I have mentioned before, it wasn’t all about devouring 100 dicks but more a journey to find ‘The One’ (yes even sluts dream this dream). Thus it may come as some surprise that I abstained from sex for a period of two years. Sex of course for me being defined by vaginal penetration – anal and oral sex were fine. The reason I decided on this course of abstinence I shall divulge another time, but what’s important is that I was going through a ‘no sex’ phase until I deemed a dick worthy of being my boyfriend (or potentially ‘the one’).
With all the good will in the world though, my iron will did not mean my sex drive in any way diminished but I could at least control it. Continuing low self esteem though meant any attention showered on me I continually lapped up.
At this period of my life I lived at the Young Women’s Christian Association, which is conveniently located opposite the British Museum, a five minute walk from Tottenham Court Road station. Being the YWCA the rooms were very cheap, clean and the location was great, so scoring a room (under the guise that I was living in a bedsit with a violent drug seller and needed safer accommodation) was no mean feat. At that point they did in-still strong Christian values. Residents couldn’t have visitors after 10pm and if you wanted a guest to stay the night you had to pay for the privilege and notify the manager 2 days in advance. If, like me, you are a girl whose sex life is comprised of endless one night stands, these particular guidelines did not suit the lifestyle.
Now there’s obviously something in my demeanour that screams cheap slut because very often when walking through the West End after work (I worked nights in a theatre) I would have random strangers come and approach me asking if I wanted to have sex – not in a paid prostitute way, more as in taking their chances. It could just have been that in the West End after 11pm most men in Soho are drunk, horny, beer goggled up and willing to try it on with anything with a pulse.
As I began to saunter up to Centre Point, wearing (it has to be said) some funky but very casual cargo pants and a green converse top with a massive star on it a giant of a man stopped me in my tracks and asked if I wanted to go for a drink. Even though I felt under-dressed for Bar 101, his approach was so brazen and forthright I was impressed and found myself agreeing to go for a drink. He was paying after all and turned out to be a Canadian tourist so I wanted to be a good ambassador for London.
I can’t say the conversation was sparkling – after all he asked if I was a sportswoman given my attire (I still don’t know if he was genuine with that posited question). Given how overweight I was I couldn’t fathom what on earth made him ask it but seemingly a Converse t-shirt says Olympic athlete…perhaps he though I was a hammer thrower or in the shot putt….maybe though because he was 6’4 and almost excessively broad and muscular, I looked tiny in his eyes and he thought I was a figure ice skater. Maybe….
After the ‘What sports was I involved in’ and Olympic reference I knew he wasn’t ‘The One’ and sex was out of the question. I thought I’d cut my losses and go (there was a kebab with my name written on it on the walk home) until he asked if I fancied sharing a spliff.
If I’m not having sex, I’m substituting it for something else – food, alcohol, drugs. The offer of a free fat dooby pushed the kebab to the back of my mind. I found myself telling him I lived down the road and we could go back to mine for a puff.
Fate smiled at me that night and the night receptionist smiled and nodded as I pointed at my Canadian gargantuan and mouthed a silent ‘can I bring him in?’. We went up to my room and I played the good host.
Blown away by my CD collection – extending to about 500 at that time – he leafed through endless mammoth travel cases of my CDs picking out his favourites. I found favour with him by having Canadian artist Amanda Marshall in my collection. He plucked out her most recent album, an obscure expensive purchase it had taken me ages to locate in London (and this was when Virgin Mega-store and Tower Records still reigned supreme).
As he rolled the joint, I began playing his respective CD choices from the small stack of my CDs he’d piled up. In a haze of marijuana I relaxed a little and lay on the bed chatting. I like to think I was being eloquent, witty and knowledgeable but I was probably talking shit. Inevitably things were to take a sexual turn. How could they not with Madonna warbling Justify My Love?
It was a little difficult dropping the bombshell that I was refraining from sex, but both being gently stoned it wasn’t greeted with anger or disappointment. Rather he enquired as to whether or not I’d be up for some mutual masturbation. It seemed a reasonable offer so I didn’t decline it – after all it wouldn’t involve any vaginal penetration.
With Madonna on repeat, I re-enacted the Like a Virgin bed masturbation scene from her Blond Ambition World Tour on my single bed, as he arranged the armchair opposite the bed for a better view and began to undo his jeans.
One has to understand the average cock size is between 5 ½ to 6 ¼ inches. Now put the average penis onto someone who is significantly above average in height and even though it’s a perfectly nice penis it looks like a tiddler. Put the same average sized penis on someone more vertically challenged and it looks like they are carrying the tackle of a beast from the equine family. Mr Canada however had a penis in-proportion with his 6’4 frame and I was indeed looking excitedly as if I’d somehow been transported to a stable and was in a scene from Equus.
Watching his hand slowly move up and down his thick fleshy pole and seeing it grow longer and wider had me transfixed. Could I really pass up a cock that big? Did I really want to miss the experience of playing Mountie to that stallion?
Turns out I could…up to a point. My will began to crumble and when he politely requested permission to come closer and get on the bed to finish himself off, I head my voice eagerly inviting him on the bed. Worse still I found myself responding to his huge hands manipulating me onto all fours – his hands reaching between my legs and moving expertly from my wet cunt and stroking my soft belly, as if in fact I was the mare being tamed. My body began to give way as his donkey cock slid between my vulva and began pressing at the entrance to that warm tight hole, but somewhere in the recesses of my mind the reason for my celibacy marched to its forefront and I slid forward on the bed (rather like a cat stretching when it wakes) to avoid any accidental penetration. I mumbled that I really couldn’t have sex with him.
As forthright as his initial invitation to got for a drink he asked if I’d mind him cumming over my buttocks. Seeing he’d been so good natured about my conflicting words and behaviour I told him to go ahead and from his massive cock a small pot of yoghurt ejaculated all over my peachy bottom.
I was faced with an immediate conundrum, being a good host and ambassador for London it seemed only right that I walk the intrepid traveller back to the tube station so he could get his bearings and find his way home. Being a good catholic girl and very hygienic it didn’t really seem appropriate that I go out in public with dried spunk on my dairy air. I grabbed my favourite large blue towel and said I’d pop into the shower quickly then take him to the station. As I opened the door to head to the communal showers my eyes caught the light reflecting off the shiny stack of CDs he’d chosen as the soundtrack for the night. I opened my mouth to say ‘Don’t pinch any of my CD’s’ but worried it would sound rude and accusatory, casting some dispersion over his character. My brain filtered the thought so this half hearted warning was never voiced. He’d been perfectly polite, generous with his goods so there was no reason to make the throwaway comment. It may be misinterpreted and given his stature I didn’t want to risk the wrath of his anger.
After a quick jump in the shower and towel down, I flung on my clothes, nodded to the night receptionist appreciatively and, taking him by the hand, walked him to Tottenham Court Road tube station. We had a peck on the cheek and with his holiday visa status there seemed no obligation to go through any façade of exchanging numbers or making promises to hook up again. Cordiality and civility were the order of the farewell and we left on good terms.
On a high (from the sexual play and the spliff) and with a serious case of the munchies I decided to pick up the kebab I’d foregone in the frenzy of public flattery. When I got home and opened up the doner, splashed some lea & perrins over the chips I could finally relax. Almost. I still had to put the CDs back into their books – I was a little OCD in relation to this and my music collection was my pride and joy. As Madonna and various artists were assigned there place in a plastic sleeve with their respective CD booklet I noticed one particular artist was glaringly absent from the book.
Amanda Marshall – Canadian singer/songwriter – unknown to most British people
She was nowhere to be seen. I checked to see if she was still in the CD player, got on my hands and knees to see if the CD had fallen to the floor (or under the bed or behind a shelf), retraced the inserts to see if I’d inadvertently put 2 CDs into the one sleeve but there was no sign of her. The £23 CD that had taken me three years to purchase was gone. I don’t like to point any fingers but I suspect she was in a discman waiting to be played on the long return flight from Heathrow to Ontario.
Oh dear. Last week’s offerings apparently found their way to the computer screen of that post’s unfortunate subject, a character named Ben.
Whilst I understand fully premature ejaculation and finding out a woman faked an orgasm on you aren’t necessarily the kinds of sexual mishap you’d want in a public forum. Particularly so when it’s a close friend that brings it to your attention down the pub with a pack of friends. Still, I’m told it was taken in reasonably good part, though the now-married survivor of sand bunkers and sexual ineptitude did, I gather, feel a little stung. Via a third party through the medium of text we exchanged a friendly enough ‘hi’ and I received confirmation Ben expressed some degree of…. I’d love to big it up and say remorse but that’d be pushing it. In any case, there was at least a modicum of regret over his behaviour towards me which of course is like shutting the stable door after the proverbial horse has done its thing. Ten years or so previously. He’s married now as I say (lord knows what their sex life is like given my experience) and I’m loved up with someone that delivers multiple orgasms at will so all’s well that ends well – no hard feelings between us.
For the record I didn’t write to be bitchy, merely to entertain, but the feedback did heal a little hurt of my own.
Some of these dicks are now getting uncomfortable though as readership of this blog expands. Waiting for some kind of deliverance of verbal pugilism which seems strange given they were almost all one night stands. It’s amazing how on earth they even know about me.
Facebook. It’s got to be Facebook.
Only last week I received a curt message, unpleasant in tone, from one of my hundred saying – I’ll paraphrase here – he didn’t wish to receive any further promotional messages regarding my blog and did not want to be the subject of a post.
Rewind. Originally he’d asked to be my friend on that wretched site, because he wanted to ‘plug’ his aspiring music career. In fact he also harassed me to have sex with him again, this time as part of a threesome AND (if not up for that) a one-on-one repeat of our previous excursion because of my…..’sensuality’ I believe was the quote de jour. I immediately refused. Once had been quite enough for me (and I’ll say why in a second). He hadn’t even registered on my blog subscribers’ list, but he’s bought himself once more to my attention now.
I advised him the easy solution to his dilemma was to de-friend me – simples. He has, so hopefully he’ll never get to read this.
Everyone wants a famous fuck. Not all of us get it. I worked in theatre for five years and shagged a handful of Z-list celebrities (you know – the types that have been an extra on The Bill or starred in a pilot for American TV that then failed to get commissioned), but there’s occasionally one that most people would think ‘ah yeah I remember that’.
