closer to me on the couch at the trendy Soho pub.
All the texts and instant online messaging began to creep into the conversation. Did I mean the things I said online? Did I like him in the flesh and still want to do the things I had promised? Was I really happy to go shopping for sex toys with him to use later? Hello Mr Cutey Cute – YES!
I had my first kiss at 15 and never had another until I was 21. I didn’t have sex until I was 21. I sat in that bar, looking at the evening crowd tottering in for a night on the West End and should’ve felt out of place but as he eventually mustered up the courage to kiss me oh so gently, so tentatively I melted into the seat. It was a kiss I should’ve had 14 years earlier, but it was worth the wait. My cynicism and pain of rejection forgotten in that moment. To kiss like a teenager, to just explore, to be excited at the prospect of sex – it felt so innocent and exactly what I needed. There was no need to analyse, think it out, contemplate the art of seduction – the attraction was there and that motored things on.
Me moving my hand up his thigh, him moving his kisses to my throat, ears, panting like a puppy as his hands gently brushed over my exposed cleavage. I could feel myself dripping wet and decided to make a move.
I avoided Ann Summers – it’s way too mainstream and inoffensive. I opted for Harmony – decent stuff but not intimidating.
It wasn’t crazy or extreme toys we bought. We held hands and selected some handcuffs and a blindfold. Ever the gent he insisted on paying…..with his pocket money no doubt.
After a Maccas we headed back to mine. At the time I was living in the very hip Lambs conduit Street in Holborn – above a Café, with the landlord’s and café owner’s mother and a mysterious flatmate I never saw. The difficulty was that my room was a refurbished loft. You literally opened the front door of the flat to see a ladder. One had to climb the ladder to get to my bedroom. The ceilings were low but the room was massive – it’s just that it was directly overhead the town other bedrooms in the house so all movements and noises can be heard.
There was a single bed in the room, but I tended to use that as my couch and had a double futon on the floor. It was only when I was finally getting to strip that tight t-shire off to reveal a taunt skeletal pale white torso I heard the words I dreaded.
‘I lied about something’
‘I ummmm I never slept with another girl. I haven’t done this so. I might not get it right.’
Ding, ding, ding – JACKPOT!!!
I promised it’d be okay. And for just one night I didn’t feel used. I felt treasured, admired. To have someone desperate to explore your body. To try things they’ve only ever seen in porn movies and magazines. Someone without any need to be cruel. I had an urge to sing with angels – ‘I was beat, incomplete, I’d been had, I’d been sad and blue but you made me feel, yeah you made me feel shiny and new’.
For him everything was exciting. And knowing that my warm, wet minny was the first his mouse would visit was very flattering I must confess.
It wasn’t dirty sex, it was pure sex. Like the best vanilla ice cream ever that makes you think – ‘why do I always opt for chocolate and strawberry – this ice cream flavour is bliss’
That’s not to say the toys were neglected. I got him up on the single bed where I could cuff him to the bed posts and blindfold him. Suck him until he was begging for mercy. Demented with pleasure. I straddled him then – knowing I’d be the first woman to ever mount that lovely proud flawless cock – and rocked. I removed his blindfold and the sight of it was all too much. He was begging to suck my breasts and who I was I to deprive him.
Notwithstanding his impressive stamina it had taken its toll. He began begging me to get off. I was a bit miffed. I normally try and bare my full weight on my thighs in that position so as not to squash the man underneath. But he seemed distressed so I leapt off only to find as I did cum came out of his penis like a fire hose had been turned on and was unmanned – his cock whirling round, cum flying out like a sprinkler. It was a blast that jettisoned over us both. I reached down and rubbed the cum on his stomach down and massaged his balls with it while he moaned. Still handcuffed I let him watch as wiped his cum between my legs. He begged me to uncuff him and no sooner had I then he got quite forceful and pushed me down on the bed cuffing my wrists.
He put the blindfold on and I felt his fingers probing inside me, deeper and deeper. My body responded and he intuitively twisted them inside me making me moan. He spent a long time orally investigating the new shaven pleasure garden before getting hard and putting himself inside me again. With him in control it was a lot more frantic and frenzied – but who doesn’t like a good rogering now and again. Technique can be forgiven as long as lust and enthusiasm are present.
He was quick to withdraw again before ejaculation. He stood by the single bed, his eyes closed tight and his mouth fixed in a firm line, willing his cock not explode again. I got him to uncuff me and told him to kneel down as I positioned myself into a sitting position on the bed edge, legs dangling to the floor. He obliged and spreading my legs wide, then lips I gave a few clear concise instructions as to exactly where the clitoris was. Inexperience is sweet but lapping a cunt like a dog is only fun for so long – eventually you need to hit the right spot. It would only be fair to the next lady he laid with.
It was an exercise he seemed to enjoy as it wasn’t long before he was back inside me, my ankles in gripped in his hands as he pushed my legs over my head to go as deep as possible before withdrawing and cumming all over the backs of my thighs.
There’s always that awkward moment when you feel sticky and … well I’m an Aussie and OCD (obsessive compulsive disorder) – we like to shower once a day and I just can’t sleep if I feel dirty. So it was down the ladder for a shower but by the time I climbed stark naked up the ladder – which given my size cannot have been a good look. His green eyes were beaming and he was asking if he could do me doggy style. It seemed rude to say no, but I have to say by this time, age was taking its toll on me. I was thirty after all and not only needed my beauty sleep but wasn’t used to pulling an all-nighter – even if I could have a lie in tomorrow. This last session not only involved me on my knees on a hard loft floor with threadbare carpet, gritted teeth as I endured the pounding but was accompanied to a soundtrack of my elderly Portuguese flat mate (landlady’s mother) yelling in broken English that she didn’t deserve this noise at 3am.
