In the time honored tradition of the British seaside holiday camps toward the end of every season the ‘talent’ would become somewhat scarce. Good looking men were thin on the ground and finding a decent shag became more of a quest than a game.
My best friend ‘L’ and I would ritually attend the final week of summer season when all the staff at Vauxhall Holiday Park in great Yarmouth would let standards slip with the end of work in sight. When I say standards slip, I don’t just mean the entertainers would lose their gusto on stage and the security guards would be more flexible in letting ‘visitors’ onsite after hours – I mean the staff would stop shagging all the good looking people and happily throw a bone(r) in the direction of the uglies.
But ‘L’ and I were never uglies…there were however years when we (well ‘I’ if I’m being strictly honest) possibly fell in the category of fatties – and no one is ever forgiving if you’ve got a few extra pounds swinging from your hips.
Because of the fact we’d ‘sized up’, ‘L’ and I had to take our nocturnal activities off site and into the pulsating hub of Great Yarmouth town centre; where the locals were far less discerning in selecting their annual summer flings.
‘L’ had picked up a cute impish guy that was totally smitten with her. Unfortunately he was a bit of a damp squib and while easy on the eye his company wasn’t scintillating. ‘L’ insisted I chaperone all dates so that she had someone she could talk to and have a laugh with. Had ‘L’ been a boy or vice versa, there’s no doubt in my mind we’d have ended up together, but our heterosexuality and my nymphomania meant there were times we were forced to separate and hunt out a ‘dick’ for the night.
So it’s a week night out of the summer season in Great Yarmouth and ‘L’ insisted her date take her (with me in tow) to the Pier Bar for karaoke night. ‘L was the most supportive friend. She loved my karaoke. I think she appreciated while I could hold a tune, what I lacked in talent I compensated with passion and performance.
Only recently I was telling my husband how ‘L’ and I did a resounding version of Meatloaf’s ‘Paradise by the Dashboard Light’. My husband asked who sang what part and I looked at him queerly and said ‘I sang the boy and the girl’s part. ‘L’ did backing vocals.
On the night in question with an audience of at least six people I did a stonking version of Will Young’s ‘Who Am I’ which had been an anthem of heartbreak two years earlier on our annual holiday.
When I finished I searched the startled and stunned faces of the audience for a potentially available man. There was only one man in attendance as a singleton. Sure he was close enough in age to be my father, but beggars can’t be choosers.
He won me over instantly with his Geordie accent (Aussie’s love an accent) and went into ‘good impression’ overdrive by complimenting me on my performance – although he was quick to point out it was a boy’s song (we can’t all be sopranos and Leona Lewis!).
What I found particularly endearing about the giant teddy bear was that he was incredibly flattered by my attention.
Want to know why?
Turns out this 47 year old oil rig worker married when he was 19 to a woman eighteen years his senior. That meant his wife’s current age was 65. He was fucking an old age pensioner and he was prime beef.
I won’t lie – the revelation of his marital status was something of a blow. I was determined to get at least one shag by the end of the week and at the moment things weren’t looking good. That I’d invested my time in a dud root was frustrating to say the least.
I had a flash of insight which drew my attention to the fact that I am a sexual predator. If this man did want a liaison, I could be the one to make him take a leap.
I allowed him to buy me alcohol. I laughed like he was Billy Connolly. I listened to him like the words coming from his mouth were said by Jesus himself. I gazed into his eyes like he was George Clooney. I was tactile an overtly affectionate like Jenna Jameson.
He was putty in my hands and as last orders was called and he accepted my offer of an invite back to our caravan.
Moseying along the grass in the moonlight trying to find the number of our caravan in a section where every mobile house looked the same he confided in me that he’d never cheated on his wife. I raised a cynical eyebrow which was unseen by him thanks to the clouds passing the moon. He continued on and informed me that he’d never slept with a woman other than his wife. For any man is reading this – If you think having a near virgin status in your late forties is a turn on or a good ‘pulling’ tactic you would be wrong. Inexperience in your mid-forties is not sexy. The fact that he said it out loud made me believe him which in turn meant he probably wasn’t lying about never having cheated on his wife.
Although the horrid staff on the holiday park had made me feel pretty bad that year about my weight gain, my ego was hugely boosted by the security that my voluptuous curves and ample bosom could tempt a man to stray from his wife of twenty-eight years to see what sex with another woman would be like (reading that back is horrible – how fucked up was I that I thought playing around with a married man for a night was a ‘positive’ thing in my personal and sexual development???)
To avoid having to have sex with her beau, ‘L’ insisted we have the double bed and that her date would be sleeping on the couch. I ushered by prime beef oil rig hunk into the cramped bedroom and offered to get him a drink.
In the time it took me to get a bottle opener and knock the lids off two bottles of Smirnoff Ice he had stripped completely and gotten under the covers. As I breezed in with the two drinks I was greeted by a naked man with the sheets pulled up to his chin.
I have to say I was quite taken aback. Clearly sex was always going to be the end result but a little coy conversation and flirty foreplay never goes amiss. I could literally feel my oriental shaped eyes widen in shock by his brazenness.
‘Toilet’ – was the excuse I offered to remove myself hurriedly from the scene.
I stood outside the door trying to come to grips with things. I didn’t mind a ‘slam-bam-thank you ma’am’ sex session but given his shy and gentle sex life I wasn’t expecting him to be quite so in your face.
He was hunky in a traditional sense. Well over six foot two, short cropped black hair, kind brown eyes, nice lips and a strong jaw on a masculine but gentle face. He wasn’t overly defined in terms of his chest and stomach, but he was solid and firm. No soft bits. The broad chest with a smattering of hair and the muscular arms should have looked inviting, not had me scarpering out like a frightened mouse.
I flushed the toilet and snuck into the living room where ‘L’ and her lovelorn man were chatting quietly.
“I don’t like to bad mouth a guest when they’re in our van,” I said to ‘L’, “but if I didn’t know any better I’d say my gentleman friend is expecting to have sex with me.”
‘L’s beau looked stunned as if I shouldn’t have expected anything else.
“What makes you say that?” asked ‘L’.
“Because in the time it took me to get the drinks he was lying in bed with a massive erection. I know I’m easy but talk about presumptuous. I don’t think he’s left me much wriggle room to play ‘hard to get’ at this late stage in the evening.”
‘L’ rolled around at thought of the massive man, naked on the sheets with his hard on eagerly and unquestioningly awaiting me. ‘L’s man looked decidedly envious knowing he wouldn’t be in any beds with a boner that was inevitable going to be tended to.
Taking a deep breath and rolling my eyes exaggeratedly, I braved the forty-something near-virgin.
I wasn’t in the mood to give oral. I really just wanted to give his cock a mind blowingly good time in my cooch. So I did.
Prior to his bold assumptions about my chastity (a lack thereof), I had every intention of making it a slow, tender affair. Now I just wanted to get it over and done with.
I needn’t have worried too much.
The second I climbed under the sheets with, his heart rate accelerated and he started panting like a thirsty dog. He seemed to delight in stripping my dress from me and letting his hands explore the soft, round flesh of my thighs, bottom and tummy.
When I released my breasts from my favorite diamante wonder-bra he imbibed them as though they were a pair of Big Mac’s on a tray. He didn’t so much as suck my nibbles as mouth my tits and grind his teeth softly on the milky white flesh.
He hadn’t been lying about having only slept with one woman. When I took his hand and placed it between my legs so he could feel the damp crotch of my knickers he moaned and bit his bottom lip as if he were trying to stop himself screaming out in ecstasy.
I could see the warmth wetness of my pussy was too enticing to him explore with his fingers for fear of shooting his load. Taking charge of what might prove to be a rather short affair, I reached down for his cock.
Average in length and girth – which was something of a disappointment given that he was a bear of a man.
He was rock hard and given the number of med in their forties that I’ve bedded, I have to say I was suitably impressed by just how strident and tall his member was. The blood was in full flow because I could feel the pulse of it as I worked the shaft. His teeth were gritted as I spat on my palm and massaged his length. Alight tickle of his balls had him begging me to stop.
Then came the penetration part. ‘L’ knew better than to come a knockin’ because the caravan was clearly a rockin’ with the two of us pleasing plump humans making sweet love in a bedroom with paper thin walls.
He was frozen on the mattress for fear of climaxing before he’d actually got his cock in my cunt. I needed to get laid so ultimately, I was going to have to endure the strain if I was going to get my holiday fuck.
With a mammoth effort I straddled the man and sank easily on his cock. It was a nice secure fit. To guarantee he remembered the ride for good I put my recent pelvic floors exercises to ensure my slit held him tight as I bounced up and down on his dick.
And bounce I did.
I built up such a rhythm and vigor, it was like I was a five year old riding a space hopper for the first time. I was literally rebounding off his pubic mound as I slammed down hard and let my pussy lips feel the graze of his pubic hair. Rising up I took the head right to the end of the slit, but never releasing him. It was only as he started moaning and thrashing on the bed I realized if he’d been married since he was nineteen contraception probably never featured in his sexual repertoire.
I made a time finish by sliding my cunt slowly up his shaft with a final squeeze of my kegal muscles which had him cummign instantly on the outside of my cunt lips and down my inner thighs.
Our farewell was somewhat over the top given our briefer than brief encounter. As he dressed in his jeans and check shirt (I kid you not) for the oil rig and went to head for the docks to catch his boat, I stood on the very tiny verandah and waved him off with all the drama of a wife watching her husband go to war.
Then I went inside and made a weight watchers banana and nutella crumpet.
Then ‘L’ came out and said she had the most awkward night ever trying to keep her horny love puppy at bay while the caravan shuddered on its support structures while I rode the hairy bear to the edge of ecstasy.
It was an awkward breakfast – especially when the horny love puppy shot up sharply when I sat on the sofa to eat my weight watchers banana and nutella crumpet.
The trouble with becoming addicted to sex is that the ‘desire’ to have sex soon eclipses the ‘real reason’ as to why you embarked on a sexual journey of self destruction. Thus, in my case, having regular sex with new partners became more important to me than actually blindly hoping one of these casual one night stands would in fact be the love of my life.
The most shameful thing about my alleged sex addiction – a label I still vehemently deny – was that there were times I was willing to drop my standards. Fortunately my standards were impeccably high which meant that when I did drop them, instead of sleeping with a guy ranked about eight or nine in terms of appearance, I’d sleep with a seven. Typing those figures my confession doesn’t seem so bad. Sadly the truth is … I vividly recall a liaison with a guy who I want to say was a six but if I’m honest… he was a four. That’s right, looks wise I genuinely believe the majority of the world’s population wouldn’t find him passable in terms of his physical presentation. I want to sell him to you as a six, but in my heart of hearts he wasn’t.
Let me pitch the guy to you. He was five foot five and slightly overweight (definite paunch) with dark hair (which was balding and medium in length with a comb over) and olive skin. His uber brown eyes were somewhere between feline, oriental and with pronounced epicanthal folds (i.e. were positioned in a southward diagonal direction on his face). He had quite high cheek bones, but the rounded jaw line made his face long like a horse and chubby like a chipmunk. The broad shoulders promised a masculine build despite being vertically challenged, but I was disappointed to discover his arms and legs were fleshy and flabby, as opposed to toned and muscular.
On the night in question he was wearing pale grey chinos and a white long sleeved shirt and smart, shiny black leather shoes. In fairness he made the most of his appearance and pay packet, but dress a frog up in Ralph Lauren or Georgio Armani and at the end of the night you’re still with a frog.
What was even worse was I met this particular man when I worked at the theatre come late night bar where me and the entire staff spent the whole time crucifying him as a complete sleaze that was only after one thing (weren’t we all???). Hypocrisy aside, it wasn’t his insatiable sexual appetite that turned our stomachs and I don’t think it was the fact that he wasn’t part of the ‘beautiful’ crowd (occasionally some non-entertainment bodies were able to wrangle a membership to the theatre bar) – what we objected to was his slippery, sneaky manner. He literally slithered around the theatre preying on women that were too off their heads with excessive alcohol to possess a clear state of mind to reject his advances. Truth was our bar was full of those kinds of women (staff like myself fitted the bill as well…in and out of work) so it was a playground for him.
There will be those readers thinking if those girls were careless enough to let themselves get into that state then they deserved all they got. But we actually cared about our patrons and that kind of devious, unchivalrous and dishonourable approach left a sour taste in our mouths. Thus as he took advantage of our pretty, merry members, we’d watch helplessly; knowing those girls would wake the following morning feeling severely disadvantaged at having experienced a devastating misadventure they would never be able to confide in even their closest of friends (hell it’s taken me over ten years to write about). Hence Mr Sleaze had nothing but our simpering disapproval and disdain.
I think the major criticism of me in this story is that Mr Sleaze had come to our attention because his efforts in seducing the theatre’s drunken and disabled women were generally with rejection and a significant dollop of revulsion. So my encounter with him wasn’t new or fresh; this potential sexual candidate and his background were very familiar to me.
Did my long term observations of this member stop have me rethinking him as a sexual suitor on a particularly dry night where I needed some action and an abundance of opportunities were not presenting themselves to me?
