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.
‘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…
One of the main problems in going for a more casual approach to sex is that you run the risk of encountering members of the opposite sex (if that’s your persuasion) who have a different set of values to yourself or even just different views on what is socially acceptable or not.
I remember a friend, K, telling me once he was going in for an anal attack on a one night stand and as his cock entered Vegemite valley, the guy receiving tried to force out a poo. Yes he tried to poo onto a cock that was inside him. So outraged was K that he flung him out onto the street – I’m guessing definitely without a cab fare and I suspect without directions to the nearest public transport.
I thought this behaviour was excessive. Not because I’m into scat (it’s one of three things I don’t indulge in) but because it seemed a little bit harsh, dare I say an over-reaction. Don’t get me wrong, had I been in possession of potentially pooey penis I wouldn’t have been best pleased but how is anyone to know what a one night stand is into? K felt it just wasn’t something you should do on a one night stand or at best you would at least discuss it with your bed partner for the evening before straining away.
I always felt if it’s a one night stand and I was never going to see again, then I could do as I please – try to get the best and most out of them. But in doing so, if it’s not one’s own house their wrath and reaction is one you have to deal with. Which means you either restrain from anything too unconventional or kinky, always take them back to your place so you’re in charge or take your chances.
I used to take my chances.
That wasn’t always the best idea for someone as thin-skinned as myself.
I remember when we were doing regular jaunts to Great Yarmouth one summer I fell for a Hugh Grant type fop – a Londoner in Great Yarmouth, wearing a scarf in a nightclub and looking like someone I used to fancy. I got involved in a rather public intense and deep display of kissing one night but thanks to my dalliance with another man earlier in the evening my outrageous flirting resulted in the first guy becoming possessive, aggressive and looking to rough it out in the car park to decide the matter. Crushingly enough for me, my lovely fop held a hand up to stop him and said ‘you can have her!’ – just as the song petered out for the entire club to witness my being cast away like a used tissue. I was left with a dented pride and the predicament of fending off the attentions of someone I wasn’t even keen on.
But, as Great Yarmouth is a small town, the fop came back. The next time though I was actually in the midst of some imagined love affair with a married man and desperate to try and be faithful. But with an unfinished conquest my monogamous stance went flying out the door. Fortunately for me he was very drunk and my boobs that night were particularly large, soft, white, buoyant, perky and exposed. As I kissed him outside the toilet, the waft of vomit on his breath from what had obviously been a long day of drinking, I tried a little of my Australian charm. It worked – in private. Transpired he was engaged and his father-in-law to be was also inside the club. Not to be deterred I threw my relationship in his face and that was enough of a carrot for him to talk me into leaving the club early.
I should have been prepared for his thoughtless words given his quick disposal of me on our first meeting. As we strolled along the beach, hand in hand, walking back to his house he said ‘I really want to have sex with you but I just want to make sure it’s okay given your condition. How many months gone are you?’
I wasn’t pregnant AND I was wearing control knickers – clearly the knickers were not doing their job of holding in my tum. Perhaps I should have been more outraged or mortified but when you take your chances you have to expect these things…and no I didn’t go out and buy an abdominizor nor start a regime of excessive sit-ups each day.
Anyway he wasn’t all insensitive. He had Fosters flop and was unable to ejaculate. In the end I gave up, finished myself off and began to make a move. Rather politely he asked if I wouldn’t mind him wanking off (he clearly still believed he’d be able to orgasm) to the image of me after my departure. As if I had some control over his imagination or could prevent him from storing me in his wank bank. Flattered (anything was an improvement on the pregnancy blunder) I left feeling rather pleased with myself.
It seemed physics were in full flight that night and indeed every action is accompanied by a reaction of equal magnitude but opposite direction. Thus his verbalising the high degree to which he found my faux pregnant form attractive cancelled out any offence taken at him mistaking me for being with child.
Yet another time, a birthday in fact, I found myself at the in the Roadhouse in Covent Garden, a notorious cattle market where almost anyone could pull amongst the 80s rock anthems and array of fluorescent cocktails. It must’ve been somewhat slim pickings for me that night because I recall deciding my birthday fuck would be a ginger – normally recounting this story I would describe him as strawberry blonde but…the pubes gave it all a way.
