Easter is upon us and like ‘Festive Fucking’ it got me thinking as to whether I had any sexual association with this religious holiday. In all honesty Easter has never featured to highly on my sex calendar. I put this down to my parents shoddy attempts at playing Easter Bunny when I was in Grade 7 and still a believer. Seriously mum, you buy duck shaped meringues in front of me during the weekly shop and didn’t think I’d put two and two together when they turned up in my Easter Bunny stash Sunday morning? What I did love was the fact that I disgustedly called Mum up on the ‘Easter Bunny isn’t real’ revelation but continued along nicely for another 6 months steadfastly and stolidly believing in Santa Claus (why I shed so many tears over St Nic, given my previous enlightenment on Easter Bunny will forever remain a mystery).

But I digress. Rather like Christmas sex there is only one story that I can attribute to this Christian celebration – unsurprisingly it took place in Great Yarmouth where L had invited me to spend the weekend in a caravan with her parents.

This is a more a slutty story than an amusing one, but it had its moments.

Having been the recipient of a uneventful but teasing ‘booty call’ on Thursday evening (I had signed up for no strings sex but desperately wanted to be the subject’s girlfriend – the invitation had not been forthcoming) I found myself feeling lonely, used, a little soulless and somewhat depressed at the prospect of four days without human contact or social intercourse – unless you count the cashiers at McDonald’s down the road (which I didn’t).

L, of course, came to the rescue and told me to jump on the train and she’d pick me up from Great Yarmouth station. And I did.

It all started well enough, fresh home-made sandwiches, walnut whips and endless cups of tea provided by L’s hospitable and the mumsiest of mums. A dabble on the camp site’s bingo hall accompanied by a few orange Bacardi Breezer’s and then it was time to head into town to find some less family more femme fatale friendly action.

We found ourselves in the Pier Bar –  Yarmouth’s nightclub for the more mature demographic of the population. Good music (if you like cheesy 80s and 90s pop) not so good talent. However being young and gorgeous at the time I at least had my pick of the …(I hesitate to say boys because with an average age of 45 they were anything but) men in the club.

I opted for my normal type. Dark, broody, good looking and a bit of a loner. Anyone who reads this blog will know I love Norfolk (it forged a pivotal part of my sexual career) but the accents… I’m Australian and I annoy myself with the whining sound of mine so I’m not really in a position to point any fingers, but there’s something about the Norfolk accent that smacks of simpleton. I know there’s a lot of bright, talented people from Norfolk (for fucks sake don’t ask me to name any I’m just trying not to offend here) but when they open there mouths you just think – wait I haven’t said thick…uncomplicated and without any intellectual complexities (so yeah simple). My choice for the night fitted my preferred criteria but when he opened his gob to tell me he was visiting from Norwich for some motorcycle fair I knew I wasn’t in for an evening of scintillating conversation. In fairness though that wasn’t what I was after.

Clearly feeling so stung that my ‘booty call’ from the previous night (he hadn’t professed his undying love for me, he hadn’t even declared that despite the good sex I warranted the label of girlfriend) I opted for finding some comfort in the arms of a stranger. It made for a pleasant change being invited back to someone else’s Bed & Breakfast, rather than me having to worry about how to sneak someone in and then out again. There was something refreshing retro about creeping round the house and shagging silently in a single bed – recapturing my ever eluding youth. I had been caught out with erectile dysfunction. Having hardened the damn thing I was resigned to straddling him and bouncing up and down until the point of ejaculation, which given his alcohol related numbness took some time. As his hands reached up to juggle my breasts and stroke me from my neck, down to my stomach around to my behind, all I could do was try in my mind to distract myself and escape the pain my thighs were feelings at hefting my weight rhythmically up and down on his cock. I wished I had been more adventurous or assertive enough to request doing the reverse cowgirl. Had I done so, I may have been able to pick up a magazine and lazily leaf through it, avoiding hurting his feelings as I methodically went through the motions. Still maintaining the position and with impeccable timing I reached my goal which was not give him an orgasm but rather give me a window of opportunity to head back to the caravan.

Yarmouth is small and I had ample time to saunter from the seafront B&B to caravan site without fear of attack or coming in looking like I’d just been having some drunken fuck.

Saturday shone bright and once again I was faced with a day of cosying on the couch with L and I nursing our respective hangovers and eating for England. I was grateful for the abundance of comfort food…until Saturday evening. As I slipped into a new little black dress I purchased earlier that day (from George @ ASDA I have no shame in you knowing) a button round my tummy shot off, pinging off the caravan wall. L and I were not classical housewives and in this instance it was L’s father who was left with the task of sewing the button back on for me. Knowing how fragile the outfit now was I realised instead of being a ‘slutty no-knickers’ night it would be an ‘uncomfortable unsexy control knickers’ night.