What’s worse is that I wasn’t off duty on the night, so can’t claim being drunk and disorderly as an excuse for the liaison. My drinking whilst managing the theatre was controlled and minimal on the night in question. When I called last orders and was badgering the patrons to scoot out of the bar, he was the one guy to catch my eye as the only possible shag for the night.
I want to say beer goggles pushed him to an eight, but no amount of alcohol can double someone’s score of attractiveness. I guess maybe the haze of needing a big fat cock made me see him as passable rather than dog ugly and unappealing in every possible manner.
I invited him to stay back and have a one-on-one lock in with me. I initiated the kiss. Yes I decided those thick, rubbery lips stretched wide on his face were deserving of my full, perfect mouth and expert technique.
For all those people I worked with, I’m going to ‘fess up (cause we all know who I’m talking about). He was actually a decent kisser. Those thick, rubbery lips were soft and his kiss was tender and intimate. Sleazy man knew what he was doing and I liked it. In fact the kiss was so good I was inclined to let nature run its natural course.
Within minutes we were lying on the couch opposite the bar (under the picture of Queen Victoria) and I was kicking my kitten heels across the theatre reception area as he was burrowing under my long full skirt. I let his fingers slip under the elastic of the waist band of my panties and peel them down. I let him breathe on my pussy and undoubtedly my lips would’ve been quivering having been exposed to the early Thursday morning air breaking into the theatre through the drafty locked doors. As his tongue swirled around my clit, I found myself lying back and focussing on the sensations he was lavishing on such a sensitive area. The wide tongue was lapping at me like a dog. I knew I was dripping because he was making noises not too different to what my husband sounds like when he’s tucking into half a chicken at Nando’s.
Pretty soon he was sucking on my clit and his tongue was edging ever lower to my slit. One of two things would inevitably come next:
1) He’d slither up me in a snaky way as he wriggled out of his chinos to mount me and slip his dick in or
2) He’d lie on the opposite end of the couch unbuckle his trousers to expose himself, inviting me to suck his cock
That’s when it happened.
A moment of clarity.
This was Mr Sleaze – a sly, snaky man who we all disliked with vehemence and passion. I needed to get laid, but did I need it badly enough to sacrifice my self respect and standards?
No I did not.
After all, I’d just had someone go down on me. That sexual action was enough to keep me going until tomorrow’s night shift (there was always more cock available on a Thursday night than a Wednesday). There was no need to continue this sexual liaison for the sake of proper, formal bedroom etiquette.
I was well mannered and polite, but did that require me licking and sucking the prick of someone I found repulsive and repugnant?
I told him so.
Not brutally you understand. It was more of a ‘sorry, I really can’t do this – you’ll have to go’ way. (I was well mannered and polite after all).
He didn’t like the rejection.
He thought I was bad mannered and impolite by not reciprocating.
Even though I thought he had a valid point, it still wasn’t going to happen.
What concerned me was that he and I were alone in the theatre.
What concerned me more was that he was bulky and broad and easily stronger than me.
What concerned me more than that was that I was a 23 year old duty manager; NOT the owner of the theatre. It wasn’t really in my job description or roles and responsibilities to be inviting psycho, sexually deviant patrons to keep me company in the theatre when I was cashing up and responsible for the entire venue and all the stock and profits.
The scene had the potential to get ugly. It’d be terrible id I ended up being raped or succumbing to sexually pleasing the man out of obligation. It’d be even worse if I resisted and the struggle drew attention or came to the notice of my employer.
Frightened and unable to analyse the situation objectively, I did the only thing a voluptuous, outgoing Australian duty manger could – I called in a favour.
How thankful I was that in the winter our kitchen often gave free hot soup to the security guards, doormen and medics on Heaven nightclub (infamous gay club owned by Virgin’s Richard Branson – it’s since changed hands). I unlocked the door. Mr Sleaze’s hand went to pull it shut. I threw it open and politely called under the Arches of Charing Cross for Heaven to come lend a hand.
Never has my generosity and fag hag tendencies been so useful. Two of the Heaven staff jogged down the cobbled stones to the theatre door. The tugged it open and Mr Sleaze’s hand went slack. He looked up to see two ‘9s’ glaring down at him from above six foot. Athletic, muscular, protective, respectful of women and drop dead gorgeous I wished I could grow a cock on the spot to get me a little action there and then. They were far too good looking to ever join the heterosexual team. Distracted by their beauty, I forgot the menacing hazard I was currently embroiled in. My peril was short lived when the boys asked how they could be of assistance and Mr Sleaze (I kid you not) literally slipped under the arm of the tallest security man and crept down the arches in the shadows of the closed shops littering our street.
I recounted the entire story to the men. They didn’t bother searching for Mr Sleaze (although they offered to) because (as strictly homosexual guys) the thought of having to go down on a girl and not getting a blow job in return was punishment enough.
I figured they had a point. The next time Mr Sleaze was at the bar I gave him one of my most winsome smiles and was generous enough to extend my hospitality to a free drink as well. It would’ve been bad manners and impolite not to and as this story demonstrates – that’s just not me.
The first theatre I worked in closed. Actually it went bankrupt. My gang felt somewhat bad regarding the umpteen free drinks we helped ourselves to on consecutive nights. When we found the locks on the theatre door changed with a notice up explaining the poor financial situation of the venue we wondered if we were to blame. Sitting down and doing the maths (overestimating the free drinks we consumed), we realised we could only account for a maximum 3% of the debt – it eased our consciences. Sadly it also meant the ‘gang’ disbanded suddenly; with everyone out of a job and owed money.
There were some people I never saw again (no, not even on Facebook) and those whom I tied to forever more. Turns out blood is thicker than water – well certainly shared experiences in an underground world can bind you to another, no matter what the time or distance is between catch ups.
At this point in my life I was knocking around with my best mate and his wife. We were as thick as thieves. People assumed we were a manage-a-trois.I can honestly confirm, here and now, that we really were going back to the couple’s flat, drinking loads and listening to or watching ‘Erasure’.
My friend, who was an actor, decided as his career was a little stagnate (non-existent would be a more accurate description) that he would dabble in stand-up comedy. Fair play – he’s very dry, perspicacious and witty so it seemed a good career move (he once made me laugh so hard at his ‘pooper-man’ story that I farted in hilarity). So as he did the rounds of all the open mike comedy nights in London to start acquiring some experience, hone his act and catch the name of the right promoters, me and his wife played as devoted unofficial groupies.
This is going to sound arrogant, but if you were going to have a competition on funniness between me and my friend, I’d be in with a bloody good chance of stealing his comedy crown. As he accumulated regular and paying gigs, my presence and talent became recognised by his new ‘work’ colleagues. Thus my company was welcome as we’d frequent late night drinking holes catering to performers in London’s West End.
I’d had one near run in with a comedian, but truthfully having told me he wanted me to fuck him with a strap-on, refused to have a coffee at Starbucks for political and ethical reasons, presented me with a book on Milwall fans (he used to be a yob), was considered an old hack (someone who steals other people’s jokes) on the comedy circuit and wasn’t the prettiest man in the playground – the sex part was never really on the cards (despite me having led him to believe the possibility existed).
Seriously, I’m open minded but the ‘strap-on’ request really could have waited till we were at least actively participating in a sexual relationship. I’m all for being honest and up front, but sometimes revealing too much too soon is a major turn off. The mere mental image of my twenty-five year old body wearing a giant strap on and fucking a significantly overweight, pasty faced, greasy mousy blonde man in his late forties quite turned my stomach. By divulging that particular secret, no matter how many of my personal favourite jokes he included in his set and directed at me, I just couldn’t bring myself to even amble to first base with him.
I digress. That was the comedian I didn’t fuck and the reason behind it is mildly amusing. This post is about the comedian I did fuck and why it wasn’t funny.
A small group of us were crowded round a table in a members bar. There was a cute comedian present, who was significantly more attractive than his predecessor (old, fat, strap-on comedian). Yet again, I cannot remember his name, but I clearly remember what he looked like. He was about five foot nine, medium build, a buzz cut, brown hair, twinkling brown eyes, casual clothes (jeans and t-shirt) and was genuinely a real cutie.
What was particularly appealing was his lack of confidence. Rather than just ‘claiming’ me, which he could easily have done after every pint by stamping a kiss on my lips, he spent the time in the bar getting gradually drunker and building up his confidence to a point where he was able to be openly tactile with me.
I thought the process very sweet. That is until he was telling my best friend that we were well suited because we had matching moles on our faces. He then persisted in rubbing his brown mole against mine. I’ve always thought my moles to be interesting and a feature that accentuates my beauty, a la Cindy Crawford. Hearing I should be paired off because (and I quote) of our ‘witchy hairy moles’ was actually offensive.
For a start my moles aren’t hairy – I carry a pair or tweezers on me at all time in case a big black hair sprouts. Secondly, that he drew attention to it made me think, for the first time, that when people meet me they must immediately notice the mark on my face. There are probably those who are repulsed by it or, even worse, make comments about it behind my back. I was riddled with insecurity. If/When people do impressions of me; do they draw a large exaggerated mole on their left cheek???
I was pleased I was on a promise, but the alleged reason behind the comment bordered on insulting. It was like I was getting a shag off a fellow ‘mole’ who knew what it was like to be ostracized because of a facial disfigurement. Only I’d never seen it as a disfigurement. What I thought was a beauty spot was viewed in the eyes of others as a wart. D for depressing and D for distressing.
He would redeem himself by insisting on acquiring a kebab for each of us (and paying for them both – last of the big spenders!) to eat as he walked me home. As I was in need to a new notch on my bed post, obviously the night didn’t end with him kissing my cheek (the one with a mole) and bidding me farewell. It continued with me sneaking him past the security guards of the YWCA and up to my room for a quick sex session.
Only his nerves and romantic nature resulted in it not being a ‘quickie’. As we devoured our grimy fast food, he flipped through my 500+ CD collection and picked out tracks for me to play. What sticks in my mind is us both half-propped up on pillows on my single mattress and the ‘Ash’ song ‘Girl From Mars’ playing. He said it reminded him of his misspent youth (didn’t we all feel so old thinking about being seventeen as our mid-twenties threatened to move into our late-twenties) and said there’s a beautiful line coming up. Then he turned to me and sang in a husky voice ‘I know that you are almost in love with me, I can see it in your eyes’.
He loved music.
So did I.
He loved kebabs.
So did I.
He loved late nights drinking with friends.
So did I.
He had a mole on his left cheek.
So did I.
We were, of course, perfectly suited. My heart was lost to him in that instant.
We had sex like teenagers. I struggled to remove his sweater and t-shirt from him. He wrestled my jeans off me in a fashion not dissimilar to the late great Steve Irwin taking down a crocodile. The lights stayed on and he pulled the bed covers over us to protect our modesty and not expose his less than toned frame.
He wasn’t sexy, but he was adorable. I liked the smattering of hair across his broad chest. I liked that he didn’t have a washboard stomach (it made me less insecurity about my ‘fuller’ figure). There was an innocence attached to the act, as my hand sort his cock under the dark of the covers. Landing on it, I attempted to work it as best I could without any night vision goggles. I was to learn from my vigorous attempts that a little lube doesn’t go astray and that saliva is fine to use.
His fingers were tentative and exploratory. He spent his time running them between my slippery lips. The fact he was motioning and circling his index and middle finger on a spot about an inch away from my actual clit demonstrated not only his inexperience, but a willingness on his part to please me in bed. It might have been frustrating, but he eventually found a way into my slit and used his fingers to fuck me – which was absolutely sensational.
Too wet to build up a friction, there was only one direction to take and that was actual sex. Tossing, turning and twisting in the bed linen, he managed to mount me. Despite my wide spread legs, laying on me missionary style, his cock seemed unable to locate the place his fingers had. I adjusted my position, raised and tilted my hips to offer silence guidance, but it was all in vain. In the end I reached down and just pulled his dick directly to the entrance and let the head burst through.
I have to say, I was pleased with the girth. Average in length, the stretch on my slit was delightful. Finally embedded, his peachy smooth buttocks rose and fell slowly as he inserted his length in and out of me. He lifted himself on his arms to gaze at me as we fucked leisurely.
It seemed poor timing on his part to ask after he was in me if I took birth control pills. Shooting out a quick negative response, he leapt off me like I’d said I was HIV positive. Pale and naked, he scooted under the duvet to retrieve his jeans, fish out a condom then struggle to put it on his penis which had diminished in size since initiating the ‘safe sex’ issue.
He was determined though, because even though he was more flaccid than erect, he physically worked his dick back into me. Once my slit sucked him in and my cunt tightened round the stubby shaft, I could physically feel his prick expanding inside. It was hot; feeling the shaft grow and touch the various nerve endings secreted in my pussy. Confident he wouldn’t slip out or disappoint, he returned to pumping me. The connection had been broken and he laid on me jerking sporadically, face buried in my neck, mouth delivering sloppy kisses until he came. He obviously hadn’t had any sex for sometime because I could feel the condom fill up with his semen.
As he removed himself, the condom separated from his cock and the spunk ran down the crevice of my cunt to my rear entrance. In years to come I’d suggest some dirty antics to follow up, but there and then I just relished the foreign and divine sensation of the thick white liquid spreading on such sensitive and delicate areas of my person.