I know longer felt like a porn star, I just felt tired. Eventually he collapsed and slept and I was grateful.
And like two teens aware that it was an infatuation there was the awkwardness the following morning of getting him back to Victoria Coach Station so he’d get home for school on Monday, finding a place to have breakfast that didn’t involve cutlery and him awash in catholic guilt saying if I was pregnant he’d stand by me.
He headed back to Liverpool and took my teenage dreams with him.
Given a lot of my life is spent being recorded, I thought for a change I might transcribe some conversations between myself and my boyfriend for a teasing insight into my present sex life and a hint of the more extreme stories and bedroom adventures that have come into being since committing to the one dick.
S: Fucking hell my vagina hurts.
E: What in a good way?
S: I think you were erring to the right yesterday. That particular lip seems to be sore when I’m sitting.
E: That’s a fucking good opening line for a play.
S: Better than ‘How’s your vage?’
E: As good as! Tell you what you could do, you could do your next blog post as dialogue.
S: That’s not a bad idea. Kinda like a script – a record of us chatting shit.
E: How’s your arse-hole by the way?
S: Very good all things considered.
E: There’s your next line.
S: I have to say, on reflection, in the words of Sun Tzu you picked the right strategy to get in there.
E: But how does it feel?
S: At the moment I’m desperate for a poo. It’s been three days and normally I’d welcome a bowel evacuation but given the charge you led last night I just know it’s gonna hurt so it’s clenched buttocks for me for the time being. Doing my best to delay the inevitable. Oh don’t look glum, at the time it felt good. You had the element of surprise so I didn’t have time to think about it which means I couldn’t freeze or squeeze as it were.
E: An astute general will strike thunder and lightning so that neither the ears nor eyes of his foe can be closed to them.
S: I really wish I knew what that actually meant.
E: It means…..well I was forceful enough so that your bumhole couldn’t keep me out.
S: In any case it worked. It’s been like, what, at least three months since we had anal sex.
E: Not for the want of trying.
S: Oh come on, that’s not my fault. I’m the one facing permanent sexual rejection.
E: Oh please, I never reject you. That’s so untrue.
S: Tis true. I still find you really attractive, I still get horny for you but you…
E: That’s not fair. I think you’re beautiful but this…situation isn’t great.
S: No it’s not. Anyway I better get on. Nothing like being on your hands and knees cleaning piss off the bathroom floor. It’s as close to a golden shower as I’m gonna get.
E: Stay while I finish my fag.
S: Nah no other idiot is going to clean this pig-sty before your son gets here.
E: I’m cooking Sunday dinner.
S: Yeah well cooking or having your hand down a toilet – you’ve not exactly drawn the short straw.
E: Why are you being mean?
S: I’m not being fucking mean. I have work to do.
E:You’re snapping at me.
S: What like a snapping turtle?
E: Exactly and you know how I feel about snapping turtles. I’ve told you what vicious creatures they are and the fucking damage they can do. If they got a hold of your finger…
S: YES I know you’ve told me all this before. Anyway if you hate snapping turtles so much why are you gonna marry one?
E: There’s no date set.
S: Fuck off. That’s a really shit thing to say. Why do you have to be so horrible?
E: I’m joking. Come on, you’re fucked off with Chris the cleaner not me.
S: Well it’s not funny.
S: Anyway how do you know it’s Chris that I’m cross about, it might be my sore right lip – and it does fucking hurt.
E: I’m sorry. What can I do to make it better?
S: (Laughs) Kiss it better!
E: I would.
S: I know.
E: What can I do about it?
S: There’s nothing you can do about it.
E: What can you do about it?
S: There’s nothing I can do about it – it’s inflamed.
E: Maybe it needs something cool on it to reduce the inflammation.
S: Noooo I wonder if that isn’t what caused the problem. You were really rough with the Rowntree Fruit Pastille ice lolly thing.
E: Was I?
S: Yes! And it’s quite a chunky ice lolly. It has a fair girth on it.
E: You liked it.
S: Not really.
S: Well I like the whole pain pleasure thing but to be honest I was raped by Rowntree. It wasn’t like you were sliding it in slowly and for a brief time. You were pushing it in there – pounding it in me. And don’t forget I was blindfolded so it was a surprise – I wasn’t ready for it and it’s not like you only did it the once.
E: I forgot about that. I’m a master of improvisation. Tying your sports bra round your eyes was inspirational on my part.
S: Or you coulda just got the proper blindfold .
E: I couldn’t find it. I couldn’t even find the toy box.
S: It was in the bottom of the cupboard.
E: I thought you kept it in the top of the cupboard.
S: No after our drug fuelled sex marathon when we made all kinds of promises about fucking filthily once a week and having more sex in general I thought it’d be easier if I moved the box down from the top cupboard. Presuming we’d be having LOADS of sex.
E: Only the cupboard doors are broken so I would literally have to have ripped them out to get into the cupboard and then dug it out from under the shoes and clothes. Yeah that’s conducive to spontaneous sex.
S: Given the state of our sex life it was all a bit premature on my part. I was a fool to believe your words in the Gogaine haze.
E: Oh right so blindfolding you, shoving an ice lolly in your cunt and fucking your arse without warning while I made you vibe yourself doesn’t constitute filth in your books?
S: Put like that…
E: AND there were no drugs involved.
S: Yeah it was good old fashioned sex.
E: I’m sorry it was so vanilla for you.
S: It was anything but vanilla. It was one of the most enjoyable blow jobs I’ve ever given. I loved that you rubbed the ice lolly over the head of your cock. It tasted well nice. I didn’t even have to worry about whether your cock was clean or cheesy – the sugar rush sent me into sensory overdrive.
