There was a period in 2006 when internet dating was becoming more of a job than a hobby. I was literally fitting my employment around my sex life. Organising my diary was reaching a point whereby I’d need a skilled professional to juggle all the sexual engagements; so I knew where I was going, who I was meeting and what I was expected to do.
Young lads (legal teens) were easy. They tended to have the emotional capacity of a tea spoon and really just wanted to get laid. Whilst there was minimal emotional labour involved, these dates were physically draining. When presented with the opportunity of no-strings fu*king for one night only, sex starved, horny young boys liked to make the most of the time they had. Bought up on a culture of internet porn, not only was I competing with a high level of fitness and stamina, but I was expected to recreate and execute acrobatic pornographic feats ‘just like on the web’. A good pounding was always welcome but nearing thirty I couldn’t maintain the pace or endurance required to satiate these beautiful young men on a regular basis. Thus my schedule offered a degree of sexual freedom as I accepted ‘dates’ from men my own age or older.
My preferences in these situations were to accompany older gentlemen. Men my own age were far more critical in regard of appearance (and I had piled on the pounds), plus they were very ‘modern’ and ‘pc’ – treating women as equals in the one situation where you’d rather not be considered an equivalent. I’d offer to split the bill. They’d accept my invitation. I hope I don’t come across as a bitch here, but I think if a man asks you out, it’s his job to pay on the first date. Might be harsh and feminists round the world may castigate me, but if a man accepted my money to pay for half the check there would be no sex and certainly no second date.
These kinds of incidence were rare with the previous generation. Nearly thirty, if a man in his fifties of sixties was taking me out, I knew I’d be treated like a lady (and guaranteed my credit card balance was kept to a minimum). Plus (again a cruel observation) these wealthier, well educated, middle-aged men appreciated the beauty in youth.
Writing this at thirty-six, let me assure you, only this week I was sitting on a train observing a nineteen year old university student. He was probably a virgin. I doubt he had a girlfriend. I suspect he was shy and inexperienced with women. I imagine girls barely notice him, let alone fancy him enough to take time to get to know him. But he was beautiful. He radiated youth. Spectacles, spots and slimness were irrelevant; it was his youthfulness enticing me to the degree that I found myself staring intensely at him (possibly considered freaky on public transport).
On reflection, many of the more mature men I dated didn’t see a fucked up, fat, twenty-something; instead they saw someone twenty or thirty years their junior still in possession of the ever elusive quality of youth.
Hence I sacrificed a right old ramming for a taste of expensive wine and fine dining.
Enter Mike (shocked I remembered his name, right?).
Mike was in his early sixties. He was head teacher at a prestigious bordering school. Mike had the banter. He wasn’t your average, pompous, stick up the arse Brit; looking down on the lower classes (especially those originating from a colony of convicts). Having adhered to a reasonable ‘just ensuring you aren’t a psycho’ timeframe, participating in successful textual intercourse and engaging online conversation, we agreed it was time to step it up and press the flesh.
I vividly remember this one night for various reasons.
Firstly he was driving his own car to come and collect me from my home. Bonus – private transport and no paying for public transport.
Secondly he was happy to dine in my local area. Bonus – close to home and a short journey whether things went good or bad.
Thirdly he invited me to choose a restaurant. Bonus – there was only my favourite tapas bar La Rueda up the road that my budget didn’t stretch to and I’d spent months dying for a fix of Spanish cuisine.
Waiting outside on the stairs, leading to the terrace house which had been converted into studios and bedsits, I must’ve appeared quite swish because I was complimented by various locals – all offering to keep me company or wanting to exchange numbers. I politely declined because I was going on – a – date!
Unfortunately his car was black and it was winter. Seemed like every car driving up Stockwell Road was dark and I found myself dashing into traffic waving people down only to discover none of them was Mike. In one case, a driver happily wound down the window and opened the door to take me for a ride, but I retreated hastily – Stockwell and Brixton do not possess unblemished reviews in respect of activities and the residents.
Eventually a four-wheel drive pulled up. The door was flung open for me to observe Mike’s arrival. I’m told it was a 4×4 Range Rover an expensive automobile. Struggling to haul myself in, I was less than impressed with the car irrespective of its price tag.
Not unexpectedly, Mike raved about my looks – a spell we now know which was conjured by the thirty plus age gap as opposed to me genuinely being blessed as extremely attractive (oh my false modesty!). It Thursday night and Clapham was bustling and busy. By the time we found a parking spot, I could’ve walked from home. We then had to contend with a packed restaurant, but the time passed speedily as we enjoyed umpteen sangrias.
He’d never married nor had children, preferring a bachelor lifestyle – which allowed him a very nice residence in his very posh school.
