The Language Of Lust (Real Sex In Amsterdam)
I’m not sure how the Dutch see themselves from an international perspective, but aside from the fact you can smoke dope legally (although I hear they have cracked down on tourists visiting the country for that specific purpose), I believe the majority of people associate the country with sex. Maybe not the entire country, but when you here the word Amsterdam you tend to think of prostitutes in windows and live sex shows…and smoking dope!
I was fortunate for a time because my brother’s best friend from primary school (who I grew up with) was half Dutch and spent a good few years working in Amsterdam, which meant I always had free accommodation in a rather luxurious gay bachelor pad when I was inclined to pop over and taste the delights on offer. Since then he has decided he isn’t gay and was straight after all (bet his ex-girlfriend was pissed when he rejoined the hetero team). Now he’s married with babies and living in a far more ‘family friendly’ area of the country.
Anyway on my first visit, being my temporary GBFF (Gay Best Friend Forever – well for the duration of the long weekend) he was attentive and showed me all the wonders of the city. Because his father was Dutch he had family further away from Amsterdam and suggested we visit because they had their annual beer festival on – it could make for a good day. Who was I to refuse my host?
I have to confess it was an inspirational idea on his part in respect of immersing me in the culture of the people. I learned to love chips with mayonnaise and that 1 Euro for a pint of beer is not only cheap but will have you wasted in a very short space of time.
My mother had this theory that the Dutch aren’t keen on fat people (my host’s father had never been particularly kind to her) and I have to say my subsequent experience has made me realise her assumption wasn’t too far from the truth.
There I was, drinking and enjoying the atmosphere when a lovely young boy came and spoke to me. He looked about 16, but was perhaps a little older. I was in my mid twenties at the time but it was all harmless fun. He couldn’t speak a word of English and I couldn’t speak a word of Dutch, but when it comes to casual sex, conversation isn’t a necessity for the event to take place. Alcohol, body language and physical attraction is all that’s required. As we drank and became tactile, enjoying the crowds and music we got a little hands on.
He implied to me that he was going to visit the bathroom and signaled for me to mind his drink. I smiled and nodded and off he went. No sooner had he gone than his father, who’d be standing at the table next to us strode over; a man on a mission. Unfortunately for me he could speak English.
‘Stay away and leave my son alone when he returns back.’
I was somewhat taken aback and said I really felt the decision was up to his son. As I voiced this thought his son reappeared and spoke in Dutch to his father. He was irritated by the exchange and stood firm by my side, drinking his beer. His father, physically tried to drag him away and I was obliged to enquire as to what exactly the problem with him having a drink with me was.
‘You’re too fat. You’re grotesque. My son can do much better than you. Stay away, I will find him someone else.’
Sadly back then I wasn’t as good at disguising my emotions publicly as I am now. Outraged, embarrassed, full of self disgust and loathing and more than anything hurt, I retreated immediately, telling me host I needed the toilet. As luck would have it he had missed the entire scene, so I was spared the mortification of him hearing me referred to as ‘fat’ and ‘grotesque’. His 50% Dutch DNA may have had him applauding the man or joining in with the verbal insults about my weight, instead of defending me!
I left the alfresco drinking area and made my way into the heaving bar and headed straight for the ladies cubicle. I can’t deny I needed to break the seal after drinking an extraordinary amount of beer, but in truth I figured by the time I’d had a good old cry over the humiliating fat attack, father and son may have moved on to find someone skinny.
Allowing myself ample recovery time, I decided to venture back out to find my friend. The difficulty was the bar was massive and when I walked out, I couldn’t see my host for love nor money. Without a mobile phone and any concept of the national language, I had no other option other than circling and scrutinizing every patron in the bar in the vain hope that I’d spot him ordering drinks or coming up from the toilets himself. I was at the point of getting panicking when a brutish drunk asked if I wanted a drink.
What I actually wanted was to scream, cry, wail, drop to my knees and beat my breast with both hands but a drink with a hunk from Holland didn’t seem a bad substitute.