I assumed, because of the lack of intimacy, that the spell the band ‘Ash’ had cast on us earlier was broken. I was wrong. Although he needed to get home for work the next morning, he was insistent on taking my number.
The trouble with ‘almost in love’ is that it isn’t actually ‘in love’. That word ‘almost’ is perhaps one of the most powerful in the dictionary – especially when used in relation to love. ‘Almost’, I suspect, was the reason not to give me that follow up call. I like to think had he been in love with me he’d have rung. If he was only ‘almost’ in love with me he had an excuse as to why he wasn’t obligated to fulfil the promise he made me on the doorstep as I kissed him goodbye.
Comedy gold? I wasn’t doubled over laughing so hard it hurt my belly as I waited for him to call in the following three weeks.
(I’d like to say the comment on my mole was a one off and up until this year it was. Sadly my six year old step son went to give me a kiss the other month and said, ‘not that cheek, it’s got a yucky mole on it. Let me kiss the other side!’)
For those familiar with this blog or from reading the title alone, it may come as a shock to discover I was celibate for two years. Now obviously my definition of celibate may vary from the next persons. For me blow jobs and anal sex were fine, but vaginal penetration was a big no no! So I claim to have been celibate for two years, but (having revealed my personal understanding and application of the term) some might just say I didn’t have ‘traditional’ or ‘formal’ sex for 730 days.
What, you may ask, causes someone to embark on a two year period of self-imposed celibacy? Sadly, like much of this blog, I don’t remember his name. But I do remember him and the night very clearly.
My brother’s best friend was visiting London from Amsterdam at the time. Having known him since I was four, it was only natural we hang out. He was going through his homosexual phase at the time (he’s married now with three kids) so we ended up in Soho at some hip and happening gay club. If memory serves correctly, we were joined by a few friends from my workplace – also gay (you do tend to find a lot of very pretty gay boys working front of house in theatres as they pay for dance and fashion college – a gross generalization but, hand on heart, that was my experience).
I started by scouting the place for somewhere we could sit and deciding which room had the best music. On reflection, it’s lucky my work buddies were there because I didn’t feel wholly responsible for entertaining my childhood friend. With the Dutch branch of his international accounting firm paying out for a swish hotel in Central London, he was on the prowl to take home a visitor– thus was independent in action anyway.
We had the same objective really. We both wanted a man for the night. My brother’s bezzie didn’t achieve said objective and I’m told he went home alone. I didn’t fare much better. I wanted a man for the night, but I got a boy.
His name was on the tip of my tongue there as I was typing, but still it eludes me.
In England, there’s this jokey, crass chat-up line people tend to use ironically (if they used it seriously they would be asking for a drink to be thrown over them).
Having done my first walkabout of the club, a group of young, dishy, Irish boys entered. I have to say they reeked of the scent of clueless, drunken, hormonal, straight, male tourists – probably on a bachelor’s weekend. They’d paid the entrance fee and the cloakroom attendant, then spun around to see a distinct absence (certainly an exceptionally low ratio in relation to the male gender) of women.
The tiniest guy cut his losses quick when he saw me and uttered that chat up line – ‘Grab your coat love, you’ve pulled.’
He was undeniably cute and very much my type; twinkling Irish blue eyes and the spiked black hair (as was the fashion back then). Truth was if I was hankering for a good seeing to that night (which I was) it was better to take what was offered to me on a plate earlier on if satisfactory, than spending the night hunting down the odd straight man or cajoling a sexually confused youth back to the heterosexual team for a few hours in the vain hope they’d be hotter than my earlier proposition.
‘Sure,’ I replied, handing the attendant my ticket and retrieving my faux leather biker jacket.
His eyes were like saucers in astonishment at my obedient response to his request.
‘Ummm. Do you live near here?’ he asked, suddenly concerned.
He definitely was a tourist. I could see the panic in his face at the fear of his poor geography dramatically separating him from the party of boys and resulting in a missed flight home on Sunday.
‘I’m literally a ten minute walk down the road,’ I assured.
It was true. I was fortunate enough to live at the YWCA opposite the British Museum, just off London’s notorious Oxford Street.
He was already in the process of retrieving his coat, so his dick had clearly dictated and committed to a decision. It was merely logic and common sense reducing the speed at which he moved. Now in slow motion, a friend (who seemed thrilled his mate had scored) informed me of the name of the hotel they were staying at with. Without a word of a lie it was actually on my street. Fate appeared to want us together that night.
Awash with maternal instincts and generally being a good girl at heart, I promised to walk him back to the hotel. His friends departed quickly to assess what was going to be a very disappointing nightclub for them, leaving me with the gorgeous leprechaun. My brazen, bold, Australian, overly sexual attitude made him cautious.
‘Should we be doing this?’ he enquired. ‘I mean we haven’t even kissed.’
‘So kiss me. If you like it, escort me home. If you don’t, return to your friends.’
Of course the minute our lips touched, the burning desire between us melded our mouths and our tongues were diving down each other’s throat. We were thrilled a sexual chemistry existed and excited we were both going to get laid.
He was probably one of the sweetest boys I’ve ever encountered. When we got back to mine (which required me sneaking him past security as men weren’t allowed in after 11pm – that’s what being part of the Young Women’s Christian association is all about) we didn’t tear each other’s clothes off, fuck hastily and bid each other farewell.
The approach was slow and relaxed. I actually felt safe with him. His bashfulness and tender touch was comforting. As we know I didn’t lose my virginity till I was 21 and my sex life kind of snowballed out of control from there on. I’d missed out on teenage love. Kissing for hours. Tentative hands sliding under my top, hoping to touch the soft, pale flesh of my breasts. Turning the lights off to undress in the dark.
In some ways, irrespective of the numbers I’d clocked up in (and out) of the bedroom, I was the inexperienced one, although I was at least seven years his senior. I was assertive – pushy perhaps?- and initiated the hand on his cock. THAT is where it all fell apart.
The next thing I know, the lad was in tears, I was scrabbling to turn a lamp on and ascertain what mammoth social faux pas I’d just made. It all tumbled out. He was barely eighteen, he’d got a girl pregnant and now had to marry her – he was a Catholic, I was a Catholic…so I understood the score on that one.
I have to say when someone blurts that out and your naked with a dripping pussy, it’s very difficult to search your mind for any witty comeback; let alone an authentic platitude. All I could do was hug him and kiss away his tears.
It was a bachelor’s party and he was the groom to be. Being so immersed in his religion this was his last night of freedom and he’d committed himself to being faithful to his wife and … and he didn’t want to be. (Thankfully the priests at my Dad’s school were all bastards and the nuns at my Mum’s school were all bitches so as a family of Catholics they steered cleared of the church. Apart from Christmas Eve, when Mum decided she was a Catholic keen to pay tribute to the birth of our saviour and my merry Dad decided he wanted a good old sing song at midnight mass – hence while I sympathised with, I didn’t really empathise with him.) He was a teenager. He hadn’t lived. He hadn’t loved. All he’d done was fuck a girl and get her pregnant – from here on end his life was all mapped out. As far as he could perceive, there no free will – no more chances or choices in respect of his dreams and aspirations that otherwise may had presented themselves to him had he not just signed his life away to a loveless marriage and early fatherhood.
I think it was the sincerity that pinched my heart. It was probably the first time (outside of my parents) that I’d met a decent guy committed to his wife – unhappily admittedly (unlike my parents), but taking the responsibility on his boyish shoulders with good grace and an admirable dogged determination to be a proper husband and excellent father.
I wanted him. At least I wanted someone with those qualities. I didn’t want any more random one night stands; where it was all too evident before the fucking began that by the end of the night’s proceedings I was to be cast aside as nothing more than a arbitrary shag in someone else’s life story. In that moment, I realized the only way I was going to get a guy like the one in front of me, was to stop being a slut and treating myself disrespectfully. I didn’t respect myself, why would any of the numerous men I fucked respect me or see me as girlfriend or possible wife material?
No, in that instant, I knew. I became enlightened. There would be no more sex (vaginal penetration to reiterate) until I found my Mr Right.
So what happened after my epiphany?
What do you think?
He was a hormonal, eighteen year old sitting opposite a voluptuous Botticelli.
I think his exact words were ‘if you can get it hard, I’d love to fuck you.’
Hey, there’s nothing I like more than a challenge and he’d thrown the gauntlet down. My husband will attest to the wonders of my mouth in respect of performing a blow job. I knew I’d be getting fucked that Saturday night.
Average in length, his girth was somewhat disappointing. Thicker than a chopstick but slimmer than a Double A battery, it was like wanking and sucking on a pen. But my magic hands adeptly worked his flaccid shaft to an impressive rod. For the first time in a long time I indulged in vanilla style sex.
Spreading my legs, he climbed between and slipped his pencil dick in my slit. Okay I wasn’t thinking ‘give it to me baby and pound me till I scream’ (he hadn’t the tools for that). But the rhythmic sensation of his cock gliding effortlessly in and out of my pussy was, in its own way, beautiful. As he entered me repeatedly, he maintained eye contact. He dipped his head to kiss me with closed eyes. Hands underneath my armpits, I could see the youthful sinewy muscles in his leanness and the six-pack on display was to die for.
In an intimate gesture – most unlike me – not only did I remain silent throughout sex, but my arms went round his back to his shoulder blades to pull him closer to me. I loved the feel of his sweat, sticking his bare chest to my breasts and tummy.
My hand snaked to his neck to intensify the kiss, and I could literally feel his heartbeat quicken. Indicating a role reversal, he read the body language and rolled on his back. It might have been thin, but it was rock hard and standing to attention as only a young man’s cock can. Straddling him was easy, sinking onto the cock even easier. I probably should’ve rode him like a young stallion needing to be broken in, but I rocked slowly on his prick, making sure I didn’t ruin the spell by breaking eye contact in some lustful, dirty desire. As I lowered to kiss him, his hands went straight to my breasts. He was squeezing them as if they were stress balls and he was a Wall Street investment Banker. At that particular time I wasn’t too keen on men lavishing attention on my breasts. I found it slightly disturbing that he was imbibing as much as he could of one breast into his mouth to suckle, as I continued bobbing up and down on his dick.
There was an ethereal atmosphere in the room that threatened to freeze the moment forever, which I don’t think either of us would’ve been dissatisfied with – but I knew he wasn’t the one for me. I couldn’t afford to let time stand still, because he was a boy that would mature into a good man and fulfil the obligations his current predicament imposed.
I had to break the spell. I chose to do it by faking an orgasm. I rationalised that if he actually didn’t ever sleep with another woman again, he’d recall his last sexual encounter with a stranger as one where he turned in an A star performance resulting in the older woman squealing in ecstasy like a porn star. Plus, by acting like Jenna Jameson, my panting and moaning bought him to the brink – where I swiftly bounded off before he discovered himself fathering a second child.
He left. I didn’t even have to walk him to his hotel. He could actually see the sign from my front steps. There was an awful awkwardness. The kind of silence when you know you’ve met someone special, but they started leaving you the minute you were introduced. All we could do was kiss, hold each other and accept there was no redemption for us – no opportunity to explore our connection further (certainly not in this lifetime).
I felt bad for him when he’d gone. I felt good for myself. I’d been blessed with some insight as to how good sex would be if I was in a relationship. For the first time in a long time, I was ready to go steady. I didn’t want to be a slag. I didn’t want to be a good time girl. I wanted to swallow my fear. I wanted to put myself out there. It was essential I uncover if I possessed the qualities that made me attractive to the opposite sex. It was critical I discover if, in all my fucked-up-ness, ample character and substance existed in my soul for someone to take a chance on me as potential relationship material.
Turns out I did.
There was a period in 2006 when internet dating was becoming more of a job than a hobby. I was literally fitting my employment around my sex life. Organising my diary was reaching a point whereby I’d need a skilled professional to juggle all the sexual engagements; so I knew where I was going, who I was meeting and what I was expected to do.
Young lads (legal teens) were easy. They tended to have the emotional capacity of a tea spoon and really just wanted to get laid. Whilst there was minimal emotional labour involved, these dates were physically draining. When presented with the opportunity of no-strings fu*king for one night only, sex starved, horny young boys liked to make the most of the time they had. Bought up on a culture of internet porn, not only was I competing with a high level of fitness and stamina, but I was expected to recreate and execute acrobatic pornographic feats ‘just like on the web’. A good pounding was always welcome but nearing thirty I couldn’t maintain the pace or endurance required to satiate these beautiful young men on a regular basis. Thus my schedule offered a degree of sexual freedom as I accepted ‘dates’ from men my own age or older.
My preferences in these situations were to accompany older gentlemen. Men my own age were far more critical in regard of appearance (and I had piled on the pounds), plus they were very ‘modern’ and ‘pc’ – treating women as equals in the one situation where you’d rather not be considered an equivalent. I’d offer to split the bill. They’d accept my invitation. I hope I don’t come across as a bitch here, but I think if a man asks you out, it’s his job to pay on the first date. Might be harsh and feminists round the world may castigate me, but if a man accepted my money to pay for half the check there would be no sex and certainly no second date.
These kinds of incidence were rare with the previous generation. Nearly thirty, if a man in his fifties of sixties was taking me out, I knew I’d be treated like a lady (and guaranteed my credit card balance was kept to a minimum). Plus (again a cruel observation) these wealthier, well educated, middle-aged men appreciated the beauty in youth.