E: Did my cum taste as nice?
S: Ahhhh your cum always tastes nice. Except for that one time when I had an allergic reaction.
E: Oh yeah in the cottage – you said you had to go to the kitchen at 4 in the morning and get some custard to ease your throat.
S: Anything to ease the stinging sensation. That was horrible. Fuck knows what you’d been eating that night…except you weren’t really eating at that point were you? Some stiff spirit squirting down the back of my throat.
E: I’m sure the sperm diluted it for you. It didn’t stop you coming back for more.
S: Well you were starving me out at the time. You were bed ridden so you never fed me. I was desperate for the protein.
E: You’re not short of a meal now and you seem to still drink it was gusto.
S: The things we do for love.
E: Oh come on I don’t force you to do anything.
S: What?!?! Oh my god your art of seduction involves pushing my head down to your crotch when I try and give you a cuddle. It certainly ain’t subtle and resistance is most definitely futile.
E: You love it when I throat fuck you.
S: Yeah but not when I can’t breathe.
E: Oh you love it. You beg for it. Literally. One sniff of the poppers up each nostril then it’s all ‘deeper and deeper’.
S: Shut up.
E: You said it turns you on when you’re choking on my cock. You actually fucking orgasm when I thrust into your mouth. Properly orgasm. What woman can do that? You’re like a real life version of ‘Deep Throat’.
S: Okay, okay. Yes I like it when you throat fuck me but not all the time. Not when I’m on the verge of vomiting on your cock. Like literally when lunch pops back up.
E: Oh that I definitely like.
S: So my basically my bariatric surgery gone wrong has been a positive in the bedroom department. The fact that I now have gastroesophageal reflux disease and a gastric band that doesn’t work and I spew after almost every meal is a good thing.
E: Yeah I like you refluxing away while I hold your head and pull your hair.
S: And my arms flail and I feel I’m about to die and start worrying about what you’ll tell my mum and dad.
E: It’s not that bad.
S: I’m just glad that £6000 is considered money well spent.
E: That £6000 means I get a little warm chunky vegetable soup-like hug on my cock when you blow me.
S: In fairness you do time it right. You exert just the right amount of pressure and deprive me of just enough oxygen to panic me but not kill me. It’s actually very sexy. But I don’t think spewing is glamorous. That can be tiresome and it happens loads. Your cock is bigger than you credit it.
E: What this little thing?
S: Seriously when I washed it with that tar soap the other night, because you were prodding round my throat straight away I could taste soap at the back of my throat all night. It was dry in the morning. I thought I was gonna need to tuck into your ‘Lockets’.
S: Whatever. It was like an adult version of punishing me for being a potty mouth. And I’m not talking about my excessive swearing.
E: Fucking cunt bitch! You’re not going to bring that up again are you. The greatest sexual miscommunication of all time.
S: There’s a reason why ‘Mudshute’ is my favourite stop on Docklands Light railway.
E: I thought it was what you wanted me to do!
S: When have I ever given the slightest inclination that I’m into that. I ain’t no Scatman.
E: Look I genuinely thought it was what you wanted. You know my feelings about this. I did think it a weird request but I don’t like to decline an invitation, let alone have you thinking I’m rejecting you when you’re are your most vulnerable or be accused of not being sexually adventurous. I was actually really uncomfortable doing it.
S: So was I when I had a brown fountain falling on my face. I mean you served up a substantial meal that night but it was a hell of a lot more unappetising that your poison drunk cum. That sex dinner was psychologically traumatising. Is it any wonder I’m at the fucking therapist’s once a fortnight. That said I do feel I dealt with that particular mishap in a gracious way.
E: Yes S, your bedroom manners were unsurpassed I’ll grant you that. You are truly an elegant slut.
Easter is upon us and like ‘Festive Fucking’ it got me thinking as to whether I had any sexual association with this religious holiday. In all honesty Easter has never featured to highly on my sex calendar. I put this down to my parents shoddy attempts at playing Easter Bunny when I was in Grade 7 and still a believer. Seriously mum, you buy duck shaped meringues in front of me during the weekly shop and didn’t think I’d put two and two together when they turned up in my Easter Bunny stash Sunday morning? What I did love was the fact that I disgustedly called Mum up on the ‘Easter Bunny isn’t real’ revelation but continued along nicely for another 6 months steadfastly and stolidly believing in Santa Claus (why I shed so many tears over St Nic, given my previous enlightenment on Easter Bunny will forever remain a mystery).
But I digress. Rather like Christmas sex there is only one story that I can attribute to this Christian celebration – unsurprisingly it took place in Great Yarmouth where L had invited me to spend the weekend in a caravan with her parents.
This is a more a slutty story than an amusing one, but it had its moments.
Having been the recipient of a uneventful but teasing ‘booty call’ on Thursday evening (I had signed up for no strings sex but desperately wanted to be the subject’s girlfriend – the invitation had not been forthcoming) I found myself feeling lonely, used, a little soulless and somewhat depressed at the prospect of four days without human contact or social intercourse – unless you count the cashiers at McDonald’s down the road (which I didn’t).
L, of course, came to the rescue and told me to jump on the train and she’d pick me up from Great Yarmouth station. And I did.
It all started well enough, fresh home-made sandwiches, walnut whips and endless cups of tea provided by L’s hospitable and the mumsiest of mums. A dabble on the camp site’s bingo hall accompanied by a few orange Bacardi Breezer’s and then it was time to head into town to find some less family more femme fatale friendly action.
We found ourselves in the Pier Bar – Yarmouth’s nightclub for the more mature demographic of the population. Good music (if you like cheesy 80s and 90s pop) not so good talent. However being young and gorgeous at the time I at least had my pick of the …(I hesitate to say boys because with an average age of 45 they were anything but) men in the club.