Whether it was because he towered over me at 6’4 and was built like a brick shit-house or he preferred a fuller figure I didn’t get an anti-‘fat’ vibe from the man. What I did get was a pint of beer and a rather nice kiss.
There’s something rather sexy about linking your arms around a stranger’s neck and forgetting yourself in the crowd of public onlookers as the kiss gradually develops into a more feverish and intense experience. A foreign tongue in your mouth in a foreign land.
Having been rejected, it was a relief to have it counteracted with lusty intent from another individual. Feeling his erection against my stomach took the sting out of my earlier encounter.
His English was very broken but when coming up for air he asked if I wanted to take a walk along the pier. I didn’t even know there was a pier. My first thoughts were related to the predicament of having lost my brother’s best friend and in that respect my guide; wandering away from where we’d last been together was unlikely to improve my chances of finding him (if anything disappearing would seriously hinder my tracking him down to return me home safely). That said, I knew he wasn’t going anywhere because we were waiting for the appearance of a few of his cousins. As we’d already been separate for over half an hour, I figured a tiny stroll couldn’t hurt.
The throng of an entire town being drunk had been a little overwhelming so I found it a relief that the pier was completely empty. It was only tiny, with few boats but it was pretty with the sun setting. An idyllic location to finish off what we’d started in the bar.
The soft lighting flattered his looks.; it was as if he’d stepped out of a Hollister or Jack Wills advertisement. He was tall and broad and as we resumed kissing I reached under his shirt to find the mass of the man was muscles. The toned frame combined with piercing blue eyes, buzz-cut length brown hair, even lips and a noticeable tan had me forgetting the boy and his fatist father.
Nothing’ beats a proper kissing section. Like when your teenagers and on the brink of embracing your sexuality. Too shy to go straight to sex, but keen to explore so starting at first base with kisses. That’s what his mouth felt like on mine. In my head it was a picture-esque image of a real man kissing me with the water behind and hazy orange skies.
He wasn’t, however, a teenager on the brink of embracing his sexuality. He was a man and I was a woman and as soon as my hands went from under his shirt to trying to edge down into his jeans it was game on.
I kicked myself for having dressed down that day. Had I worn a skirt or dress it would’ve made the sex easier, but I hadn’t. I had to kick off my trainers and lose my cargo pants within close proximity and cross my fingers there’d be no passer-byers to see us and no gusts of wind to sweep my clothes out to sea.
For the first and only time in my life, he actually lifted me onto the top of the rail of the pier which wasn’t to high and without a word smoothly slid in his cock. I have to say, his penis was in perfect portion with his build. Plentiful in length and girth my moaning aloud was a result of instant gratification. As he worked his massive shaft inside me, he refused to kiss but insisted on maintaining eye contact for the duration. His expression was one of determination. Upon each moan released in accordance with his ploughing, he would glide in deeper each time to elicit a more audible groan.
When the ramming became too powerful and I thought he might bang me into the sea, I was obliged to steady myself by wrapping my legs tightly round his waist and my arms round his neck. At this gesture he seemed please with his performance and broke into a smile. It was only then he kissed me. I could feel his hips wanting to jerk harder, but my vice-like thighs were restricting him. Before I knew it he had lifted my off the rail and was fucking me as he stood. It did give him deeper penetration, as well as a thorough work both aerobically and anaerobically. I was concerned his thighs might give way and he wouldn’t have the stamina to keep up the speed while supporting my weight. Full marks – he didn’t.
Bouncing up and down on his boner and his breath warm and panting in my ear had me, literally, dripping and wet for him. My self-consciousness prevented me from responding too ferociously to his vigorous pounding. Truth be told, while I enjoyed the stretch workout he was giving my vagina and the mental image of the stallion mating with me in public view, it was his fucking me without any aid of a bed, rail, wall or toilet that delighted me. Even then, I resisted revealing how much more of his cock I needed in me. I was wanton and wanting, but when you have issues around weight they can impinge on all aspects of your life – including sex.
