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.
Real sex stories fall in a variety of categories. Some will be sexy. Some will be pure filth. Some will be romantic. Some will be funny. And some will be downright depressing.
Now, back before social networking took off in a major way the ‘sex’ contact website for younger people was Face-party. I had more than my fair share from it. In fact in terms of getting laid it proved infinitely more successful for me than My Space, Face-book or Twitter ever has.
I was almost addicted to the sight. At the time I was taking a ‘break’ from full time employment and spent three hours a day working in a pub and the remainder of my time was spent on Face-party finding suitable men to fuck. They weren’t always nice men. I was happy to instantly message anyone BUT that didn’t mean I was automatically going to sleep with them.
Still grasping the remainder of my innocence, I was a good lay but not as smutty as I am today. When one man opened with an introduction of how much he wanted to ‘fist’ me, I said I wasn’t really into that so maybe we should terminate the conversation. He was clearly affronted because he told me to ‘Fuck Off’ and that he ‘didn’t care’ because I was ‘overweight’. It wasn’t a nice thing to read but it made me laugh out loud. I was overweight but that word does not have the emotional and psychologically traumatic impact that ‘fat’ does. Had he said ‘I don’t care cause you’re fat anyway’, I genuinely would be in tears. Instead I was quite chuffed because it was an honest observation. I couldn’t take offence. It was a bit like someone saying ‘I don’t care because you’ve got black hair anyway.’ Fine, no problem. ‘I don’t care because your hair is like a Halloween witches wig’ would have more of a bite to it.
I digress. Men are at times so desperate for a shag they’ll sleep with anything – including me! Thus on my online journey I had encountered men that were substantially out of my league that were more than willing and wanting to do the deed with me. When a guy made contact with a picture of him topless with a rippled torso, I wasn’t unconcerned. Warning bells didn’t sound in my head that the picture mightn’t be accurate. Common-sense did not incline me to check if the picture existed elsewhere in cyberspace thus proving it a fake. No, fully inflated ego I assumed someone of his calibre would happily select me out of the thousands of girls online.
It didn’t take long to arrange to meet. Given his looks I wasn’t in a position to play hard to get. I was so addicted to sex at the time (my friends observations not mine) that I actually took time off work (baring in mind I only worked fifteen hours a week) to fuck the guy.
The night before he was due to come he asked how I’d feel about a three-some. Sexually charged, I threw caution to the wind and decided it was time to expand my sexual repertoire and stories to tell over dinner. I asked if his friend was as handsome and well-built as himself. With a ‘smiley face’ on screen he assured me he as attractive but not as hot as he was. Exchanging phone numbers, I spent the evening preparing for my big three-some.
An hour before I was due to meet them at Holborn station, I had a text from my hunk saying he couldn’t come. Crushed (and pissed off because I’d taken a shift off work) he said he’d told his friend to go along any way so that I didn’t miss out completely. The text asked if I was okay with this. Truthfully it wasn’t ideal, but if he was anywhere close in looks to his friends it wouldn’t be the worst encounter in the world. Given I had time to kill as I wasn’t working and my sexual appetite had yet to be abated, I agreed and said I’d meet the guy at the station.
Stepping out from the ticket barriers at Holborn he seemed unsure of himself and nervous, which made it easier for me to identify him. He was tall like his friend, had a solid broad frame, but he wasn’t ever going to be talent spotted by a modelling agent. At 23 he was six foot two, had sandy hair cut short back and sides but with length on top, blue eyes, symmetrical features but he was lacking something. Spark or energy – personality. He was devoid of personalty. Fortunately we were meeting for fucking not discussing current affairs.
We walked in silence for the ten minutes home. I took him up the six flights of steps and ladder into my loft bedroom in the top flat above a cafe. Living rather bohemian my double bed was on the futon on the floor. Rather than encourage any painful attempts at conversation, I kissed him. He may have been nice-looking but no one wants a droopy, wet tongue flopping in their mouth like a fish out of water. Warm and wet, his tongue was lifeless in my mouth and did nothing to excite or encourage me.
I stripped his t-shirt off. There was no sign that he’d ever visited a gym. Medium build, whilst not overweight he was un-toned. Very English, very pale, very gangly it just wasn’t a turn on. I struggled to find anything physically attractive about it. I knew he wasn’t bad looking but the idea of sex with him was becoming an inevitable chore rather than a cheeky mid-week shag.
Sitting on the futon, I patted a spot next to me as if signalling for an animal to jump up. He sat obediently. I don’t mind playing the dominatrix, but to know someone is only ever going to be submissive (particularly a tall butch man) is a drag in the bedroom department.
