In my online dating years and when I was pretty determined to sleep with someone from every country I decided I had to sleep with a South African. There’s actually a very healthy rivalry between South Africa and Australia so it had never been too high on my list of priorities, but it was a box that needed to be checked.
I scoured the internet for ages finding the right one. Now I was in mid-twenties. Younger boys held no appeal for me, my preference was for older men, but I was also happy to fuck someone in my own age bracket.
I wish I could remember his name because he’s sent me a thousand friend requests on Facebook (all of which I declined – what a bitch I am sometimes!) so I should be familiar with it. But I’m not. He’s just another face without a name in my sexual history.
Aside from being South African (I’ve been told I need to clarify here he was white Caucasian) he wasn’t a bad looking boy. He actually possessed more of an American look and was reminiscent of Tom Cruise, which is no bad thing if that’s your type. He was short, maybe 5’5 with shoes on, had blonde hair, perfect shiny white teeth and the body of someone who spent a lot of time at the gym but didn’t have the physique for it to be overly impressive or noticeable.
We’d chatted online briefly and I organised the hook up just as quickly. As with any cyber sex sessions, discussions of likes and dislikes had come into conversation and I do believe mentioning I was quite up for anal sex. In all honesty I wasn’t that up for it, but some men see it as quite slutty and sexy so I felt it would increase my chances of getting laid.
The only thing about dating younger guys, or at that time men in their mid twenties is their lack of confidence. Despite me giving him my address he asked if I might meet him a the tube station and walk him back to mine. It kind of seemed a role reversal in terms of traditional male/female roles but because I was pretty independent and desperate for cock I agreed.
Meeting him at the station I could see not only was I going to have sex with a South African but also a man that would’ve been classified as a dwarf if he’d been born an inch or two shorter -not great for a 5’7 Amazonian-esque Australian like me.
I had an inkling I would want it over and done with asap. Bit of a workout for my vagina, send him home and then a bit of fast food and crap late night TV.
The bedsit I was living in at the time was in fact in the loft of a top floor flat and I had to climb up a ladder to get in there. There was a single bed, which I used as a couch and a double futon which I slept in.
The sex was almost perfunctory. By the time we got up the ladder, there wasn’t really all that much to discuss. He was a trainee accountant at a law firm, which is probably why he could afford to buy the best brand of lube in the market, which he presented to me like a wedding ring, but his profession wasn’t riveting enough to warrant feigned interest and questioning about his job.
It was kind of a kiss and clothes off affair.
In hindsight I found the height difference a little off putting. I could lay on the single bed, my bottom perched on the edge, legs spread, wet and waiting giving him easy access but as he began fucking me I realised he didn’t even have to bend his knees to get into my cunt. Nor did he need to prop my bottom up with pillows so that he wasn’t squatting while he was thrusting. If anything I suspect he would’ve been happy if he’d had a few pillows or a small cardboard box to stand on while pumping away.
His inexperience and lack of technique was all too obvious. I liked his enthusiasm and the velocity. His thick cock going in and out of me was pleasing. But the man handling of my breasts, squeezing them, pinching them was all good until he suckled them. He didn’t suck quickly, or suck and nibble. He suckled them as one would imagine a baby would. Making slurping noises. Ths short South African had a fat stubby cock inside me while he suckled my breasts. Taking turns on each one. Resting on my chest and just sucking and pumping. Thank fuck he didn’t call me mum.
I was wondering how long I’d have to endure the child like sexual behaviour when he boldly said, ‘Your arse. Let me fuck your arse.’
‘Yeah sure.’ I agreed quickly enough thinking the sooner the experience was over the better.
‘Do it like in the movies please.’
Wordlessly I moved from the single bed onto my double futon on the floor on my hand and knees. I could hear him squirting the lube and telling me how much he wanted this. I was going to ask if he wanted it more than me putting him in a nappy and giving him a rusk but thought it may further delay this mortifying experience.
Things went from bad to worse. His pork sword may have been ready to invade but my anus was having none of it. It was as if my arsehole had been super-glued shut. This should have demonstrated how tense and unrelaxed I was in this encounter but the South African wasn’t taking no for an answer. He just put more and more lube on his cock and more and more lube around my bottom.
He pounded and grinded trying to force the slightest opening so he could then force his cock in. It was lucky he’d been working out cause he needed the strength and stamina for this nearly impossible feat.