I was actually relieved when he came. Disappointed because I was loved the rawness and roughness of his technique, but happy that I could clear my mind of the potential guilt I’d have if he gave himself a hernia by choosing that position.
He may not have had much grasp of English, he did fully understand the concept of chivalry and helped collect my clothes and shoes, then kept watch as I dressed. He escorted me back to the pub, bought me a drink and assisted me in circling the venue in search of my friend. Transpires the pub was two premises linked together. I’d gone to the toilets in premise one but exited the toilets into premise two and hadn’t noticed the difference. The alfresco area I’d been scouring wasn’t the section we had been drinking in. As soon as I was in the original alfresco area I saw my host and he waved me over (I was grateful the man that originally ruined my confidence had departed, with his son in tow, seeking a skinnier venue).
‘I take it you were having a poo and not a wee,’ said my friend.
The Sex Tape Conversations (Part Two)
A transcript between me and my husband – three months into marriage. He’d just had a shower and graced our bedroom with his beautiful naked body.
S: Ooooh hello you look good.
S: Seriously you’re lush. How can someone your age have the body of a twenty something.
E: I think there’s a compliment in there somewhere.
S: Oh come on you’re 48 and you’re skin is like perfect, there’s not a hair anywhere. Well actually you could do with a trim. It’s a wonder that snake can find his way out of that forest.
S: I’m just playing. It’s just we only shaved you once over the summer. I only like the voluminous curls in the winter months. Nice to run my hands through something warm on those cold nights.
E: Sounds like you’re more worried about flossing with my pubes.
S: Well it’s bad enough that my own hair gets in the way. A little trim would help. It’s weird when I find myself extracting my hair from your foreskin mid job. It’s even more weird when I find myself having to lick the duvet cover to remove the stringy pubes off my tongue.
E: Well I’ve never prevented you taking a razor to me.
S: True, true. Awww come here for a cuddle. I just can’t resist all those boyish good looks…
E: You look pretty too baby.
S: Don’t say that.
E: You do!
S: No like, just say something nice to me because I’ve said something nice to you.
E: But I mean it.
S: Well it’d mean more if it was a little more spontaneous.
E: Oh well I’m sorry I’m not more romantic.
S: Can you stop that?
S: This admiring yourself in the mirror. Seriously how big headed can you be?
E: I’m not admiring myself. I’m looking at my gut. It’s huge.
S: Oh My God – what the hell. You’ll never be fat – you don’t have the build.
E: I’ve never been this big.
S: Yeah but you were underweight when we met. Now you’re just normal weight. Anyway we look better like this. It’s weird me being morbidly obese and you ano.
E: You’re not obese…and I’m not fucking ano. I just – this stomach.
S: Baby it’s sexy.
E: You’re saying that to make me feel better.
S: I’m not. Listen there’s something really nice about the little soft curve of your tummy. Anyway if you want the truth it really turns me on when I’m licking your balls and I look up and see your tummy. That thatch of hair running to your belly button. It’s hot. Makes me feel pervy.
E: Yeah you like that?
S: I prefer it.
E: Been a while since we’ve had a big session.
S: I know.
E: And I really need one. I wake up feeling so fucking horny at the moment but cause you don’t sleep….
S: What! We’ve not had sex in ages. I’d be happy to have it whatever the time of day.
E: No you reject me.
S: I don’t.
E: You tell me to get off.
S: I do not.
E: You did the other morning.
S: I didn’t I just moaned and the next thing I know your cock was bouncing off my bum cheeks. I hadn’t even opened my eyes. I didn’t say get off, I just said I was sleepy.
E: Yeah but I’m dying for an all nighter. I just don’t know why you’re off sex at the moment.
S: I’m not off sex. I just don’t like myself at the moment…so I can’t figure why anyone would want to have sex with me. But I fancy you…
E: Yeah and I fancy you.