Having done his best for the ginger brigade and in fairness he did fuck me all night – I found myself for the majority of the night pogo-ing on top of an albino cock and a springing nest of gingerness. At one stage he had me on all fours like a tomcat mounting a fat persian. He was thrusting so hard I could feel my uterus blowing up like a balloon – to the point of bursting. Desperately trying to angle myself to temper the wind I could hear whooshing into my vagina.
Once finished (his sperm was white not ginger) I somehow managed to turn over onto my side ala Kate Winslet when being sketched by Leo Dicaprio in Titanic. The only problem was the bubble of a fanny fart bobbing at the entrance of my vagina. I knew it was coming and decided as we were both adults and given the pumping he’d given me it wasn’t to be unexpected. So I parted my legs slightly to let the excess air out. I had intended it to be a burp but it was a bellow – a long aching, rip-roaring non stop vibrato fanny fart tearing into the silence of the night. Not only did we hear it but I suspect all the neighbours did as well. Neither of us mentioned it and went straight to sleep.
When he woke early the next morning to find me frantically scrambling in my clothes with less than half an hour to get to work he scrutinised me carefully (minus beer goggles and without the ringing sound of my front bottom flatulence) and said ‘wow you’re actually really pretty – fancy fucking again tonight?’
The answer was a resounding ‘No’. NOT because of the back-handed compliment – he was clearly as desperate as I was by the end of the evening – but because I was due to fly back to Australia that day…also my reputation couldn’t survive being attached to someone with such vibrant hair.
You’d think now being engaged I would no longer have to concern myself with these types issues in respect of my sex life but sadly it’s not the case. Whilst our current sex life is non-existent due to an excessive amount of stressful external circumstances that doesn’t mean I haven’t in the past, nor will in the future avoid these kind of awkward sexual situations. The fact they’re unrelenting and delivered ferociously are magnified in the realisation that these ‘playful quips’ will haunt our bedroom ‘to death do us part’….more next time on the 22nd March 2012.
Throughout the numerous liaisons in my twenties, I can’t honestly say I viewed every one of them as a one night stand – a story attached to a penis to recount when I hit my 30s and began settling down a little. But somewhere the naïve romantic in me was half-heartedly hoping that shag-of-the-night might leap from close encounter of the genital kind straight to husband-to-be.
For the most part this wistful ideation remained firmly locked in my head (or heart) but – emotionally expressive type that I am – I would confide these traditional and at time stalker-esque notions to my best friend L.
Once we’d outgrown the Norbury, we spent a lot of time, especially come summer, clubbing in Great Yarmouth on an unhealthily regular basis.
It had always been my and L’s dream to find two friends (or brothers) and marry them. We figured this convenient arrangement would mean we ourselves would remain best of friends. Fate though has dealt us a hand where we didn’t meet such a duo and immediately espouse them. Thus whilst still being incredibly close, time, relationships and children have meant that intimacy has dissipated somewhat – though friendship and shared past experience has not. Sad but I suppose life moves on….and it’s a real bitch getting from South East London to Essex.
Anyway that was the plan back in our early to mid 20s…and beyond. On one particular occasion however the Universe threw us a lifeline.
L was…shall we say encouraging(?) an on again off again long term flame from Great Yarmouth, but making no promises. They’d always try and implement the ‘let’s be friends’ façade which worked well for L – she was the one that always dumped him and pulled the strings so her heart was somewhat safer. Kenny on the other hand, while desperately trying to behave platonically, could never quite get over his intense feelings for his former love. Rather than just telling her he couldn’t be do it, or even just staying away, he would attempt to play the game they’d set up only to find himself awfully wounded when he found L enjoying her single status. I felt for him, but since she didn’t exactly lie to him, nor, if I’m honest, did she actively discourage his advances. She had nonetheless verbally confirmed the state of play.
And that’s what L and I wanted; to play!
And we did.