For me it was one the Baha Men (Boys). The what? you might ask. Well, they were the guys who sung ‘Who Let The Dogs Out!’ And let me tell you it seemed uber harsh having fucked one of them that L and I once went to enter a club spontaneously one night and the bouncers, as we approached, sung the refrain: ‘Who Let the Dogs Out? Who? Who? Who? Who?’. Not only were they mocking us in the cruellest fashion, but a song by an artiste with whom I’d been intimate was being used as a weapon to taunt me. Incidentally it worked – we fled, retreating immediately home.
Baha Boy and I met over the internet. Which seemed a bit strange, his using that method to meet women. I mean, he certainly wasn’t unattractive and every girl loves a musician (especially singers, which he was). Additionally of course, anything to do with fame and fortune increases a man’s attractiveness, irrespective of physical appearance.
In fairness to both of us though I didn’t actually find out about the Baha bit until we were in bed getting ready to get down (oh and he wasn’t singing it to get me in the mood in case you were wondering).
At this point in my sexual career I was going through a ‘try everything’ phase – and mixed-race guys appealed to me (and still do). There is of course a common racial stereotype that black men have big cocks. A previous experience had confirmed this but then, I’ve found white guys with huge cocks as well so….who’s to say.
Sadly though, genetically, my Baha boy’s tackle was not heavy on the aforesaid stereotype being more Caucasian in its dimensions. Acceptable but not exactly abundant, though this has never featured prominently in my list of priorities unless ridiculously stunted.
There was however something extraordinarily curious about this one that made the event particularly memorable. It had a curve. A bend. And by this I do not mean a slight one the required closer examination, or even one that you notice but which doesn’t really interfere with proceedings. It really was like an especially curvy banana…well lady finger to be more precise, almost mutant in aspect.
Getting it inside me, in the traditional missionary position reminded me of my first attempt of putting in a tampon without an applicator. It was in there, but you just know it isn’t in right, and sitting down feels distinctly uncomfortable. Only when the thing’s attached to a person how do you say to them ‘can you straighten that out a bit please, it’s pressing at angles that are making this a wretched experience. I can’t focus on giving you any pleasure or even enjoying myself because all I can feel is a stabbing at the side of my inner wall’?
To make matters worse, he thought his technique was a smooth as his beautiful skin. He kept gyrating his hips rhythmically like Mr Lover-Lover and doing soft porno talk – oohing and aahing and ‘did I like that baby’? I wanted to yell ‘You aren’t Mister Boombastic, you aren’t Shaggy, you’re a Baha Man.’
I decided to take control.
At this stage I lived in an attic bedroom in a flat above a cafe. You actually had to climb a ladder to get to my room. While a significant size due to a very steep roof there was only a small area in the middle of the room in which you could stand fully upright. To combat the problem and maximise space I had a futon bed on the floor. Although a rough and ready attic refurbishment I did have a skylight window, which I permanently had open to air the place thoroughly.
In order to rectify the bendy penis problem I thought I’d try going on top. That way I thought I could angle myself around it so the fuck wasn’t too bad a fit-fit. That was the theory anyway – the practise proved not so great given the open roof window. Because it was at such a peculiar angle, to get his cock in comfortably so it was a little more direct and straight in my grotto of earthly delights, I had to shift my body to the left to such a degree I felt I was on a roller-coaster taking a sharp turn. With the roof window open and me bouncing up and down almost sideways I could feel the wind through my hair and was worried I may in fact tumble out of the window. The more robust things became the more I could envisage the whole thing as a fairground attraction. I wanted to throw my hands up and wave them into the cold night air and scream – though, it has to be said, not orgasmically. The child in me had been released at the sheer spirit of how the sex had morphed into some kind of saucy unstable carnival ride, with no safety harness strapped on. Whilst my head and shoulders sprung in and out of the window, I hoped I could maintain my mass on this unbalanced mount, because I could feasibly end up a paraplegic with a single wrong move. A sex bungee jump gone wrong if he thrusted too hard and I rebounded too vigorously. It wasn’t just the concentration of the physical exertion dampening my fun but the dreadful scenario of being on a theme park ride and the operator leaving it unattended – the machine running relentlessly on and my being helpless to stop it. But this ride I could stop. The effort, the gripped thighs, well practised kegal exercises, the precarious position, the controlled yet wild movement finally bought him to a climax and me back to safety.
I don’t know who let the dogs out that night, but I have to say before being de-friended on Facebook I felt the world was a little safer seeing his status was now ‘in a relationship’. That is one particular canine that needs to be on a chain – a bendy penis is dangerous and not something that should be unleashed on an unknowing and uncoordinated woman like me.
Throughout the numerous liaisons in my twenties, I can’t honestly say I viewed every one of them as a one night stand – a story attached to a penis to recount when I hit my 30s and began settling down a little. But somewhere the naïve romantic in me was half-heartedly hoping that shag-of-the-night might leap from close encounter of the genital kind straight to husband-to-be.
For the most part this wistful ideation remained firmly locked in my head (or heart) but – emotionally expressive type that I am – I would confide these traditional and at time stalker-esque notions to my best friend L.
Once we’d outgrown the Norbury, we spent a lot of time, especially come summer, clubbing in Great Yarmouth on an unhealthily regular basis.
It had always been my and L’s dream to find two friends (or brothers) and marry them. We figured this convenient arrangement would mean we ourselves would remain best of friends. Fate though has dealt us a hand where we didn’t meet such a duo and immediately espouse them. Thus whilst still being incredibly close, time, relationships and children have meant that intimacy has dissipated somewhat – though friendship and shared past experience has not. Sad but I suppose life moves on….and it’s a real bitch getting from South East London to Essex.
Anyway that was the plan back in our early to mid 20s…and beyond. On one particular occasion however the Universe threw us a lifeline.
L was…shall we say encouraging(?) an on again off again long term flame from Great Yarmouth, but making no promises. They’d always try and implement the ‘let’s be friends’ façade which worked well for L – she was the one that always dumped him and pulled the strings so her heart was somewhat safer. Kenny on the other hand, while desperately trying to behave platonically, could never quite get over his intense feelings for his former love. Rather than just telling her he couldn’t be do it, or even just staying away, he would attempt to play the game they’d set up only to find himself awfully wounded when he found L enjoying her single status. I felt for him, but since she didn’t exactly lie to him, nor, if I’m honest, did she actively discourage his advances. She had nonetheless verbally confirmed the state of play.
And that’s what L and I wanted; to play!
And we did.
There are two clubs on Great Yarmouth’s main pier, the Britannia.
The first and aptly named ‘Pier Tavern’ as you approach Britannia, is for the more mature folks and has a resounding set-list of cheesy songs from the 60s to the noughties. The other – ‘Long John’s Show Bar’ at the pier end stretches out over sand and sea. ‘Long John’s’ was where the younger set of gentlefolk inhabited; it was bigger, had a long bar and played modern music – some to my and L’s taste but only for short durations.
In true form what started out as a ‘friends night out’ ended with Kenny becoming rather irate at the attention L were receiving and to mask his feelings he began acting like a complete …..what’s that word again that rhymes with ‘hunt’?
So L and I played hide and seek leaving him with the fogies in the Pier Tavern, ourselves hot-footing it up the pier, (as best we could with our high heels getting caught in the spaces between the planks of wood), to Long John’s to join the pretty young things there. Fortunately this establishment seemed more attractive to tourists and we stumbled across what I vaguely recall was a stag night – or just a boys weekend of some sort. Despising the music, but eager to avoid Kenny we were grateful to the invite at the table this group had colonised outside the club.
As the only two girls present we seemed to have quite a choice. Two men were vying for L’s attention but I was happy with the guy that approached me. He was named Ben and in my mind he seemed like a shorter, slightly less attractive version of Andrew Lincoln of ‘Walking Dead’, ‘This Life’ and ‘Teachers’ fame. There also seemed to be a sincerity to him which I think now was actually a combination of desperation and beer goggles. He was all too keen to exchange numbers and reiterate how he was looking for a girlfriend. This caught me hook, line and sinker. Once the club closed we didn’t really want the party to end.
L had hooked up with a beefy blonde sweetheart called ‘C’ who was, without doubt the personality of the two with a masculine caring aura around him. This put me at ease and made me feel like he could quite competently look after out little quartet.
Determined to carry on the proceedings, L confessed she’d borrowed Kenny’s house key earlier in the night mid-argument with him and suggested we return to his flat to retrieve the booze we’d left there, pinch a bottle opener then head back to the beach for a very early picnic breakfast of…..alcopops.
Being young, brazen and unashamed we pulled it off. Kenny, desperate to keep dignity intact and not weep at L having found some amatory fun, girded his loins and (I’d like to say while managing a watery smile) verbally abused us but not to the extent of jeopardising the remaining strands of his relationship with L. We marched out waving the bottle opener victoriously, confident our overnight bags would not be on the street when we returned.
Trooping off to the beach, we separated with our respective men.
I was fortunate enough to find some children had dug a sizeable bunker in the sand – it was an at least two foot deep hole that could spaciously accommodate myself, Ben, four bottles of Smirnoff Ice and plenty of drunken lust.
Now, boyfriend, one night stand, or anything else, what I do expect is sex. And my kind of sex is real. Honest to goodness vaginal penetration – a pushing, grinding, pounding, slapping full flesh fest. I didn’t get it. My magical musician hands, now so used to firmly and rhythmically playing an array of instruments (some musical, some fleshy and snake-like) not only slipped off Ben’s pants but also found their way to his cock, kissing him passionately as the sun rose over Yarmouth beach. By then I was so deft in the delivery of hand-jobs that within a minute I felt that familiar, warm, sticky fluid seeping over my hand. I didn’t feel I could wipe it on his clothes and I didn’t want to soil my own, and the more I tried brushing it off the more my hand began to look like it was transforming into some sort of sand sculpture.