S: But you aren’t going without. I gave you a blow job two days ago.
E: Yes and you do give the best known blow jobs in the universe –
S: And you’ve always said you consider a blow job to constitute having sex. I’ve always said in my view it’s not sex so at the moment you’re having sex and I’m not.
E: Do you know how weird that sounds.
S: I thought you liked blow jobs.
E: I do and I’m happy to have you suck my cock forever but I … wellI wanna be inside you. A girl needs to be fucked senseless once in a while.
S: And I want you to fuck me, I really do. I’m just…I can’t get into a sexy vibe.
E: You liked it last week. (pause) You did like it didn’t you.
S: Yeah I loved it. It was great.
E: And I only used spit to fuck your arse.
S: Which should tell you how much I loved it if you got it in there lube free.
E: It didn’t hurt.
S: No using the vibe in my arse to relax the muscles worked a treat. I have wanted you to fuck my arse so badly but cause we haven’t done it in ages I had serious concerns.
E: That you didn’t want me to do it.
S: No that I’d be so tight you wouldn’t be able to do it.
E: Hun your arse was so relaxed it was like a cunt. Felt amazing.
S: It did and you went for ages. Oh oh and I loved when you put the vibe in my arse to relax it that you were fucking me doggy style at the same time.
E: Felt like you came so hard when I was doing that. You’re kegel muscles were clamping and massaging my cock and that was even before I switched.
S: It was full on. My legs were trembling afterwards. My whole body was tingling. I’m guessing that must be what it’s like to be doubly penetrated. And cause I was on all fours every time you thrusted you pushed the pink vibe in my arse as well. Fucking amazing.
E: Hmmm you sound like you wanna have sex again.
S: Well I paid for it the next day. Seriously this not having sex regularly. The next day I felt like I was giving birth to Mick Jagger. This massive pair of lips protruding from my vagina. They were so swollen it hurt to sit down and to be honest it’s not right that I should be sitting in a cinema with a 4 year old watching ‘Hotel Transylvania’ and thinking about my vagina.
E: You couldn’t shit right for a month.
S: I couldn’t shit right, I couldn’t sit right.
E: If we had more sex you’d get used to being stretched again.
S: Yeah but it’s all about timing isn’t it. You like sex in the morning, but I’m always sleepy.
E: You wan to fuck at night but I’m always sleepy after my evening meal and, you know, we settle down for telly.
S: So we should have afternoon sex. We could do it while your Dad watches the soaps. But you have to let me make you come:
E: No. You know it’s like a tranquilizer. I’ll crash out and not make dinner and then….
S: Yeah but then if I have to wait till after dinner to give you a blow job.
E: I thought you liked my cock.
S: I do but if I have to finish you off after we’ve eaten. Well it’s like, you know I like to do as much washing up as I can before we eat so I can sit down and enjoy tea, cause if I see a mountain of washing up it’s just a chore that spoils my enjoyment of the meal?
S: Well if we do all that fucking and you keep tabs of my multiple orgasms.
E: Your excessive multiple orgasms.
S: Well whatever. Anyway it’s like then I have to make you come and sometimes it takes ages cause you’re a little older, your mind wanders, your Dad interrupts or moves around and kills the mood with the threat of coming upstairs.
E: Well I don’t want it to be a chore or a mercy blow job.
S: You don’t give a fuck about my intention. In fact you once said you get off on having sex with me when I’m not well because you like the idea of me performing under duress.
E: I do. I love it when you’re moaning more because you ache rather than ecstasy. That’s as close to being a sadist as I get.
S: Yeah well if I have to wait till after dinner to give you a blow job…it’s like the washing up. It’s kinda – a little less spontaneous, a little less in the moment, a little more like a job. And then there’s the whole….well you’re thick and I gag and having just eaten there’s the whole reflux thing. I’ve got pureed chicken and chips being upchucked.
E: I like the feel of that.
S: What you like the head of your cock being washed in a regurgitated meal?