Each Christmas he held an exclusive party, which he couldn’t wait for me to join him as his date this year, whereby he would supply the most delicious food (including a pig on a spit) and a wealth of delectable and tantalizing alcoholic beverages. BUT, it was a Christmas party and people were expected to bring gifts.
Turns out Mike was a connoisseur of wine, with (yawn) an extensive and pricey cellar stocked with the stuff. Although unspoken, it was implied attending guests would present Mike with a suitable and appropriate vintage. The party amounted to almost £100 a head per person, so Mike felt this wasn’t an unreasonable expectation.
Two years previous, a new member of staff was invited to the party and bought with him a £5 bottle of Sainsbury’s Own red wine. Suffice to say the following morning, Mike returned the bottle to the teacher’s pigeonhole with a post-it saying ‘Keep it. Your palette will enjoy it far more than mine’. I need not wrap up this tale with the inevitable conclusion enlightening you as to which of the teaching staff never received a return invitation to the annual party.
Whilst I was discovering these insights into Mike, we wolfed out way through at least ten plates of tapas and two bottles of red wine.
Settling on a third bottle of wine for dessert (I actually would’ve preferred the mudcake with fresh strawberries if you’re reading this Mike), Mike disclosed he was a rugby fan (no surprise to the middle and upper classes) and played a lot in his youth. In fact, he carried on coaching the school team throughout his prolonged career. However all that impact on his joints had taken a toll. He proceeded to drop the bombshell that he’d recently had a hip replacement.
I suddenly became aware of how dark and soft the candle lit restaurant was. The lighting prevented me from examining his looks with a degree of scrutiny. He sounded bright and funny and charming, but hip replacement smacks of ‘granddad’.
I was thrilled when we left the hazy, fuzzy ambience of La Rueda. Not solely because it permitted me the opportunity to study Mike properly, but because the rich food and wine was having a funny effect on my tummy.
I advised Mike to hail a cab, but he was confident he could drive. The car was a monster so in all likelihood if there was an accident we’d be safe. However as a civic minded person and having lost people to drink driving, the trip was an endless white-knuckle rollercoaster. My eyes clenched shut as I prayed to a God. In a bid to ensure everyone returned safely, I barely uttered a word for fear of distracting the driver
Obtaining a parking spot near my house was infinitely easier than in popular Clapham. I can’t deny (for his age) Mike was handsome. He did have a rugby players build. He was very personable. I certainly wasn’t deterred from having sex with him.
Neither was he.
As soon as we were through the door, he was lifting my black dress up and hooking his fingers into my one-size-too-small control knickers to drag them off. Lust can bring out the beast in anyone. The aged sixty-something yanked my knickers down, tearing my tights in the process.
That he was bedazzled by my pussy, I let myself follow his lead. He was desperate to bury his face in there and who was I to deprive him? I was irresponsible. Dress hitched up, I sat on the edge of the bed, spreading my legs wide to reveal the shaven haven. Bare, soft plump lips he was frantic to part and taste. Too keen in hindsight. To let his tongue wander he needed to get on his knees. His firm hands were gripping and spreading my thighs further apart, but he was kneeling and rocking noisily as he performed oral sex on me.
I should’ve laid back and enjoyed the sensations, but I was inclined to watch the commotion between my thighs. One of Mike’s legs was sticking out crookedly. As he smothered his face in my juices and tried to tongue fu*k my slit, he was rotating left and right like a remote control robot without full functionality. The odd angle of the leg where his hip had been replaced had me transfixed.
I think mentally he wanted sex, but physically his body was putting up resistance. Like a feral dog with a twisted, bent, broken leg and no veterinary service, the attention to my pussy became ineffective and chorish, as he squirmed to position himself to taste a woman (for the first time in a long time I suspect).
The picture was totally wrong. He was in a suit – bold and brawny. Whilst his top half remained solid and sturdy from his rugby playing days, his lower half was withered and warped as he dragged himself on the floor like a peg-legged pirate.
I didn’t want to emasculate him by audibly suggesting changing positions. The suggestion might be classed as bad mannered, but something had to be done as the oral sex had become a trial to me.
Wriggling back on the bed, I stretched out to encourage him to join me. In my head I had real concerns me on top would shatter the newly replaced hip. As he awkwardly hoisted himself to stand, his face was beet red from the effort and shiny from my lubrication.
‘Would you mind bending over the bed so I can take you that way – it’ll be easier on my hip?’
I was grateful for the instruction. In that moment there was no giggle to suppress but looking back, my relief there was an end to the evening in sight had me as overjoyed as the girl that escaped the house of the Texas Chainsaw Massacre.