You’d think, wouldn’t you, that having performed such a successful operation I might at least have gotten a cuddle, a kiss….or even a cheeky finger or two; something, anything – some reward…..even a bloody ‘thank you’ would’ve been welcome. But other than sand on my hand all I did get was a quiet resentment at his embarrassment for his premature and amateur shot. Suddenly the bunker didn’t feel like such a romantic hidey-hole anymore – it felt full of his inadequacy. Him thinking it, me knowing it. Not that I was a bitch. I couldn’t have been more pleasant or polite. Waved away his excuses, told him it wasn’t unusual, said I was happy, tried to kiss and engage in conversation. But it it seemed though my magic hands had once again performed the amazing trick of turning a guy off instantly. Fortunately I was youthful and unknowing. I assumed my words and his advances of earlier still meant something and held some sort of genuineness.
Despite the exchange of numbers and promises of ‘I’ll text you’, he didn’t. Worse still, throwing my own dignity aside, I attempted to initiate contact with him. Occasionally he’d return a message or two but would steadfastly apply the ‘three day’ rule before deeming me worthy of a response.
C on the other hand proved the knight in shining armour. His words to L had actually been honest and earnest. He had wanted to see her again and also respected as her best mate that to make such a thing happen it would have to be a package deal (L and I didn’t really do ‘alone’ back in those days). So it was he who persuaded Ben to head back to Yarmouth in order to have a weekend with us.
Ben had flung a few crumbs of attention my way in the shape of the odd text, but there was no call and only cold confirmation he would be attending that forthcoming weekend.
It was actually the first time L and I had travelled anywhere out of London for a real-life double date and the fact our dates were friends…..we still held firm to our fantasy of marrying two best mates in order that our own intense relationship would remain unchanged. Thus we let ourselves dream.
When we finally arrived and went to meet them, we realised we were in fact dating the male equivalents of ourselves. Like L, C was well dressed, calm, thoughtful, reserved, intelligent, generous, happy, content in the company and wanting to enjoy the evening. Ben, on the other hand, was a mass of neuroses, already stupidly drunk to build up his confidence, talking loudly, quickly and over exaggerating any and every story he told, wanting to be the focus of attention and not quite knowing how to behave when we lavished it upon him. His words were his costume and my words complimented my little black dress as well (I was funnier than him though – or so I like to think).
Not unexpectedly as the evening progressed we all got drunk. I could almost see Ben’s beer goggles growing thicker and thicker with each new bar entered and each new cocktail served. His body language changed from clinging to C like a child to gradually moving closer and closer to me, till he eventually whispered ‘I was really dreading this weekend, but I’m glad you came. You’re real pretty.’
Despite everything that had happened upon and since our introductory night, I could close my eyes, breathe out and start believing again. Hell by the end of the night we were holding hands stumbling from club to club (and I’d always said holding hands was naff and embarrassing).
When the clubs closed we headed back to the bed and breakfast we were all sharing. The nosy owners had been quite keen to meet us and guess if their pairings had been correct or not. I suspect they got it wrong. Because C was broader and more solid they would’ve assumed he was with the fat girl (me), Ben being slighter and prettier would likely have been matched with L.
I’m not sure how everything was sorted, whether there was any discretion involved or not, but because L and I had the double bed, Ben and I parked ourselves in this room immediately. L was happy to take the twin room allocated to the boys, allowing intimacy but with physical restraints to inhibit any unwanted libidinous compulsions that might potentially arise.
I began a ritual routine. Cuddle on bed, begin kissing, remove shirt, kiss chest, rub hand down crutch, undo zipper or fly buttons, reach in for…
‘Don’t touch it!’
My hand flew out of his pants like his crotch was made of molten lava…..or riddled with warts…or was in fact a vagina.
He was breathing heavily and muttered ‘I don’t want to come too quickly. Tonight it’s my turn to pleasure you.’
I couldn’t argue with that, nor did I want to – in fact I kinda thought he owed it to me. Suddenly I felt the warmth of his averagely satisfying penis enter me. I can’t honestly say there was a lot of pushing, grinding, pounding and slapping, but there was penetration and it wasn’t unwelcome. For me nothing felt better, more life affirming, more sexy than having the weight of someone attractive on me as they slipped in and out of my own warm, wetness. It was perfunctory though. I think that was the best he could manage at the time because clearly he was still racked with guilt over the sand-pit incident and had a set idea of how to make amends which was distracting him from any ‘game’ in bed. He was all too keen to visit my vagina to reciprocate the wonderful gift I’d bestowed upon him on our previous ‘date’ (it was a date in my mind; I appreciate it was a one night thing now).
I let him try. What woman wouldn’t – straight or gay. It feels good….unless you’ve had a particularly nasty prior sexual experience. But my god it seemed to drag. In fact, mid-way through, on all fours, faced buried between my legs, his arse raised proudly wiggling at the door, L and C thoughtfully entered the room to deliver my kebab and chips (not sure Ben had put an order in himself). The sight of the full moon up so close and personal had the two of them fleeing. I could hear their heavy, hurried footsteps and much giggling on the flight of stairs, escaping the room but, I assume, never able to escape the picture of Ben’s bare white bum from their mind’s eye (and no I haven’t offered to pay for therapy – learn to knock guys….or did you?).
In fairness Ben was committed, and, irrespective of the laughable interruption, he soldiered on like a faithful cavalier. But it wasn’t doing it for me. I was still chuckling at L and’ C’s faces and worrying whether my chips would still be warm enough to eat when the deed was finally done. I actually wanted to push his face away and finish myself off one handed. It would be infinitely quicker and I suspected more intense – plus I might still be able to devour that kebab and chips and savour the flavour. But when I thought about how inadequate he felt and how hard he was trying my softened heart knew I had but one option – to fake it.
So I did. I began moaning and tried wriggling orgasmically like I’d seen in my brother’s old porn movie collection. It did the trick. He came up beaming…or maybe it was the gleam of moisture on his face.
‘Did I make you come?’
I nodded enthusiastically. He looked so pleased I knew I’d done the right to thing. His fragile male ego saved, he was cuddling me again and talking about the future and I lay there contentedly thinking ‘finally L and I are going to date best friends, this is going to be my boyfriend’. But I was a romantic and boyfriends became husbands, and husbands were people you slept with forever – for the rest of your life, the ONLY one (good catholic girl that I was). And he hadn’t made me come. Hadn’t even come close. God if he believed he had, then chances were he was never going to be able to because he thought he could and didn’t need instruction. So how could I overcome such an obstacle in future? No, that would never do. If we were going to get married we had to have a good sex life. I had to be honest with him. Honesty in relationships is a good thing, right? It’s what makes them last.
‘Ben, BEN – are you asleep?’
‘You didn’t make me come.’
‘I know you tried and everything but I just want to be honest with you. You didn’t make me come earlier. I didn’t have an orgasm.’
His faced crashed harder than a Qantas Airbus.
I’d said he’d given me an orgasm then taken it back. It’s one of the worst things you can do to a guy. The epitome of bad bedroom language. A golden rule I’d broken in the silence of a quiet summer morning in Yarmouth. Honesty didn’t save that relationship.
I never saw Ben again.
Sex, sex and more bloody sex; it’s all and only what you get on BBC3 right now. That stuff sells, right? So naturally, the sickly, angst-ridden pubescent bastard of the world’s greatest broadcaster has grabbed desperately onto the buoy (or, more accurately ‘boys’) of what’s best in life and allegedly – sometimes – free. ‘Let’s get down and dirty,’ fantasises Beeb3 ‘with our rival tarts on Channel Five say, or perhaps Channel Four. They may charge a bit more for their own televisualerotic versions of the King’s Cross/Marylebone Road type of charm, but if we can get something cheap and cheerful out there at least it’s a foot in the door, however ravaged and raddled our offering might be.
To be straight so to speak, I’m in no way describing anyone as being whoreish per se incidentally, but I do wonder who exactly kerb-crawls this sort of thing.
Nor do I write as some wannabe TV critic but as a person conned (well, ok, then willingly agreeing to) taking part in one programme in BBC3’s ‘Sex Season’ currently boring us half to death (and not in a good way), night after night with show upon show (imagine that – TV progs actually shagging each other) about…well…in truth, how incredibly boring sex really is. That is unless you’re actually doing it.
And regardless of the initial ‘shock-horror’ stories wrapping up the tabloid Sundays, the aforementioned season is most certainly not that; this sheep in wolf’s clothing has been as much of a penile let down-as damp squib and desiccated girl bits. Turn on, tune in, turn off would be my mantra if a bit of titillation’s what you’re after; what we’ve got here is just the opposite.
At this point though I must come clean – if ‘clean’ and ‘come’ are the right words – and say how bitterly disappointed I was in my by far all-too-brief appearance in what was initially pitched to me as featuring a vignette of the girl who’d had a hundred dicks (at least) only to emerge, shaken if not stirred the other end, finding true love at the denouement.
And the programme, to my absolute horror, did exactly that, concentrating not, as I’d been given to believe, on my merry dance of sexual adventures (mis- and otherwise) but on a sad slag having fucked behind dustbins, in toilets and so on to discover my ‘Prince’ at the close of my ‘journey’ down a street of kebab takeaways and seedy underground clubs. The metaphor of having sex with strangers and buying a pasty is now stuck with me for life. One sentence out of possibly thousands and you just had to squeeze it in. Cheers for that guys, I can never eat such a thing in public again – and that lovely new Reggae Reggae Hot Chilli Beed Pasty tastes so good after a night out!
So, not entirely the truth exactly, more accurately ‘The Truth’ – a short and saccharine-sweetened version of it anyway, in Programme Two of a trilogy titled ‘How Sex Works: Playing the Field’ screened no fewer than five times at varying times of the night over the last week, its final showing early this morning. In it my comparator was, among others, an interminably boring and distinctly un-erotic CGI hermaphrodite illustrating, in sub-GCSE Biology terms, hard-ons, hormones, glands and vaginal lubrication. Next to him/her, I might have been interesting but then add to this a shoe-obsessed, body-building bi-sexual Titan of apparently little brain happy to poke anything in trousers, skirt, dog-collar or you name it, a sex-crazed orgy-loving goth with the libido of Silvio Berlusconi on steroids (and I’m talking about a girl here) plus an admittedly gorgeous black ego-maniac with a two year old daughter, kept strictly ‘separate’ from his amatory existence, you’ll imagine how easily I could have been (and indeed was) contrasted as some sort of sore Thumbelina.