E: It’s cool that you choke on my cock. I like feeling the wall of food hit my cock and you struggling to swallow the food down, your eyes streaming.
S: Well it’s not so pleasant for me.
E: But you’ve made me horny and I wasn’t feeling so great before.
S: How comes?
E: Cause I was in the shower and, you know, it’s a little cold. I’m not ashamed to say I’m a grower not a show-er and I looked down and my ball sack is significantly lower than my cock.
S: But it was cold. When it warms up and stuff…your cock’s fine.
E: It’s not though. I’ve got like a droopy ball sack.
S: Oh don’t be stupid. It’s fine. It looks okay. I can’t see a problem. I told you I love licking your balls, putting ‘em in my mouth and stuff.
E: Yeah but it’s a known fact that the older you get the lower your balls hang.
S: So it it’s normal. What’s the problem? I think it looks aesthetically pleasing. It’s not like you’ve got an acorn and your balls are down round your knees.
E: Give it 5 years.
S: Oh come on.
E: I’m being serious. I mean look at it. Look at all this excess skin.
S: Have you ever seen ‘Puppetry of the Penis’ cause the way you’re pulling that looks like a turkey gobbler of something. I think maybe you could do some of the tricks and stuff they do on stage.
E: I’ve not seen it and I don’t wanna fucking be in it. LOOK AT THIS SKIN. That’s not right. I think like I need a scrotum tuck.
S: Are you being serious?
E: Well yes I am.
S: You want a scrotum tuck?
E: Yeah I do. If we get some money together….What would you have a problem with that?
S: Ummm look I gotta be honest. I just don’t see the problem.
E: Yeah but I’m the only man you’ve ever been longer than a night. You don’t have any oter male genitalia that you’re familiar with as a point of reference.
S: That should be a good thing cause if it really is … hanging low … I’m not gonna know any way to complain or make an issue of it. You’re good, you’re in the clear. It can hang exactly where it want. Just hang there. Like your balls are a pendulum on a clock. Hanging in there and I’m just taking it in without passing judgment. In fact if I position myself right sometimes when you’re fucking me from behind your balls actually rub against my clit. Feels fucking amazing. Guaranteed orgasm the minute I feel them swinging in to hit the clit.
E: Sounds like you have an opinion. Seems to me like you’re now saying you think they hang low. Do you think it hangs low?
S: No we’ve just said I couldn’t possible comment. All I can say is, for me, personally I think your balls look great. You know why do you think when I get you to the point where you’re ready to come I like you to kneel over me and finish yourself off. It’s not to be porno and have you cum in my mouth or over my tits – it’s so I can lick and suck your balls. I love ‘em.
E: But if I wanted a scrotum tuck?
S: If you really want one and we get the money then….you know I think it’s fine, I fancy you but if it’s gonna make you feel better I’ll support you.
E: You’ll back me getting a scrotum tuck?
S: Sure yeah of course. I don’t think you need one, but you were there when I got the gastric band and supported me even though you didn’t agree so – go for it baby.
E: Oh my god I can’t believe you think I should get a scrotum tuck.
E: You’d let me go through with it. For fuck’s sake S who’s gonna see my balls. Just you and maybe a doctor. Two people are gonna see my balls and you’d let me go ahead and have a scrotum tuck. I can’t believe you wouldn’t dissuade me. You haven’t even attempted to talk me out of it.
S: I thought you wanted one.
E: I was just testing you. Seeing how you’d react. I don’t want a scrotum tuck. Who the fuck is gonna see my balls to care, but you’d let me have that surgery?
S: I didn’t know what to say. I was trying to be supportive. You know if it was gonna make you happy and all – give you some confidence – who am I to say no? Course you’re right. Only me and a medical professional will see your bits.
E: And that S is my point.
E: I fancy you and I’m the only one you fuck so if I find you sexy what do you care what other people think? Do they actually matter in respect of your weight? Are we braking our entire sex life because of what you think other people, that don’t even fuck you and never will, might think about your looks?