I opted for my normal type. Dark, broody, good looking and a bit of a loner. Anyone who reads this blog will know I love Norfolk (it forged a pivotal part of my sexual career) but the accents… I’m Australian and I annoy myself with the whining sound of mine so I’m not really in a position to point any fingers, but there’s something about the Norfolk accent that smacks of simpleton. I know there’s a lot of bright, talented people from Norfolk (for fucks sake don’t ask me to name any I’m just trying not to offend here) but when they open there mouths you just think – wait I haven’t said thick…uncomplicated and without any intellectual complexities (so yeah simple). My choice for the night fitted my preferred criteria but when he opened his gob to tell me he was visiting from Norwich for some motorcycle fair I knew I wasn’t in for an evening of scintillating conversation. In fairness though that wasn’t what I was after.
Clearly feeling so stung that my ‘booty call’ from the previous night (he hadn’t professed his undying love for me, he hadn’t even declared that despite the good sex I warranted the label of girlfriend) I opted for finding some comfort in the arms of a stranger. It made for a pleasant change being invited back to someone else’s Bed & Breakfast, rather than me having to worry about how to sneak someone in and then out again. There was something refreshing retro about creeping round the house and shagging silently in a single bed – recapturing my ever eluding youth. I had been caught out with erectile dysfunction. Having hardened the damn thing I was resigned to straddling him and bouncing up and down until the point of ejaculation, which given his alcohol related numbness took some time. As his hands reached up to juggle my breasts and stroke me from my neck, down to my stomach around to my behind, all I could do was try in my mind to distract myself and escape the pain my thighs were feelings at hefting my weight rhythmically up and down on his cock. I wished I had been more adventurous or assertive enough to request doing the reverse cowgirl. Had I done so, I may have been able to pick up a magazine and lazily leaf through it, avoiding hurting his feelings as I methodically went through the motions. Still maintaining the position and with impeccable timing I reached my goal which was not give him an orgasm but rather give me a window of opportunity to head back to the caravan.
Yarmouth is small and I had ample time to saunter from the seafront B&B to caravan site without fear of attack or coming in looking like I’d just been having some drunken fuck.
Saturday shone bright and once again I was faced with a day of cosying on the couch with L and I nursing our respective hangovers and eating for England. I was grateful for the abundance of comfort food…until Saturday evening. As I slipped into a new little black dress I purchased earlier that day (from George @ ASDA I have no shame in you knowing) a button round my tummy shot off, pinging off the caravan wall. L and I were not classical housewives and in this instance it was L’s father who was left with the task of sewing the button back on for me. Knowing how fragile the outfit now was I realised instead of being a ‘slutty no-knickers’ night it would be an ‘uncomfortable unsexy control knickers’ night.
L and I had structure and routine to our nights in Yarmouth – particularly where Vauxhall Caravan Park was involved – more Bingo, more Bacardi Breezers, more cheesy nightclubs on Britannia Pier.
We headed further north up the pier in search of a younger clientèle. I felt out of my depth. Unfamiliar with the music I was painfully aware we were the eldest in the club so my potent sexual advances were a little more contained and restrained. In fact I did the almost desperate male thing and waited til the end of the evening to select from the dregs – assured someone would be desperate enough for a shag. At least they would be young and there is an inescapable beauty in youth however the face is painted.
My guy was a shy guy. He was 23, short (my height 5’6), slim but taut, blond hair and a lean, sharp face with a smattering of freckles across his nose. He was cute but his obvious nervousness made him a sweet choice. He appeared flattered that he was the object of my attention and blatant sexual advances which further endeared him to me. Transpired it was his birthday. Somewhere from under his long eyelashes as he studied the floor I deciphered his mumblings and retrieved an invite back to his house. 3 in 3 nights – it seemed a little foolish to interrupt my run so I agreed. L headed home and I said I’d catch up in good time.
I have to say I was more than impressed when he hailed a cab to take us home. Until I realised he didn’t live in Great Yarmouth. He resided in Waxham which was 15 miles north of Great Yarmouth. I suddenly felt a little uneasy: a) I wasn’t sure I had cash for a cab home (let alone enough to split the cost on arrival) and b) I had no idea where I was or any familiarity with the town. This was now an encounter that could not afford to go wrong.
The residence was a sizeable cottage. This was not a mummy’s boy living at home. In fact he worked in a mountain rescue team which explained his lithe, ripped body – and a strength you wouldn’t expect on someone so slight. On the tour I saw two large bedrooms upstairs, with polished wooden floors and minimalistic male décor, a bathroom that would have been glorious if it hadn’t been inhabited by two boys who has never been introduced to Toilet Duck or Spray & Wipe, a farmhouse kitchen and large cosy living room.
You know how you have the odd one (or hundred in my case) night stand and the other person says ‘I don’t usually do this’ and you inwardly roll your eyes thinking ‘I’m not judging your moral stance on sex so cut the bullshit’? This guy didn’t say it but I knew it was true. It was all so gentle and unpractised and tentative. Immature approaches like turning on the huge flat screen TV, flicking through the channels and ‘stumbling’ across some already paid for porn channels. The porn may have got him in the mood but it was his inexperience that turned me on. It wasn’t long before he was clambering on top of me on the couch pressing his erection against me. I took the the lead and suggested we go upstairs.