Next to these over-sexed, intellectually bottom-feeding specimens were posited a young gay man recently diagnosed with HIV and, strangest of all an ‘asexual’ Oxbridge undergraduate with a multi-coloured crop who’d clearly just fallen in love. Her adamant disavowal of genital association was clearly soon to be self-challenged, she having found some sort of weird soul-mate who’d just moved into her flat in full knowledge of these (non-)predilections and by all accounts happy with that but with sexual tension apparent. He, geeky and posh, her intelligently weird, they made a very sweet couple, coo-ing like lovebirds while making dinner a deux together and in doing so creating at least one story worth following up.
Then, as I say, there was me.
Emerging, somehow, like Mother Teresa of Calcutta, I seemed to provide the perfect foil for the ‘excesses’ of all others involved, including that fucking digital monstrosity sharing its secondary school brain chemistry. Moral purity so intact it might as well have been my hymen I wondered ‘how did I manage this after all I’ve been through and after all that’s been through me?’
Where, I asked myself were the stories I told to the camera during numerous interview hours involving my having sex in a car park against a white van while a pub was emptying out? Giving a blow job in a church yard? Fucking in a theatre – on stage, in the dressing room, on a piano, in a bar, on a desk and one time giving a 15 year-old head ‘til I found out his age and then the scarpered?
Where were my current, and it has to be said most perverted, sexual practices?
After the first showing last week I got a shed-load of texts and a number of emails from friends and (somehow) people I barely know or remember, most expressing shock at the manner in which I’d been depicted. I also had one from the show’s producer/director (who I’d still like to call a friend) telling me how well he thought I’d been portrayed and how gorgeous I looked.
I include a selection of such messages at the end of the following clip which is the sum total of my fifteen seconds of fame. For those wishing to see the entire show, click the link at the end of this piece.
Meanwhile I shall naturally continue to chronicle, with the best that memory allows, how I worked my way through those one hundred dicks only to end up sainted on a TV show I’d genuinely hoped would provide at least a glimpse of what most who know me already know: I am very far from the paragon of virtue you’re about to see in front of you now.
With thanks to Pioneer Productions .
What the people that know me thought…..
SD: Bless. You came across well. I was chuckling at the images of you and Ian – again, you could have included something much fruitier. Glad you didn’t tell the funnel story. I like how you compared having sex to playing tennis to buying a pasty – I didn’t know you played tennis!
NM: Mate u look great. U said that casual sex was like going to the shop and buying a pastie. Si and I cracked up as we were remembering how much a pastie and a turnover meant to you. Lol…it was such a S thing to say!!! U were defo authentic. U didn’t shame urself, that’s the main thing. I felt there should have been more info on your promiscuity. I’ve heard much racier stuff but that was good enough for TV!!! If they want more they should read the blog. I was most shocked by the engagement.
LD: Brookie! You looked gorgeous and didn’t come across like a dick like a lot of these people can. The thing is, you came off so well, but I know you to be SO sordid, even more that these others, but media fuckers seem to just do what they like! I bet a few people will be googling ‘brooke sex’. LB: Haha! A threesome that never happened. You came across really well Brooke! You have some guts to go on TV talking about it sweetheart! And really good that you were honest about how it made you feel in the end! And actually, you made the point that it was becoming so mundane, which let’s face it buying a pasty is! 😉 I think they were obviously interested in being sensationalitic but it needed a story that ended differently after going through what they spent most of the hour showing!
KH: Did you say pastie for me? We were just saying you looked great. I think the soho bits looked staged, and the normal chatty bits were you…I thought you came across well, the whole programme was a little sensationalist.
I thoroughly despise the Christmas song ‘Santa Baby’ and, frankly speaking, ‘I saw Mummy kissing Santa Claus’ is downright offensive. The reason I have such a violent reaction to both songs is that for me Christmas is about the kids….or pretending to be a kid again. Sexual overtures this season are inappropriate yet somehow innocence hard to protect. I don’t want to have sex with Santa (the soot would ruin my pristine white sheets) and I wouldn’t want my children (if I had any) to see me kissing…well..actually the whole thing is a myth (or giant lie, or giant fantasy) and really it’s your parents anyway (or should be). If they catch me kissing Santa Claus I’ll end up paying for their therapy for years to come.
So, sex and Christmas don’t work for me in combination, period.
Though I base a lot of my thinking on the word ‘but’, when retracing my sexual career I actually do find Festive Fucking has never featured prominently on my vaginal calendar.
Nowadays of course I have a boyfriend, so having sex at Christmas seems a weird obligation; kinda like a present in itself. What depresses me is that for the first two years of our relationship we did nothing but have sex. Birthdays, Christmas and other special annual events were an excuse to get out of bed and do something else; a respite from our compulsive rabbit-like behaviour.
After our recent ‘annus horribilis’ (that’s Occa Latin for ‘I’m an Australian Royalist that had a bad year’, rather than some sort of anal sex game turning sour) I feel we have edged closer to becoming one of those couples that fling on their lingerie or best boxers and trim or shave their bits knowing these dates are enhanced by a fuck – irrespective if either party actually wants to participate. Long sentence I know, but if you read it twice you’ll get the gist, and while you’re doing so, by the time I’ve written and posted, you’ll be reading and I’ll be busy fucking wild style.
I remember a friend once telling me her partner insisted she give him blow-job as a birthday gesture. Only it was her birthday, so how it was a gift for her remains a mystery between themselves, especially as I gather he was not particularly keen to reciprocate.
Suffice to say since meeting the love of my life I have always had Christmas Sex – albeit mostly tired, unimaginative and vanilla in style as a result of excessive eating, doing the unwrapping thing and very little else. A cold Norfolk beachfront just several yards (or metres) away was a nice option, but as in life generally, the knowledge it was there obviated the need to experience it too much.
It still fills me with certain warmth though, to be able to have perfunctory sex (or a walk on a beach) on these dates in the security I’m guaranteed these luxuries annually for the rest of my life, unless he dies first, and even then I wouldn’t rule it out (much as I prefer the thought of being the first to go).
Am I starting to sound like one half of the kind of suburban couple you’d already like to murder?
Having written this I intend to ensure that we don’t!
The Chinese may see 2012 the Year of the Dragon I’ve decided it’s the Year of the Rabbit for me, at least in my nether regions.
Pre-boyfriend, there’s only one specific encounter that falls into the category of my Christmas cunt becoming a nativity scene…a stable waiting for a donkey to arrive.
Every two years my parents fly from Australia to spend Christmas in the UK with their daughter. For years we have frequented the same hotel in Norfolk, minutes from the Royals at Sandringham and for years I was the only guest ageing without displaying any signs of my life maturing like a normal person. I wonder if for a time they wrote me off as a lesbian. While my brother appeared with a wife and then children a few Christmases on, I kept arriving constantly alone.
And then I lost 9 stone. I’d like to say I was a slip of a girl but it’s be a big fat lie, but I was no longer a heifer for some cattle-ranch owner to be proud of. It was this year I decided L should come and spend Boxing Day with us. In tradition steeped at the hotel, Boxing Day was cause for a gala dinner (shame on you for cancelling it this year Best Western!) and after so long solo I wanted company. Inviting my best friend and saying we’d share a room probably only fuelled the fires that I was of the homosexual persuasion, but she was my longest relationship so why not?
It was the first time as an adult I was comfortable in my own skin and confident in dresses. I remember sashaying into the reception to greet my parents and was informed heads literally turned. I headed to the bar to order drinks a well built man in a tux bounded over the room next to me to do the same. We exchanged pleasantries and he made mention of seeing me in the dining room.
Back then I used to drink, so L and I went for gold that night. My father tried to keep up but finally pulled out of the competition leaving L and I to it but warning me I might want to make every second drink a water….I don’t think so.
The age old flirtatious glancing game was played over the 5 course meal with the man from the bar, who was sat at a table with a friend. The set up seemed fine and par for the course for L and myself, routinal almost.
As the live band played cheesy cover songs, L and I took to the floor to bust a few moves. Rather embarrassingly the two guys got up and tried to shimmy over to us. It’s one thing for girls to be dancing together, it’s one thing for gay guys to be dancing together – it all looks so right and aesthetically pleasing, but two straight guys dancing together…neither being particularly skilled at the art looked awkward at best, visually and mentally disturbing at worst. Still fair play to them for going into some male heterosexual dancing to woo two fair maidens.
L was the master of executing ‘hard to get’ so we ended up playing a skewed form of kiss chase of us gliding musically into another area of the dance floor as the men rhythmically stomped there way after us. After much teasing and sadistic pleasure at the sight of their macho jerking we allowed ourselves to part and naturally pair up with our respective beaus for the evening.
Eventually my parents retired for the evening, my father somewhat disapproving of the age of the man attempting to keep up with me and the music and my mother observing that my dancing was so perfectly pretentiously postured I looked like I was dancing in a pop video – not sure whether that was an insult or compliment.
Ever desperate for attention and ever the more intoxicated I was not ready to call an end on the night. The band and hotel management, however, were, so L and I took our guests to the hotel bar. Full of Christmas spirit I decided to run up a rather exorbitant tab on my fathers bill quoting his room number with each round – always easy to be generous with someone else’s money. Baileys was flowing freely and the men were having whiskey, it all seemed awfully civilised. It was actually civilised.
The 4 star hotel was designed for those seeking large, cosy, plush traditional comforts. The taste and cost of the hotel was reflected in the majority of patrons (basically everyone else apart from the crazy Australians) in so much as the matriarchal or patriarchal heads of the families there were in their twilight years and from very financially comfortable backgrounds. Each immediate family followed type in terms of being well dressed and well behaved with a heavy dollop of upper middle class pompousness. Coming from a classless, careless, undisciplined and extroverted background I swung between the extremes of despising their attitudes towards the less financially secure, to a wonderment of being part of this picture. All this is why I hooked up with the guy. Don’t get me wrong, the fact that they were the only two bachelors there did play a big part but the guy I was with, while not unattractive, was no stunner. His clipped perfect Oxford accent, coupled with the fact that he was a pilot for the RAF (as I write this I wonder if he just made that profession up to get the girls-loving a uniform and all that) was enough for me to allow him to lavish attention on me for an evening.
In terms of the Royal Air Force, L had done her duty by playing wingman for me for the night. Sadly while the guy she had occupied was better looking he was also incredibly boring to the point where L pretended to go to our room and never came back. I checked in on her to find she was exhausted in her duties and refused to return, leaving me to entertain both men alone.