I mentally applauded him because he did manage it. But the sheer power required had meant while I’d started on all fours with each thrust my hands slipped forward and I began to move downwards. I could see my hands pushing the duvet towards the wall and my face getting closer and closer to the mattress. Soon enough I was lying on my stomach. Pancaked on the bed. I’d have preferred to be a little more picturesque and described myself as more of a ‘crepe’ demolished on the bed, but my rather rolling soft curves meant I was more a fluffy, filling pancake. It wasn’t until I was plastered to the bed that he got in. I was face down on my bed as his cock stabbed into me. In an effort of my own, and I wasn’t a regular gym goer, I resisted the intensity of his thrusting just enough to raise myself and my arse up so he could penetrate a little deeper. Where I mustered the energy I know not where – at that time I did wonder if there wasn’t something in all this religious malarkey – but in returning to half doggy style position it gave him enough room to be thrilled enough by the anal sex to cum.
I disposed of his presence as quickly as I did the condom. To be honest I probably would’ve enjoyed visiting South Africa more via Google Earth rather than have someone bum me quite so viciously and vigorously. I don’t think I dismissed him in a nasty or harsh way because he very kindly offered me the exclusive expensive bottle of lube so we could have anal sex again next time he came round. He never came round again…but the lube was used up for more anal sex.
Following on from last time’s post about the great divide of persons between I’m inclined to continue with a focus on sex related to Christmas and New Year’s. Whilst my previous post addressed life as a singleton finding sex at these particular holidays I feel this week I’ll focus on whether there are any significant changes in sex at these particular times when in a permanent solid relation ship.
In short – there’s not. Being single and slutty or wife-ish and whorish has absolutely no impact on the kind of sex available and on offer on these dates. Somewhere deep in the subconscious the preferred date is seared not only on the brain but the loins and one responds accordingly.
Me? I like sex all the time and having never been in a proper relationship until my 30’s one thing I was determined to do was make the most of having sex on tap and available to me. No longer would I have to go out on the prowl to ensure a festive fucks.
Christmas is a time of giving and sex is readily available. But it is still a family holiday and when you have one foot Australia and the other in the UK it tends to mean you and your family are joined at the hip – at least in terms of accommodation at this time of the year. If in Australia I’d be staying with my folks and was not in a position to insist on Christmas clubbing and then bringing a random dick back to finally christen my virgin bed (which still remains so and I’m now 35!). If my family were over from the UK we’d be staying at a rather posh Downton Abbey-esque hotel by the sea in Norfolk which limited the amount of dicks available considerably– normally nil because it was a ‘family’ hotel of the English genteel so finding a single man willing to shag a horny common slutty Australian was difficult to say the least.
After I found a man I assumed all this would change.
Not necessarily so. Because Christmas and New Year’s fall in close proximity the same problems plaguing my Christmas cock endeavours also impinged on my New Year’s nobbing.
For the first New Year’s I had my boyfriend rather romantically we had been separated – me with my parents, brother and wife and niece and nephew in a restored barn in Lincoln; my fellow with his newly wedded father in London. Irrespective of the emotional blackmail his father burdened upon him (‘This could be my last Christmas,’ he wailed. ‘And I could go under a bus tomorrow,’ quipped my boyfriend.) He spontaneously caught a train to Lincoln to join me for New Year’s Eve. This wasn’t just to impress my parents, nor was it a grand gesture on his part confirming our shared devotion. It was a lusty journey because he hadn’t had a New Year’s fuck in over 10 years. Thus he felt it worth the effort and I was excited because not being a ‘New Year’s’ person I had never had a shag to welcome in the New Year.
Sadly it was all a little disappointing. My boyfriend was a recovering alcoholic and having recently packed in the booze was low on energy and physically recovering from excessive alcohol abuse for 3 years on his 45 year old body. The valium may have eased his need for the drink but it did render performance problems. I had never really had sex before with my parents in the next bedroom so couldn’t really let loose and ride in the New Year with any vigour or vocalisation. It ended up being a very vanilla style session. We adopted a very last session laying side by side, my leg raised for his entry and then a slow, deep, constant penetration to ensure the bed wasn’t rocking audibly and the headboard wasn’t banging rhythmically to alert my parents to what activity their little girl was indulging in. My orgasm muffled by a pillow and his tampered by his inhibited English manners. His inhibition was so great he was reluctant to even cum for fear of him staining the bed. It was a short celebratory session. Both of us smiling in the dark that we’d finally broken the New Year’s sex drought (mine at 31 years significantly longer tan his ten year abstinence) but also realistic at the subdued nature of the act of love.