Then something strange happened. He received a text and then phone calls. A string of them completely interrupting the mood and he seemed determined to ignore them. Soon enough the phone was ringing and at the same time the caller was beating on the door. Fortunately the door of the cottage had withstood some hundred years of knockers so this caller wasn’t going to get in but he wasn’t to be deterred. I was told it was his flatmate, who was drunk and had forgotten his keys, but there was no explanation as to why he wasn’t letting the flatmate in. I can only speculate: 1) he didn’t want the flatmate cramping his style; 2) the flatmate was a relation or landlord disapproving of this type of activity or; 3) I was too much of an eyesore to be presented as a sexual conquest to his friend. Either way after much ringing and beating of the door (‘I know you’re in there I can hear your phone ringing, please let me in’) the unwelcome resident had no option but to retreat. God knows where he spent the night but I bet he hasn’t lost his keys in a drunken Easter stupor since then.
Back to bed, fully clothed, embracing, grinding against each other, kissing and me desperate for cock. Once again I was left to take the initiative but there was something sexy about having to undress him, releasing his huge erection. His cock was nowhere near as slender or slim as his build but despite its size and strength he was not using it like a power tool. Very gently and traditionally he climbed on and began to fuck me missionary style. It was good sex. Delectable to have something thick and throbbing inside but its insertion so tender. His entire body defined and hard but pressing intimately against my own out of condition soft body. I found the whole unfrenzied approach had me frantic for more of him. So I blurted out ‘did you want to change position?’. His shy, appreciative demeanour in tact he nodded gratefully saying ‘yeah if you want to that’d be really good’.
I sprung onto all fours, only to feel his slow deliberate hands gripping my hips and him sliding into me as thoughtfully as ever. But in this position I regained some control and could at least experience him at the depth and speed I wanted. Having put myself into a more dominate position seemed to appeal to him as he got vocal about his enjoyment of the situation. It wasn’t long till he was wildly thrusting and I was screaming out ‘I’m not on the pill’ so he confusedly ejaculated – outside of me. I suspect that particular orgasmic confessional utterance from me may have dampened his orgasm somewhat.
And then, like having been shot with a tranquilliser he crashed. Straight asleep. Lucky he’d been so romantic in the sex or the lack of pillow talk would’ve hurt. But with cum dripping between my thighs, a mobile phone flashing a time that was later than I thought and the realisation that I had no idea where I was or how to get home…I knew it was prudent to depart promptly. L’s parents were early risers and a missing girl would paint an accurate picture as to my absence from the caravan.
He was sweet and the sex was good so he deserved a goodbye. Only he didn’t want one – at least not then. I tried to wake him but he was just moaning and telling me he wanted to sleep. In fairness he tried to grab me for a hug but I was on a tight schedule and there was no time for ‘the morning after the night before’ pleasantries.
I hoped my quick brusque kiss and thank you pervaded his lucid dreaming. I went downstairs and the door was locked – double locked. I could release the bolts but the door was locked from the inside and I had no way out. I searched the house for another exit but nothing. No door, no window for me to escape from. I suppose had there been an alternate way in his flatmate would have used it earlier on. The minutes were speeding by every time I looked at my phone.
I rushed back upstairs and tried to wake him but the powerful orgasm had rendered him useless. I heard my voice raise an octave in pitch and becoming a lot louder. Trying to be assertive and nice. Begging for the keys. He was clearly annoyed at my attempts to wake him and murmured to just let myself out. I tried to explain I couldn’t because the door was double locked and before collapsing into a deep sleep he said the keys were downstairs.
My heels clattered all the way down the stairs again and I searched the kitchen high and low for the keys. Literally. I could feel myself getting hysterical. I was a prisoner in this house. The house of good, gentle sex but still a prisoner. I was literally on my hands and knees again (without cock or orgasm) looking for the keys. Checking the sugar pot and fruit bowls. I even ventured into the living room and was hurling the cushions from the sofa and checking down its sides. There were no keys.
By now I was in tears. I was shoulder charging the door but realised it opened inwards not outwards so that was not going to work. I dragged myself upstairs. And tried talking to him, but the sandman had taken him far from me. I was so desperate I thought my only option was to physically carry him downstairs to open the door. I began to lift him but he was a dead weight. How could an elfin like creature weigh so much? As I lifted him into my arms he slipped out and slouched on the bed. I felt myself getting rougher, hoisting him up under his arm pits, realising I just didn’t have the strength to do this. I had no option but to shout as I did my best to manipulate his body into a position so uncomfortable he would have to conform to my efforts and come down to help me. I grabbed his legs and dragged him from laying vertically in the bed to horizontally, his legs now dangling out of the bed. I climbed round the other side of the bed and dug my hands under his back to push him into an upright sitting position. Each time he tried to slump to the side I positioned him straight again. Eventually I was behind him, my legs spread round him in a sitting position so his torso rested against mine. I bumped him as far forward to the bed edge as possible and began to try and stand myself up and, with my arms secured round his waist, dragging him with me.
My plan wasn’t executed how I hoped but my efforts were rewarded with him groaning, extracting himself from me and standing, unaided, to head down the stairs. He went to the door and tried to open it.
‘Oh you were right. I have double locked the door, sorry.’
‘It’s fine, can you let me out though.’
‘Mmmmm dunno where the keys are.’ His eyelids were getting heavy again and he seemed to be eyeing up the couch.
‘Please. I begged I have to go.’
He headed up the stairs and I saw him sitting back down on the bed. I wanted to drop to my knees, look to the heavens and scream ‘Noooooooooooooooooo,’ but he had picked up his jeans and I heard a jangle. I grabbed the jeans from him as he fell back on the bed. The keys were in his pocket. I raced down the stairs with renewed vigour and after a few tries found the key to unlock the door.
Praise be. I raced out to feel the early morning sun hitting my face. I breathed in the country air, or was it sea air – where the fuck was I?