Writing this at thirty-six, let me assure you, only this week I was sitting on a train observing a nineteen year old university student. He was probably a virgin. I doubt he had a girlfriend. I suspect he was shy and inexperienced with women. I imagine girls barely notice him, let alone fancy him enough to take time to get to know him. But he was beautiful. He radiated youth. Spectacles, spots and slimness were irrelevant; it was his youthfulness enticing me to the degree that I found myself staring intensely at him (possibly considered freaky on public transport).
On reflection, many of the more mature men I dated didn’t see a fucked up, fat, twenty-something; instead they saw someone twenty or thirty years their junior still in possession of the ever elusive quality of youth.
Hence I sacrificed a right old ramming for a taste of expensive wine and fine dining.
Enter Mike (shocked I remembered his name, right?).
Mike was in his early sixties. He was head teacher at a prestigious bordering school. Mike had the banter. He wasn’t your average, pompous, stick up the arse Brit; looking down on the lower classes (especially those originating from a colony of convicts). Having adhered to a reasonable ‘just ensuring you aren’t a psycho’ timeframe, participating in successful textual intercourse and engaging online conversation, we agreed it was time to step it up and press the flesh.
I vividly remember this one night for various reasons.
Firstly he was driving his own car to come and collect me from my home. Bonus – private transport and no paying for public transport.
Secondly he was happy to dine in my local area. Bonus – close to home and a short journey whether things went good or bad.
Thirdly he invited me to choose a restaurant. Bonus – there was only my favourite tapas bar La Rueda up the road that my budget didn’t stretch to and I’d spent months dying for a fix of Spanish cuisine.
Waiting outside on the stairs, leading to the terrace house which had been converted into studios and bedsits, I must’ve appeared quite swish because I was complimented by various locals – all offering to keep me company or wanting to exchange numbers. I politely declined because I was going on – a – date!
Unfortunately his car was black and it was winter. Seemed like every car driving up Stockwell Road was dark and I found myself dashing into traffic waving people down only to discover none of them was Mike. In one case, a driver happily wound down the window and opened the door to take me for a ride, but I retreated hastily – Stockwell and Brixton do not possess unblemished reviews in respect of activities and the residents.
Eventually a four-wheel drive pulled up. The door was flung open for me to observe Mike’s arrival. I’m told it was a 4×4 Range Rover an expensive automobile. Struggling to haul myself in, I was less than impressed with the car irrespective of its price tag.
Not unexpectedly, Mike raved about my looks – a spell we now know which was conjured by the thirty plus age gap as opposed to me genuinely being blessed as extremely attractive (oh my false modesty!). It Thursday night and Clapham was bustling and busy. By the time we found a parking spot, I could’ve walked from home. We then had to contend with a packed restaurant, but the time passed speedily as we enjoyed umpteen sangrias.
He’d never married nor had children, preferring a bachelor lifestyle – which allowed him a very nice residence in his very posh school.
Each Christmas he held an exclusive party, which he couldn’t wait for me to join him as his date this year, whereby he would supply the most delicious food (including a pig on a spit) and a wealth of delectable and tantalizing alcoholic beverages. BUT, it was a Christmas party and people were expected to bring gifts.
Turns out Mike was a connoisseur of wine, with (yawn) an extensive and pricey cellar stocked with the stuff. Although unspoken, it was implied attending guests would present Mike with a suitable and appropriate vintage. The party amounted to almost £100 a head per person, so Mike felt this wasn’t an unreasonable expectation.
Two years previous, a new member of staff was invited to the party and bought with him a £5 bottle of Sainsbury’s Own red wine. Suffice to say the following morning, Mike returned the bottle to the teacher’s pigeonhole with a post-it saying ‘Keep it. Your palette will enjoy it far more than mine’. I need not wrap up this tale with the inevitable conclusion enlightening you as to which of the teaching staff never received a return invitation to the annual party.
Whilst I was discovering these insights into Mike, we wolfed out way through at least ten plates of tapas and two bottles of red wine.
Settling on a third bottle of wine for dessert (I actually would’ve preferred the mudcake with fresh strawberries if you’re reading this Mike), Mike disclosed he was a rugby fan (no surprise to the middle and upper classes) and played a lot in his youth. In fact, he carried on coaching the school team throughout his prolonged career. However all that impact on his joints had taken a toll. He proceeded to drop the bombshell that he’d recently had a hip replacement.
I suddenly became aware of how dark and soft the candle lit restaurant was. The lighting prevented me from examining his looks with a degree of scrutiny. He sounded bright and funny and charming, but hip replacement smacks of ‘granddad’.
I was thrilled when we left the hazy, fuzzy ambience of La Rueda. Not solely because it permitted me the opportunity to study Mike properly, but because the rich food and wine was having a funny effect on my tummy.
I advised Mike to hail a cab, but he was confident he could drive. The car was a monster so in all likelihood if there was an accident we’d be safe. However as a civic minded person and having lost people to drink driving, the trip was an endless white-knuckle rollercoaster. My eyes clenched shut as I prayed to a God. In a bid to ensure everyone returned safely, I barely uttered a word for fear of distracting the driver
Obtaining a parking spot near my house was infinitely easier than in popular Clapham. I can’t deny (for his age) Mike was handsome. He did have a rugby players build. He was very personable. I certainly wasn’t deterred from having sex with him.
Neither was he.
As soon as we were through the door, he was lifting my black dress up and hooking his fingers into my one-size-too-small control knickers to drag them off. Lust can bring out the beast in anyone. The aged sixty-something yanked my knickers down, tearing my tights in the process.
That he was bedazzled by my pussy, I let myself follow his lead. He was desperate to bury his face in there and who was I to deprive him? I was irresponsible. Dress hitched up, I sat on the edge of the bed, spreading my legs wide to reveal the shaven haven. Bare, soft plump lips he was frantic to part and taste. Too keen in hindsight. To let his tongue wander he needed to get on his knees. His firm hands were gripping and spreading my thighs further apart, but he was kneeling and rocking noisily as he performed oral sex on me.
I should’ve laid back and enjoyed the sensations, but I was inclined to watch the commotion between my thighs. One of Mike’s legs was sticking out crookedly. As he smothered his face in my juices and tried to tongue fu*k my slit, he was rotating left and right like a remote control robot without full functionality. The odd angle of the leg where his hip had been replaced had me transfixed.
I think mentally he wanted sex, but physically his body was putting up resistance. Like a feral dog with a twisted, bent, broken leg and no veterinary service, the attention to my pussy became ineffective and chorish, as he squirmed to position himself to taste a woman (for the first time in a long time I suspect).
The picture was totally wrong. He was in a suit – bold and brawny. Whilst his top half remained solid and sturdy from his rugby playing days, his lower half was withered and warped as he dragged himself on the floor like a peg-legged pirate.
I didn’t want to emasculate him by audibly suggesting changing positions. The suggestion might be classed as bad mannered, but something had to be done as the oral sex had become a trial to me.
Wriggling back on the bed, I stretched out to encourage him to join me. In my head I had real concerns me on top would shatter the newly replaced hip. As he awkwardly hoisted himself to stand, his face was beet red from the effort and shiny from my lubrication.
‘Would you mind bending over the bed so I can take you that way – it’ll be easier on my hip?’
I was grateful for the instruction. In that moment there was no giggle to suppress but looking back, my relief there was an end to the evening in sight had me as overjoyed as the girl that escaped the house of the Texas Chainsaw Massacre.
Squatting slightly, bending over the bed and supporting my weight with my arms stretched outright on the mattress, his lifting if my dress and caressing of my buttocks was in fact quite sensual. Stroking my thighs, I parted my legs to let his pleasingly hard cock slide into me.
The sensuousness of the moment passed as he reverted from teacher to school boy, fumbling to find the right hole. Repositioning myself, I reached under to guide him in. He groaned so loudly at the initial penetration I was worried the neighbours would complain. Firmly embedded in my slit he began pounding me hard – much harder than any of the other elderly men I bedded. His hands were on my hips so he could slam himself into me (at a comfortable angle given the restrictions of his surgery).
The snag was the force of his fu*king had turned my stomach into a washing machine. As I bounded and rebounded off the bed and he banged hard and deep into me, my dinner became dreadfully unsettled. Unsettled to the point where I thought I was in danger of encountering an accident of the brown variety.
This could not be allowed to happen. The longer and harder he went, the more delicate and unreliable my digestive track became.
I needed to end it fast, so literally crawled onto the bed, spat in my hand and worked that cock quickly and rhythmically till he came.
Pleased at his climax I thought he’d leave (it was a school night after all), but he was attempting to kneel again for some Australian bush.
I’d no real option but to eject him kindly with a sorry, pathetic excuse of an early start at work in the morning. The second he was out the door I had tapas escaping both ends when my arse hit the toilet bowl. It was regurgitated red wine in the bathroom sink, and garlic prawns, chorizo, and patatas bravas in the toilet bowl. It got to the point where was I was forced to leave reading material in the bathroom I shared with three others, my visits were so regular.
Subsequently, Mike was always arranging dates and cancelling them for one reason or another (well he did twice: one was for a school trip the other was to do with…his hip replacement). In the end, despite his promise of an invite to the big Christmas party (to which I’d assumed as his date I wouldn’t be bound to adhere to the ‘bottle of wine’ rule) when he finally secured a time and place, I chose to cancel. Sure the pig on a spit was alluring, as was that cellar full of expensive wine, but the memory of an old man literally grovelling and crawling on his knees for pussy did kill any passion or romance the relationship may have potentially had.
PS – Yes I know it was bad manners on my part not to reciprocate the enthusiastic oral sex I’d received.
Apologies for the radio silence for the past three months – what can I say? Deadlines for paid novels, family visiting from Australia, Christmas, jet setting to Lapland – all the things a poorly paid writer shouldn’t be able to afford.
I thought I left 2013 on a hard note but it was more sour so the first post for 2014 will be a little cheekier.
If I haven’t mentioned it in a previous post, but as a precursor I should alert you to the revelation that I haven’t had sex with an Australian. I left Australia a virgin and can say, hand on heart, apart from the odd kiss (or ‘pash’ as we used to call it back in the day) First base is as far as I’ve gone with an Aussie ‘bloke’.
It’s actually a fact I’m quite proud of. Sure I can see the rest of the world’s attraction to these bronzed, brawny, brutish, beef heads but give me a sallow looking, finely chiselled, pale, complicated Brit any day of the week.
Having lost some weight, become addicted to casual sex via the internet, acquired unlimited access to broadband and scored an acceptable semi-studio flat in Stockwell (a rough but cheap and very central London location) my sexual adventures became infinitely easier to execute.
Raising a hand, despite the fact that London runs through the blood in my veins, I miss the brazen, bold, open, honest, frankness devoid of malice that Australians possess. Thus when a message appeared from ‘Illicit Encounters’ (a website specifically targeting those unhappy unfortunates people unable or unwilling to divorce or separate from their partners) from a married New Zealander living in London, I didn’t immediately delete the message.
Yes, I wrinkled my nose at the fact he was a kiwi. It’s a culture thing. I have relations from New Zealand. I love them. But there Kiwis – we’re Aussies and never the twain shall meet….at least not whilst located in the southern hemisphere. Hurl us into the Northern hemisphere and suddenly that shared Union Jack on our respective flags, our distinct but different twangs and the small geographical distances from our homes are what bond us.
His email was refreshingly friendly. Not a simple message indicating ‘like’ or ‘kiss’. Not a long sad message about being misunderstood and the confines of a loveless marriage destroying his soul. Not a seedy, sordid, saucy message looking for someone less prudish than his wife to carry out depraved sexual acts on (or with).
Whilst disinclined to act on the message in any physical way, I found myself engaging in conversation via email, which quickly led to text.
A problem had arisen. Having put on three stone I really should have updated the pictures on my online profile. My appearance at any date was widening the eyes of my future beaus (not widening as in their optical senses were tested to the max as their huge expansion was required to fit me fuller figure within the parameters of their vision, but just the marked variation between me and my photo). Fully aware of this and with dreadfully low self esteem, whilst I enjoyed the banter via email and the flirty by text, I had no set plan to actually meet the man. He was a Kiwi after all. Is there that much difference between Australian and New Zealand c*ck?
I lived at 106 Stockwell Road. Through our cyber conversations I learnt that he lived at number 86 on the same road. You’ve heard the saying about sh!tting on your own doorstep? I don’t think it’s good to drop a load ten doors away either. London was a big city. He had an important job (well he must’ve to pay the fees male members of ‘Illicit Encounters’ had to fork out without heir wives finding out) and a wife. London has over 8 million people living in it. Given the hours he worked, the constraints on his personal time and the population statistics, the chances of ever running into him were highly unlikely.
I’d made one rookie mistake.
I worked in a rewarding but low paying job in the music industry. Stockwell Road was long enough and had the demand to warrant two ‘Morley Chicken’ (cheap chain of KFC-esque takeaways [complete with bullet proof, closed in counters]) shops on the street. They had a deal where you got 2 mini southern fried chicken burgers and a portion of chips for £2.00. At such a bargain I was a regular there. I let it slip in conversation that although my residence was placed equidistant between the two shops, my preference was for the first shop closest to Stockwell tube station…closest to my house…closest to his house. I note the second shop has since closed – reinforcing my preference at the time.