L’s departure had left both men vying for my attention. It got even better but I thought it dangerous to play them off against each other. I had done so in past situations and it wasn’t always wise (more on that another time). Whilst I gently flirted with Mr RAF’s friend, I tried to do it as discreetly as I could. Keeping my options open but not severing any ties either. L was right he was boring and ultimately whilst realising he was a third wheel he had no intention of removing himself from the picture. So I decided I would remove myself, with Mr RAF from the picture and invited him to walk me to my room.
The hotel had been recently refurbished with a new lift. Each lift entrance opened a small lounge come reception room. Given L was sleeping in my room, I was grateful for disability legislation requiring the installation of the lift and said mini lounge as it was the only available space for sex. I was also appreciative the hotel had yet to be sold to Best Western and was run by a family. This state of affairs meant neither the management nor clientèle were of the nature to be roaming the hotel in the early hours of the morning looking for couples in flagrante in public areas.
Unfortunately the sex matched the attitude of the man. He was certainly keen to put on a good performance, possibly to make up for his below average penis, but he was staid, conservative and restrained in his fucking.
The chair wasn’t the best, it was a lounge chair so difficult to position myself in such a manner that allowed him to perform oral pleasure on me for any lengthy time without my limbs starting to cramp. I had the feeling he wasn’t overly familiar with one night stands, and certainly not an easy girl prepared to give it up within a few hours in a public place. He was over eager and thus overexcited and it all finished rather quickly. This didn’t bother me in the slightest. By all accounts I could now say I’d officially had a festive fuck, made all the more christmassy by his chipolata masquerading as a cock, AND I’d slept with someone in the forces – allegedly.
We exchanged numbers and he and his friend left. Either my openness (sluttiness) or general performance on the night in question must have been appealing and left him wanting because he was texting me non stop – texting became sexting, which is always an enjoyable pastime.
No, I never saw him again. The texting stopped promptly when he informed me he was going up to see ‘Mummy’ one weekend. I literally felt sick in my stomach that someone in there late 40s would refer to their mother as ‘Mummy’. My wonderment of the posh and my pretending to be a part of it left me quickly and I felt disgust rise at this revelation of how different we were because of the great British class system. He backtracked and said he’s referred to her as ‘Mummy’ as a joke but it was too late. All I could think of was him stripping bare in that lounge and fucking with socks on. My head filled with the image of his face bobbing up between my legs, his perfectly groomed head asking if he was doing the right thing and was I enjoying him tonguing my clit, like a puppy eager for approval. I could never go back there again and I was no longer sure a man that had a ‘Mummy’ could actually fly for Queen and country. That one text stole my fantasy life of living with the upper-classes – the closest I would ever get is Downton Abbey on a Sunday night.
This year at the hotel I had someone who could provide a perfunctory Christmas fuck and on any given day of the week come up with some perverted creative way to blow my mind and send my body into sensory overload.
And his cock wasn’t the only one on show to me this festive period. A whale had washed up on the beach outside the hotel. I walked around it feeling rather sad at the death of the great creature, and the looting of its teeth and jaw (which apparently generate some serious cash – this is true I saw one in the Museum of London Docklands this week). Until my boyfriend excitedly pointed out that what I had thought a fin was in fact a jumbo whale penis. It too was magnificent. The fact that it was so ‘out there’ made me curious as to how it had sprung out in death. Was it a relaxation of muscles whilst comatose, had it died in the act or was it knocking out a quick one before it met its untimely end. I’ll never know for sure and no I wasn’t sick enough to sneak back that night and collect its cock for cash or any other perverse sexual act.
From a chipolata to a whale dick, I have seen them all over the last few Christmas’s. Unlike the children on the beach that were kicking and jumping up and down on the whale’s jelly flaccid penis, I did not incorporate such activities on the chipolata I had been presented with some years ago…although I have a feeling he may have quite enjoyed it if I had. Having received the large bar bill the following morning and realising Mr RAF hadn’t once put his hand in his wallet and had slept with his daughter, I don’t think my father would have objected to me violently manhandling Mr RAF’s cock in such a fashion either.
My sex life is so bordering on non-existent at the moment, I forget at times that I have had a hundred dicks.
Ages ago I did say I’d detail how I ended up losing my anal virginity. I’d like to say it took a long time, a lot of persuasion and seduction but that would be a lie. It took an Irish man, a slow dance and an awful lot of Red Bull and Vodkas.
Back in the time machine to the early noughties and back to the Norbury – February 2000 I do believe. By now L and I were practically part of the furniture. This isn’t too far form the truth. I remember one night the titchy toothless goon that mumbled broken English through his broken teeth, responsible for cleaning the decimated club at 4am on Saturday took it upon himself to empty an ash tray on L. I’m not sure why exactly. Perhaps he just wanted us out of the club so he could clean or perhaps it was because he had overheard L and myself discussing the sizeable owner of the Norbury in a rather unflattering way. Whatever the reason, we certainly didn’t hang around that night and left promptly brushing the ash off L’s favourite black skirt and not a man in tow.
The night resulting in bursting my bum hole open was on all accounts a success (as ashtray goon wasn’t around to reduce our leaving routine). Eoin was his name and being a solicitor was his game (I confess I still have his business card in a box tucked away in the loft). It all sounded so impressive, coupled with the accent and the combination of black hair, blue eyes and a rugby players build I found myself unable to refuse the offer back to his place to continue the night. L had scored with his model-esque friend – sadly she was in such a state of shock at his beauty and unable to comprehend his attraction to her she quite convinced herself it was too good to be true and decided that he would ultimately be unattainable and therefore gay. He wasn’t and spent a good part of the night trying to convince her of this.
Still for all her protestations, she decided not to end the party early and we all went back to Eoin’s place. It wasn’t a foursome though. Through the amber haze of excessive Red Bull I think there was at least four men, to the two of us. We crashed into there house and I can really only remember what I was after – and that was cock and some sexual attention.
L was not after this. She was after….some sleep.
On reflection, back in the day, we did some very careless and dangerous things. What on Earth possessed us to think going back to a strangers house with at least four men (that I recall) was a good idea is now beyond me. But in youth we see only our immortality and how good it might be, not how disastrous it could be. L was not in good shape. I grabbed a condom from her purse and hoofed it upstairs to Eoin’s bedroom, assuming she would entertain the others downstairs.
I’ve moaned about bedroom etiquette and how important it was but at this point in my sexual career it was certainly not something I had an abundance of. To my shame I vividly remember him ready and waiting naked in bed and me standing in the middle of the room, whipping the control knickers down to my ankles, peeling my tights down, bending over – big bumwiggling ungainly in the air – undoing the straps of my shoes, kicking the lot off and then hitching my dress up and climbing in the bed. I am fully aware there was nothing gracious or saucy about the strip tease. It screamed amateur and ‘use me’.
And he did. Or rather he wanted to. In those heady days he started in the most conservative way. A simple missionary style pumping. Still new to me, as he furiously thrusted, without any affection or tenderness I spent my time just trying to fully experience the sensation of having a cock inside me. This was only the second man I’d slept with, so I was trying desperately to learn what to do, how to lie, how to move rhythmically, how to touch, where to touch in a drunken soulless scenario. One thing that stuck out was that it hurt a lot less than the first time. In fact I half wondered if perhaps (having only seen one previously) he had a small, or smaller than average cock. Certainly his cock didn’t have me yelping out loud, nor did it bring tears to my eyes…but I still liked it. So much so that no sooner had he filled one condom than I was practically shaking him and begging him for more. More cock…but not in mouth…that practise was still unsavoury to me at that point.
At this stage, I think he realised I was a cock hungry bitch or rather my 22 year old vagina needed to be satisfied and was insatiable. It was dictating the terms of the action thus sleep after his first orgasm was not on the cards. He played a good hand and sent me downstairs for another condom if I wanted to continue – little did I know what I was in store for.
I trotted down the stairs into the living room. I had assumed L would be there – or in a bedroom, but she wasn’t. I think she was in a reception room. Sleeping on all fours. A position inviting doggy style sex but communicating sheer exhaustion – dancing to Wham can take it out of you. I loved L and I was very concerned that she was sleeping with her shoes on. It looked uncomfortable. I felt inclined to make her more cozy. Did I wake her or find one of the flatmates to pop her on a couch or in a bed or find a blanket? No, I decided to take off her shoes. Only my minge was aching for more cock and that particular desire was far stronger than that of playing the good friend. After removing one shoe, I raided her handbag and grabbed two condoms. One condom I popped in her bra – just in case she should wake and decide to go for gold she’d have protection. The other I held like a precious flower and flew back upstairs.
I flung the door opened, hitched my dress up and hungrily handled his cock. However in the excitement of getting fucked twice in a night and having missed sex education at school due to band practise (thus bananas and condoms were never part of my school curriculum) I ripped the condom. Fatigue had gripped Eoin, he tried waving me away, as if the broken sheath was the Universe telling me that a second shot was not going to happen, but cock fever had gripped me and I was back out of the bed and back down the stairs into L’s handbag.
When I returned with a third condom Eoin looked a little perturbed, as if having access to so many condoms cast some sort of doubt as to my alleged innocence and ‘girl next door appeal’. That we should have actually bought condoms for this eventuality may have meant we were ‘professionals’. Maybe it was just his Catholicism, but me excitedly waving the third condom almost killed that second session. Perhaps though my childish excitation and the fact I was waving the Durex like it was a golden ticket to Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory reassured him of my sexual naivety. So he let me back into bed, and lulled me into a false sense of security by adopting the classic position. I thought it was very daring that he flung my legs over his shoulders. His cock ploughed much, much deeper and much much slower. This sensation was instantly more gratifying and because it seemed more about my pleasure I felt physically more content and emotionally more hopeful. But he’d adopted the position and pace for a vastly different reason.