There are two clubs on Great Yarmouth’s main pier, the Britannia.
The first and aptly named ‘Pier Tavern’ as you approach Britannia, is for the more mature folks and has a resounding set-list of cheesy songs from the 60s to the noughties. The other – ‘Long John’s Show Bar’ at the pier end stretches out over sand and sea. ‘Long John’s’ was where the younger set of gentlefolk inhabited; it was bigger, had a long bar and played modern music – some to my and L’s taste but only for short durations.
In true form what started out as a ‘friends night out’ ended with Kenny becoming rather irate at the attention L were receiving and to mask his feelings he began acting like a complete …..what’s that word again that rhymes with ‘hunt’?
So L and I played hide and seek leaving him with the fogies in the Pier Tavern, ourselves hot-footing it up the pier, (as best we could with our high heels getting caught in the spaces between the planks of wood), to Long John’s to join the pretty young things there. Fortunately this establishment seemed more attractive to tourists and we stumbled across what I vaguely recall was a stag night – or just a boys weekend of some sort. Despising the music, but eager to avoid Kenny we were grateful to the invite at the table this group had colonised outside the club.
As the only two girls present we seemed to have quite a choice. Two men were vying for L’s attention but I was happy with the guy that approached me. He was named Ben and in my mind he seemed like a shorter, slightly less attractive version of Andrew Lincoln of ‘Walking Dead’, ‘This Life’ and ‘Teachers’ fame. There also seemed to be a sincerity to him which I think now was actually a combination of desperation and beer goggles. He was all too keen to exchange numbers and reiterate how he was looking for a girlfriend. This caught me hook, line and sinker. Once the club closed we didn’t really want the party to end.
L had hooked up with a beefy blonde sweetheart called ‘C’ who was, without doubt the personality of the two with a masculine caring aura around him. This put me at ease and made me feel like he could quite competently look after out little quartet.
Determined to carry on the proceedings, L confessed she’d borrowed Kenny’s house key earlier in the night mid-argument with him and suggested we return to his flat to retrieve the booze we’d left there, pinch a bottle opener then head back to the beach for a very early picnic breakfast of…..alcopops.
Being young, brazen and unashamed we pulled it off. Kenny, desperate to keep dignity intact and not weep at L having found some amatory fun, girded his loins and (I’d like to say while managing a watery smile) verbally abused us but not to the extent of jeopardising the remaining strands of his relationship with L. We marched out waving the bottle opener victoriously, confident our overnight bags would not be on the street when we returned.
Trooping off to the beach, we separated with our respective men.
I was fortunate enough to find some children had dug a sizeable bunker in the sand – it was an at least two foot deep hole that could spaciously accommodate myself, Ben, four bottles of Smirnoff Ice and plenty of drunken lust.
Now, boyfriend, one night stand, or anything else, what I do expect is sex. And my kind of sex is real. Honest to goodness vaginal penetration – a pushing, grinding, pounding, slapping full flesh fest. I didn’t get it. My magical musician hands, now so used to firmly and rhythmically playing an array of instruments (some musical, some fleshy and snake-like) not only slipped off Ben’s pants but also found their way to his cock, kissing him passionately as the sun rose over Yarmouth beach. By then I was so deft in the delivery of hand-jobs that within a minute I felt that familiar, warm, sticky fluid seeping over my hand. I didn’t feel I could wipe it on his clothes and I didn’t want to soil my own, and the more I tried brushing it off the more my hand began to look like it was transforming into some sort of sand sculpture.
You’d think, wouldn’t you, that having performed such a successful operation I might at least have gotten a cuddle, a kiss….or even a cheeky finger or two; something, anything – some reward…..even a bloody ‘thank you’ would’ve been welcome. But other than sand on my hand all I did get was a quiet resentment at his embarrassment for his premature and amateur shot. Suddenly the bunker didn’t feel like such a romantic hidey-hole anymore – it felt full of his inadequacy. Him thinking it, me knowing it. Not that I was a bitch. I couldn’t have been more pleasant or polite. Waved away his excuses, told him it wasn’t unusual, said I was happy, tried to kiss and engage in conversation. But it it seemed though my magic hands had once again performed the amazing trick of turning a guy off instantly. Fortunately I was youthful and unknowing. I assumed my words and his advances of earlier still meant something and held some sort of genuineness.