I pulled open the button fly on his Levi’s to reveal tight white legged boxers. His bulge was satisfactory. Average length and width. The minute I put my palm on it, I could feel it growing. That was mildly rewarding – at least I was doing something right. When I slipped my hand into his boxers to wrap my warm hand round his thickening dick he was panting like a dog. That was more off-putting. It was more like a hound dog than a horny wolf. I could feel the blood pumping through his erection as it stood proudly to attention, but his face was contorting in pain. Wondering if I was squeezing too hard or working the shaft too vigorously, I slowed down. I realized this guy was trying to refrain from climaxing. He hadn’t had sex in so long he was going to cum merely from the touch of a foreign woman.
Wasting no time, I pushed him flat on the bed and grabbed a condom. Tearing it open with my teeth it was a race to get him inside me before he off-loaded.
I won. Just.
I rolled it down roughly, as he was moaning and grabbing the sheets in an attempt to slow his pace. I could see his balls tightening. I got one leg out of my jeans to give me the freedom to straddle him, bunched my panties to one side and squatted on his cock. As I plumped myself down his full length he squealed in a feminine way and shot his loads.
Whether it was embarrassment or the fact that he didn’t really fancy me in the flesh, his words were (as his dick diminished inside me, shrivelling in the sheer rubber sheath) ‘I better get going now. I’ve got an assignment to do tomorrow.’
It was the worst parting words I think ever uttered in my sexual history. I was stupefied. Gobsmacked. Normally I’d walk someone back to the train station if they weren’t familiar with the area. With my knickers on and one leg still in my jeans it would literally have taken less than a minute to return to a fully dressed state. Given his poor etiquette (and regular readers will know I’m a stickler for exercising excellent bedroom etiquette) I decided to abandon my good manners and show him where the ladder was. Yeah that’s right. I didn’t even bother taking him to the front door.
As he walked off nonplussed, pleased he’d got hit his climax I rang the number of his friend to lambaste him for setting me up with such a lousy shag. Sadly I heard the phone ringing by the front door of my flat. I terminated the call, realizing the threesome was never going to occur in the first place. My hunk never existed, some bored college kid decided to use a fake pic to get laid (if you can call the single act of penetrating a slit without fucking sex).
Reflecting on this event, I can’t honestly say that making him climb down a ladder, walk out the front door and navigate his way through the complicated streets from my place to Holborn station was a fitting punishment for his dastardly deed.
I’d like to say it was a lesson learned, but I got caught a few times like that. That’s sex online though I guess.
Since the birth of the internet sex has become much more available to even the most physically unattractive and socially inept persons. Apart from the numerous sites for relationships (E-harmony, Dating Direct and who can forget ‘The girl on the platform smiled…’ ), there are underground sites for people in relationships that aren’t getting sex and have to search elsewhere (Illicit Encounters), to those catering to all variation of fetish (Informed Consent). The internet opened up a whole new sexual playground for the desperate and horny; so if you wanna get laid now all you need is a computer with broadband (or even dial up if you’re still in the stone ages).
But if you’re of a shallow persuasion beware of online frauds. We’ve all heard and seen numerous accounts of the fake online photo but having been caught out myself, I can tell you first-hand it’s a shock to the system – especially if you’re the one accommodating the liaison; the situation becomes all the more stickier.
Way, way back before Facebook there was Face Party. At that time it was mainly frequented by younger internet users, but there was a place for mature frequenters searching for some no strings sex. My understanding of late is that Face Party has become ageist and you need a a special password from another Face Party member to create a profile – it prevents anyone over the age of 15 getting in…although I’m sure Face Party would argue it’s keeping paedophiles out.
I digress. In 2006 Face Party was my main source for young cock (that’s young not under-age!) and many a dalliance was fun and easy, but I too come with a story of being conned by the flattering photo scheme.
There was one gent on there in his very early twenties that caught my eye. He had a chiselled bone structure akin to that of a cat-walk model, was wearing a blue beanie to complement his ever so blue eyes and generally looking hot.
I personally can’t see the point in lying or faking photos. I mean if you’re going to meet at some stage the truth will out. Why risk being rejected in the flesh by lying to get them to meet you? ‘YOU’RE UGLY’ is a lot less hurtful to read on MSN messenger than it is to hear and experience in the flesh. Although clearly my potential beau had yet to be enlightened on this fact.
I always went with a kind picture of myself but was honest stating my body shape was voluptuous and continued on a self deprecating angle in online conversations stressing my size and that no one could possibly want to meet me, let alone have sex with me. This reverse psychology worked well for the most part; though I sometimes wonder if I was a fetish shag because many a man just wanted to ‘fuck a fat bird’ on the premise they tend to be grateful and great cocksuckers – there mouths used to relishing food when presented…and a cock is like a big sausage (or chipolata depending on the man).
Anyway Mr Model Photo fell hook, line and sinker and agreed to meet me. My flatmate agreed to go round to his boyfriend’s place for the night so I had the flat to myself.