I sauntered in after work one evening and as I skipped out with my burger and chips, I bumped into an extremely tall, broad, bronzed, brawny, brutish looking guy that actually didn’t look like a beef head. He looked normal….professional…..intelligent…..attractive.
‘I thought I recognised you. It’s Brooke isn’t it. I caught sight of you leaving the station, thought I’d follow you and say hi before we meet properly.’
Suddenly in my casual jeans and funky original Camden off the shoulder black jumper with the Bee Gees logo screaming across the front didn’t seem quite so cool. The ‘Morley’s Chicken’ plastic bag holding my dinner was a poor accessory to the outfit.
Again, his name escapes me. Whatever it was, I stuttered and stammered it out as I held his hand to shake it. It wasn’t an unfriendly greeting, but it lacked in sensuality whatsoever. In fairness his semi-stalkerish behaviour threw me, as did the fact that his home was visible from where I was standing outside the entrance of Morley’s.
He offered to walk me home. I was in such a state of shock, I found myself nodding dumbly and strolling alongside him. That he held my hand naturally, knowing the other half was metres away was daring but endearing. Irrespective of my lack of savoir-faire, he brusquely kissed my cheek with a whispered goodnight before departing to his chic new built apartment block.
My phone beeped notifying me of an incoming text and I saw it was from him. Closing my eyes and preparing for the most awkward rejection ever, clicking on it, I read ‘I’m relieved you’re as gorgeous in real life as you are in your pics’.
I had completely forgotten, this tall, handsome man was a New Zealander. He wasn’t accustomed to the pear-shaped English Rose appearance of women. He was familiar with the rangier, broader, fuller figure of the Antipodeans – robust to deal with the harsher climate (that is an actual evolutionary FACT…I read it on the internet!).
The spontaneous introduction did throw a spanner in the works. Having met face to face, short of saying I didn’t fancy him (I kinda did) I couldn’t really postpone the date on any valid grounds such as location, timing, work etc.
By the time I got into work the next morning, he was texting saying he was working in the West End that day and was I free for lunch. Softened somewhat by the previous night’s text, whilst I could produce a valid excuse for demands on work time, I decided I’d better face the music.
God I liked him. There was no going overboard and taking me to secret, tucked away, restaurant with French cuisine and extraordinarily expensive wine I’d be expected to taste and praise knowledgeably and appreciatively. He asked me where I wanted to go. We went to an upmarket pub, stayed away from Fosters, had a nice pub lunch and a few beers. It was relaxed and fun and the company of the man was the best I’d had in years.
I remember walking through 60s swinging Carnaby Street, still filled with fashionable youths but also the flurry of office workers on their lunch break. Right by the sign of Carnaby Street, he kissed me goodbye – properly. When my lips accepted his approach, I parted them and his warm tongue slid into my mouth increasing the intimacy of the moment. Finished he looked to the clear sunny sky, a rarity in sunny Blighty, even though it was summer. He was at least 8 inches taller than me, slim, but broad and muscular, his dark hair curled to the collar of his suit, his hazel eyes were squinting into the sunlight and the high cheek bones and Roman nose gave me the opportunity to confess to myself how strikingly handsome he was.
Glancing down I realised I was holding his hand. It was massive. I wondered if it gave an indication to other parts of his anatomy and not just his towering six foot two frame. I dropped it suddenly.
I’m Australian. We’re renown for our racism. It was our final meeting. Prejudice clouded my judgement. He was from New Zealand. New Zealand was close to Australia – too close. I vowed never to have an Aussie c*ck and my antipodean cousin’s c*ck was too close for comfort for me to be breaking my few sexual barriers. It was out last meeting and that was that. He didn’t realise, but I did. Thus I drank in his unusual beauty for a few seconds genuinely having to hurry back to my office.
My responses to his texts and emails the two following days were sparse and sporadic to say the least. Texting on Thursday night he informed me he was in a shared personal garage situated in the far more upper-class area of Clapham, working on his motorbike – alone. Aware something was wrong, it seemed, for him, an opportune time to call and discuss. It wasn’t that I felt guilty about his newly-wed British wife sitting only doors away pondering the growing emotional chasm and eroding connection they’d once shared that bothered me. Nor was it the possibility that she’d somehow track my address and throw acid in my face (okay the acid in the face would be bad given it compliments how I make a living) – psycho bitches I can deal (and on the very odd occasion have dealt) with. It was solely down to his birthplace.
I think because I had such a difficult time growing up in Australia I wanted to distance myself from the country…and its country men and even people within a perimeter of the country. Perhaps subconsciously I associated spending time with him as running the risk of enduring the troubled encounters I’d had in my misspent youth.
This is a sex blog not a psychological blog. The thought of those toned thighs clad in leather, sweat, grease and a motorbike were an instant aphrodisiac. Having spent a brief time in Clapham kipping on someone’s floor for a few months, I was familiar with the area and found myself back at Stockwell tube station heading to the address he gave me.
It may have been a small garage under the rail tracks but the rent must’ve been exorbitant. He wasn’t in leathers, standing with his bike upright and a spare helmet to whizz me round London town. He was in torn jeans, an open flannel shirt and dirty trainers. His smile curled half a lip as he opened the door to my knocking. I had come for to bid farewell and inform him this wasn’t an affair I could embark on, but the grease on his jeans and the few buttons open at the top of his shirt revealing a gym honed bare muscular chest had me looping an arm round his neck to kiss him.
I’d love to say there was a car present that he fu*ked me on, but it was a motor bike garage only. The length of him hardening as we kissed more feverishly, had my trembling fingers fumbling with the buttons of his jeans to free the beast.
To me there was only one potential place for the sex to place. It was on one of the two worn out bean bags shoved in the corner of the garage. I manoeuvred him over as we kissed. Choosing to wear jeans was a faux pas on my part. They were stretch jeans I had squeezed into, I’d worn boots, which meant I had socks on (bare legs and socks is not an attractive look). Self-conscious and not wanting to kill the moment I stripped as quickly and graciously as a Jesse the Elephant can out of my jeans, underwear, shoes and sock in one almost seamless movement.
Collapsing on the bean bag I pulled him on me, his pleasingly long prick pulsating in my hand. I don’t know how many bums had been on those polystyrene balls, but it offered little support. It did provide a barrier, albeit one of mere centimetres, between me and the cement floor. I was hoping for just a fu*k, he was clearly a breast man and wanted a little more visual simulation. The slipping and sliding of the bean bag, and the beast dominating me was a challenge I couldn’t contend with, whilst also guiding his hard-on between my dripping lips.
I succumbed and hurled off my jumper, revealing the juicy pale breasts clad in a silver wonder-bra he appeared so desperate to get to. The trouble was as he sucked and nuzzled my boobs, the penetration was shallow and he kept slipping out. He was adept and experience to reposition himself without direction, but he was as frustrated by the uncompromising beanbag as I was.
I’d have struggled on, but he clearly didn’t want to. And he had no intention of giving up on the uncomfortable fu*k. The next think I knew, his wide hands were on my hips dragging me off the beanbag and onto the floor. There was at least enough beanbag to pillow my head, but my back was on the cold greasy cement, my bum and legs had found their way to a tarpaulin of sorts. The faux velvet material of the beanbag, the rough garage floor, and sticky, heavy plastic fibre tarpaulin had my sense of touch in overdrive trying to balance them in a bid to remove the pain.
I heard him growling he wasn’t able get in deep enough. Once he had me on the floor it was no longer a complaint of him. His dick, which was in direct proportion with his height, hands and shoe size, charged straight in making me cry out. He was so long (not memorably thick but it was a satisfying member to have visiting my vagina) that every thrust warranted a grunt. I tried to bit back but without even trying he was hitting the back of my uterus. Each groan encouraged him. I tried to wrap my legs around him a) to shallow the penetration and b) to lift my legs and buttocks from the tarpaulin which they were sticking to and making unfetching ‘fart like’ noises when his shafts moved my whole body. This minor alteration to the missionary position only invigorated proceedings. Enlivened the constant, deep delving continued but at double the speed. To keep up with his stamina (with that six pack and defined pecs I was pretty sure he was a regular gym user – any excuse to avoid the wife) I found my thighs gripping tighter round his waist and my hands clutching his shoulders and my shirt nails clawing his back to keep up. The strain on my muscles to ensure my head didn’t hit the cement and that my body avoided being slammed down with the gusto of his pumping resulted in other internal muscles tightening and convulsing – for this I was grateful.
Assuming he’d stimulated me to orgasm (he hadn’t), he finally freed himself to climax (not before me telling him I wasn’t on the pill to avoid any bastard births) on the garage floor.
I can’t lie and say it wasn’t good sex. It left its marks (gravel rash is a bitch) but it was hot in an awkward way.
I can’t lie and say I wasn’t surprised that afterwards, he remained in an upright position as if partaking of push-ups, gazing into my eyes wordlessly and kissing me for a length of time.
I can’t lie and say I didn’t feel greatly relieved when he offered to drive me home to save me the time, money and care warranted for late night public transport in London (especially south London).
I can’t lie and say I felt guilty jumping out of the car and knowing he was driving five seconds up to the road and would be greeting his wife with the scent of another woman smothered on him.
I can’t lie and say I ever replied to any of his texts or emails again, however sweet or whatever limited promising for happiness may have been present.
I can’t lie and say I’m overly proud of my behaviour in the past – especially when it comes to my sex life.
Real sex stories fall in a variety of categories. Some will be sexy. Some will be pure filth. Some will be romantic. Some will be funny. And some will be downright depressing.
Now, back before social networking took off in a major way the ‘sex’ contact website for younger people was Face-party. I had more than my fair share from it. In fact in terms of getting laid it proved infinitely more successful for me than My Space, Face-book or Twitter ever has.
I was almost addicted to the sight. At the time I was taking a ‘break’ from full time employment and spent three hours a day working in a pub and the remainder of my time was spent on Face-party finding suitable men to fuck. They weren’t always nice men. I was happy to instantly message anyone BUT that didn’t mean I was automatically going to sleep with them.
Still grasping the remainder of my innocence, I was a good lay but not as smutty as I am today. When one man opened with an introduction of how much he wanted to ‘fist’ me, I said I wasn’t really into that so maybe we should terminate the conversation. He was clearly affronted because he told me to ‘Fuck Off’ and that he ‘didn’t care’ because I was ‘overweight’. It wasn’t a nice thing to read but it made me laugh out loud. I was overweight but that word does not have the emotional and psychologically traumatic impact that ‘fat’ does. Had he said ‘I don’t care cause you’re fat anyway’, I genuinely would be in tears. Instead I was quite chuffed because it was an honest observation. I couldn’t take offence. It was a bit like someone saying ‘I don’t care because you’ve got black hair anyway.’ Fine, no problem. ‘I don’t care because your hair is like a Halloween witches wig’ would have more of a bite to it.
I digress. Men are at times so desperate for a shag they’ll sleep with anything – including me! Thus on my online journey I had encountered men that were substantially out of my league that were more than willing and wanting to do the deed with me. When a guy made contact with a picture of him topless with a rippled torso, I wasn’t unconcerned. Warning bells didn’t sound in my head that the picture mightn’t be accurate. Common-sense did not incline me to check if the picture existed elsewhere in cyberspace thus proving it a fake. No, fully inflated ego I assumed someone of his calibre would happily select me out of the thousands of girls online.
It didn’t take long to arrange to meet. Given his looks I wasn’t in a position to play hard to get. I was so addicted to sex at the time (my friends observations not mine) that I actually took time off work (baring in mind I only worked fifteen hours a week) to fuck the guy.
The night before he was due to come he asked how I’d feel about a three-some. Sexually charged, I threw caution to the wind and decided it was time to expand my sexual repertoire and stories to tell over dinner. I asked if his friend was as handsome and well-built as himself. With a ‘smiley face’ on screen he assured me he as attractive but not as hot as he was. Exchanging phone numbers, I spent the evening preparing for my big three-some.
An hour before I was due to meet them at Holborn station, I had a text from my hunk saying he couldn’t come. Crushed (and pissed off because I’d taken a shift off work) he said he’d told his friend to go along any way so that I didn’t miss out completely. The text asked if I was okay with this. Truthfully it wasn’t ideal, but if he was anywhere close in looks to his friends it wouldn’t be the worst encounter in the world. Given I had time to kill as I wasn’t working and my sexual appetite had yet to be abated, I agreed and said I’d meet the guy at the station.
Stepping out from the ticket barriers at Holborn he seemed unsure of himself and nervous, which made it easier for me to identify him. He was tall like his friend, had a solid broad frame, but he wasn’t ever going to be talent spotted by a modelling agent. At 23 he was six foot two, had sandy hair cut short back and sides but with length on top, blue eyes, symmetrical features but he was lacking something. Spark or energy – personality. He was devoid of personalty. Fortunately we were meeting for fucking not discussing current affairs.