Squatting slightly, bending over the bed and supporting my weight with my arms stretched outright on the mattress, his lifting if my dress and caressing of my buttocks was in fact quite sensual. Stroking my thighs, I parted my legs to let his pleasingly hard cock slide into me.
The sensuousness of the moment passed as he reverted from teacher to school boy, fumbling to find the right hole. Repositioning myself, I reached under to guide him in. He groaned so loudly at the initial penetration I was worried the neighbours would complain. Firmly embedded in my slit he began pounding me hard – much harder than any of the other elderly men I bedded. His hands were on my hips so he could slam himself into me (at a comfortable angle given the restrictions of his surgery).
The snag was the force of his fu*king had turned my stomach into a washing machine. As I bounded and rebounded off the bed and he banged hard and deep into me, my dinner became dreadfully unsettled. Unsettled to the point where I thought I was in danger of encountering an accident of the brown variety.
This could not be allowed to happen. The longer and harder he went, the more delicate and unreliable my digestive track became.
I needed to end it fast, so literally crawled onto the bed, spat in my hand and worked that cock quickly and rhythmically till he came.
Pleased at his climax I thought he’d leave (it was a school night after all), but he was attempting to kneel again for some Australian bush.
I’d no real option but to eject him kindly with a sorry, pathetic excuse of an early start at work in the morning. The second he was out the door I had tapas escaping both ends when my arse hit the toilet bowl. It was regurgitated red wine in the bathroom sink, and garlic prawns, chorizo, and patatas bravas in the toilet bowl. It got to the point where was I was forced to leave reading material in the bathroom I shared with three others, my visits were so regular.
Subsequently, Mike was always arranging dates and cancelling them for one reason or another (well he did twice: one was for a school trip the other was to do with…his hip replacement). In the end, despite his promise of an invite to the big Christmas party (to which I’d assumed as his date I wouldn’t be bound to adhere to the ‘bottle of wine’ rule) when he finally secured a time and place, I chose to cancel. Sure the pig on a spit was alluring, as was that cellar full of expensive wine, but the memory of an old man literally grovelling and crawling on his knees for pussy did kill any passion or romance the relationship may have potentially had.
PS – Yes I know it was bad manners on my part not to reciprocate the enthusiastic oral sex I’d received.
Oh dear. Last week’s offerings apparently found their way to the computer screen of that post’s unfortunate subject, a character named Ben.
Whilst I understand fully premature ejaculation and finding out a woman faked an orgasm on you aren’t necessarily the kinds of sexual mishap you’d want in a public forum. Particularly so when it’s a close friend that brings it to your attention down the pub with a pack of friends. Still, I’m told it was taken in reasonably good part, though the now-married survivor of sand bunkers and sexual ineptitude did, I gather, feel a little stung. Via a third party through the medium of text we exchanged a friendly enough ‘hi’ and I received confirmation Ben expressed some degree of…. I’d love to big it up and say remorse but that’d be pushing it. In any case, there was at least a modicum of regret over his behaviour towards me which of course is like shutting the stable door after the proverbial horse has done its thing. Ten years or so previously. He’s married now as I say (lord knows what their sex life is like given my experience) and I’m loved up with someone that delivers multiple orgasms at will so all’s well that ends well – no hard feelings between us.
For the record I didn’t write to be bitchy, merely to entertain, but the feedback did heal a little hurt of my own.
Some of these dicks are now getting uncomfortable though as readership of this blog expands. Waiting for some kind of deliverance of verbal pugilism which seems strange given they were almost all one night stands. It’s amazing how on earth they even know about me.
Facebook. It’s got to be Facebook.
Only last week I received a curt message, unpleasant in tone, from one of my hundred saying – I’ll paraphrase here – he didn’t wish to receive any further promotional messages regarding my blog and did not want to be the subject of a post.
Rewind. Originally he’d asked to be my friend on that wretched site, because he wanted to ‘plug’ his aspiring music career. In fact he also harassed me to have sex with him again, this time as part of a threesome AND (if not up for that) a one-on-one repeat of our previous excursion because of my…..’sensuality’ I believe was the quote de jour. I immediately refused. Once had been quite enough for me (and I’ll say why in a second). He hadn’t even registered on my blog subscribers’ list, but he’s bought himself once more to my attention now.
I advised him the easy solution to his dilemma was to de-friend me – simples. He has, so hopefully he’ll never get to read this.
Everyone wants a famous fuck. Not all of us get it. I worked in theatre for five years and shagged a handful of Z-list celebrities (you know – the types that have been an extra on The Bill or starred in a pilot for American TV that then failed to get commissioned), but there’s occasionally one that most people would think ‘ah yeah I remember that’.
