Not all sex is good sex – fact! Not all sex is memorable sex – fact! But unmemorable, ordinary sex can still leave you with a sense of personal achievement.
When I was working in theatre back in the early noughties I was somewhat obsessed with a particular patron who I thought looked like a chubbier version of James Redmond (an actor who played Finn in tack Channel 4 teen soap Hollyoaks and moved onto Casualty playing Abs). James Redmond was a model so looking like a slightly chubbier version of him was by no means an insulting comparison. If anything he was drop dead gorgeous. I shamelessly threw myself at the patron but with little success. He himself was a little overwhelmed at my attention and couldn’t quite appreciate why someone was so desperately attracted to him. I worked hard on his visits to the late night theatre but reaped very little of what I attempted to sow. In fact I think the closest we got to sex was when I walked him from the theatre to the tube station and in a dark alley he squeezed one breast and asked for a flash of my ample bosom. I obliged and he asked if I would like to dress up in leather and play the dominatrix to his submissive. Sadly, on the spot in public (however dark) I was caught off guard and unsure of how to respond to such a request. I had holding hands and romantic picnics on the brain, he clearly had other ideas that were at the reverse end of the relationship scale. People assume sometimes because one is voluptuous, outspoken, gregarious and sexually aggressive that they’ll be like that in bed. I wasn’t. I spent most of my time behaving like that so when I was in ‘fuck’ mode I wanted to be dominated so I could turn off that particular personality defence for an hour or two and reveal the gentler more sensual aspects of my soul. Thus taken aback from his bold request I pulled my blouse down and scurried back down under the arches of Charing Cross train station to attempt to recover some dignity.
Dignity was something I had little of with that patron. Another time I seduced him into staying back with free drinks and my obvious besotted desire for him and he moved in so close I could feel his breath and waited for him to finally brush my lips with a kiss I’d been wanting for months and he whispered ‘You are so lovely. You’re like an angel, but you’re never going to be the girl a man wants to marry – and I’m looking for a wife.’
I was crushed. In fact that comment crushed what little ego I had left. I soon let go of that crush. I wanted the wait of his gorgeousness crushing my body while we writhed around on the floor or in the toilet of the theatre. All he crushed was any self respect I had.
The one that got away. But there are more James Redmond look-a-likes out there I’m thankful to report.
One night a few years later my friend L and I were having yet another debauched weekend in Great Yarmouth – England’s premier seaside town. As I was getting my groove on (as much as one can throw shapes with the difficulty of moving effortlessly on a sticky alcohol drenched dance floor) I spotted at the bar another James Redmond look-a-like. He was not a chubby version. He was more like a younger brother. Similar hair, figure and features – not identical but still gorgeous.
I’d like to say I’d learnt something from my previous encounter chasing a TV/Model/Presenter lookey-likey but I hadn’t. Within seconds I was unglued myself from the dance floor, trotted over to the bar and declared my intense attraction to him alongside my intent to bed this beautiful man. Unlike London, Yarmouth is a small town. An Australian partying in the town is a news-worthy event in itself. To be the recipient of her affection is altogether very flattering. Perhaps London lookey-likey felt he could be more choosey, perhaps many had commented on his uncanny physical similarity to James Redmond, but Yarmouth James Redmond responded far better to my shameless, slutty suggestions…and who could blame him. With such blatant overtures I suspect he knew I was looking for a husband any more than he was looking for wife that evening – or maybe he was sensitive enough not to criticize my inexperienced approach to acquiring a shag for the evening.
Before long he had allowed me to drag him from the club onto the Pier, where behind closed arcade and seafood venues we could commence some serious kissing, quickly developing into heavy petting and fumbling. I could feel his hard cock through his jeans and when I unbuttoned his fly so I could get a grip on it it felt even harder. As hard as his cock was I have no doubt in my mind he could feel how wet I was for him as he slipped two fingers into my knickers, working them into me as I groaned and held his cock. He pulled them out, licked them and without even doing his flies up took my hand and quickly led me down the stairs from the pier to the beach.
There wasn’t much time for small talk – other than my babbling about how stunningly attractive he was. The need for fucking was so great, neither of us bothered with finding shelter under the pier or even attempting to find a place on the beach a little more secluded. All I was aware of was stumbling through the sand and then kissing and collapsing where we were – only metres from the pier (the lights of the clubs shining brightly on the beach).