We walked in silence for the ten minutes home. I took him up the six flights of steps and ladder into my loft bedroom in the top flat above a cafe. Living rather bohemian my double bed was on the futon on the floor. Rather than encourage any painful attempts at conversation, I kissed him. He may have been nice-looking but no one wants a droopy, wet tongue flopping in their mouth like a fish out of water. Warm and wet, his tongue was lifeless in my mouth and did nothing to excite or encourage me.
I stripped his t-shirt off. There was no sign that he’d ever visited a gym. Medium build, whilst not overweight he was un-toned. Very English, very pale, very gangly it just wasn’t a turn on. I struggled to find anything physically attractive about it. I knew he wasn’t bad looking but the idea of sex with him was becoming an inevitable chore rather than a cheeky mid-week shag.
Sitting on the futon, I patted a spot next to me as if signalling for an animal to jump up. He sat obediently. I don’t mind playing the dominatrix, but to know someone is only ever going to be submissive (particularly a tall butch man) is a drag in the bedroom department.
I pulled open the button fly on his Levi’s to reveal tight white legged boxers. His bulge was satisfactory. Average length and width. The minute I put my palm on it, I could feel it growing. That was mildly rewarding – at least I was doing something right. When I slipped my hand into his boxers to wrap my warm hand round his thickening dick he was panting like a dog. That was more off-putting. It was more like a hound dog than a horny wolf. I could feel the blood pumping through his erection as it stood proudly to attention, but his face was contorting in pain. Wondering if I was squeezing too hard or working the shaft too vigorously, I slowed down. I realized this guy was trying to refrain from climaxing. He hadn’t had sex in so long he was going to cum merely from the touch of a foreign woman.
Wasting no time, I pushed him flat on the bed and grabbed a condom. Tearing it open with my teeth it was a race to get him inside me before he off-loaded.
I won. Just.
I rolled it down roughly, as he was moaning and grabbing the sheets in an attempt to slow his pace. I could see his balls tightening. I got one leg out of my jeans to give me the freedom to straddle him, bunched my panties to one side and squatted on his cock. As I plumped myself down his full length he squealed in a feminine way and shot his loads.
Whether it was embarrassment or the fact that he didn’t really fancy me in the flesh, his words were (as his dick diminished inside me, shrivelling in the sheer rubber sheath) ‘I better get going now. I’ve got an assignment to do tomorrow.’
It was the worst parting words I think ever uttered in my sexual history. I was stupefied. Gobsmacked. Normally I’d walk someone back to the train station if they weren’t familiar with the area. With my knickers on and one leg still in my jeans it would literally have taken less than a minute to return to a fully dressed state. Given his poor etiquette (and regular readers will know I’m a stickler for exercising excellent bedroom etiquette) I decided to abandon my good manners and show him where the ladder was. Yeah that’s right. I didn’t even bother taking him to the front door.
As he walked off nonplussed, pleased he’d got hit his climax I rang the number of his friend to lambaste him for setting me up with such a lousy shag. Sadly I heard the phone ringing by the front door of my flat. I terminated the call, realizing the threesome was never going to occur in the first place. My hunk never existed, some bored college kid decided to use a fake pic to get laid (if you can call the single act of penetrating a slit without fucking sex).
Reflecting on this event, I can’t honestly say that making him climb down a ladder, walk out the front door and navigate his way through the complicated streets from my place to Holborn station was a fitting punishment for his dastardly deed.
I’d like to say it was a lesson learned, but I got caught a few times like that. That’s sex online though I guess.
Playing With Young Gay Love – What Cougar can turn down a beautiful teen whatever his alleged sexuality?
There comes a time in every single woman’s life when she has the thought on a mad night out ‘I’m too old for this.’
It happened to me not long before my thirtieth birthday. After a troublesome few years, I’d scuttled home to Australia to rest, recuperate, mend a broken heart and lose nine stone. I looked (and this is arrogant) hot when I returned. Dropping from a size 28 to a size 12 was hard work, but I must’ve looked good because when I scored a job in a music company I was pretty much the talk of the room. The loud brash exceptionally good-looking Australian. I’m not sure how true that last sentence was but in my mind, I like to think that’s how I was perceived. If anything I had the confidence to think that way and maybe that rubbed off.
Anyway the music company I worked for (at that time) was very hip and cool. It’s a tough industry to crack, even a shitty administration job like I had. Our floor was pretty much full of school leavers on their first jobs, or dreamers like me that worked their for shit money but a great company culture as we planned on how we’d get our big break in music/writing/acting/performing/dancing etc.
Because about ten of us joined at the same time, we were sent on all the training courses together. Enter D (I can’t mention this individual by name because he’s a model and I’m not sure how relevant his sexuality is to his career or if this confession would impact on it in any way and come back to bite me in the arse so to speak). D was truly beautiful. He was Irish and had only just turned 18. He’d done a modelling campaign for ‘Next’ I think and also a massive exclusive photo shoot for a big magazine like GQ or the likes for a designer label along the lines of Armani of Dolce and Gabanna. Talent spotted for both jobs, he’d headed to London on the premise that his modelling career would go from strength to strength and he’d become a professional. He wasn’t a classic catwalk model, because he didn’t have the height. He was five foot nine which immediately restricted his career. He was striking to look at. Not traditionally handsome, he was pale and slim, but had perfect symmetrical bone structure in a very lean, chiselled way. He had thick dark brown hair reached the collar of is short and his styled fringe was perfect to droop in his eyes so he could flick it out flirtatiously when required. All that combines with the eyes greener than the foliage of a tree, you couldn’t take your eyes off him. Eye-catching he was. I could see why he was spotted by agents, but there would be those that would refer to him as ‘ugly-beautiful’ so unusual was his appearance.
Apart from the modelling opportunities, I suspect being in one of the cities the embraced homosexuality (especially as out office was in Soho) held additional appeal. Even the younger women in the office weren’t overly familiar with how to conduct a friendship with a young gay male. Mostly your first gay friendships end up with you having a crush on him. After the first one is out-of-the-way you realize nothing can come of it sexually and instead of instinctively viewing them as ‘potential father’s’ An experienced fag hag from way back, I was more than happy to take him under my wing. Having been out of the entertainment industry for nearly two years, to re-enter the gay scene was a blessing for me. I was happy, funny, confident and loving being back with a very young, very new gay best friend. He was relived to have someone who knew their way around the scene and was willing to accompany him on all kinds of outings. I also acted as a chaperone taking him to open castings. Perhaps the most important time my presence was required when we went to one ‘modelling’ agency that was trying to talk him into working in gay-porn. Not on my watch!
Crushingly as I told my oldest and closest gay friend of D (who he chose to refer to as my ‘new gay puppy’) his reckoning was that D was attracted to my maternal side. Huffily I refused to accept this. I was still hip and down with the kids.
D was living with an American guy he’d met online. Turned out cyber-space didn’t translate to the real world. The American insisted D come and live with him but after a month was retracting the offer. With no money to pay rent, D refused to budge and somehow they managed through tearing each others heart-strings as they went.
In 2007, when McFly were at their peak, they were playing a gig at the old G-A-Y by Tottenham Court Road. There was quite a débâcle at the time because Jeremy Joseph was being an out and out prick, refusing to let young groups of girls attend the concert. I don’t agree with ostracising anyone on any grounds, but in fairness to the repulsive Mr Joseph, screaming teenagers did kill the ambience of G-A-Y considerably. It wasn’t their enthusiasm that was the problem, rather their reaction to being in an ‘Oh My God’ gay club. Looking at the men (and myself who perhaps appeared lesbionic wit stereotypical short hair) they were gaping like they’d discovered aliens. That did piss me of because it does kill the vibe, when straight girls are looking at regular patrons like they’ve gone safari with the wild willy lovers.
Anyway, D decided that he, his flat mate and a visiting friend should go see the concert with me. How could I refuse his irresistible green eyes? I agreed and meeting them high I was as mellow as they come. Having bought our tickets thanks to D’s age we were checked. D bought his passport to confirm he was eighteen and we skipped passed the hordes of screaming girls begging to be let in.
All was going well in my knee-high boots and extraordinarily short dress. Until some old man was trying the moves on me. He was clearly gay but as he was facing a dry night I think he adopted the mentality that every hole is a goal. Bumping and grinding against me, I pushed him away gently. The second time a little more forcefully but with a smile. The third time I snapped and told him to get away from me. He then proceeded to throw a pint on me. The pint drenched me from head to toe, I could feel my make up sticky and probably likely to be running down my face and my dressed reeked of beer. It was only midnight and we were due to be out till 6am, so I was less than impressed with his actions. Fortunately so to was the Australian gay guy behind me who caught a few splashed himself. He and his boyfriend turned on the guy, to chastise him for his behaviour towards a woman and fellow county.
I did my best to calm everyone down and try to drop it (after all I was the one who’d be suffering all night) but D’s flatmate decided to find him and fill him in on the event that had taken over. Leaping down from the stage where he’d been dancing, he stormed up to the repugnant man in his late 60s early seventies and was shouting why he’d done it. I grabbed D to draw him back and tell him not to worry and let it spoil out evening, but he was furious demanding to know what the guys problem was. In an instance, the seventy year old gay guy landed a quick jab and caught D on the cheek.
It was my turn to rage. D was reeling but still upright. Seeing only red I grabbed the guy by the shirt cussing and swearing and telling him I was going to fucking kill him for hitting a kid like that. The old man pushed me off, the Australian gay guy saw it. His partner steadied me on my four-inch heels and the Australian then started rough-housing. Amongst all this action was a significant proportion of screaming young teens looking shocked at the aggression and violence taking place on the dance floor. Don’t blame the boys, girls – I was equally up for a fight.
Security entered to split everyone up. The Australian was defending our part but D, myself and the old codger were ejected from the main club. Discussing the issue with management, I could hear McFly preparing to come on stage and realized we were going to miss the highlight and purpose of our evening. D obviously thought the same because he put on a spectacular scene about me being his chaperone for a massive photo-shoot with Versace and now he’d most likely lose the job because of the bruise. He demanded to know what they’d do about and was insisting he wanted names to pass on to his employer and that kind of empty but potentially dangerous threats. I have to say, is efforts were so strong I was inclined to suggest acting if the modelling didn’t work out. The next thing I know security have their arms on us dragging us through the absolutely jammed club to get us to the front of the stage to watch McFly. Yes seeing McFly up close and personal was a great experience, no having an entire club HATE you for a public display of favouritism when many had queued for their positions wasn’t fun.
With thousands of evil eyes glaring at me, my liquid foundation running and exuding an aroma of beer, there and ten instead of seeing it as fun or an adventure I thought ‘I’m too old for this!’ – I was.
That was my last night out with D and his friends. My socializing and love of drama was diminishing the closer I got to thirty. We still spent whatever time we could at work and remained close.
One morning I get a call from his asking if I’ll come round and help him put his tanning lotion on. It was a Sunday and I had no inclination leave the bed or my TV, but our night out hadn’t been his fault so being seen to punish him was unfair.
Accommodating himself in the nearly redeveloped area of Canary Wharf the flat, within which he was staying rent free until the American online ex could boot him out, was out of this world in terms of size, layout, the quality and modern sleek urban look of the place. I could fully understand why he didn’t leave. The view, the facilities on offer and high tech gadgets made it a playground for anyone who loved luxury and opulence.
I chatted to his mates who had been out the previous night and were debating on whether or not to head out again. D declined the offer of drugs, as did I, because he was a clean living guy that loved life not alcohol and drugs.
Entering his bedroom, he stripped off the his shirt. Even though I’d lost weight he remained rake thin. Squeezing the lotion in my hand and then rubbing his torso had me flummoxed. He was a friend. This was a normal thing to do. But no one can deny a physical appreciation of another human being whatever their sex life is like behind private doors.
It was hard not to be turned on when I was running my hands all over his him. Shoulder blades protruding, his back was lengthy with a straight spine and no hair whatsoever. Tackling the front of him was worse because we had to make eye contact and conversation. Aimless chit chatter, all the while I’m caressing this chest and washboard stomach that was an eight pack as opposed to a six pack.
Having finished, he removed his jeans for me to do his legs as well. Running my hands up and down the length of his chicken-like legs, was too intimate and strange given the length (five months) and nature (platonic) of our relationship. He obviously thought the same because when I dared to raise my eyes to the white tight legged boxers I could see he was erect. I could also see he had a proper porno cock. My head was telling me one thing, my hormones another.
Whether I was drooling, I’m not sure, but seeing my unsubtle examination of the package with one hand he pulled down the front of is boxers slowly. Bare chested and pubescent in appearance, he looked like a little boy. The thatch of hair from naval to crotch was non-existent. He was teasing me deliberately, moving his hand down his stomach, exposing the flesh leading to his pubic region slowly. The bush may have been untamed, but it wasn’t like he needed to trim the area to make him look ‘bigger’ (as some men chose to. Releasing a seven and a half-inch wonder, my eyes watered and I got was soaking wet in an instant, I could feel it on my knickers.
‘You can suck me off if you want,’ he said simply.
I wanted to, my god how I wanted to. Licking from the base of his cock to the head I’d run out of saliva. I couldn’t just use my tongue to lube him for my mouth, I’d have to spit in my hand to work the shaft. I already knew due to the thickness of his bratwurst-shaped penis, I’d struggle to swallow much of him. He was young enough not to exercise any caution or consider the repercussions on our friendship if this was to go ahead.