L and I had structure and routine to our nights in Yarmouth – particularly where Vauxhall Caravan Park was involved – more Bingo, more Bacardi Breezers, more cheesy nightclubs on Britannia Pier.

We headed further north up the pier in search of a younger clientèle. I felt out of my depth. Unfamiliar with the music I was painfully aware we were the eldest in the club so my potent sexual advances were a little more contained and restrained. In fact I did the almost desperate male thing and waited til the end of the evening to select from the dregs – assured someone would be desperate enough for a shag. At least they would be young and there is an inescapable beauty in youth however the face is painted.

My guy was a shy guy. He was 23, short (my height 5’6), slim but taut, blond hair and a lean, sharp face with a smattering of freckles across his nose. He was cute but his obvious nervousness made him a sweet choice. He appeared flattered that he was the object of my attention and blatant sexual advances which further endeared him to me. Transpired it was his birthday. Somewhere from under his long eyelashes as he studied the floor I deciphered his mumblings and retrieved an invite back to his house. 3 in 3 nights – it seemed a little foolish to interrupt my run so I agreed. L headed home and I said I’d catch up in good time.

I have to say I was more than impressed when he hailed a cab to take us home. Until I realised he didn’t live in Great Yarmouth. He resided in Waxham which was 15 miles north of Great Yarmouth. I suddenly felt a little uneasy: a) I wasn’t sure I had cash for a cab home (let alone enough to split the cost on arrival) and b) I had no idea where I was or any familiarity with the town. This was now an encounter that could not afford to go wrong.

The residence was a sizeable cottage. This was not a mummy’s boy living at home. In fact he worked in a mountain rescue team which explained his lithe, ripped body – and a strength you wouldn’t expect on someone so slight. On the tour I saw two large bedrooms upstairs, with polished wooden floors and minimalistic male décor, a bathroom that would have been glorious if it hadn’t been inhabited by two boys who has never been introduced to Toilet Duck or Spray & Wipe, a farmhouse kitchen and large cosy living room.

You know how you have the odd one (or hundred in my case) night stand and the other person says ‘I don’t usually do this’ and you inwardly roll your eyes thinking ‘I’m not judging your moral stance on sex so cut the bullshit’? This guy didn’t say it but I knew it was true. It was all so gentle and unpractised and tentative. Immature approaches like turning on the huge flat screen TV, flicking through the channels and ‘stumbling’ across some already paid for porn channels. The porn may have got him in the mood but it was his inexperience that turned me on. It wasn’t long before he was clambering on top of me on the couch pressing his erection against me. I took the the lead and suggested we go upstairs.

Then something strange happened. He received a text and then phone calls. A string of them completely interrupting the mood and he seemed determined to ignore them. Soon enough the phone was ringing and at the same time the caller was beating on the door. Fortunately the door of the cottage had withstood some hundred years of knockers so this caller wasn’t going to get in but he wasn’t to be deterred. I was told it was his flatmate, who was drunk and had forgotten his keys, but there was no explanation as to why he wasn’t letting the flatmate in. I can only speculate: 1) he didn’t want the flatmate cramping his style; 2) the flatmate was a relation or landlord disapproving of this type of activity or; 3) I was too much of an eyesore to be presented as a sexual conquest to his friend. Either way after much ringing and beating of the door (‘I know you’re in there I can hear your phone ringing, please let me in’) the unwelcome resident had no option but to retreat. God knows where he spent the night but I bet he hasn’t lost his keys in a drunken Easter stupor since then.

Back to bed, fully clothed, embracing, grinding against each other, kissing and me desperate for cock. Once again I was left to take the initiative but there was something sexy about having to undress him, releasing his huge erection. His cock was nowhere near as slender or slim as his build but despite its size and strength he was not using it like a power tool. Very gently and traditionally he climbed on and began to fuck me missionary style. It was good sex. Delectable to have something thick and throbbing inside but its insertion so tender. His entire body defined and hard but pressing intimately against my own out of condition soft body. I found the whole unfrenzied approach had me frantic for more of him. So I blurted out ‘did you want to change position?’. His shy, appreciative demeanour in tact he nodded gratefully saying ‘yeah if you want to that’d be really good’.

I sprung onto all fours, only to feel his slow deliberate hands gripping my hips and him sliding into me as thoughtfully as ever. But in this position I regained some control and could at least experience him at the depth and speed I wanted. Having put myself into a more dominate position seemed to appeal to him as he got vocal about his enjoyment of the situation. It wasn’t long till he was wildly thrusting and I was screaming out ‘I’m not on the pill’ so he confusedly ejaculated – outside of me.  I suspect that particular orgasmic confessional utterance from me may have dampened his orgasm somewhat.