What made it so disappointing was that only a week earlier we’d been be staying at a rather posh Downton Abbey-esque hotel by the sea in Norfolk and I’d been riding him and screaming down the house for three nights and mornings on the trot.
Even earlier in the Christmas season his lust had been so frenzied that when I’d been drunk and returned home from my work Christmas party in a cab because I couldn’t stand up straight let alone string a sentence together with any coherence and had vomit down my chin, he opened the front door where I was being deposited with the greeting, ‘Wow you look like a movie star!’ (Really??? In that state???).
It was true, it was the first time he’d seen me fully made up and in a dress but 6 hours of non-stop binge drinking really should’ve taken the shine off me. Instead he looked at me like I was a mesmerising Christmas tree in Times Square and began pushing me up the stairs.
I got up stairs and collapsed on our bed, only to wake an hour later with his hard cock pushing at my buttocks. The minute I groaned, authorising my state of wakefulness he wasted no time in pulling at my control knickers and tights. I could feel his hard cock placing itself between my plump bum cheeks and as he continued to thrust he reached around my front to see how wet I was. And even drunk I was wet and wanting. His hand could feel how moist I was and his fingers slipped in easily. After finger-blasting my vagina, spreading it and bringing my to my first orgasm, my responsive moans had him demanding a little more action from me.
He insisted I get on all fours for a doggy style ramming. My head was in the bed already pounding with tomorrow morning’s hangover. We agreed later, given my state, it was borderline date rape, but kinda sexy cause it was safe. I was begging him no more but he wasn’t having it. If anything he was making me look in the mirror to acknowledge how allegedly beautiful I was and then thrusting his cock into my mouth.
Knowing I was unable to physically prevent him from having his wicked way he then started telling me he wanted to ‘fuck my arse’. I love anal – as does he – but am normally hygienic about it and like to feel comfortable. Because I was drunk and worried about muscle control (or rather the lack of) I pleaded with him not too. I said I was worried about a mess and knew I had to go to the toilet so felt uncomfortable about it. All this was mumbled and he shook his head and said we’d done far filthier and had far bigger messes take place in the bed. When I expressed my concern about the passage not being clean he was not deterred by my concern and confession of a few stumbling, brown obstacles that may hinder the process of an anal pounding.
STOP READING HERE IF YOU ARE OF A NERVOUS DISPOSITION
In a festive fucking frenzy whilst using his fingers and some baby oil to prime my arse and widen the entrance for his overly thick cock he reached up inside and pulled three malteaser size balls of poo from my bottom. I realise this sounds gross but for him to do that and not lose his erection I can only assume I must’ve looked fucking gorgeous that night. To my shame I was so inebriated I was fascinated that he’d done it and while he forced his cock into my ring piece I watched with an almost childish joy as I saw the three little balls roll down the mattress. I was about to grab them, marvelling at how perfectly symmetrical, smooth and round they were but was prevented from doing so as my boyfriend slapped my arse hard, pulled my hair and thrust deep and then came, making me cry out and forget the poo and focus on the pain and pleasure.
That was certainly a Christmas cracker and a great start to the festive season in 2009. It’s just a shame the sexual start to the New Year of 2010 involved a rather bland, conservative and restrained speedy almost teenage pump. So being single or involved will not influence your sexual takings for these festive holidays. I’m now married and I have to say Christmas remains a bonanza spectacular style attitude to festive fucking (thankfully there is no more forceful faeces extraction required) but New Year’s we don’t even bother with – better to have no sex than bad sex. Who wants to start the New Year with a lousy fuck???
A transcript between me and my husband – three months into marriage. He’d just had a shower and graced our bedroom with his beautiful naked body.
S: Ooooh hello you look good.
S: Seriously you’re lush. How can someone your age have the body of a twenty something.
E: I think there’s a compliment in there somewhere.
S: Oh come on you’re 48 and you’re skin is like perfect, there’s not a hair anywhere. Well actually you could do with a trim. It’s a wonder that snake can find his way out of that forest.