Without wasting any time he had already pulled my underwear and tights down (I didn’t even have time to wonder what a passion killer tights and control knickers may have been). I quickly removed one of my shoes to free a leg from the underwear allowing him to slide into me missionary style. He never said a word but breathed heavily as he moved in and out of me deeply, thrusting forcefully. There was little technique involved but I was unconcerned. The fact that he seemed to want me (or the sex) as much as I did was reward in itself.
He pulled my dress down to expose my breasts and buried his face in them, suckling them as he continued to pump away.
Soon enough people moving up and down the pier changing clubs had spotted us and were wolf whistling and enjoying the free live sex shows. He swore under his breath and pulled out. As I went to sat up from the sand to rearrange my clothes he said ‘Fuck it!’ and grabbed me by the waist, telling me to get on all fours. I did as he said and he mounted me doggy style, switching between holding my hips for depth and grabbing my tits which he seemed very taken with. There was little talk apart from the odd expletive and dirty talk like, ‘Fucking yes’ and ‘You’re so fucking tight!’. I could feel him grow thicker inside me and the talk became less as the breathing became heavier. I had just enough time to say ‘Don’t cum inside me’ before he withdrew to a round of applause from the gathering crowd on the pier.
Fortunately his sperm missed my dress. Admittedly it was on my thighs but I wiped it away with the tights and discarded them. I wasn’t looking for sex again that night so could deal with having corn meat legs on the dance floor. It also meant I only had to put my knickers on and do without the fuss of arranging tights and checking for ladders so it was a sacrifice I was happy to make.
Having only to do up his jeans, he waited till I was dressed and we walked back to the pier on the lit beach to the comments (cheering and critical in equal measures). We waited under the pier in silence for the crowd to disperse. He rested against a plinth smiling shyly at me. After a time he nodded that we should go back. As I took a step, he put a hand on my shoulder, kissed my lips and said thank you. He judged the time correctly. The pier was empty. He held my hand and walked me back to the original bar we’d found each other. He kissed my hand and said thank you. Then strolled off down the Pier back into Great Yarmouth town centre.
I stepped back into the bar. L was busy on the dance floor dealing with her own complicated love life. She smiled and waved at me as I entered with a ‘where have you been?’ expression. I danced over to her grinning. Mid song, while waving her hands (like she just didn’t care) to the music she pointed at my suddenly bare legs. ‘Your hair looks fantastic,’ she said, ‘the sand and wind have given it real volume!’
Proposed Bestiality, Inadvertent Indecent Exposure, Pee & Other Pitfalls From A One Night Stand (That Became My Fiancé)
It’s not to say he’s not romantic – that I don’t adore every part of him, that I don’t cherish him and that I’m in any way unsatisfied in bed….but I don’t think I’ve ever been there with him where I’ve not inwardly shrivelled in embarrassment or mortification at something he’s said or done.
Examples??? Here you go.
- Ours began as an internet relationship, as so many do these days. Our first ever meeting involved my travelling 2 hours North to his cottage and arriving at 5pm. We had a cuddle on the couch, sashayed upstairs to share a spiritual lecture and by 6.30pm he boldly asked me to take my clothes off. Being body shy and less than verbally communicative or assertive in bed, I ignored the request. Eventually he said ‘Are you going to take your clothes off or not, I’m tired of asking’. Worried I was going to miss my chance I said I was going to the bathroom to change. He perked up. ‘Great could you do me a favour while you’re in there? Grab a wet flannel, because my cock needs to be cleaned and if you’re having a wee can you bring back the tissue paper you use and just shove it in my mouth?’ I couldn’t help but feel he was being a little over-familiar on a first date with someone he’d met in the flesh only 90 minutes before. The shock of it aside I think part of my mortification – in being a first timer to those sorts of requests – was because I was so turned on by him and, frankly the idea itself – I was concerned the tissue would be a little too…creamy. So I wrapped it in another one and bought it to him, reluctantly inserting it into in his mouth. ‘Did you even use it – it just tastes dry and of paper?’ he barked at me. Ooops
- From that somewhat uncomfortable start we managed to engage in more everyday sex – me on top. It was good; it was nice, pleasurable and very natural-feeling until he opened his mouth. What would you utter mid-act the first time you’re ‘doing it’ with someone you claim to care about and who claims to care about you? ‘Sorell, it’s just a shag,’ he said, quite matter of factly. I flounced off him, hurt and insulted. He desperately tried to explain what he meant was this was ‘just sex’ and the two of us were so much more than just that to each other. He turned out to be right, but still, this was after all out first date.