S: Errr so are you sorting your ball sack out or what?
Fat Sex – (online ‘dating’ and the fake photograph scam!)
Since the birth of the internet sex has become much more available to even the most physically unattractive and socially inept persons. Apart from the numerous sites for relationships (E-harmony, Dating Direct and who can forget ‘The girl on the platform smiled…’ ), there are underground sites for people in relationships that aren’t getting sex and have to search elsewhere (Illicit Encounters), to those catering to all variation of fetish (Informed Consent). The internet opened up a whole new sexual playground for the desperate and horny; so if you wanna get laid now all you need is a computer with broadband (or even dial up if you’re still in the stone ages).
But if you’re of a shallow persuasion beware of online frauds. We’ve all heard and seen numerous accounts of the fake online photo but having been caught out myself, I can tell you first-hand it’s a shock to the system – especially if you’re the one accommodating the liaison; the situation becomes all the more stickier.
Way, way back before Facebook there was Face Party. At that time it was mainly frequented by younger internet users, but there was a place for mature frequenters searching for some no strings sex. My understanding of late is that Face Party has become ageist and you need a a special password from another Face Party member to create a profile – it prevents anyone over the age of 15 getting in…although I’m sure Face Party would argue it’s keeping paedophiles out.
I digress. In 2006 Face Party was my main source for young cock (that’s young not under-age!) and many a dalliance was fun and easy, but I too come with a story of being conned by the flattering photo scheme.
There was one gent on there in his very early twenties that caught my eye. He had a chiselled bone structure akin to that of a cat-walk model, was wearing a blue beanie to complement his ever so blue eyes and generally looking hot.
I personally can’t see the point in lying or faking photos. I mean if you’re going to meet at some stage the truth will out. Why risk being rejected in the flesh by lying to get them to meet you? ‘YOU’RE UGLY’ is a lot less hurtful to read on MSN messenger than it is to hear and experience in the flesh. Although clearly my potential beau had yet to be enlightened on this fact.
I always went with a kind picture of myself but was honest stating my body shape was voluptuous and continued on a self deprecating angle in online conversations stressing my size and that no one could possibly want to meet me, let alone have sex with me. This reverse psychology worked well for the most part; though I sometimes wonder if I was a fetish shag because many a man just wanted to ‘fuck a fat bird’ on the premise they tend to be grateful and great cocksuckers – there mouths used to relishing food when presented…and a cock is like a big sausage (or chipolata depending on the man).
Anyway Mr Model Photo fell hook, line and sinker and agreed to meet me. My flatmate agreed to go round to his boyfriend’s place for the night so I had the flat to myself.
Having beautified myself to the best of my ability I eagerly waited for the doorbell to ring and eventually it did. Only when I opened the door the man framed by the doorway was like the hulk; except he wasn’t green. His strong jawline buried among his many jowls, the sharp cheekbones lost in a mound of chub. The beanie was missing which was a shame because I was also visually taking in a large balding bonce accentuated by the fact he hadn’t kept up with shaving his scalp, so there were random wisps of hair growing back on a severely receding widow’s peak hairline. I knew exactly what the baggy skater-boy clothes were hiding; there was no defined muscles under the layers of t-shirts and jumpers or muscular thighs swimming in the excess denim.
For the first time ever rather than leap on my prey and drag it to my bedroom lustily I became a very civilized Australian and asked if he wanted a tea. Anything to distract me from the situation and buy some time to find a reasonable excuse as to why I couldn’t fuck him. And the truth is I’ve never fucked a fat man. It’s never been a fetish of mine. As far as I’m concerned there is only room in any relationship – however brief (often only a night) – for one fat person; and that’s always gonna be me.
But being fat myself I knew if I voiced this shallow view it would be absolutely crushing; it would destroy what little ego he had and it’s always difficult when you’ve been svelte and chubbed up to an unimaginable size. I drew on the age old excuse every girl has in their armoury – ‘I can’t do this – I’m not over my ex.’