S: I’m just playing. It’s just we only shaved you once over the summer. I only like the voluminous curls in the winter months. Nice to run my hands through something warm on those cold nights.
E: Sounds like you’re more worried about flossing with my pubes.
S: Well it’s bad enough that my own hair gets in the way. A little trim would help. It’s weird when I find myself extracting my hair from your foreskin mid job. It’s even more weird when I find myself having to lick the duvet cover to remove the stringy pubes off my tongue.
E: Well I’ve never prevented you taking a razor to me.
S: True, true. Awww come here for a cuddle. I just can’t resist all those boyish good looks…
E: You look pretty too baby.
S: Don’t say that.
E: You do!
S: No like, just say something nice to me because I’ve said something nice to you.
E: But I mean it.
S: Well it’d mean more if it was a little more spontaneous.
E: Oh well I’m sorry I’m not more romantic.
S: Can you stop that?
S: This admiring yourself in the mirror. Seriously how big headed can you be?
E: I’m not admiring myself. I’m looking at my gut. It’s huge.
S: Oh My God – what the hell. You’ll never be fat – you don’t have the build.
E: I’ve never been this big.
S: Yeah but you were underweight when we met. Now you’re just normal weight. Anyway we look better like this. It’s weird me being morbidly obese and you ano.
E: You’re not obese…and I’m not fucking ano. I just – this stomach.
S: Baby it’s sexy.
E: You’re saying that to make me feel better.
S: I’m not. Listen there’s something really nice about the little soft curve of your tummy. Anyway if you want the truth it really turns me on when I’m licking your balls and I look up and see your tummy. That thatch of hair running to your belly button. It’s hot. Makes me feel pervy.
E: Yeah you like that?
S: I prefer it.
E: Been a while since we’ve had a big session.
S: I know.
E: And I really need one. I wake up feeling so fucking horny at the moment but cause you don’t sleep….
S: What! We’ve not had sex in ages. I’d be happy to have it whatever the time of day.
E: No you reject me.
S: I don’t.
E: You tell me to get off.
S: I do not.
E: You did the other morning.
S: I didn’t I just moaned and the next thing I know your cock was bouncing off my bum cheeks. I hadn’t even opened my eyes. I didn’t say get off, I just said I was sleepy.
E: Yeah but I’m dying for an all nighter. I just don’t know why you’re off sex at the moment.
S: I’m not off sex. I just don’t like myself at the moment…so I can’t figure why anyone would want to have sex with me. But I fancy you…
E: Yeah and I fancy you.
S: But you aren’t going without. I gave you a blow job two days ago.
E: Yes and you do give the best known blow jobs in the universe –
S: And you’ve always said you consider a blow job to constitute having sex. I’ve always said in my view it’s not sex so at the moment you’re having sex and I’m not.
E: Do you know how weird that sounds.
S: I thought you liked blow jobs.
E: I do and I’m happy to have you suck my cock forever but I … wellI wanna be inside you. A girl needs to be fucked senseless once in a while.
S: And I want you to fuck me, I really do. I’m just…I can’t get into a sexy vibe.
E: You liked it last week. (pause) You did like it didn’t you.
S: Yeah I loved it. It was great.
E: And I only used spit to fuck your arse.
S: Which should tell you how much I loved it if you got it in there lube free.
E: It didn’t hurt.
S: No using the vibe in my arse to relax the muscles worked a treat. I have wanted you to fuck my arse so badly but cause we haven’t done it in ages I had serious concerns.
E: That you didn’t want me to do it.
S: No that I’d be so tight you wouldn’t be able to do it.
E: Hun your arse was so relaxed it was like a cunt. Felt amazing.
S: It did and you went for ages. Oh oh and I loved when you put the vibe in my arse to relax it that you were fucking me doggy style at the same time.
E: Felt like you came so hard when I was doing that. You’re kegel muscles were clamping and massaging my cock and that was even before I switched.
S: It was full on. My legs were trembling afterwards. My whole body was tingling. I’m guessing that must be what it’s like to be doubly penetrated. And cause I was on all fours every time you thrusted you pushed the pink vibe in my arse as well. Fucking amazing.
E: Hmmm you sound like you wanna have sex again.