I thought his cock slipped out naturally and due to my inhibitions and insistence the covers remain on he was struggling to replace it. Only he knew exactly what he was doing and there was enough natural lubricant from me and the rubber protective shield for him to force his cock into my arse. I didn’t say no, nor did I want to. My bottom though was naturally inclined to say no. After all it had 22 years of releasing things not ingesting them. As far as my virginal arse was concerned it was a one way passage, and the force of him stretching and sporadically sliding his hardness into me didn’t really persuade my bum into thinking otherwise. His assumptions I was eager, inexperienced and foolishly romantic were all bang on. I allowed him to because I thought it might mean more than one night. But it didn’t. It just meant I had anal sex. It hurt. In fairness though he did it the best he could – that is for a guy that wants to fuck a girl in the rear, knows she’s a virgin but has no real consideration of her feelings or her body. The position though made it bearable. The surprise of it all, the tension and tenderness of my ring-piece afterwards meant I wasn’t going to be getting a fourth condom and forcing him for another fuck.
I certainly scurried back down the stairs, but that was to grab L and flee before my bleeding bottom was penetrated again.
L was awake and in a panic when I found her (apparently someone stole her shoe)…until I pointed it out to her so we could go.
The sun had risen and bed beckoned us both. Given we were without transport and L’s home in Essex was a hike from Norbury she decided she would cajole her father, who worked at Liverpool Street in Central London, to allow us to take his car home. We could get home quicker and go to bed and he could rely on public transport to make his own way home from the weekend shift.
As fantastically well turned out as we were on the Friday evening, I’m not sure the façade was still in tact as we rocked into the factory L’s dad worked at on the Saturday morning. He didn’t look unhappy to see us, but I suspect he knew the reason as to why we were making an appearance at his half empty workplace. L was doing her best to please him and offered to make tea for the skeleton crew working the graveyard shift at the factory. Before she got down to milk, teabags, sugar and hot water she shrugged off her faux leather biker jacket, in front of all her father’s colleagues. And there it was poking out of the top of her bra and the low cut top – the corner of a Durex.
As I wasn’t in a position to sit down comfortably (at least not without an inflatable ring cushion) like a well practised magician I was able to snatch it out and slip it down the sleeve of my matching faux leather jacket. L looked flummoxed at my groping her breast so openly in public but my expression told her not to pursue the issue there and then. It wasn’t until I was sitting on an inflatable ring cushion in the car home that I explained alongside being the culprit for removing her shoe for the sake of comfort, I had also come to her aid offering emergency protection should her invitational yogic cat pose whilst sleeping be taken advantage of during our visit to South London’s House of Sodom.
I feel uninspired at the moment, so have been advised to write this entry naked in bed on my laptop.
It was somewhat ironic that I was for a period of two years celibate (my definition of celibacy being an absence of vaginal penetration – blow jobs and anal sex were allowed) and when I finally broke the drought I immediately fell pregnant. There is little humour for me to ebb out of that particular dick but one I will examine at a more appropriate time.
That incident aside, what I can say for myself is despite skipping from partner to partner I never fell prey to any genital or sexual pitfalls the majority of women in an exclusive committed relationship (or those with an unlucky one night stand) will inevitably encounter at some point.
That is until I found myself in an exclusive committed relationship.
People think being partnered an alcoholic is all bad – it’s actually not. Don’t get me wrong it is rather horrendous, but those with an alcohol dependency are pretty much restricted to bed. So no they may not be able to hold down a job or even accompany you out for social gatherings but being bed bound means the one activity they can participate in is sex (that is those that escape the curse of brewers droop – which my guy did). Thus for the first year we were together it was a non stop sex fest, kinda normal for the honeymoon phase. For me the biggest treat was sex on tap. Okay I might have fucked 100 men over the course of ten years but given they were almost all one night stands that actually means I was only having sex once every 5 weeks – which is pretty pitiful. Thus to be able to fuck all-day everyday was heavenly to me.
Until I learnt about thrush. The irritation started and he, being all the more experienced with relationships, diagnosed it early and recommended exercising abstinence in a bid to prevent it worsening. Theoretically it all sounded good, but alcoholics are addicts and addicts are not great at exercising self control, hence their predicament. Coupling that with my own addictive personality and insatiable sexual appetite the abstinence cure lasted all of maybe 12 hours. Then his chaffed cock decided to visit my yeasty haven. As a result my vagina, clearly unhappy with my callous treatment, declared war in my knickers.
I have never known an itch like. Yes thank god for Canestan (why does that dog look so decidedly smug in the advert – is there more than just friendship going on there?) but it still takes a while to kick in. My parents generously bought us tickets to go and see The Jersey Boys. It was a brilliant show and I’d like to say my memory of that theatrical experience was the wonder and joy of the music of Frankie Valli and the Four Season, but in fact whenever I hear ‘Oh What a Night’ all I can remember is squirming in my chair in a bid for the crotch seam of my jeans to scratch my fiery cunt.
But how quickly one woman can go from a hundred dicks to one dick to no dick.
There’s nothing like a series of ongoing challenges pervading all aspects of your life to dampen one’s desire for each other’s. Endless months of constant stress, tension and pressure is the equivalent of castration for both genders. Occasionally things would subside or we’d feel we’d has some small win, some psychological advantage and we’d fuck to celebrate, remember how wonderful sex is (and it’s free!) and make sincere promises from ‘let’s make sure we have a minimum of sex three times a week’ to ‘let’s make sure we have some form of sexual contact for at least ten minutes everyday’. Then fate would deal a cruel blow, our foundation shaken, our position threatened again and the sex would be sapped clean out of us. Our entire house a vacuum free of any sexual energy.
Hence it’s been a rather hit and miss year. You would of course, not fully appreciate the degree of this unless you’d been fucking me seven months ago and fucking me today. The visible effect of the absence of sex is most demonstrable by my entrances being somewhat unwelcoming of my partners attempt to rekindle his once familiar and frequent relationship with them.
He once proudly boasted he could put eight fingers into my arse and stretch it to rival any hardcore porn stars. My arse could hungrily hoover up large 10 inch ribbed glass dildo’s that would make any woman’s eyes water. This is something of a turn on for him, I’m not sure if men generally find this an attractive feature. I have felt obliged to continue my courtship with him not just on the grounds of unconditional love but because I’m not confident another man would be happy with such a pliable ring-piece. Alas the last time we attempted anal intercourse all I could think about was Bum-cleaver’ from the Marquis de Sade’s 120 days of Sodom. Who is ‘Bum-cleaver’? – ‘The head of his prick resembled the heart of an ox, it was eight and three-eights inches around; behind it, the shaft measured only eight, but was crooked and had such a curve it neatly tore the anus when penetrating it.’ With this thought in mind my bottom was so tense and frightened he was lucky to pry one finger in, let alone his proud perfect penis (aka PPP).
It wasn’t just my rectum that was wary of the return of the PPP, but even my cunt greeted him like a small child presented with an absent father of many years who expected immediate affection and a jolly rapport despite abandonment of said child. Oh I was desperate to feel him fill me up but afterwards I felt akin to an athlete returning to competition after a season off with injury.
His first ploughing resulted in me feeling satisfied but violated. In the words of the Kings of Leon my sex was on fire. Given the lack of horizontal play I knew it wasn’t thrush but my lips were throbbing and my clit was stinging. I like to think it was out of concern for my well being but I suspect it was more in a bid to rectify any problems so as he could re-enter sooner rather than later. Hence when I raised an objection to sex on the grounds of a sore vagina he promptly had me spread eagled on the bed with a splayed vagina. After a detailed and probing inspection it transpired my cunt was so unused to the PPP he had stretched and inflamed it with one brief vanilla style session. He merely plastered it with antiseptic cream, told me it was something like nappy rash and that I’d be fine before the day was out.
And so while my gender may nod knowingly at tales of thrush, carpet burn, cystitis, stretched ham strings, pulled groin muscles, red raw knee caps and other such happy complaints from excessive sex, they must also beware of the pitfalls of the effects on the body if work takes priority over sex.
Vaginas are made for babies to pop out of, if you’ve left things so long your hymen’s regrown and you’ve become re-virginalised you need to gird your loins and commit to the fact that those orifices need regular exercise to – and getting into shape is hard work and will hurt. Ain’t no baby gonna be popping out of you if you can’t pop a prick in you. There’s no way you’ll be recapturing those heady honeymoon rewards if you don’t have the stretch or stamina for even the most basic and simple sex tasks. Take it from me sex is not just a game or pastime, it’s a passion, it’s a sport. It requires dedication, commitment, an investment of time, imagination, creativity and pure unadulterated unfathomable filth.
On that note, fully aware I am paying the physical price for thoughtlessly neglecting my minge and arse, I am now doing some jaw stretching exercises for the other orifice that will encounter severe gag reflex and relearning the useful skill of breathing and sucking at the same time a little later this evening. Time to remaster the blow job.
I’m back in the game.
Often in youthful exuberance one’s sexual (mis)adventures occur more by mistake than good management. While some of us carefully plan out and detail the perfect execution of our first introduction to something that strays (even if only mildly) from the path of playing it safe and straight, others – including myself, usually in a drunken and slovenly state – find ourselves inadvertently playing out some particular kink or fetish we (or perhaps nature itself) never intended.
This was certainly the case with the boy, Raymond.
The new millennium was the start of a good two year run for me, but by the time Raymond appeared I was nursing my first heartbreak – and as any woman knows first loves are the worst to recover from (if ever we truly do). Certainly for me the wound was still very raw. L and I decided (whether in a bid to mend my broken heart or just get ourselves a change of scenery) to head to Great Yarmouth for a week.
Great Yarmouth, you’ll find, is writ large in this saga – indeed each and every summer as Ra took flight we were beckoned for end-of-week forays to that most traditional of seaside towns. It was L’s routine and regular holiday destination as a child, a world to which I was then introduced, at first dubiously but later fully embraced. So after T broke the news he was back on with his alleged ex-fiancé, a girls’ holiday was swiftly arranged.
It was arranged (and funded) by questionable means with L and I taking advantage of our position in the Company for which we worked, under the guise of my having won a holiday to Ireland. Earlier I’d genuinely won one to Sweden but in order that we could both get the same week off, we’d concocted another prize-winning break, so dates were set and we had both to be off work the same time. I must’ve seemed the canniest person at the company just then. That is until my mother called reception and was told I was on holiday, to which she responded ‘Oh I forgot the girls are camping inYarmouth.’ Even though we’d gone to the bother of buying fake Irish souvenirs I suspect our cover had been well and truly been blown by our return to work.