Despite the exchange of numbers and promises of ‘I’ll text you’, he didn’t. Worse still, throwing my own dignity aside, I attempted to initiate contact with him. Occasionally he’d return a message or two but would steadfastly apply the ‘three day’ rule before deeming me worthy of a response.
C on the other hand proved the knight in shining armour. His words to L had actually been honest and earnest. He had wanted to see her again and also respected as her best mate that to make such a thing happen it would have to be a package deal (L and I didn’t really do ‘alone’ back in those days). So it was he who persuaded Ben to head back to Yarmouth in order to have a weekend with us.
Ben had flung a few crumbs of attention my way in the shape of the odd text, but there was no call and only cold confirmation he would be attending that forthcoming weekend.
It was actually the first time L and I had travelled anywhere out of London for a real-life double date and the fact our dates were friends…..we still held firm to our fantasy of marrying two best mates in order that our own intense relationship would remain unchanged. Thus we let ourselves dream.
When we finally arrived and went to meet them, we realised we were in fact dating the male equivalents of ourselves. Like L, C was well dressed, calm, thoughtful, reserved, intelligent, generous, happy, content in the company and wanting to enjoy the evening. Ben, on the other hand, was a mass of neuroses, already stupidly drunk to build up his confidence, talking loudly, quickly and over exaggerating any and every story he told, wanting to be the focus of attention and not quite knowing how to behave when we lavished it upon him. His words were his costume and my words complimented my little black dress as well (I was funnier than him though – or so I like to think).
Not unexpectedly as the evening progressed we all got drunk. I could almost see Ben’s beer goggles growing thicker and thicker with each new bar entered and each new cocktail served. His body language changed from clinging to C like a child to gradually moving closer and closer to me, till he eventually whispered ‘I was really dreading this weekend, but I’m glad you came. You’re real pretty.’
Despite everything that had happened upon and since our introductory night, I could close my eyes, breathe out and start believing again. Hell by the end of the night we were holding hands stumbling from club to club (and I’d always said holding hands was naff and embarrassing).
When the clubs closed we headed back to the bed and breakfast we were all sharing. The nosy owners had been quite keen to meet us and guess if their pairings had been correct or not. I suspect they got it wrong. Because C was broader and more solid they would’ve assumed he was with the fat girl (me), Ben being slighter and prettier would likely have been matched with L.
I’m not sure how everything was sorted, whether there was any discretion involved or not, but because L and I had the double bed, Ben and I parked ourselves in this room immediately. L was happy to take the twin room allocated to the boys, allowing intimacy but with physical restraints to inhibit any unwanted libidinous compulsions that might potentially arise.
I began a ritual routine. Cuddle on bed, begin kissing, remove shirt, kiss chest, rub hand down crutch, undo zipper or fly buttons, reach in for…
‘Don’t touch it!’
My hand flew out of his pants like his crotch was made of molten lava…..or riddled with warts…or was in fact a vagina.
He was breathing heavily and muttered ‘I don’t want to come too quickly. Tonight it’s my turn to pleasure you.’
I couldn’t argue with that, nor did I want to – in fact I kinda thought he owed it to me. Suddenly I felt the warmth of his averagely satisfying penis enter me. I can’t honestly say there was a lot of pushing, grinding, pounding and slapping, but there was penetration and it wasn’t unwelcome. For me nothing felt better, more life affirming, more sexy than having the weight of someone attractive on me as they slipped in and out of my own warm, wetness. It was perfunctory though. I think that was the best he could manage at the time because clearly he was still racked with guilt over the sand-pit incident and had a set idea of how to make amends which was distracting him from any ‘game’ in bed. He was all too keen to visit my vagina to reciprocate the wonderful gift I’d bestowed upon him on our previous ‘date’ (it was a date in my mind; I appreciate it was a one night thing now).