S: Well I paid for it the next day. Seriously this not having sex regularly. The next day I felt like I was giving birth to Mick Jagger. This massive pair of lips protruding from my vagina. They were so swollen it hurt to sit down and to be honest it’s not right that I should be sitting in a cinema with a 4 year old watching ‘Hotel Transylvania’ and thinking about my vagina.
E: You couldn’t shit right for a month.
S: I couldn’t shit right, I couldn’t sit right.
E: If we had more sex you’d get used to being stretched again.
S: Yeah but it’s all about timing isn’t it. You like sex in the morning, but I’m always sleepy.
E: You wan to fuck at night but I’m always sleepy after my evening meal and, you know, we settle down for telly.
S: So we should have afternoon sex. We could do it while your Dad watches the soaps. But you have to let me make you come:
E: No. You know it’s like a tranquilizer. I’ll crash out and not make dinner and then….
S: Yeah but then if I have to wait till after dinner to give you a blow job.
E: I thought you liked my cock.
S: I do but if I have to finish you off after we’ve eaten. Well it’s like, you know I like to do as much washing up as I can before we eat so I can sit down and enjoy tea, cause if I see a mountain of washing up it’s just a chore that spoils my enjoyment of the meal?
S: Well if we do all that fucking and you keep tabs of my multiple orgasms.
E: Your excessive multiple orgasms.
S: Well whatever. Anyway it’s like then I have to make you come and sometimes it takes ages cause you’re a little older, your mind wanders, your Dad interrupts or moves around and kills the mood with the threat of coming upstairs.
E: Well I don’t want it to be a chore or a mercy blow job.
S: You don’t give a fuck about my intention. In fact you once said you get off on having sex with me when I’m not well because you like the idea of me performing under duress.
E: I do. I love it when you’re moaning more because you ache rather than ecstasy. That’s as close to being a sadist as I get.
S: Yeah well if I have to wait till after dinner to give you a blow job…it’s like the washing up. It’s kinda – a little less spontaneous, a little less in the moment, a little more like a job. And then there’s the whole….well you’re thick and I gag and having just eaten there’s the whole reflux thing. I’ve got pureed chicken and chips being upchucked.
E: I like the feel of that.
S: What you like the head of your cock being washed in a regurgitated meal?
E: It’s cool that you choke on my cock. I like feeling the wall of food hit my cock and you struggling to swallow the food down, your eyes streaming.
S: Well it’s not so pleasant for me.
E: But you’ve made me horny and I wasn’t feeling so great before.
S: How comes?
E: Cause I was in the shower and, you know, it’s a little cold. I’m not ashamed to say I’m a grower not a show-er and I looked down and my ball sack is significantly lower than my cock.
S: But it was cold. When it warms up and stuff…your cock’s fine.
E: It’s not though. I’ve got like a droopy ball sack.
S: Oh don’t be stupid. It’s fine. It looks okay. I can’t see a problem. I told you I love licking your balls, putting ‘em in my mouth and stuff.
E: Yeah but it’s a known fact that the older you get the lower your balls hang.
S: So it it’s normal. What’s the problem? I think it looks aesthetically pleasing. It’s not like you’ve got an acorn and your balls are down round your knees.
E: Give it 5 years.
S: Oh come on.
E: I’m being serious. I mean look at it. Look at all this excess skin.
S: Have you ever seen ‘Puppetry of the Penis’ cause the way you’re pulling that looks like a turkey gobbler of something. I think maybe you could do some of the tricks and stuff they do on stage.
E: I’ve not seen it and I don’t wanna fucking be in it. LOOK AT THIS SKIN. That’s not right. I think like I need a scrotum tuck.
S: Are you being serious?
E: Well yes I am.
S: You want a scrotum tuck?
E: Yeah I do. If we get some money together….What would you have a problem with that?
S: Ummm look I gotta be honest. I just don’t see the problem.
E: Yeah but I’m the only man you’ve ever been longer than a night. You don’t have any oter male genitalia that you’re familiar with as a point of reference.
S: That should be a good thing cause if it really is … hanging low … I’m not gonna know any way to complain or make an issue of it. You’re good, you’re in the clear. It can hang exactly where it want. Just hang there. Like your balls are a pendulum on a clock. Hanging in there and I’m just taking it in without passing judgment. In fact if I position myself right sometimes when you’re fucking me from behind your balls actually rub against my clit. Feels fucking amazing. Guaranteed orgasm the minute I feel them swinging in to hit the clit.