Nonetheless, L and duly I booked onto the Vauxhall Caravan Site for the town’s ‘Gala Week’, the glamorous last seven days of the holiday season. The site was fully booked and we had no option but to take a small pitch and buy ourselves a tent. There’s a whole other story about that week – one deserving of a book in itself – so I’ll leave this for another time.
Anyway, with the tatters of my heart in tow (it was somewhat ironic and possibly telling I burst into tears by the Vaseline shelf at Superdrug onYarmouth High Street) we made our way onto Vauxhall bringing more than tantrums and tiaras that year.
In my misguided and desperate state I decided to opt for the philosophy of ‘the quickest way to get over someone is to get under another’ and went on the prowl. At that time we were young enough to do so – later we were ill-placed on a site catering to ‘families’ as opposed to single girls. But at twenty two there were enough young men to keep us interested so while L focussed her attentions on a security guard (dare I say guards Mrs J?) I played for patrons as opposed to the staff.
And there among them he was – the boy Raymond. 6’2”, carrying just a little puppy fat, chubby but cute, like he’d lose both in time to come. He was 18 and I was secretly pleased he’d chosen me, despite his father trying to persuade him to consider a few other options available that year. Although Dad was British, Raymond was fromHollandand English was by no means his forte. I managed to gather he’d slept with four women. I’d slept with six men so it seemed an even enough match. I liked his boyish looks and was hugely flattered by the attention. That is until he kissed me, grabbed my quadruple Baileys, threw it away, then pushed a chewing gum into my mouth and told me I was reeking of booze. His English did not let him down at that moment.
L went ballistic at the four shots of Baileys rocketing across the car park (I wasn’t best pleased myself, but cock always came before alcohol even then, so I gritted my teeth and smiled sweetly through the comet of creamy beige). L initiated an all-out war of words til he promised to replace all drinks the next night.
Thus, given the circumstances – he Dutch and eighteen, me twenty two, drunk and a bit of a mess but both full of a youthful sexual zeal – I can’t quite remember exactly what night I had my first foray into to watersports.
I suspect though it wasn’t that first night (Raymond, his father and two workmates were staying in the chalets). Raymond and I got as far as the campsite male toilets before surrendering to a bout of frenetic, foolhardy sex. It was all locked chipboard doors, hitching up of skirts, knickers down, him trying to undress himself enough to penetrate me in the restrictive space of the gentleman’s cubicle kind of thing. I really had no idea if this could be classed as good or bad sex. But it was fun, the location was (then anyway) unusual, and it had an element of danger because we knew the grounds were patrolled.
But our age, the fact we were with there with companions and the barrier of language did complicate matters somewhat. We knew we had to get home and the site was large and difficult to navigate especially when drunk or needing to guide someone who was. And the fumblings, however short and inadequate, had us still hungry for each other. We were at that delightful time when kissing for ages is as physically pleasurable as the act of intercourse itself. We mooched around the site, all longing snogs and yearning hands groping for what had been unclothed only moments earlier. Until eventually we found our respective trails back to habitation.
The second night, I suspect was the night ‘it’ happened. The scene was exactly as it had been the night before. L and I would primp and preen ourselves before descending on the Regency Room (this was the location for ‘family entertainment’) to flirt outrageously with everyone we took a fancy to. I made sure I secured Raymond’s attention early on (just so we were both clear sex was on for later) and enjoyed the rest of the evening.
Once again by the end of the night, we were drunk and slovenly. L, who if you know her, is not suited to the harsher side of life so a little high maintenance for the tent, headed back to the apartment of her beau-to-be. I don’t recall her spending even one night in that tent for which we had both shared costs – not that I can blame her after I’d sullied it mind you, but Raymond was not quite as fussed.
The difficulty with camping, and not having one of the mobile homes or even a flashy caravan is the whole lavatory debacle. If you need the loo it’s a trek to the site’s showerblock (which invariably has bugs flying round it and is rarely as clean as you’d wish). Once more I’d been drinking all evening. A fountain of alocopops and sweet milky baileys (true to his word he’d replaced my quadruple shots from the night before) and the seal had already been burst at the club. Now though, back in private with this boyish hulk, sex – rather than the relief of my bladder – was at my mind’s forefront. Bad mistake. We tumbled into the tent, rolling around on two double air mattresses, undressing each other, stroking, playing, examining and exploring. That wonderful sensation of new hands examining the softness of one’s body as your own delight in the firmness of his was exquisite. Only I was desperate for a wee.
In all honesty I could’ve just said I’d needed the loo and been up there and back in five minutes but somehow I thought I might be able to hold it. Yeah right. Ten orange Bacardi Breezers and eight shots of Baileys, that’d be easy.
In the darkness and drunkenness as he forced himself (perhaps not as forcefully as he might have had he not been battling with numerous pints of beer) into me I could feel pressure mounting. By the time he’d entered me and built up a degree of confidence his member was firmly in its intended warm, wet opening he decided to increase the pace a little changing from entering me splayed sideways to the more traditional missionary position. This manoeuvre was no friend to my bladder. The weight of him was exerting huge strain. Being drunk, slovenly and lost in the act I really just couldn’t exert the restraint required and began to wet myself freely, thus the next thing I knew as we were at it like rabbits I was inadvertently at the same time giving what is in polite circles referred as a ‘golden shower’. He didn’t seem to mind (then again his English wasn’t great so perhaps he didn’t have the words, or was merely being gracious). It wasn’t an unpleasant sensation for me at all. If anything it was a great relief, although I don’t remember it feeling particularly sexy. There were in any case two thick duvets to soak up everything. At first when it started sprouting out of me I thought perhaps I was having a female ejaculation but as it went on and the size of my bladder subsided I realised what was happening.
Looking back I wonder if it was a turn on for him. He certainly didn’t stop, anyway – in fact, if memory serves, he removed himself from missionary, spread my legs, tilted me sideways and took me that way again. My exceptionally lubricated cunt was more than willing. On reflection, the fact that he could keep going, despite an initial brewers droop must have been a positive.
I don’t remember much more. I’m ashamed to say to I fell asleep while on the job.
It wasn’t the last occasion Raymond spent in the tent though. He came the following night. This time his Dad insisted on accompanying him with his friends to see where this ‘young lady’ was entertaining his son. I wonder now what the odour must have been like.
Sadly, and in total fuckedupness on my part, I was heartbroken for an older guy and somewhat desperate for a father figure. Thus when Raymond’s Dad excused himself to go to the gents (as opposed to just pissing himself there and then in the tent as I had the previous night) I offered to walk him to there. Once inside I found myself attempting to do with his father what I’d done with Raymond the first night we met. He made no effort to stop me, but I stopped myself from anything more than a kiss….and a grope…and a….no that was it – HONEST!
That night was Raymond’s last in the tent staying over and I must confess there was a repeat golden shower. I kind of figured if he’d coped the night before, he could cope again and perhaps that was my mistake. The second time it was more overtly sexual; something about his accelerated breathing when he felt me do it, the way he deliberately rubbed his cock in the fluid before thrusting it into me.
But as I have said, this aside it was his last night. I don’t know whether Dad had said something or the fact I’d promised to meet him the following night at a proposed time and ended up arriving a few hours later to find him dancing with another girl which sent me into a lunatic rage. But screaming at someone who doesn’t speak great English did not satisfy the psycho in me and his behaviour sent me straight back into the arms of his father for one final last dance. I did not, in any case, ever sleep with Raymond again (although I do recall his father popping round for a visit to the tent without his entourage that night).
As for the duvets, they belonged to L’s mother. I’m told when she returned home and her mum began to assist her unpacking the car boot, she took one look and smell of the bedding and said ‘I don’t think we need to keep those anymore, they can go straight in the bin.’ Sorry Mrs B, even if belatedly.
Minimal internet access at the moment and short of time. Following the ‘How to make a blog successful’ website has urged me however to ‘post regularly’, rather like my grandmother advising of the absolute necessity for at least daily bowel motions. Having taken on board as best I can this homely advice, the following little Malteaser of a post is short, sweet yet, actually, extremely important as far as manners within the boudoir are concerned.
Thus far I’ve delved into my own early sexual inexperience and given just a little insight into the deviancy I relish today. Yet certain encounters with certain dicks have, more notably than others, shaped my bedroom etiquette – as opposed to expertise. Thus comes the story of David The Trumpet.
Within about 18 months of unleashing my vagina to the world I’d left the safety of a 9-5 office job and moved into theatre land, securing a position first as Office Manager before moving into full throttle as Front of House chief and immersing myself in the hub absolute of the action. What was unique about our theatre was that after the show finished, the venue played host as a late night bar which was frequented by a mass of actors, musicians, dancers and backstage workers from surrounding West End theatres once they’d finished their respective shows each evening. Those in the know will recognise instantly the establishment to which I refer.
My foray into this industry would pave the way for me in terms of sluttiness and upping the kink factor by vast notches at once. However my first experience in that role contributed little in way of all that but did nonetheless teach me a good lesson in life.
Still on the large side myself, I discovered bodies inhabiting the entertainment industry, in their own way, far less discerning looks wise than those of the City Boys with whom I’d been previously known to frequent. It was my experience that personality and perception of one’s talent and position was far more an attractive proposition in the West End market than superficial good looks. So there I would flourish, see myself cross into double figures sex partner-wise, becoming ever more open and experimental with each of my evening antics.
Originally, I was just the fat, funny office girl that stayed behind for drinks, but having been embraced by the ‘family’ of out-of-work actors, dancers, designers and so on otherwise known as the Front of House Team to members of the soi-disant ‘IT Club’ that haunted our particular drinking hole, I was seen as some pretty, young (albeit plump) witty thing that could potentially hit the headlines at some point.
For headlines, or stories of them, do keep watching this space.
Obviously not wishing to disillusion my patrons I was happy to be considered ‘beautiful by association’ which led me to one of my own, who shall forever be known as ‘David the Trumpet’.
Insecure, I was shallow beyond belief with my choices in men (hypocritical I know) and bid constantly for physical affirmation.
David took looks to a whole new level; he was, I thought then, totally out of my league under normal circumstances. But these weren’t normal circumstances. This was a whole other world where David had beer goggles, was drinking alone and I was…happy to take advantage.