He wasn’t unkind. While sympathetic, he encouraged me to consider that perhaps I needed to get under someone to get over someone else. It’s not a philosophy I oppose but in this case…actually in this case he was so polite and I empathized with him so much I thought I should give it a go. Coming close to fucking 100 men surely a slut like me needed a ‘fat fuck’ in her array of sex tales. So I undressed and jumped in bed, all the time convincing myself this shag was for research purposes only.
Mr Model Photo went down on me like a man possessed. It seemed fat people really do know how to use their tongues and bestow adoration and stimulation on whatever pleases their sense of taste. I let him burrow round me like my cunt was a jam doughnut. Then he looked up. And like that scene out of Sex and the City when Miranda dates someone from Weight Watchers and sees ‘herself’ all over his face, I too was now privy to such a sight. Only it wasn’t my juices all over his face that put me off (I quite like the taste of myself as it goes – all that sugar I consume makes me a very sweet delight!) it was the size of his face. Like a giant egg with a face painted on it beaming up at me through my own sizeable thighs; eager to climb up and enter having done a lot of groundwork (foreplay he might call it) to qualify for the main event.
I just couldn’t. Because while I felt for him and didn’t want to reject him, I knew if I slept with him I’d hate myself. I’d have dropped my standards to sleep with him. I’d be saying because I’m fat I can’t be choosy. Whilst I was concerned for his confidence; I had my own self esteem issues to deal with. I slept with good looking men to affirm my own attractiveness. If I compromised on that to spare someone else’s feelings then in essence I was sleeping around because I was a slut and the truth was I didn’t enjoy one night stands. I loved sex and I loved being fucked by beautiful men but deep in my heart I always held hope that they might be ‘the one’ and I knew instinctively this guy wasn’t. A sympathy shag might have him feeling better about himself but it would leave me deflated and feeling worthless; like a slut, skank, whore or whatever word is bestowed on women that sleep around – regardless of the reason behind their behaviour.
I had no choice but to turn on the tears and revert to ‘I can’t do this; I’m not over my ex.’
His first utterance was ‘Is it me? Is it because I’m fat?’ I should’ve said ‘Yes it’s you, yes you’re fat, and I won’t sleep with you because I don’t do fat.’ But I was branded with the same label and in that case honesty wouldn’t have benefited either of us.
Hysterical crying is always a good one to have men running. Only because this guy was so overweight and out of condition he wasn’t capable of running. No he was a public transport man and the tube was a good fifteen minute walk from the flat. He tried to cajole me to try again but I got swept up in my performance and he became impatient realising it wasn’t going to happen.
His departure was not so gentlemanly as his entrance. Let me recap. He led me on with a fake photograph, or more pertinently one that was some years old and far removed from the man he had, quite literally, grown into. I allowed him through the door despite this. Now I hold my hands up and say it possibly wasn’t appropriate for me to allow him to go down on me and not reciprocate – very poor bedroom etiquette on my part – but in my defence I was trying to allow myself to at least give him the opportunity to turn me on to wanting to fuck him. It’s not my fault that he couldn’t.
When ready to leave (not that he had even got round to removing all of his clothes) he asked me to reimburse him for the tube fare – a zone 6 travel card totalling all of £7 in 2006 – because he’d spent so much money on travelling to see me only to not ‘receive the goods.’ Unfortunately my purse was empty so, stunned by the brazenness of the request, I had to go rummaging round my flatmate’s room to see if he had enough change lying round so as I could repay the travel-card. Fortunately my scramblings didn’t uncover any hidden change drawer or piggy bank. I returned to the reception area without the money and with a balance of dignity and genuine effort to be seen to have ‘done the right thing’ to politely send him on his way. He could have a think on the long journey home on his Zone 6 travel-card as to whether or not his Face Party profile pic needed changing. I on the other hand could get my credit card out of my purse and pop over to Nando’s for a takeaway to complete my evening.