E: Sounds like you have an opinion. Seems to me like you’re now saying you think they hang low. Do you think it hangs low?
S: No we’ve just said I couldn’t possible comment. All I can say is, for me, personally I think your balls look great. You know why do you think when I get you to the point where you’re ready to come I like you to kneel over me and finish yourself off. It’s not to be porno and have you cum in my mouth or over my tits – it’s so I can lick and suck your balls. I love ‘em.
E: But if I wanted a scrotum tuck?
S: If you really want one and we get the money then….you know I think it’s fine, I fancy you but if it’s gonna make you feel better I’ll support you.
E: You’ll back me getting a scrotum tuck?
S: Sure yeah of course. I don’t think you need one, but you were there when I got the gastric band and supported me even though you didn’t agree so – go for it baby.
E: Oh my god I can’t believe you think I should get a scrotum tuck.
E: You’d let me go through with it. For fuck’s sake S who’s gonna see my balls. Just you and maybe a doctor. Two people are gonna see my balls and you’d let me go ahead and have a scrotum tuck. I can’t believe you wouldn’t dissuade me. You haven’t even attempted to talk me out of it.
S: I thought you wanted one.
E: I was just testing you. Seeing how you’d react. I don’t want a scrotum tuck. Who the fuck is gonna see my balls to care, but you’d let me have that surgery?
S: I didn’t know what to say. I was trying to be supportive. You know if it was gonna make you happy and all – give you some confidence – who am I to say no? Course you’re right. Only me and a medical professional will see your bits.
E: And that S is my point.
E: I fancy you and I’m the only one you fuck so if I find you sexy what do you care what other people think? Do they actually matter in respect of your weight? Are we braking our entire sex life because of what you think other people, that don’t even fuck you and never will, might think about your looks?
S: Errr so are you sorting your ball sack out or what?
When you meet a guy named ‘Fox’ three thoughts enter your head:
- He was named by hippies
- He’s of Native American descent
- He works in porn.
If his surname could also be a Christian name – something like….. ‘Tucker’ it’s more than likely he works in porn. Don’t be swept up in the uniqueness or impressiveness of such a name as it will more or less be covering for a flaw in the man’s character. And when you’re on a throbbing dance floor and are dazzled with a good looking, charming man buying you free drinks it’s easy to think ‘Wow I’m gonna marry a man called Fox Tucker and people will be like – shall we have S and Fox round for dinner?’. It’ll sound so cool in your head you won’t bother to question the man’s motives and 24 hours later you’ll really wish you spent more time being cynical and less time fantasizing merrily in a drunken horny state.
It turns out this particular evening would be the beginning of the end of a beautiful relationship…of L&B’s great partnership in Great Yarmouth. I was telephonic-ally, textually and cybernetic-ally on the verge of meeting my soul mate in the flesh, L was about to meet her future husband.
My mind is slightly vague in relation to earlier events in the evening – perhaps because later events became so prominent they overshadowed anything that happened previous. I know for a fact L and I used to limit ourselves to the Pier Tavern (a cheesy more mature ‘nightclub’ at the start of Yarmouth’s main pier. However on the night in question L and the general punter was considered old if they were over 21….so being 30 didn’t have every man in the venue turning their heads, revealing come-to-bed eyes and rushing us on the dance-floor for a little bump and grind.
In fact because we smacked of having a ‘3’ in our age we were relegated to swaying slowly whilst sipping our snakebite and blacks on the outskirts of the dance floor and dangerously close to the exist.
And then they appeared.
Two nice looking guys who were definitely mid-30s and veering dangerously close to being observed as in their early 40s…..undeniable prime beef to a woman of any age. Turns out they were best friends. L and I gave each other a sidelong excited glance at what might potentially result from this seemingly random interaction bestowed on us by the gods. The first ripple that fate had thrown us a positive lifeline was that both seemed actively interested in us. L’s guy wasn’t the tallest guy, but being with L he didn’t have to be. He was built like a brick shit house, broad and solid but had the face of something you’d expect to see on a boy-bander. She’d like that. He’d make her feel small and safe. And he had the chat and charm to go with it. His razor sharp wit would please her and engage her. Looks alone wouldn’t sit well but the fact that he had a good job, and good banter would see him in good stead. The pretty people…..