I let him try. What woman wouldn’t – straight or gay. It feels good….unless you’ve had a particularly nasty prior sexual experience. But my god it seemed to drag. In fact, mid-way through, on all fours, faced buried between my legs, his arse raised proudly wiggling at the door, L and C thoughtfully entered the room to deliver my kebab and chips (not sure Ben had put an order in himself). The sight of the full moon up so close and personal had the two of them fleeing. I could hear their heavy, hurried footsteps and much giggling on the flight of stairs, escaping the room but, I assume, never able to escape the picture of Ben’s bare white bum from their mind’s eye (and no I haven’t offered to pay for therapy – learn to knock guys….or did you?).
In fairness Ben was committed, and, irrespective of the laughable interruption, he soldiered on like a faithful cavalier. But it wasn’t doing it for me. I was still chuckling at L and’ C’s faces and worrying whether my chips would still be warm enough to eat when the deed was finally done. I actually wanted to push his face away and finish myself off one handed. It would be infinitely quicker and I suspected more intense – plus I might still be able to devour that kebab and chips and savour the flavour. But when I thought about how inadequate he felt and how hard he was trying my softened heart knew I had but one option – to fake it.
So I did. I began moaning and tried wriggling orgasmically like I’d seen in my brother’s old porn movie collection. It did the trick. He came up beaming…or maybe it was the gleam of moisture on his face.
‘Did I make you come?’
I nodded enthusiastically. He looked so pleased I knew I’d done the right to thing. His fragile male ego saved, he was cuddling me again and talking about the future and I lay there contentedly thinking ‘finally L and I are going to date best friends, this is going to be my boyfriend’. But I was a romantic and boyfriends became husbands, and husbands were people you slept with forever – for the rest of your life, the ONLY one (good catholic girl that I was). And he hadn’t made me come. Hadn’t even come close. God if he believed he had, then chances were he was never going to be able to because he thought he could and didn’t need instruction. So how could I overcome such an obstacle in future? No, that would never do. If we were going to get married we had to have a good sex life. I had to be honest with him. Honesty in relationships is a good thing, right? It’s what makes them last.
‘Ben, BEN – are you asleep?’
‘You didn’t make me come.’
‘I know you tried and everything but I just want to be honest with you. You didn’t make me come earlier. I didn’t have an orgasm.’
His faced crashed harder than a Qantas Airbus.
I’d said he’d given me an orgasm then taken it back. It’s one of the worst things you can do to a guy. The epitome of bad bedroom language. A golden rule I’d broken in the silence of a quiet summer morning in Yarmouth. Honesty didn’t save that relationship.
I never saw Ben again.
Often in youthful exuberance one’s sexual (mis)adventures occur more by mistake than good management. While some of us carefully plan out and detail the perfect execution of our first introduction to something that strays (even if only mildly) from the path of playing it safe and straight, others – including myself, usually in a drunken and slovenly state – find ourselves inadvertently playing out some particular kink or fetish we (or perhaps nature itself) never intended.
This was certainly the case with the boy, Raymond.
The new millennium was the start of a good two year run for me, but by the time Raymond appeared I was nursing my first heartbreak – and as any woman knows first loves are the worst to recover from (if ever we truly do). Certainly for me the wound was still very raw. L and I decided (whether in a bid to mend my broken heart or just get ourselves a change of scenery) to head to Great Yarmouth for a week.
Great Yarmouth, you’ll find, is writ large in this saga – indeed each and every summer as Ra took flight we were beckoned for end-of-week forays to that most traditional of seaside towns. It was L’s routine and regular holiday destination as a child, a world to which I was then introduced, at first dubiously but later fully embraced. So after T broke the news he was back on with his alleged ex-fiancé, a girls’ holiday was swiftly arranged.
It was arranged (and funded) by questionable means with L and I taking advantage of our position in the Company for which we worked, under the guise of my having won a holiday to Ireland. Earlier I’d genuinely won one to Sweden but in order that we could both get the same week off, we’d concocted another prize-winning break, so dates were set and we had both to be off work the same time. I must’ve seemed the canniest person at the company just then. That is until my mother called reception and was told I was on holiday, to which she responded ‘Oh I forgot the girls are camping inYarmouth.’ Even though we’d gone to the bother of buying fake Irish souvenirs I suspect our cover had been well and truly been blown by our return to work.