Standing up he decided to remind me he had fucked women before and had a girlfriend in Ireland who he slept with regularly before outing himself on arrival in London.
I always swore never to sleep with friends, but was he a friend or just a work college I clicked with.
‘Fuck it,’ I thought and undid my jeans and dropped my drawers. D closed and locked the door to his bedroom. Without further ado he bent me over the bed. He was so slight I wasn’t sure where his strength emanated from. As I felt my feet involuntarily moving to adopt a stance to allow him to penetrate me, I did think it prudent I raise the issue of protection. Unfazed by the request, I was taken aback he had such a supply of them in his bedside drawer. Breaking the first one in his urgency to get laid, he retrieved another within seconds. Arms resting on the bed, pussy dripping I was ready to go.
No warning, just a sharp thrust to penetrate me. The shock of the size of the fat cock had me panting, gripping the bed and riding the length down to bump on his pubic region. When I felt my pussy lips springing off from his pubic hair I knew I was imbibing his full length.
It was hard, fast, rough and ready. I liked it. There was no affection or caressing of areas that differentiated the two of us physically in accordance to our gender. My clit and breasts were neglected. This wasn’t a major problem for me, because with my head planted firmly on the mattress I could use one hand to reach my climax anyway.
Rubbing my bud, it was easy to bring myself to the brink and go with the flow. D on the other hand wasn’t as fluid in movements as myself. He happily pumped and pounded my cunt, relishing in delight at my grunts as he shoved deep in me. Slamming into me with such force that the bed was moving round the room with me, I guess the pneumatic drill approach may well be best if you’re having sex with someone you wouldn’t normally. I support this statement with the fact that he came, because he came very speedily. Groaning loudly, I was in no doubt his collection of friends knew exactly what was going on.
Suffice to say my departure was imminent. I left with a wave and have a nice night. Within a couple of weeks I’m pleased to say the American managed to boot D out. With no savings, he was forced to return to Ireland, ensuring his only option was to skive off his parents. I don’t mean it in a horrible way, BUT as fun as it is to hold your hand up and say I’m twenty-nine and I fucked a teenage gay model the aftermath and awkwardness did mean losing a friend. The nature of the friendship changed irrevocably. We’d gone down a path we shouldn’t have. It affirmed my belief that you shouldn’t sleep with friends. It affirmed me that as a highly sexed woman, I still had it even with the most difficult erotic scenarios.
In fact, D’s departure from London had occurred before the rub on tanning lotion finally came off. A heavily tanned arse (brown bum) conflicting with my pale and porcelain skin was a major passion killer. I won’t lie to you. There a significant price to pay for carrying out a little taboo barely legal gay sex. I couldn’t risk sexual rejection, thus was obligated to put my sex life on hold while the tanning lotion faded. For the one woman wanting the one hundred dicks it was a daunting process.
There are three things you need to know about me before I enlighten and possibly enrage you with the truth about love as it see it.
My husband’s name is David;
The most romantic moment of my life is linked with a boy named Romeo.
It’s possible you may conject on the significance of you the above or why I’m telling you this. That my heart was broken by Romeo and I ‘settled’ for David? That Romeo died and again I ‘settled’ for David? That fate tore me away from Romeo and – guess what? – I ‘settled’ for David.
Please let me put your mind at rest. I’ve never ‘settled’ for anyone, least of all my husband. David is the love of my life. I knew the minute I laid eyes on him he’d be the man with whom I’d spend the rest of my life.
He is romantic and completely devoted to me. But that hat doesn’t alter the fact the most romantic, the most powerful moment of my life was shared with Romeo. If when I die life flashes before me, I swear my most vivid memory will be that of Romeo, or, rather, Romeo and me.
I’m no different to the majority women my age, which is mid-thirties. I was, like most others raised on a diet of trashy romantic novels handed down by my mother and culturally saturated in filmic rom-coms where the Grand Gesture comes – as it inevitably does – when the heroine gets Mr. Right.
TV shows like ‘Sex and the City’ have a lot to answer for. If you yourself a woman in her mid-thirties and continue to hold that dream close to your heart, I hate bursting your bubble but you could be waiting another thirty years; you could be waiting your whole life for something that will never come. The promise we’ve been fed is a lie. If you set your standards up there with Bridget Jones or Carrie Bradshaw be prepared for heartache and devastation – although I truly hope your knight in shining armour rushes in to save you and keep you safe, secure and happy for the rest of your living years.
Brand me a cynic. I prefer the term realist. When you’ve fucked over one hundred men, one tends to acquire a degree of experience from which to draw in matters of heart and boudoir.
I’m not sure what people think the instant they hear the word ‘London’. It obviously depends on your age, location and direct experience of the city. Some may remember the glory days of Brit Pop in the mid 90s, others the current British invasion of manufactured bands like One Direction and The Wanted. Then again people may thing of the ‘Swinging Sixties’ and Carnaby Street. Others, more removed from the Capital, may imagine The Queen, St Paul’s or a red double decker bus. Maybe the Queen on a bus going past the cathedral, I really don’t know particularly care.
Having spent fifteen years in the place, let me recount a darker side to few will ever encounter. The majority – including for a while time myself – endure that awful grind of nine-to-five, spending what free time they have enjoying the delights of London’s vibrant nightlife. It is those working to create the vibrant and diverse scene of London at night who inhabit a completely different world to those ordinary people living ordinary lives.
I left a routine office job to immerse myself in Theatre-land, becoming duty manager of the small but (to us) perfectly formed Players’ Theatre underneath the Arches at Charing Cross. Sadly it went bust, but that’s story alone in itself. Visit it now and you’ll still find the premises buried in the dim, cobbled backwater of Villiers Street which forms the Station’s foundation..
Nowadays though, having been renamed, re-branded and renovated it has become a dull, lifeless place, unimaginatively named ‘The Charing Cross Theatre’. When I managed it, it had gone sixty-five years without the smallest refurbishment. The box office literally seated one person; you couldn’t swing a cat (and we actually had a theatre cat who on occasion helped himself to fish in the kitchen prior to restaurant staff started their shift and if caught was punished by the head chef who somehow did find enough space to swing him).
The carpets and walls were a dark plush red. The upstairs reception was furnished with couches with fraying covers and rickety wooden chairs and tables begging for someone fat to break them so a personal injury claim could be made on the venue’s insurance. The small bar was awkward to navigate in because of the massive supporting pole standing bang in the centre of this tiny space. The two hundred-seat auditorium retained its original red and gold decore with similarly-coloured and incredibly cheap-looking tables and seats. The basement toilets were permanently blocked threatening to flood with a single wrong flush.
The theatre itself was sweet. And diminutive to say the least, it included a minuscule balcony and two dinky boxes. A bar at the rear and the little wooden tables between seats allowed patrons to eat and drink as they watched the show.
The walls were scattered with ancient paintings of Queen Victoria and black and white pictures of bygone stars of Victorian Music Hall. It was unique in its own dingy way holding (as most theatres do) years of secrets, and was run by an eight-five year old man who continued taking the stage for the full six nights a week we were open. He had white hair, a white goatee, moustache and no concept of Employment Law (I kind of liked this because it meant if I didn’t like a staff member or their performance was poor we’d instantly sack them without warning or the slightest official procedure).
There’s a rule of thumb in theatre: never run a performance if there are more actors on stage than audience in seats. Sadly this rule resulted in a lot of cancelled performances for us at the Player’s. Where did it all go wrong? Turns out as the theatre entered the 21st century, people no longer wanted Victorian Music Hall. The owner did his best to keep that most traditional of genres afloat but it was futile.
What went right? Mainly one thing – a bright spark working there had the idea of getting a late night licence and opening membership to all and any employees within Theatre-land, thus offering an intimate and in its way quite exclusive watering hole for when they themselves finished work. The location was perfect for the crowd of heavy drinkers toiling in heart of London’s West End. After the negligible audience trickled out of the Players’ 10.30pm, by eleven a throng of parched musicians, actors, dancers, sound and light technicians flooded in. That late night bar was the cash cow keeping that kept the theatre afloat.
I beheld many in time there and experienced much, but none so important as my genuine sexual awakening. I didn’t lose my virginity till I was twenty-one, by then I was that cock-hungry I was basically (and literally) sex-mad. Taking charge of a venue that stank of pheromones and was so charged with oestrogen and testosterone when I was twenty-three was the equivalent putting starved a kid in a candy shop and leaving her with no supervision. With the monstrous libido like mine, even I had my fill at the Player’s.
The hours were mental; 4pm to 4am six days a week. The upshot of these hostile and unimaginably exhausting hours was that both customers and work colleagues became my social circle de facto family. It was inevitable I’d eventually seek a semblance of romantic involvement – something maybe even permanent – with someone or another found there.
Trying to find staff to work those kinds of hours for less than the minimal wage was difficult. Of the five interviews arranged, Romeo was the only candidate who showed up so was therefore employed on the spot. He was from Albania with a strong grasp of English and previous bar experience so I figured he’d survive. On his advice I recruited his younger brother (a self-confessed rapist with poor English) and his cousin (an out and out racist who verbally abused our Polish restaurant staff). Sadly those particulars weren’t on their CVs when they signed their terms of employment.
My routine at the time was work, drinking and or fucking till 8am, home and bed till 3pm before starting over again. Because Romeo was one of the few full-time staff crew, we spent at least sixty hours a week together. You can’t fail to form a bond or mutual understanding working so closely for that length of time.
We were liberal with ‘after-work’ drinks. One night Romeo decided he’d invent new cocktails from the array of spirits behind the bar. By 7am our numbers had diminished to three; me, Romeo and my Gay Best Friend. As a youngster you know fewer (if any) limits. Actually you do, but you ignore them confident in your ability to recover.
Tequila was my undoing. One minute I was the life and soul of the party, the next I was by the disabled toilet heaving my guts up. Romeo and I were kissing, crumpled by the toilet door, lips locked, groping to remove each other’s clothes.
Gay Best Friend subtly announced his departure. For some reason which shall forever remain a mystery, he insisted I not walk him out and even forgot his usual goodnight hug and kiss.
Romeo was not as hygienic as my friend. Despite the unlocked theatre door immediately opposite the heaving and infamous gay nightclub ‘Heaven’, he pushed my skirt up, tearing away my tights went.
He wasn’t traditionally good looking but he had something. At five foot ten, he was incredibly lean with short cropped brown hair and the darkest brown eyes I’ve ever stared into. Being slim his stomach was rock hard and each muscle of his six-pack was prominent. His chest was solid, not bulky and the bone structure of his face was chiselled and masculine.
At 21, I thought of him as a baby, being two years younger than me, though I wasn’t body confident. Not that I was bad looking, with brown hair and brown eyes, set against a peaches and cream complexion. An ample bosom, and a perfect hour-glass figure, had I been six stone lighter people might have described me as stunning.
Having this lithe young man urgently removing items to access my cunt was extremely flattering. I liked him. I knew him and he knew me. I think that’s possibly what made him overlook the fact that I was never going to be the trophy girlfriend he desperately sought.
If you’d asked me back then, I’d have said the sex was ‘lust-driven’. Ask my friends who saw the bruises and bite marks I was often left with, they would have said ‘violent’. Romeo and I were impulsive, resolute to unite sexually physically to reflect our emotional and mental connection.
Having torn off my tights, pushed up the regulation black skirt from my ‘office’ suit and yanked my knickers aside, his hands gripped my knees spreading them wide. His fingers kneaded the soft white flesh of my womanly thighs as he worked up. I’d raised myself into a half sitting position to undo the belt of his uniform trousers.
He was keen on image and labels hence the tight-legged Calvin Klein boxers were unsurprising. He pushed hard on my shoulders forcing me down to the carpet. If I turned my head I could see – too close for comfort – the puddle of own vomit though I far too far gone to be bothered by merely by that. He shifted to shove his cock in me.
It wasn’t the best I’ve had as cocks go (or perhaps more accurately, come) – average in length but with no girth whatsoever. Having a tampon shoved up would have been more satisfying than his pencil-like dick. Sex though isn’t always about adjuncts and anatomy. Having someone thrust furiously inside you, with gritted teeth and a determined look in their eyes can be reward enough in itself.
He pounded hard. I loved the feel of him crashing his full length into me, his balls slamming against my splayed thighs. It wasn’t imaginative or original. It was animalistic, carnal in nature.
I loved that he was young and fit and hard and could power on for ages. The constant shafting of my slit rubbed the lips raw. It was as if he wanted to consume me. He lifted my ankles over his shoulders, then heaved me down onto his needy prick. He couldn’t get enough of himself into me. The penetration was as deep as it was going to get. He stopped grunting to study my face. It was if he was aware the leanness of him was expressed by the size of his dick and he wanted to grow a few inches longer and wider but couldn’t. It was rutting rather than love making but desire existed on both our parts.
Romeo went to get my sheer black top off. I could handle the ripped tights but I couldn’t afford to replace a torn blouse, thus removed it myself. I’m a C cup, which isn’t massive but pleases most men. I chose to wear black bras so the pale flesh of my breasts would spill over the cup. Romeo went to my breasts, took them in his mouth and suckled as if he was expecting milk. I started to squirm when he pinched my nipples between his teeth, then graduated to gulping my breasts in his mouth – biting hard. I found little pleasure in that.