Which I used to think I belonged to until the man introduced as ‘Fox’ had cordoned himself off with me said ‘Don’t you ever get sick of playing Wingman for your friend?’ The words had the effect of a 1inch blade on a Swiss army knife catching me in the side. I had enough flesh to ensure the blade did no damage but it was a shock and it stung like fu*k. Especially as I knew L was not into One Night Stands and spent the majority of the time playing wingman for her slutty friend – ME. I also suddenly felt horribly unattractive and had an insight into a male’s perspective thinking of the two of us I was clearly unfavourable and seem as a chore. I mustered what courage I could to say I didn’t really see myself that way and it wasn’t how L and I operated.
He stumbled, embarrassed over his words, explaining what he meant were that people like L and his best mate M were all about the ‘game’, whereas folks like us (god did that immediately put us into the unattractive or worse just plain ordinary category….this face of mine has graced the pages of Cosmo magazine!) weren’t all about notching up conquests. It eased the pain a little and my ruffled feathers felt smoother. We talked some more and he looked at the two to them flirting outrageously together. Their body language textbook to that for any psychology or social science class. He nodded at them and turned to me. ‘They won’t last. They aren’t the type to. They’re both the same – players’. All I was trying to say was I really like you and if things don’t work with them, I’d hate for it to impact on any relationship we might have. Your lovely and a very cool girl. I’d like to think we might be able to go the distance but if they fall out or whatever PLEASE don’t allow it to prevent us from being together.’
Words I’d spent years longing to hear. And then his friend was coming over with vodka jellies, an alco-pops. The guys treated us – not like princesses, but like queens. It had been a very long time since I had someone mount up a bill of over £200 in a couple of hours being hospitable with us.
By the time Land I had conflabbed in the toilets I knew the night could only be going good places.
And it did.
It took us back to the generous Fox’s pad that he shared with his friend M. The house was magnificent. Tucked in the countryside, a hidden large cosy country house, where we found ourselves having a few nightcap in a large and well designed, thought very masculine in taste, living room. As would be inevitable eventually the talk would dissipate and L and I would allow ourselves to be invited upstairs to our respective beau’s bedrooms.
What L did…well she spent the night verbally bonding with M and he respected that, enjoyed a kiss and a cuddle and cunningly L left him fully aware that we was going to need a suitable investment (both emotional, financially and time wise) if he wanted the full goods.
I on the other hand was high on life and very merry and exceedingly flattered with the man. L was right – that new blue shirt cum dress that snugly fitted did look awesome on me. Almost as awesome as Fox Tucker would look when he pushed my dress up and began fucking me. Even though he had a porn star name (and over pillow talked it transpired he DID work in porn…he did the IT and maintenance of some websites for porn companies based in Canada) there was no mirrored walls or ceiling, or cannily installed web-cams I felt sure we looked pretty hot fucking – it a little bit old skool.
We certainly weren’t love’s young dream. There had been many moments on my lips of late that had cunningly migrated south to take up permanent residence on my hips. He was trim, but late 30s, early 40s. Manly. A proper man. Dark hair, nice, eyes, strong jaw, defined symmetrical features on his face, taller than me, broad, big hairy chest, fine fat cocked springing out from a voluminous bush of untamed pubic hair. He could only have looked hot fucking me. I mean the transition from charming and courteous to ‘get on all fours and spread your cheeks so I can fu*k that arse properly’ was rather winsome. After a rigorous pumping, missionary, me on top, standing bent over the bed and doggy style I felt obliged to comply with his final request. It had been a while since my bottom had been exposed to a beastly boner determined to bash my back doors in, but the force and enthusiasm it was delivered with had me gasping for pleasure rather than wincing and whining say ‘stop it hurts’ or crying and screaming ‘put some lube on that monster’.
No he was dripping with sweat and flushed when he pulled , asked for em to suck him until came all over my tits – I couldn’t have wanted a better introduction to sex with my future husband Fox Tucker – Ahhhh if only.