Back inside the house I rifled round the kitchen until I found letters addressed to the house. 118118 may cost a fortune and be crap but they did get a cab winging its way to the address on the letters, which as I astutely guessed was my hidden location. The driver, possibly glad to have a customer that had been sobered up by a bout of unintentional kidnapping and wasn’t abusive, happily stopped at a cashpoint so he could be paid.
I got back in the caravan at 6.15am and quarter of an hour later L’s mother was making tea and saying she had stayed in her room for as long as possible so’s not to wake me sleeping in the lounge. Whether my entrance had been obvious or not was irrelevant. I’d been in the van when they came out so my character and morals couldn’t be called into question – well at least not directly.
Later that afternoon I headed back to London to give L some quality family time and me a much needed break from Yarmouth, its dramas and my own insatiable libido. On the train ride back a text bleeped out in the carriage from my ‘booty call boy’ asking if I was going to be in that night…
Proposed Bestiality, Inadvertent Indecent Exposure, Pee & Other Pitfalls From A One Night Stand (That Became My Fiancé)
It’s not to say he’s not romantic – that I don’t adore every part of him, that I don’t cherish him and that I’m in any way unsatisfied in bed….but I don’t think I’ve ever been there with him where I’ve not inwardly shrivelled in embarrassment or mortification at something he’s said or done.
Examples??? Here you go.
- Ours began as an internet relationship, as so many do these days. Our first ever meeting involved my travelling 2 hours North to his cottage and arriving at 5pm. We had a cuddle on the couch, sashayed upstairs to share a spiritual lecture and by 6.30pm he boldly asked me to take my clothes off. Being body shy and less than verbally communicative or assertive in bed, I ignored the request. Eventually he said ‘Are you going to take your clothes off or not, I’m tired of asking’. Worried I was going to miss my chance I said I was going to the bathroom to change. He perked up. ‘Great could you do me a favour while you’re in there? Grab a wet flannel, because my cock needs to be cleaned and if you’re having a wee can you bring back the tissue paper you use and just shove it in my mouth?’ I couldn’t help but feel he was being a little over-familiar on a first date with someone he’d met in the flesh only 90 minutes before. The shock of it aside I think part of my mortification – in being a first timer to those sorts of requests – was because I was so turned on by him and, frankly the idea itself – I was concerned the tissue would be a little too…creamy. So I wrapped it in another one and bought it to him, reluctantly inserting it into in his mouth. ‘Did you even use it – it just tastes dry and of paper?’ he barked at me. Ooops
- From that somewhat uncomfortable start we managed to engage in more everyday sex – me on top. It was good; it was nice, pleasurable and very natural-feeling until he opened his mouth. What would you utter mid-act the first time you’re ‘doing it’ with someone you claim to care about and who claims to care about you? ‘Sorell, it’s just a shag,’ he said, quite matter of factly. I flounced off him, hurt and insulted. He desperately tried to explain what he meant was this was ‘just sex’ and the two of us were so much more than just that to each other. He turned out to be right, but still, this was after all out first date.
- He once had a work colleague staying around his place. I’m the first to admit, between ourselves, we’d be considered quite ‘adventurous – perverted even – by some and at times very dirty though we both have our boundaries and scruples and values, even if personal only to ourselves. He let the neighbour’s dog in. The dog was excited and running around. I was wearing a low cut top, exposing a lot of my bosom. In front of his work colleague he loudly and excitedly suggested ‘Ooooh Sorell, let the dog lick your tits.’ I froze mortified. I could feel his colleague’s shock. He didn’t miss a beat and continued fooling round with the dog as if nothing untoward or inappropriate had been mentioned. The colleague and I didn’t make eye contact or reference to it, but there was a stony silence between the two of us for the remainder of his stay. Even though I was desperate to blurt out –‘he’s mucking around, he didn’t mean that and I’d never do it’. But then I worried the colleague might think I protested too much.
- Another time he’d organised for his next door neighbour to come around and fix his boiler. He’d arranged for the visit between 5pm and 6pm. The day had got away on us and I hold my hands up here and admit we’d been fooling around all day as lovers are wont to do. But I’m a good catholic girl and modest to boot. I was in my pyjamas, which are in fact a t-shirt and shorts. He was running around like some debauched naked Eros and surprised at the neighbour’s appearance went down to talk to him, throwing a dressing gown on as he went. He claims he said ‘I’ve got the girl upstairs.’ I thought I heard ‘I’ve got a girl upstairs’. The neighbour, who was doing him a favour in any case, apologized and said he’d come back. But he insisted it was ok. ‘Sorell,’ he yelled up the stairs ‘have you got your clothes on?’ As if I ever flaunt myself. It was all a bit late though. I’d been painted as a scarlet woman spending all day in bed like a naked Venus in some rural brothel. The questionable nature alluded to ensured once again the neighbour never made eye contact nor spoke directly to me again.
- Having once used his lips and tongue on me for what I admit was a very a good session, he rose from between my legs. I looked down to see his enthusiastic face appear from my thighs as he piped: ‘I’m not sure if it’s down to your moon cycle or if you have an infection but you taste very yeasty.’
- His parents, given their age, had been reasonably lenient in allowing us to have ‘sleepovers’ on the surreal condition that ‘we don actually’t have sex’. Scratch that, so they couldn’t hear us. His father knocked at the door, the first morning I was there getting changed in the corner of the room. Aware I was getting dressed, he invited his father in as I stood, bare breasted, at the end of the bed, struggling into some jeans. I’m pleased to report I have now moved into his parents home and his father has caught sight of more than just my bare breasts – given he has interrupted extremely sordid and lewd acts of love this story now seems very tame in respect of what the old boy has been exposed to.