For me it was one the Baha Men (Boys). The what? you might ask. Well, they were the guys who sung ‘Who Let The Dogs Out!’ And let me tell you it seemed uber harsh having fucked one of them that L and I once went to enter a club spontaneously one night and the bouncers, as we approached, sung the refrain: ‘Who Let the Dogs Out? Who? Who? Who? Who?’. Not only were they mocking us in the cruellest fashion, but a song by an artiste with whom I’d been intimate was being used as a weapon to taunt me. Incidentally it worked – we fled, retreating immediately home.
Baha Boy and I met over the internet. Which seemed a bit strange, his using that method to meet women. I mean, he certainly wasn’t unattractive and every girl loves a musician (especially singers, which he was). Additionally of course, anything to do with fame and fortune increases a man’s attractiveness, irrespective of physical appearance.
In fairness to both of us though I didn’t actually find out about the Baha bit until we were in bed getting ready to get down (oh and he wasn’t singing it to get me in the mood in case you were wondering).
At this point in my sexual career I was going through a ‘try everything’ phase – and mixed-race guys appealed to me (and still do). There is of course a common racial stereotype that black men have big cocks. A previous experience had confirmed this but then, I’ve found white guys with huge cocks as well so….who’s to say.
Sadly though, genetically, my Baha boy’s tackle was not heavy on the aforesaid stereotype being more Caucasian in its dimensions. Acceptable but not exactly abundant, though this has never featured prominently in my list of priorities unless ridiculously stunted.
There was however something extraordinarily curious about this one that made the event particularly memorable. It had a curve. A bend. And by this I do not mean a slight one the required closer examination, or even one that you notice but which doesn’t really interfere with proceedings. It really was like an especially curvy banana…well lady finger to be more precise, almost mutant in aspect.
Getting it inside me, in the traditional missionary position reminded me of my first attempt of putting in a tampon without an applicator. It was in there, but you just know it isn’t in right, and sitting down feels distinctly uncomfortable. Only when the thing’s attached to a person how do you say to them ‘can you straighten that out a bit please, it’s pressing at angles that are making this a wretched experience. I can’t focus on giving you any pleasure or even enjoying myself because all I can feel is a stabbing at the side of my inner wall’?
To make matters worse, he thought his technique was a smooth as his beautiful skin. He kept gyrating his hips rhythmically like Mr Lover-Lover and doing soft porno talk – oohing and aahing and ‘did I like that baby’? I wanted to yell ‘You aren’t Mister Boombastic, you aren’t Shaggy, you’re a Baha Man.’
I decided to take control.
At this stage I lived in an attic bedroom in a flat above a cafe. You actually had to climb a ladder to get to my room. While a significant size due to a very steep roof there was only a small area in the middle of the room in which you could stand fully upright. To combat the problem and maximise space I had a futon bed on the floor. Although a rough and ready attic refurbishment I did have a skylight window, which I permanently had open to air the place thoroughly.
In order to rectify the bendy penis problem I thought I’d try going on top. That way I thought I could angle myself around it so the fuck wasn’t too bad a fit-fit. That was the theory anyway – the practise proved not so great given the open roof window. Because it was at such a peculiar angle, to get his cock in comfortably so it was a little more direct and straight in my grotto of earthly delights, I had to shift my body to the left to such a degree I felt I was on a roller-coaster taking a sharp turn. With the roof window open and me bouncing up and down almost sideways I could feel the wind through my hair and was worried I may in fact tumble out of the window. The more robust things became the more I could envisage the whole thing as a fairground attraction. I wanted to throw my hands up and wave them into the cold night air and scream – though, it has to be said, not orgasmically. The child in me had been released at the sheer spirit of how the sex had morphed into some kind of saucy unstable carnival ride, with no safety harness strapped on. Whilst my head and shoulders sprung in and out of the window, I hoped I could maintain my mass on this unbalanced mount, because I could feasibly end up a paraplegic with a single wrong move. A sex bungee jump gone wrong if he thrusted too hard and I rebounded too vigorously. It wasn’t just the concentration of the physical exertion dampening my fun but the dreadful scenario of being on a theme park ride and the operator leaving it unattended – the machine running relentlessly on and my being helpless to stop it. But this ride I could stop. The effort, the gripped thighs, well practised kegal exercises, the precarious position, the controlled yet wild movement finally bought him to a climax and me back to safety.
I don’t know who let the dogs out that night, but I have to say before being de-friended on Facebook I felt the world was a little safer seeing his status was now ‘in a relationship’. That is one particular canine that needs to be on a chain – a bendy penis is dangerous and not something that should be unleashed on an unknowing and uncoordinated woman like me.