Nonetheless, L and duly I booked onto the Vauxhall Caravan Site for the town’s ‘Gala Week’, the glamorous last seven days of the holiday season. The site was fully booked and we had no option but to take a small pitch and buy ourselves a tent. There’s a whole other story about that week – one deserving of a book in itself – so I’ll leave this for another time.
Anyway, with the tatters of my heart in tow (it was somewhat ironic and possibly telling I burst into tears by the Vaseline shelf at Superdrug onYarmouth High Street) we made our way onto Vauxhall bringing more than tantrums and tiaras that year.
In my misguided and desperate state I decided to opt for the philosophy of ‘the quickest way to get over someone is to get under another’ and went on the prowl. At that time we were young enough to do so – later we were ill-placed on a site catering to ‘families’ as opposed to single girls. But at twenty two there were enough young men to keep us interested so while L focussed her attentions on a security guard (dare I say guards Mrs J?) I played for patrons as opposed to the staff.
And there among them he was – the boy Raymond. 6’2”, carrying just a little puppy fat, chubby but cute, like he’d lose both in time to come. He was 18 and I was secretly pleased he’d chosen me, despite his father trying to persuade him to consider a few other options available that year. Although Dad was British, Raymond was fromHollandand English was by no means his forte. I managed to gather he’d slept with four women. I’d slept with six men so it seemed an even enough match. I liked his boyish looks and was hugely flattered by the attention. That is until he kissed me, grabbed my quadruple Baileys, threw it away, then pushed a chewing gum into my mouth and told me I was reeking of booze. His English did not let him down at that moment.
L went ballistic at the four shots of Baileys rocketing across the car park (I wasn’t best pleased myself, but cock always came before alcohol even then, so I gritted my teeth and smiled sweetly through the comet of creamy beige). L initiated an all-out war of words til he promised to replace all drinks the next night.
Thus, given the circumstances – he Dutch and eighteen, me twenty two, drunk and a bit of a mess but both full of a youthful sexual zeal – I can’t quite remember exactly what night I had my first foray into to watersports.
I suspect though it wasn’t that first night (Raymond, his father and two workmates were staying in the chalets). Raymond and I got as far as the campsite male toilets before surrendering to a bout of frenetic, foolhardy sex. It was all locked chipboard doors, hitching up of skirts, knickers down, him trying to undress himself enough to penetrate me in the restrictive space of the gentleman’s cubicle kind of thing. I really had no idea if this could be classed as good or bad sex. But it was fun, the location was (then anyway) unusual, and it had an element of danger because we knew the grounds were patrolled.
But our age, the fact we were with there with companions and the barrier of language did complicate matters somewhat. We knew we had to get home and the site was large and difficult to navigate especially when drunk or needing to guide someone who was. And the fumblings, however short and inadequate, had us still hungry for each other. We were at that delightful time when kissing for ages is as physically pleasurable as the act of intercourse itself. We mooched around the site, all longing snogs and yearning hands groping for what had been unclothed only moments earlier. Until eventually we found our respective trails back to habitation.
The second night, I suspect was the night ‘it’ happened. The scene was exactly as it had been the night before. L and I would primp and preen ourselves before descending on the Regency Room (this was the location for ‘family entertainment’) to flirt outrageously with everyone we took a fancy to. I made sure I secured Raymond’s attention early on (just so we were both clear sex was on for later) and enjoyed the rest of the evening.
Once again by the end of the night, we were drunk and slovenly. L, who if you know her, is not suited to the harsher side of life so a little high maintenance for the tent, headed back to the apartment of her beau-to-be. I don’t recall her spending even one night in that tent for which we had both shared costs – not that I can blame her after I’d sullied it mind you, but Raymond was not quite as fussed.