And then, like having been shot with a tranquilliser he crashed. Straight asleep. Lucky he’d been so romantic in the sex or the lack of pillow talk would’ve hurt. But with cum dripping between my thighs, a mobile phone flashing a time that was later than I thought and the realisation that I had no idea where I was or how to get home…I knew it was prudent to depart promptly. L’s parents were early risers and a missing girl would paint an accurate picture as to my absence from the caravan.

He was sweet and the sex was good so he deserved a goodbye. Only he didn’t want one – at least not then. I tried to wake him but he was just moaning and telling me he wanted to sleep. In fairness he tried to grab me for a hug but I was on a tight schedule and there was no time for ‘the morning after the night before’ pleasantries.

I hoped my quick brusque kiss and thank you pervaded his lucid dreaming. I went downstairs and the door was locked –  double locked. I could release the bolts but the door was locked from the inside and I had no way out. I searched the house for another exit but nothing. No door, no window for me to escape from. I suppose had there been an alternate way in his flatmate would have used it earlier on. The minutes were speeding by every time I looked at my phone.

I rushed back upstairs and tried to wake him but the powerful orgasm had rendered him useless. I heard my voice raise an octave in pitch and becoming a lot louder. Trying to be assertive and nice. Begging for the keys. He was clearly annoyed at my attempts to wake him and murmured to just let myself out. I tried to explain I couldn’t because the door was double locked and before collapsing into a deep sleep he said the keys were downstairs.

My heels clattered all the way down the stairs again and I searched the kitchen high and low for the keys. Literally. I could feel myself getting hysterical. I was a prisoner in this house. The house of good, gentle sex but still a prisoner. I was literally on my hands and knees again (without cock or orgasm) looking for the keys. Checking the sugar pot and fruit bowls. I even ventured into the living room and was hurling the cushions from the sofa and checking down its sides. There were no keys.

By now I was in tears. I was shoulder charging the door but realised it opened inwards not outwards so that was not going to work. I dragged myself upstairs. And tried talking to him, but the sandman had taken him far from me. I was so desperate I thought my only option was to physically carry him downstairs to open the door. I began to lift him but he was a dead weight. How could an elfin like creature weigh so much? As I lifted him into my arms he slipped out and slouched on the bed. I felt myself getting rougher, hoisting him up under his arm pits, realising I just didn’t have the strength to do this. I had no option but to shout as I did my best to manipulate his body into a position so uncomfortable he would have to conform to my efforts and come down to help me. I grabbed his legs and dragged him from laying vertically in the bed to horizontally, his legs now dangling out of the bed. I climbed round the other side of the bed and dug my hands under his back to push him into an upright sitting position. Each time he tried to slump to the side I positioned him straight again. Eventually I was behind him, my legs spread round him in a sitting position so  his torso rested against mine. I bumped him as far  forward to the bed edge as possible and began to try and stand myself up and, with my arms secured round his waist, dragging him with me.

My plan wasn’t executed how I hoped but my efforts were rewarded with him groaning, extracting himself from me and standing, unaided, to head down the stairs. He went to the door and tried to open it.

‘See!’

‘Oh you were right. I have double locked the door, sorry.’

‘It’s fine, can you let me out though.’

‘Mmmmm dunno where the keys are.’ His eyelids were getting heavy again and he seemed to be eyeing up the couch.

‘Please. I begged I have to go.’

He headed up the stairs and I saw him sitting back down on the bed. I wanted to drop to my knees, look to the heavens and scream ‘Noooooooooooooooooo,’ but he had picked up his jeans and I heard a jangle. I grabbed the jeans from him as he fell back on the bed. The keys were in his pocket. I raced down the stairs with renewed vigour and after a few tries found the key to unlock the door.

Praise be. I raced out to feel the early morning sun hitting my face. I breathed in the country air, or was it sea air – where the fuck was I?

Back inside the house I rifled round the kitchen until I found letters addressed to the house. 118118 may cost a fortune and be crap but they did get a cab winging its way to the address on the letters, which as I astutely guessed was my hidden location. The driver, possibly glad to have a customer that had been sobered up by a bout of unintentional kidnapping and wasn’t abusive, happily stopped at a cashpoint so he could be paid.

I got back in the caravan at 6.15am and quarter of an hour later L’s mother was making tea and saying she had stayed in her room for as long as possible so’s not to wake me sleeping in the lounge. Whether my entrance had been obvious or not was irrelevant. I’d been in the van when they came out so my character and morals couldn’t be called into question – well at least not directly.

Later that afternoon I headed back to London to give L some quality family time and me a much needed break from Yarmouth, its dramas and my own insatiable libido. On the train ride back a text bleeped out in the carriage from my ‘booty call boy’ asking if I was going to be in that night…