- He once had a work colleague staying around his place. I’m the first to admit, between ourselves, we’d be considered quite ‘adventurous – perverted even – by some and at times very dirty though we both have our boundaries and scruples and values, even if personal only to ourselves. He let the neighbour’s dog in. The dog was excited and running around. I was wearing a low cut top, exposing a lot of my bosom. In front of his work colleague he loudly and excitedly suggested ‘Ooooh Sorell, let the dog lick your tits.’ I froze mortified. I could feel his colleague’s shock. He didn’t miss a beat and continued fooling round with the dog as if nothing untoward or inappropriate had been mentioned. The colleague and I didn’t make eye contact or reference to it, but there was a stony silence between the two of us for the remainder of his stay. Even though I was desperate to blurt out –‘he’s mucking around, he didn’t mean that and I’d never do it’. But then I worried the colleague might think I protested too much.
- Another time he’d organised for his next door neighbour to come around and fix his boiler. He’d arranged for the visit between 5pm and 6pm. The day had got away on us and I hold my hands up here and admit we’d been fooling around all day as lovers are wont to do. But I’m a good catholic girl and modest to boot. I was in my pyjamas, which are in fact a t-shirt and shorts. He was running around like some debauched naked Eros and surprised at the neighbour’s appearance went down to talk to him, throwing a dressing gown on as he went. He claims he said ‘I’ve got the girl upstairs.’ I thought I heard ‘I’ve got a girl upstairs’. The neighbour, who was doing him a favour in any case, apologized and said he’d come back. But he insisted it was ok. ‘Sorell,’ he yelled up the stairs ‘have you got your clothes on?’ As if I ever flaunt myself. It was all a bit late though. I’d been painted as a scarlet woman spending all day in bed like a naked Venus in some rural brothel. The questionable nature alluded to ensured once again the neighbour never made eye contact nor spoke directly to me again.
- Having once used his lips and tongue on me for what I admit was a very a good session, he rose from between my legs. I looked down to see his enthusiastic face appear from my thighs as he piped: ‘I’m not sure if it’s down to your moon cycle or if you have an infection but you taste very yeasty.’
- His parents, given their age, had been reasonably lenient in allowing us to have ‘sleepovers’ on the surreal condition that ‘we don actually’t have sex’. Scratch that, so they couldn’t hear us. His father knocked at the door, the first morning I was there getting changed in the corner of the room. Aware I was getting dressed, he invited his father in as I stood, bare breasted, at the end of the bed, struggling into some jeans. I’m pleased to report I have now moved into his parents home and his father has caught sight of more than just my bare breasts – given he has interrupted extremely sordid and lewd acts of love this story now seems very tame in respect of what the old boy has been exposed to.
- He requested one night, as a treat for him, I get undressed and wait naked for him in bed to return to when he got back from his errand. I wanted to please him so reluctantly complied with instructions. I lay in bed, naked, shoulders bared, hair flowing down, smouldering brown eyes to seduce him upon his return. Without so much as a knock, his 80 year old mother flung open the door and asked if he’d left yet. I sat like a rabbit in headlights, going over in my mind quickly how to rectify the situation. If I brazened it out it might be okay, if I went to cover myself it may draw attention to my nudity. I calmly discussed her complaint that he’d left the study window open and the curtain had blown out and that she couldn’t reach it. Clearly she wasn’t willing to wait the five minutes for his return and since I was young, fit and able, I knew perfectly well what she was angling at. But I could hardly bound out of bed. I flashed a big, beaming, sun-shiney Australian and offered to do it myself. She looked pleased but expectant. ‘Just give us two minutes,’ I mumbled. I’m pleased to report his mother is now dead – I don’t mean that horribly, he hated her and I got to move in.