Having beautified myself to the best of my ability I eagerly waited for the doorbell to ring and eventually it did. Only when I opened the door the man framed by the doorway was like the hulk; except he wasn’t green. His strong jawline buried among his many jowls, the sharp cheekbones lost in a mound of chub. The beanie was missing which was a shame because I was also visually taking in a large balding bonce accentuated by the fact he hadn’t kept up with shaving his scalp, so there were random wisps of hair growing back on a severely receding widow’s peak hairline. I knew exactly what the baggy skater-boy clothes were hiding; there was no defined muscles under the layers of t-shirts and jumpers or muscular thighs swimming in the excess denim.
For the first time ever rather than leap on my prey and drag it to my bedroom lustily I became a very civilized Australian and asked if he wanted a tea. Anything to distract me from the situation and buy some time to find a reasonable excuse as to why I couldn’t fuck him. And the truth is I’ve never fucked a fat man. It’s never been a fetish of mine. As far as I’m concerned there is only room in any relationship – however brief (often only a night) – for one fat person; and that’s always gonna be me.
But being fat myself I knew if I voiced this shallow view it would be absolutely crushing; it would destroy what little ego he had and it’s always difficult when you’ve been svelte and chubbed up to an unimaginable size. I drew on the age old excuse every girl has in their armoury – ‘I can’t do this – I’m not over my ex.’
He wasn’t unkind. While sympathetic, he encouraged me to consider that perhaps I needed to get under someone to get over someone else. It’s not a philosophy I oppose but in this case…actually in this case he was so polite and I empathized with him so much I thought I should give it a go. Coming close to fucking 100 men surely a slut like me needed a ‘fat fuck’ in her array of sex tales. So I undressed and jumped in bed, all the time convincing myself this shag was for research purposes only.
Mr Model Photo went down on me like a man possessed. It seemed fat people really do know how to use their tongues and bestow adoration and stimulation on whatever pleases their sense of taste. I let him burrow round me like my cunt was a jam doughnut. Then he looked up. And like that scene out of Sex and the City when Miranda dates someone from Weight Watchers and sees ‘herself’ all over his face, I too was now privy to such a sight. Only it wasn’t my juices all over his face that put me off (I quite like the taste of myself as it goes – all that sugar I consume makes me a very sweet delight!) it was the size of his face. Like a giant egg with a face painted on it beaming up at me through my own sizeable thighs; eager to climb up and enter having done a lot of groundwork (foreplay he might call it) to qualify for the main event.
I just couldn’t. Because while I felt for him and didn’t want to reject him, I knew if I slept with him I’d hate myself. I’d have dropped my standards to sleep with him. I’d be saying because I’m fat I can’t be choosy. Whilst I was concerned for his confidence; I had my own self esteem issues to deal with. I slept with good looking men to affirm my own attractiveness. If I compromised on that to spare someone else’s feelings then in essence I was sleeping around because I was a slut and the truth was I didn’t enjoy one night stands. I loved sex and I loved being fucked by beautiful men but deep in my heart I always held hope that they might be ‘the one’ and I knew instinctively this guy wasn’t. A sympathy shag might have him feeling better about himself but it would leave me deflated and feeling worthless; like a slut, skank, whore or whatever word is bestowed on women that sleep around – regardless of the reason behind their behaviour.
I had no choice but to turn on the tears and revert to ‘I can’t do this; I’m not over my ex.’
His first utterance was ‘Is it me? Is it because I’m fat?’ I should’ve said ‘Yes it’s you, yes you’re fat, and I won’t sleep with you because I don’t do fat.’ But I was branded with the same label and in that case honesty wouldn’t have benefited either of us.
Hysterical crying is always a good one to have men running. Only because this guy was so overweight and out of condition he wasn’t capable of running. No he was a public transport man and the tube was a good fifteen minute walk from the flat. He tried to cajole me to try again but I got swept up in my performance and he became impatient realising it wasn’t going to happen.
His departure was not so gentlemanly as his entrance. Let me recap. He led me on with a fake photograph, or more pertinently one that was some years old and far removed from the man he had, quite literally, grown into. I allowed him through the door despite this. Now I hold my hands up and say it possibly wasn’t appropriate for me to allow him to go down on me and not reciprocate – very poor bedroom etiquette on my part – but in my defence I was trying to allow myself to at least give him the opportunity to turn me on to wanting to fuck him. It’s not my fault that he couldn’t.
When ready to leave (not that he had even got round to removing all of his clothes) he asked me to reimburse him for the tube fare – a zone 6 travel card totalling all of £7 in 2006 – because he’d spent so much money on travelling to see me only to not ‘receive the goods.’ Unfortunately my purse was empty so, stunned by the brazenness of the request, I had to go rummaging round my flatmate’s room to see if he had enough change lying round so as I could repay the travel-card. Fortunately my scramblings didn’t uncover any hidden change drawer or piggy bank. I returned to the reception area without the money and with a balance of dignity and genuine effort to be seen to have ‘done the right thing’ to politely send him on his way. He could have a think on the long journey home on his Zone 6 travel-card as to whether or not his Face Party profile pic needed changing. I on the other hand could get my credit card out of my purse and pop over to Nando’s for a takeaway to complete my evening.