- He requested one night, as a treat for him, I get undressed and wait naked for him in bed to return to when he got back from his errand. I wanted to please him so reluctantly complied with instructions. I lay in bed, naked, shoulders bared, hair flowing down, smouldering brown eyes to seduce him upon his return. Without so much as a knock, his 80 year old mother flung open the door and asked if he’d left yet. I sat like a rabbit in headlights, going over in my mind quickly how to rectify the situation. If I brazened it out it might be okay, if I went to cover myself it may draw attention to my nudity. I calmly discussed her complaint that he’d left the study window open and the curtain had blown out and that she couldn’t reach it. Clearly she wasn’t willing to wait the five minutes for his return and since I was young, fit and able, I knew perfectly well what she was angling at. But I could hardly bound out of bed. I flashed a big, beaming, sun-shiney Australian and offered to do it myself. She looked pleased but expectant. ‘Just give us two minutes,’ I mumbled. I’m pleased to report his mother is now dead – I don’t mean that horribly, he hated her and I got to move in.
- He came round to my flat one night, specifically for the purpose of the sex. We both knew it, we’re both adults. Fine. But that doesn’t mean it has to be completely devoid of any ….romance, foreplay or insinuation. We were kissing and I was rubbing his crotch. Rather than reaching to assist in my undressing or physically prompting me to remove my garments, he said ‘you’d better get your kecks off if we’re going to do this.’
- Another few hours of illicit fooling at my flat, he took me to the bedroom and told me to drop my trousers and lie down in the bed. I’m not comfortable with my figure at the best of times. I’d spent the entire day at work so was self conscious I wasn’t my freshest and I hadn’t really been intending on what was likely to happen. In true girly fashion I’d been wearing comfort clothes – old comfy knickers and an oversized rugby top. He pushed open my legs and with all the sensitivity of a an autistic prison-guard announced ‘wow how old are these, the gusset’s nearly gone in them.’ I felt like closing my legs on the spot, mortified and embarrassed about the state of my underwear, but then had to stay in that position and endure a powerful orgasm.
- One of his favourite tricks is to wake me during the early hours and drag my hand so I can feel how hard he is. Now, it may not always be a welcome hour or great wake up call, but it naturally leaves me excited. Until that is, as soon as I grip it and gently massage he falls back to sleep. Apparently, as frustrating as it is for me, and as much as he moans and responds to my touch, he says he does it to help fall back to sleep. He insists on repeating the act with no intention other than as a natural method of assisting him back to his slumbers and knowingly leaving me wanting.
- Lying top to toe, limbs entwined he’s more than happy to not exercise any sphincter control and fart on me without apology. Worse still, when he was still drinking, he was known to nuzzle and suck my breasts releasing beer burps upon them then smile up at me as if for approval. I referred to him as my beautiful smelly balloon; I could die from the poisonous potency of his flatulence and could actually get drunk from the high percentage of alcohol contained in that belching. I’m pleased to report this alcoholic is now recovered.
- Both engaged in an episode of the bodice-ripping Henry the 8th drama, the Tudors, a scene that appealed to our respective loins involved Anne Boleyn being dominated in bed by King Henry. She slapped his face smartly and jumped on top of him to take control. I laughingly suggested I may have to try that myself at some point. His response was ‘Sweetheart, as much as I love you and have no desire for you to change, you’re never going to be able to do that. You’re too big to move that fast in bed, you’re just not physically capable.’ Outraged and determined to prove my point I felt inclined to slap his face and jump on to show him what ninja like stealth and speed I really do have. A flicker of doubt had been cast in my mind and I worried his observation might be correct – that I wouldn’t indeed execute the move as quickly as hoped, or worse, given we were on a dodgy sofa bed, concerned the sudden weight shifting would result in the entire bed upending, thus further proving his point.
Are there more? An endless list: from affectionately referring to me as a ‘silly slut’ and being miffed at my offence while being wrapped post coital in each others arms; to allowing me to roll around in chewing gum he accidentally left on the sheets; to laughing ‘it looks like a lamb has been slaughtered’ after an untimely monthly accident in bed; to telling me the room appeared like we’d had an orgy with a fire extinguisher in a sweet shop after I’d attempted a bit of pleasurable experimentation involving a cold tin of Coke and his masculine parts. No doubt I’ll add to these as other recollections occur. Stating the obvious and giving practical direction, with no regard to any embarrassment, shame or inexperience I might be feeling is a side dish with every bedroom encounter.
In some ways his less than perfect bedroom etiquette actually speaks volumes about the intimacy, honesty and openness we have in the relationship. To be able to behave in such a fashion, be so completely one’s self and exchange whatever thoughts, needs and desires are experienced kind of suggests we’ve created a very loving environment between ourselves – if an ‘acquired taste’. Yes there’s a constant anxiety as to what brutally honest observation or guidance he’ll impart next – me recoiling in a weird sort of delicious humiliation. It likens our bedchamber exploits those of an unpredictable fairground excursion, a rollercoaster of a thing. But it keeps them from getting boring so should I really be moaning here?
He thinks we’re well suited, well matched. The time I had to explain I‘d involuntary heaved with him buried deep in my throat leaving behind a small triangle of Dorito chip on the head of his shaft, I kind of saw what he was getting at.
One of the main problems in going for a more casual approach to sex is that you run the risk of encountering members of the opposite sex (if that’s your persuasion) who have a different set of values to yourself or even just different views on what is socially acceptable or not.
I remember a friend, K, telling me once he was going in for an anal attack on a one night stand and as his cock entered Vegemite valley, the guy receiving tried to force out a poo. Yes he tried to poo onto a cock that was inside him. So outraged was K that he flung him out onto the street – I’m guessing definitely without a cab fare and I suspect without directions to the nearest public transport.