- He came round to my flat one night, specifically for the purpose of the sex. We both knew it, we’re both adults. Fine. But that doesn’t mean it has to be completely devoid of any ….romance, foreplay or insinuation. We were kissing and I was rubbing his crotch. Rather than reaching to assist in my undressing or physically prompting me to remove my garments, he said ‘you’d better get your kecks off if we’re going to do this.’
- Another few hours of illicit fooling at my flat, he took me to the bedroom and told me to drop my trousers and lie down in the bed. I’m not comfortable with my figure at the best of times. I’d spent the entire day at work so was self conscious I wasn’t my freshest and I hadn’t really been intending on what was likely to happen. In true girly fashion I’d been wearing comfort clothes – old comfy knickers and an oversized rugby top. He pushed open my legs and with all the sensitivity of a an autistic prison-guard announced ‘wow how old are these, the gusset’s nearly gone in them.’ I felt like closing my legs on the spot, mortified and embarrassed about the state of my underwear, but then had to stay in that position and endure a powerful orgasm.
- One of his favourite tricks is to wake me during the early hours and drag my hand so I can feel how hard he is. Now, it may not always be a welcome hour or great wake up call, but it naturally leaves me excited. Until that is, as soon as I grip it and gently massage he falls back to sleep. Apparently, as frustrating as it is for me, and as much as he moans and responds to my touch, he says he does it to help fall back to sleep. He insists on repeating the act with no intention other than as a natural method of assisting him back to his slumbers and knowingly leaving me wanting.
- Lying top to toe, limbs entwined he’s more than happy to not exercise any sphincter control and fart on me without apology. Worse still, when he was still drinking, he was known to nuzzle and suck my breasts releasing beer burps upon them then smile up at me as if for approval. I referred to him as my beautiful smelly balloon; I could die from the poisonous potency of his flatulence and could actually get drunk from the high percentage of alcohol contained in that belching. I’m pleased to report this alcoholic is now recovered.
- Both engaged in an episode of the bodice-ripping Henry the 8th drama, the Tudors, a scene that appealed to our respective loins involved Anne Boleyn being dominated in bed by King Henry. She slapped his face smartly and jumped on top of him to take control. I laughingly suggested I may have to try that myself at some point. His response was ‘Sweetheart, as much as I love you and have no desire for you to change, you’re never going to be able to do that. You’re too big to move that fast in bed, you’re just not physically capable.’ Outraged and determined to prove my point I felt inclined to slap his face and jump on to show him what ninja like stealth and speed I really do have. A flicker of doubt had been cast in my mind and I worried his observation might be correct – that I wouldn’t indeed execute the move as quickly as hoped, or worse, given we were on a dodgy sofa bed, concerned the sudden weight shifting would result in the entire bed upending, thus further proving his point.
Are there more? An endless list: from affectionately referring to me as a ‘silly slut’ and being miffed at my offence while being wrapped post coital in each others arms; to allowing me to roll around in chewing gum he accidentally left on the sheets; to laughing ‘it looks like a lamb has been slaughtered’ after an untimely monthly accident in bed; to telling me the room appeared like we’d had an orgy with a fire extinguisher in a sweet shop after I’d attempted a bit of pleasurable experimentation involving a cold tin of Coke and his masculine parts. No doubt I’ll add to these as other recollections occur. Stating the obvious and giving practical direction, with no regard to any embarrassment, shame or inexperience I might be feeling is a side dish with every bedroom encounter.
In some ways his less than perfect bedroom etiquette actually speaks volumes about the intimacy, honesty and openness we have in the relationship. To be able to behave in such a fashion, be so completely one’s self and exchange whatever thoughts, needs and desires are experienced kind of suggests we’ve created a very loving environment between ourselves – if an ‘acquired taste’. Yes there’s a constant anxiety as to what brutally honest observation or guidance he’ll impart next – me recoiling in a weird sort of delicious humiliation. It likens our bedchamber exploits those of an unpredictable fairground excursion, a rollercoaster of a thing. But it keeps them from getting boring so should I really be moaning here?
He thinks we’re well suited, well matched. The time I had to explain I‘d involuntary heaved with him buried deep in my throat leaving behind a small triangle of Dorito chip on the head of his shaft, I kind of saw what he was getting at.