By no means the best trumpet player in the West End (if memory serves he was actually 3rd player in one of the nearby shows meaning there were at least two others in that show alone better than him – perhaps more depending on the size of the orchestra). But in all his gorgeousness he was fortunate to not be solely reliant on his ability to blow a horn. In his early twenties he was very much the pretty boy with long lashes, deep brown eyes, perfectly cropped black hair to match an equally perfectly chiselled face on an even more perfectly toned body. Boy did I throw everything into obtaining that shag. Ensured he was given unlimited free drinks, watched in awe at his pathetic matchstick tricks on the bar (god did they actually impress women when sober?) and listened to his inane drunken mumbling.
And then I scored the prize of an invite back to his place, which I more than readily accepted.
It turned out to be a booby prize though; the only thing I won was the experience. David was all too aware of his good looks and my gratuity at the attention, thus when it came to the nakedness bit he just laid back and let me do all the work…and I mean all.
By dint of sheer willpower and massive effort I somehow pumped the Brewer’s Droop from his cock – quite a feat on its own – but having overcome that obstacle (I could and did worry about the RSI later) David had no intention of thanking me less still repaying in kind for the investment I was left with the prospect of having to get on and ride the (almost) dead donkey – and this my first time on top. Whereas I should really have been concerned about how my boobs were jiggling, what bits were wobbling or how to position myself so he didn’t feel my full weight along with the effort of ensuring he didn’t slip out, I suddenly realised I was having bad sex.
I mean Really Bad Sex. Boring sex, rubbish sex, sex that was exactly what it should not be – i.e. completely devoid of the slightest pleasure or fun. As we al know (but seldom admit) the ‘member’ isn’t the all important factor here – but a little imagination is. I bobbed up and down on his wilting stem til I realised making him come was beyond my skill, patience and now utterly diminished desire. I’d been up for twenty four hours and was tired. Sleep was infinitely preferable to silently bouncing about on his less than impressive cock wondering how long was polite before accepting, without verbally communicating, his reaching an orgasm was not going to happen that night and my doing so even further off the scale.
I persevered – it seemed the right thing to do – but after what seemed a more than reasonable amount of time, got off and held his cock, unenthusiastically massaging it until he dozed off to sleep. Then I could breathe easily; I figured I’d catch a few hours and then slip away, not cause a fuss or outstay my welcome, but at least be there for a quick ‘hi’and ‘bye’ when he woke. Chances are I’d see him again and …well no one wants tension on their own turf.
I lay in the darkness, staring at the ceiling and replaying how horrendously bland it had been was and what a disappointing scene I’d just played part in. I reached the conclusion that so confident was he in his looks David had never been short of women and therefore had never been desperate for sex. No need then to rely on other skills. By never having to make an effort around the opposite gender, the misguided fool had allowed this to impact on his performance. He’d never had to be good at it because he could get it as and when, but I wondered about what repeat performances he’d achieved. I suspect the women he’d sexually encountered for the most part considered him a one hit wonder. I’d had drunken sex before but in the fumblings both parties had made an effort so as to at least ensure they themselves had gotten off and (I like to think) hoping in the process the other consenting person did too. But not this time. He assumed because he got women with ease, he pleased them as easily. Even an inexperienced girl lacking in self esteem like me realised just how insignificant looks were in respect of a good shag.
Then the cautionary tale. As I mulled all this over, David the Trumpet farted…on my thigh…in his sleep. Failing to make the effort in bed with a one night stand was one thing but not even bothering to hold back the flatulence in their presence was downright disgusting.
I fumed in his fumes (a mix of his dinner and my indignation), desperate to take a flannel to cleanse my thigh until the morning. I threw my clothes on (leaving a bra on his instrument case) and tried to wake him, asking if perhaps he could phone a cab. He waved me away like a fly. I asked equally politely if he had a Yellow Pages so I might find a the number so I could call one myself. This was met with a groan and sleepy instructions to leave the front door, take a left then a left and in ten minutes I’d be at the tube station.
I was outraged at the sheer dismissiveness of it all (which is saying something given I’m an Australian and not noted for perfect manners). It didn’t seem overtly rude or deliberate as far as I was concerned personally, just pig ignorance and poor manners on his part. I felt I’d observed all the unspoken rules of the one night stand, but it was as if he didn’t even acknowledge their existence.
I understood that night not only the value of sexual prowess but the necessity for a little bedroom etiquette in order to be considered a ‘decent fuck,’ one to be remembered with some degree of fondness rather than revulsion. I’d given him the gift of my luscious lips and a bloody good blow job and all I’d received in return was a blow off. Farting on someone’s leg is inexcusable. Okay in a relationship I might refer to it as brown kisses or excuse it as a bottom saying ‘I love you’ but please – at least exercise the sphincter for the sake of good impressions with a stranger.
The following night when it got out round the workplace I’d had my first shag with a member, everyone was curious as to what ‘standard’ of guy I was capable of attaining. They assumed it would be Edwin, the morbidly obese stage hand from some theatre – desperate to confirm his questionable sexual persuasion. Instead they were in shock and awe that it was ‘David the Trumpet’. I on the other hand was not so surprised at my conquest those twenty four hours later. If anything, the only thing that mystified me was how this particular ‘air bender’ remained at 3rd Trumpet in his orchestra as opposed to first, given his penchant for the gusty bellowing of personal wind.
I need to fast forward a bit. Not just because there’s no way I can manage this chronologically (oh, the first four or five are always memorable, then afterwards….just a series of – for the post part – indistinct penises and faces whose stories are triggered, usually at inopportune times, with the most tenuous links) but because I found myself with an online acquaintance discussing ‘the Slutty Value System’. It’s kind of where the ‘one hundred dicks thing’ comes in.
However much we want to slip into our Union Jack dresses, do peace signs and screech ‘girl power’ at the top of our lungs (sorry, is that just me?) or bang the new feminist drum, we do live in a patriarchal society where women like myself are labelled by small minded (or threatened) men and prudish women in a negative way. Thus I was forced to establish the aforementioned ‘Slutty Value System’ in an attempt to keep numbers down to acceptable levels within some social circles.
I’m from the Clinton camp. If there no vaginal penetration taking place, you’re not in my numbers. Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, Anal Sex only – you are hereby disincluded from the official count. My friend K, a homosexual, posited this system could imply a gay man that has never had sex with a woman would forever therefore remain a virgin. Well I’m sorry K, but that’s how it is with my slutty values. I need to keep my numbers down, for my own personal sake. Frankly speaking ‘One Woman, Three Hundred and Twenty Seven Cocks’ just isn’t a catchy blog name.
With my Slutty Value System thus established I had to consider the trajectory of my sex life in general. I somehow went from being an inexperienced virginal 21-year old to slut, to experienced slut, to deviant, .filthy personal whore to my soul mate; and that’s not the end point – I am after all just reaching my amatory peak. There must have been significant events (well dicks) plotted on the graph of this sexual trajectory signposting and directing me towards he dark course of my current place of degeneracy.
Sometimes its best to work backwards – I need to gauge where I am now to further establish the prominent ‘dicks’ that got me to where I am now.
And where might that be?
I remember my current beau once suggesting it would be quite a turn on for him if I were to display how desperate for an orgasm I was by grinding myself against the door frame. At the time – perhaps six months into our relationship – I obliged….reluctantly. There was something still very inhibited about me. I loved the slut part, the sheer filth and I knew I really was that desperate to come, but with one hand gripping a hook in the bedroom ceiling of that 300 year-old cottage (and yes, it has many alternate uses) to lever myself against the frame – I felt hugely self conscious. I didn’t feel sexy at all. If anything, I was concerned about my ‘bingo wings’ flapping around, my arms hurt from holding the majority of my body weight and I couldn’t quite position myself so my clit was actually being rubbed. It was like a cheap soft porn film where they stimulate sex but don’t actually do it.
Yet only a year down the line when I have on my leather collar – the word ‘WHORE’ proudly displayed – and am told to demonstrate how desperate I am, I think nothing of getting on the floor, spreading my legs and moving my hips up and down as my slippery girl-bits grind against the edge of a bookcase. I can bring myself to orgasm in seconds just from that. Forget what’s wobbling and what’s a good angle; the sheer pleasure of feeling the sensations tingle and burn until the wood’s nearly dripping and I’m gripping and thrusting and moaning – lost in a thunderous climax…and if it turns him too on all the better.
I mean, the guy comes up with the idea of a funnel and tubing (what follows is not the funnel story, just one) and using these to piss into one another’s arses. I thus find myself, only months later, in a frenzy of filth taking the initiative, and pushing said tube deep into my anus (one hand holding it) and moving the funnel under my cunt and pissing directly into myself. The experience, for my partner’s viewing pleasure then is not just me pissing but watching it sporadically flow and gurgle its way deep inside me. What came next? Well, then I kinda thought it might be fun to remove the funnel and put the other end of the tube into him so we could swap my piss back and forth before it all eventually dribbled on the heap of towels ever present in sex marathons such as these. Extreme watersports some might consider it. It could be an Olympic sport, akin to synchronised swimming.
But even these anecdotes don’t quite fully encapsulate the lengths of my dirty insatiable desire. The big question without answer now is whether the desire is for sex or for him. Are these barriers and limits being constantly pushed to test me sexually or to impress him, gain bedroom approval, join some club where he won’t wanna sleep with another, or is it something as simple as sharing a journey together and exploring all the elements within a relationship? Maybe I can’t be Jenna Jameson every night…although I frequently find my mind is.
The braid of ultra-intimacy and sex….that’s where I am now.
Take a look at this pic.
Did this burn happen because Peachy was being a bad boy?
Or was I attempting the medieval skill of ‘cupping’ and my first attempt heated the glass almost to melting point as opposed to creating a vacuum to help suck the pus from a bum-boil?
Looking at the entire portrait of my sex life from a distance and which I’ll fully piece together in over time, I see this particular endeavour as a kind of post-Post Modern feminists ‘Rake’s Progress’ in words, which had, I not titled ‘One Woman One Hundred Dicks’ I could have called ‘A Slut’s Tangent’. I went with the existing title because most of my encounters were with Dicks both of a literal and metaphorical nature.
More on those dicks and which ones teased me into an at-first gentle learning curve of sensuality which didn’t take too long in becoming tick shaped.