But wait. The morning after he didn’t throw us out, he woke up with his arms wrapped round me, reinforcing how great my performance had been (twas like music to my ears…worth risking that painful first poo after such action). He even gave me his mobile number telling me he’d meant everything he’d said last night. In fact I remember when L appeared, he departed laughingly, leaving the two of us giggling and discussing our antics. Mine gave L severe hysteria and hers were of a far more romantic nature which made my heart sing. Could it actually go somewhere?
Yes it could. Tired of the mirth and suspected lesbian antics that may be occurring the boys invited us to go for a carvery to recover from the previous night. The two of them and the two of us. L and I gave a look of ‘can this really be happening’.
We’d finally found them after years of searching like loons. They drove us to our caravan and patiently waited in the car while we showered, selected suitable casual but sexy Sunday afternoon attire and (taking less care with my image and more keen with eating) I sat on the sofa texting Fox in the car with him replying with all sorts of lovely and promising sentiments as L glammed up.
The meals itself was a delight. The boys were happy to join us for ‘hair of the dog’ – a little prohibited being in possession of a car but by no means restrictive of judgemental on L and I’s alcoholic intake. Gentlemanly as ever they collected the tab and there was tiniest hope that there was a hint of suggestion that this would be the first of many.
Things got awkward when it was time to leave. Both guys had children from previous marriages and had agreed when kids were at the house girlfriends weren’t allowed. Both had their children coming over that day. It was L and mine’s last night in Yarmouth. L’s man M said he thought he’d be able to change things with his kid and see us in the evening. Suddenly Fox became non-committal saying he’d keep in touch via text but was seeing his kid so couldn’t make any promises. When they got out I got a kiss goodbye but I could already feel a chasm of despondency growing. While M was eagerly asking L where we’d be drinking that night and what time, Fox made no interest and avoided the suggestion. I felt silly asking to text. I respected the kid thing, but the coolness emanating from his attitude began to deflate my heart and my dreams. I said good bye and tried to remain bright for L’s sake. After all perhaps he took parenting seriously – that was a good quality not one to knock or begrudge.
We sat in a pub discussing our plans, our marriage to the two, the double wedding, how we couldn’t believe this was happy. But as the afternoon dragged on, whilst L stayed in contact with M, my texts to Fox went unanswered. Gradually rather than continue texting to try an initiate conversation, I took the hint and stopped. L did her best to get M to bring him or convince him to join us but by late evening when M turned up having spent time with his kid there was no sign of Fox Tucker. He’d either disappeared into a fox hole, was obsessed with internet porn and getting his fix or somewhere in the Sunday sun had thought me Coyote Ugly and scampered away while he still could. M was lovely, L was moving on ever so gently from a relationship recently gone soured and I sat there forever a third wheel. Both of them trying to include me and me fully aware they had no idea that I just wanted to disappear into a place where rejection wasn’t staring me in the face. That empty fourth chair at the table was mocking me, but as a good wingman I couldn’t leave L no matter how hurt I was. I played a good friend, I was a good friend. She’d done the same for me and that’s what makes best friends. Even the alcohol couldn’t strip the pain from me.
It was kinda ironic when I heard L & M were getting married. Don’t feel bad for me, I was engaged and with the man of my dreams – it just that my soul mate wasn’t Fox Tucker. What was ironic was I was immediately back at the pier where Fox nodded over at them and pointed saying ‘see those two, there that type, there players, they aren’t in it for the long haul, not after a relationship, not like you and me.’ How on earth did I buy into that bullshit. Did a vodka jelly and flash name render me so emotionally vulnerable?
He fucked like an animal: masculine, hard, fast, demanding, brutish, methodically, physically, without warmth. He fucked like a porn-star: scripted, unfeeling, wordless but for grunts and instructions, hands not caressing but manipulating the various porn style positions he wanted, moving me not out of lust for me but to ensure maximum satisfaction for himself. At the time it felt sexy. It was hot sex. I was satisfied. It was nice for a night but that’s what his heart was like. The words were just a trap and I walked in there wondrous and left broken.
Still I had the laugh last, quite literally when giving my best ‘bridemaids’ speech at L and M’s wedding. As I recounted the harsh, unfeeling judgement passed by porn expert Fox Tucker on how unlikely the relationship was and the fact he’d stamped them with an expiry date when he they were declaring there eternal love for one another I was forced to admit my best friend L had got it right that fateful night which is probably why it wasn’t a double wedding – no one wants to buy the cow if you’re giving the milk away for free.