It was about then Barbara the cleaner entered the building. We scarpered like two naughty kids from the theatre’s reception, fleeing to the back offices, frenziedly punching in the access code.
Once locked in safely, Romeo asked me to get to my knees and suck his cock. There was something in the demand that didn’t sit well with me. I somehow had a feeling he’d get off on the idea of reporting back to his family that ‘the boss’ had got to her knees to drink him dry.
To remind him I actually was boss, I pushed him into my private office to sit him on the edge of my desk. I kissed slowly and tenderly as I took his erection in hand to manoeuvre his skin and asked him to spit in my palm so I could lube him with his own saliva. Now it was a gentler scene. When I felt he’d calmed, I sat on my black leather office chair and spread his legs. It was only then I took him in my mouth. I refused to let him have the upper hand but I happy please him, though I noted didn’t reciprocate.
It wasn’t a demanding blow job, which given my lack of sobriety and sheer exhaustion from his unstoppable pounding, was a shame. It’s nice to gag on a cock. I have a serious oral fixation. To have something in my mouth akin to a straw as opposed to a bratwurst is boring. However fat girls do it better because they like having things in their mouths; we relish and respect food. I worked that cock like a chocolate finger easily working the entire thing in my mouth. I switched between hands and mouth and ended up inching him down till my face was buried in his pubic hair. The smell was sexy – like sweat and aftershave. I swallowed so the muscles in my throat massaged his prick. I released to breathe and appreciate the full view of him when he stood from the desk.
Completely naked Romeo was beautiful in way that only youth offers. His long legs were firm and sinewy, his stomach flat with prominent hip bones prominent. There wasn’t a hair on his chest, merely a small trail running to his tame pubic region. His buttocks were flawless and pert, the muscles visible as he pressed his pelvis forward for more work on his cock. I took him back in my lips, determined to let my mouth and tongue demonstrate how much I wanted him. I sucked hard, using my tongue in swirling circles. Occasionally I’d pull the foreskin back over the head then push my tongue underneath which had him groaning. My free hand cupped his balls, exerting a slight pressure before tugging them.
When he was close he withdrew his cock, put his hands on my small waist and spun me round to seat me on the desk. He reached under my knees, pulling me to the edge of the table. Reaching behind me, he pulled my hair hard, tipping my neck back and forcing me to hold back a scream. When he slid his rod in one last time he fucked hard, wrenching my hair so brutally my head hit a shelf. I threw him off and stood, only for him to grab my hair and drag me until I turned to face the desk once again. I knew exactly what he wanted and I wanted it too. To be dominated by someone earning less money than me, younger than me and someone who wasn’t my superior was the disciplinary fuck I so needed. Lowering my head to the desk by gripping my neck, I spread my legs waiting for his entry.
Entering me from behind, finally gave him the penetration we both craved. He forced my arse cheeks apart to get in as far as he could, rocking his hips fast and furiously. He pulled out to come purposely over my arse. I was highly irritated because he insisted on watching me wipe myself dry before dressing. The passion remained as we kissed deeply and angrily, resentfully acknowledging ‘we’ could never be and frustrated by the inevitability of it all.
We had sex a couple more times before calling it quits. He’d met some girl. To preserve our close friendship I accepted the state of affairs and returned to fucking regular bar punters.
On the eve of my twenty-fourth birthday Romeo and his brother Jimmy stayed back to drink and see in my birthday. Jimmy felt the need to divulge Romeo had strong feelings for me, which stung given his earlier, gentle rejection of any potential relationship. As always when the sun rose our secret world disappeared. The boys headed off to catch a train, I walked to the cab rank. As I waited, watching the stark orange skies of London dawn, I heard my name called. Romeo was sprinting towards me.
‘I’m glad you haven’t left. Thought I might’ve missed you,’ he said panting.
‘Why, what’s up?’
‘Sorell, I really like you. I think it could be much more than that. It’s only that I want to be with you. I had to tell you.’
After months of intimacy and what I wrote off as meaningless sex I felt my heart beat. He showed me the screen of his phone.
‘See here, that girl’s phone number?’
I nodded as he selected the delete option.
‘I’m deleting it. I wanted you to see me delete it because I want you to know I’m serious about us, about being with you and only you.’
I heard his brother call.
‘You better go.’
Without warning he put cupped my face in his hands and kissed me. As the kiss lengthened he pulled me closer as our tongues could entwine. I experienced only deep affection and possibility in his warm, moist lips.
‘Happy Birthday, Sorell.’
‘It is now.’
He kissed me again. I realised for the first time in twenty-four years I finally had a boyfriend. I was no longer a one-night-stand-slut unable to find a man or hold down a relationship. What sweeter moment can there be in the catalogue of anyone’s of love life than to have someone choose you over another on the morning of your birthday in the empty streets of London one cold December morning. Talk about grand gestures and romantic endings.
Two weeks later, I answered the phone from my office as I completed the payroll.
‘Player’s Theatre, how can I help?’
‘Can I speak to Romeo?’
‘May I ask who’s calling please?’
The ten step walk from my office to the bar was the longest I’ve trekked. The standing in front of my staff and saying in a cold lifeless voice – ‘you girlfriend’s on the phone’ still pains me now.
I could scream at him in the privacy of my office. I could take him off the bar and force him to work on the door (sitting on a stool signing members in for five hours straight). I couldn’t however force him to love me or like me or want me as his girlfriend. That morning of my birthday was unforgettable. The most romantic moment of my life eternally tarnished.
Eventually I was forced to sack Romeo. He was running a scam at the bar stealing in excess of ten thousand pounds with his brother and cousin (hence the theatre bankrupting). As I fired him, I asked why. Why did he do it? I employed him. Why steal from somewhere and someone who’d always been good to him? Why steal when I’d have given him the money if he asked? He shook his head shamefully. We kissed one last time. We both cried. I never saw him again.
You won’t see this story on TV or at the movies any time soon – but don’t think it never happens.
Discovering Cougar Town (young guys wanting older women, not the Courtney Cox comedy) after I hit thirty was a bit like Lucy discovering Narnia in ‘The Lion, The Witch And The Wardrobe’. Everyone I told didn’t believe that I was for real. They thought I was fabricating the truth to account for my single status as a thirty something. Fortunately for me technology had moved on significantly since I’d first lost my virginity.
Nowadays there are profiles on the internet laden with numerous photos and even better body proud young men happy to send photos via text or BBM to tease you with their gym sculpted bodies. Even better than that, there are the real exhibitionists willing to send over pictures of their youthful erections – trust me a there is nothing better than a big, fat, hard teenage cock. That sounds crass, but it is in fact super sexy and legal!!!
Hence, while I regaled the open plan office where I worked, with tales of my conquests ranging of men between ten to twelve years younger than me, if ever I saw a couple of doubtful faces or heard whispers that I was exaggerating my experiences, I needed only to whip out my phone to produce pictures and texts pertaining to the boy in question.
I have always liked my ‘brown boys’ with a particular penchant from those with origins in India, Pakistan and Sri Lanka. It seems fitting with England competing against India tomorrow in the cricket that the sexual exploit that first springs to mind was a teenage gym bunny I met over Face-party (a more sexual precursor to Facebook) was of Indian descent.
Call me racist or stereotypical but in regard to my social and sexual encounters with Indian men they have always been hugely appreciative of my plumper figure; their eyes widening lustily with all that soft, white, ample flesh against their own dark naked bodies.
I remember his six pack, I remember his prick, but I’m very sorry to say I don’t remember his name.
I had been somewhat precarious about arranging to see him because he was so body conscious. I thought my figure would repulse him. He’d seen pictures of me online but to my shame I had taken a few liberties with my profile photographs which were not only taken from a flattering angle but were a few years old and portrayed me as slightly slimmer version to what I actually was.
Greeting him at Stockwell tube station I had the knot in my stomach of him being either completely insensitive and calling me on the faux photo scam that I myself had been caught out with over my online dating experience or even worse be polite by visiting my house but evade all my sexual overtures.
He had a big smile for me which was slightly reassuring. He was whippet thin. At 5’10, I doubted he weighed more than 9 stone – say 57 kilograms for those using the metric system. I had a couple of stone on him easily and made a mental note not to even attempt going on top of the lad for fear of crushing him. I knew he worked out daily but he appeared to be more of a cardiovascular guy rather than a weights man.
His teenage libido took over the second I opened the door to my bedsit and let him in. He pushed me straight on the bed and started kissing me hungrily. It was quite nice but I had a nasty next door neighbour and didn’t want him peering in or pushing open the door to see what the ruckus was about. As the lithe lad clambered up me like a horny puppy I was trying to wriggle down the bed to kick the door shut with my foot.
He was so light it wasn’t actually that difficult and after hearing the familiar click of the lock, I allowed myself the pleasure of whipping off his shirt to see if his photos were for real.
I am happy to report all was present and correct. His washboard stomach was almost as rock hard as the cock that was pressing into my tummy as he smothered me in kisses. He was going a little overboard and almost licking my face which I wasn’t overly keen on.
Hands were trying to squeeze in the waistband of my already too tight jeans.
In the end I had to tell him to calm down for a bit. His big brown eyes and attempt at designer stubble made him look younger than his nineteen years. Part of me is always flummoxed why these gorgeous, fit boys were scouring the internet to get laid and not making the most of their hedonistic university lifestyle. Whether girls sharing classes with them were too close to see their appeal I don’t know, but I know that in that particular moment I was glad he’d been driven by rejection or alack of pussy to Faceparty and fate had him stumble across my profile.
Looking like a chastised child I took the time to run my hands over his body and it was perfect; fit, firm and fuckable. I slowed the pace by undressing him and was thrilled to see an erection, snug in his black tight legged boxers – undoubtedly with Calvin Klein imprinted on the waist-band. Fashion and image were everything to this guy so why he was hard for me was far beyond my comprehension, but I didn’t draw his attention to the obvious difference in our appearances.
When I removed my top and freed my breasts of the push up bra, he ran his hands over my feminine untoned tummy and suckled my nipples like a baby. It was sweet that his hand was desperate to make contact with what was under my knickers but those jeans weren’t budging for him to slip his fingertips under.
I released the button of the jeans and knew I was spilling out. It possibly would have been prudent to wear control knickers but the tight elastic would only have furthered hindered his endeavour to get between my lips.
When his fingers delved into my wetness he released my breasts from his mouth and groaned. He could tell from the warm slipperiness of my minge that I was ready and willing to take him. Thus he rolled my knickers down and I spread my legs for him to enter.
I have to be brutally honest and say he wasn’t the biggest I had – if I was to be really accurate I’d say he was below average, but it wasn’t size that rendered the session difficult to bear; it was his abundance of energy. The guy was like a Duracell Bunny. At first I’d loved feeling his young cock penetrate me. I loved that he (thought) he was slamming it into me. I loved that his hands were under my shoulders in an attempt to plough deeper. I loved seeing his brown skin glued to mine with sweat from the effort of his exertions. I didn’t love that he continued in missionary for at least a good twenty minutes with nothing else going on – no kissing, no nipple squeezing, no nothing. I could see my remote control on my bedside cabinet and had to refrain from turning on the television to catch up on the news while he made the most of my vagina.
Trying to spice things up, I shifted into doggy-style to hopefully end the spontaneous work-out he was inflicting on me. I had the utmost respect for his dedication to the gym and I appreciated the results but I wasn’t the sporty type (nor will I ever be!). Constant sex in the same position was tedious, unimaginative and unsexy.
The trouble with doggy-style was that there was a lot of white ass he had to plough through to get to my slit. His dick just didn’t have the length to give the position justice, no sooner was he inside me thrusting furiously then he’d slide back out. It was frustrating for me but I was prepared to write the event off. Rather than tell him he’d dislodged I let him continue thrusting between my thighs. He was grunting and moaning so I figured he was enjoying the sensation. In fact I even had time to open the graphic novel I’d had on my pillow to read while he exercised his cardiovascular system. I’m pretty sure he was too heavily into the rutting to notice what I was up to. Once I’d finished reading the adventures of ‘Invincible’ I discreetly closed the comic and put my hands between my legs; clearly the only person bringing me any satisfaction that evening was going to be me.
Having cottoned onto what was happening he went strong for the home run. I obviously was clenching my thighs when I reached my own peak because the next thing I knew his cum was spurting between my clamped thighs. I suddenly realised, because of the stream of semen running down my thighs, he was going to cotton on to the fact that he’d basically been wanking himself between my thighs rather than fucking a youngish cougar for all she was worth.
To avoid any awkwardness afterwards, I was inclined to dress quickly and make up a pathetic excuse about having to meet a friend for a late dinner. I know I came across as rude and dismissive and I hate that I did, but I was prepared to shoulder that condemnation, rather than have him look downcast when he realised his invested energies had done nothing to sexually fulfil me. You take the good with the bad – that’s what happens sometimes in sex. Anyway the lovely boy at the Maharani more than made up for events earlier that evening by giving me complimentary samosas with my take-away curry, but I’ll go into the details of that another time.