I thought this behaviour was excessive. Not because I’m into scat (it’s one of three things I don’t indulge in) but because it seemed a little bit harsh, dare I say an over-reaction. Don’t get me wrong, had I been in possession of potentially pooey penis I wouldn’t have been best pleased but how is anyone to know what a one night stand is into? K felt it just wasn’t something you should do on a one night stand or at best you would at least discuss it with your bed partner for the evening before straining away.
I always felt if it’s a one night stand and I was never going to see again, then I could do as I please – try to get the best and most out of them. But in doing so, if it’s not one’s own house their wrath and reaction is one you have to deal with. Which means you either restrain from anything too unconventional or kinky, always take them back to your place so you’re in charge or take your chances.
I used to take my chances.
That wasn’t always the best idea for someone as thin-skinned as myself.
I remember when we were doing regular jaunts to Great Yarmouth one summer I fell for a Hugh Grant type fop – a Londoner in Great Yarmouth, wearing a scarf in a nightclub and looking like someone I used to fancy. I got involved in a rather public intense and deep display of kissing one night but thanks to my dalliance with another man earlier in the evening my outrageous flirting resulted in the first guy becoming possessive, aggressive and looking to rough it out in the car park to decide the matter. Crushingly enough for me, my lovely fop held a hand up to stop him and said ‘you can have her!’ – just as the song petered out for the entire club to witness my being cast away like a used tissue. I was left with a dented pride and the predicament of fending off the attentions of someone I wasn’t even keen on.
But, as Great Yarmouth is a small town, the fop came back. The next time though I was actually in the midst of some imagined love affair with a married man and desperate to try and be faithful. But with an unfinished conquest my monogamous stance went flying out the door. Fortunately for me he was very drunk and my boobs that night were particularly large, soft, white, buoyant, perky and exposed. As I kissed him outside the toilet, the waft of vomit on his breath from what had obviously been a long day of drinking, I tried a little of my Australian charm. It worked – in private. Transpired he was engaged and his father-in-law to be was also inside the club. Not to be deterred I threw my relationship in his face and that was enough of a carrot for him to talk me into leaving the club early.
I should have been prepared for his thoughtless words given his quick disposal of me on our first meeting. As we strolled along the beach, hand in hand, walking back to his house he said ‘I really want to have sex with you but I just want to make sure it’s okay given your condition. How many months gone are you?’
I wasn’t pregnant AND I was wearing control knickers – clearly the knickers were not doing their job of holding in my tum. Perhaps I should have been more outraged or mortified but when you take your chances you have to expect these things…and no I didn’t go out and buy an abdominizor nor start a regime of excessive sit-ups each day.
Anyway he wasn’t all insensitive. He had Fosters flop and was unable to ejaculate. In the end I gave up, finished myself off and began to make a move. Rather politely he asked if I wouldn’t mind him wanking off (he clearly still believed he’d be able to orgasm) to the image of me after my departure. As if I had some control over his imagination or could prevent him from storing me in his wank bank. Flattered (anything was an improvement on the pregnancy blunder) I left feeling rather pleased with myself.
It seemed physics were in full flight that night and indeed every action is accompanied by a reaction of equal magnitude but opposite direction. Thus his verbalising the high degree to which he found my faux pregnant form attractive cancelled out any offence taken at him mistaking me for being with child.
Yet another time, a birthday in fact, I found myself at the in the Roadhouse in Covent Garden, a notorious cattle market where almost anyone could pull amongst the 80s rock anthems and array of fluorescent cocktails. It must’ve been somewhat slim pickings for me that night because I recall deciding my birthday fuck would be a ginger – normally recounting this story I would describe him as strawberry blonde but…the pubes gave it all a way.
Having done his best for the ginger brigade and in fairness he did fuck me all night – I found myself for the majority of the night pogo-ing on top of an albino cock and a springing nest of gingerness. At one stage he had me on all fours like a tomcat mounting a fat persian. He was thrusting so hard I could feel my uterus blowing up like a balloon – to the point of bursting. Desperately trying to angle myself to temper the wind I could hear whooshing into my vagina.
Once finished (his sperm was white not ginger) I somehow managed to turn over onto my side ala Kate Winslet when being sketched by Leo Dicaprio in Titanic. The only problem was the bubble of a fanny fart bobbing at the entrance of my vagina. I knew it was coming and decided as we were both adults and given the pumping he’d given me it wasn’t to be unexpected. So I parted my legs slightly to let the excess air out. I had intended it to be a burp but it was a bellow – a long aching, rip-roaring non stop vibrato fanny fart tearing into the silence of the night. Not only did we hear it but I suspect all the neighbours did as well. Neither of us mentioned it and went straight to sleep.
When he woke early the next morning to find me frantically scrambling in my clothes with less than half an hour to get to work he scrutinised me carefully (minus beer goggles and without the ringing sound of my front bottom flatulence) and said ‘wow you’re actually really pretty – fancy fucking again tonight?’
The answer was a resounding ‘No’. NOT because of the back-handed compliment – he was clearly as desperate as I was by the end of the evening – but because I was due to fly back to Australia that day…also my reputation couldn’t survive being attached to someone with such vibrant hair.
You’d think now being engaged I would no longer have to concern myself with these types issues in respect of my sex life but sadly it’s not the case. Whilst our current sex life is non-existent due to an excessive amount of stressful external circumstances that doesn’t mean I haven’t in the past, nor will in the future avoid these kind of awkward sexual situations. The fact they’re unrelenting and delivered ferociously are magnified in the realisation that these ‘playful quips’ will haunt our bedroom ‘to death do us part’….more next time on the 22nd March 2012.