The difficulty with camping, and not having one of the mobile homes or even a flashy caravan is the whole lavatory debacle. If you need the loo it’s a trek to the site’s showerblock (which invariably has bugs flying round it and is rarely as clean as you’d wish). Once more I’d been drinking all evening. A fountain of alocopops and sweet milky baileys (true to his word he’d replaced my quadruple shots from the night before) and the seal had already been burst at the club. Now though, back in private with this boyish hulk, sex – rather than the relief of my bladder – was at my mind’s forefront. Bad mistake. We tumbled into the tent, rolling around on two double air mattresses, undressing each other, stroking, playing, examining and exploring. That wonderful sensation of new hands examining the softness of one’s body as your own delight in the firmness of his was exquisite. Only I was desperate for a wee.
In all honesty I could’ve just said I’d needed the loo and been up there and back in five minutes but somehow I thought I might be able to hold it. Yeah right. Ten orange Bacardi Breezers and eight shots of Baileys, that’d be easy.
In the darkness and drunkenness as he forced himself (perhaps not as forcefully as he might have had he not been battling with numerous pints of beer) into me I could feel pressure mounting. By the time he’d entered me and built up a degree of confidence his member was firmly in its intended warm, wet opening he decided to increase the pace a little changing from entering me splayed sideways to the more traditional missionary position. This manoeuvre was no friend to my bladder. The weight of him was exerting huge strain. Being drunk, slovenly and lost in the act I really just couldn’t exert the restraint required and began to wet myself freely, thus the next thing I knew as we were at it like rabbits I was inadvertently at the same time giving what is in polite circles referred as a ‘golden shower’. He didn’t seem to mind (then again his English wasn’t great so perhaps he didn’t have the words, or was merely being gracious). It wasn’t an unpleasant sensation for me at all. If anything it was a great relief, although I don’t remember it feeling particularly sexy. There were in any case two thick duvets to soak up everything. At first when it started sprouting out of me I thought perhaps I was having a female ejaculation but as it went on and the size of my bladder subsided I realised what was happening.
Looking back I wonder if it was a turn on for him. He certainly didn’t stop, anyway – in fact, if memory serves, he removed himself from missionary, spread my legs, tilted me sideways and took me that way again. My exceptionally lubricated cunt was more than willing. On reflection, the fact that he could keep going, despite an initial brewers droop must have been a positive.
I don’t remember much more. I’m ashamed to say to I fell asleep while on the job.
It wasn’t the last occasion Raymond spent in the tent though. He came the following night. This time his Dad insisted on accompanying him with his friends to see where this ‘young lady’ was entertaining his son. I wonder now what the odour must have been like.
Sadly, and in total fuckedupness on my part, I was heartbroken for an older guy and somewhat desperate for a father figure. Thus when Raymond’s Dad excused himself to go to the gents (as opposed to just pissing himself there and then in the tent as I had the previous night) I offered to walk him to there. Once inside I found myself attempting to do with his father what I’d done with Raymond the first night we met. He made no effort to stop me, but I stopped myself from anything more than a kiss….and a grope…and a….no that was it – HONEST!
That night was Raymond’s last in the tent staying over and I must confess there was a repeat golden shower. I kind of figured if he’d coped the night before, he could cope again and perhaps that was my mistake. The second time it was more overtly sexual; something about his accelerated breathing when he felt me do it, the way he deliberately rubbed his cock in the fluid before thrusting it into me.
But as I have said, this aside it was his last night. I don’t know whether Dad had said something or the fact I’d promised to meet him the following night at a proposed time and ended up arriving a few hours later to find him dancing with another girl which sent me into a lunatic rage. But screaming at someone who doesn’t speak great English did not satisfy the psycho in me and his behaviour sent me straight back into the arms of his father for one final last dance. I did not, in any case, ever sleep with Raymond again (although I do recall his father popping round for a visit to the tent without his entourage that night).
As for the duvets, they belonged to L’s mother. I’m told when she returned home and her mum began to assist her unpacking the car boot, she took one look and smell of the bedding and said ‘I don’t think we need to keep those anymore, they can go straight in the bin.’ Sorry Mrs B, even if belatedly.