The trouble with becoming addicted to sex is that the ‘desire’ to have sex soon eclipses the ‘real reason’ as to why you embarked on a sexual journey of self destruction. Thus, in my case, having regular sex with new partners became more important to me than actually blindly hoping one of these casual one night stands would in fact be the love of my life.

The most shameful thing about my alleged sex addiction – a label I still vehemently deny – was that there were times I was willing to drop my standards. Fortunately my standards were impeccably high which meant that when I did drop them, instead of sleeping with a guy ranked about eight or nine in terms of appearance, I’d sleep with a seven. Typing those figures my confession doesn’t seem so bad. Sadly the truth is … I vividly recall a liaison with a guy who I want to say was a six but if I’m honest… he was a four. That’s right, looks wise I genuinely believe the majority of the world’s population wouldn’t find him passable in terms of his physical presentation.  I want to sell him to you as a six, but in my heart of hearts he wasn’t.

Let me pitch the guy to you. He was five foot five and slightly overweight (definite paunch) with dark hair (which was balding and medium in length with a comb over) and olive skin. His uber brown eyes were somewhere between feline, oriental and with pronounced epicanthal folds (i.e. were positioned in a southward diagonal direction on his face). He had quite high cheek bones, but the rounded jaw line made his face long like a horse and chubby like a chipmunk.  The broad shoulders promised a masculine build despite being vertically challenged, but I was disappointed to discover his arms and legs were fleshy and flabby, as opposed to toned and muscular.

On the night in question he was wearing pale grey chinos and a white long sleeved shirt and smart, shiny black leather shoes. In fairness he made the most of his appearance and pay packet, but dress a frog up in Ralph Lauren or Georgio Armani and at the end of the night you’re still with a frog.

What was even worse was I met this particular man when I worked at the theatre come late night bar where me and the entire staff spent the whole time crucifying him as a complete sleaze that  was only after one thing (weren’t we all???).  Hypocrisy aside, it wasn’t his insatiable sexual appetite that turned our stomachs and I don’t think it was the fact that he wasn’t part of the ‘beautiful’ crowd (occasionally some non-entertainment bodies were able to wrangle a membership to the theatre bar) – what we objected to was his slippery, sneaky manner. He literally slithered around the theatre preying on women that were too off their heads with excessive alcohol to possess a clear state of mind to reject his advances. Truth was our bar was full of those kinds of women (staff like myself fitted the bill as well…in and out of work) so it was a playground for him.

There will be those readers thinking if those girls were careless enough to let themselves get into that state then they deserved all they got. But we actually cared about our patrons and that kind of devious, unchivalrous and dishonourable approach left a sour taste in our mouths. Thus as he took advantage of our pretty, merry members, we’d watch helplessly; knowing those girls would wake the following morning feeling severely disadvantaged at having experienced  a devastating  misadventure they would never be able to confide in even their closest of friends (hell it’s taken me over ten years to write about). Hence Mr Sleaze had nothing but our simpering disapproval and disdain.

I think the major criticism of me in this story is that Mr Sleaze had come to our attention because his efforts in seducing the theatre’s drunken and disabled women were generally with rejection and a significant dollop of revulsion. So my encounter with him wasn’t new or fresh; this potential sexual candidate and his background were very familiar to me.

Did my long term observations of this member stop have me rethinking him as a sexual suitor on a particularly dry night where I needed some action and an abundance of opportunities were not presenting themselves to me?

Sadly not.

What’s worse is that I wasn’t off duty on the night, so can’t claim being drunk and disorderly as an excuse for the liaison. My drinking whilst managing the theatre was controlled and minimal on the night in question. When I called last orders and was badgering the patrons to scoot out of the bar, he was the one guy to catch my eye as the only possible shag for the night.

I want to say beer goggles pushed him to an eight, but no amount of alcohol can double someone’s score of attractiveness. I guess maybe the haze of needing a big fat cock made me see him as passable rather than dog ugly and unappealing in every possible manner.

I invited him to stay back and have a one-on-one lock in with me. I initiated the kiss. Yes I decided those thick, rubbery lips stretched wide on his face were deserving of my full, perfect mouth and expert technique.

For all those people I worked with, I’m going to ‘fess up (cause we all know who I’m talking about). He was actually a decent kisser. Those thick, rubbery lips were soft and his kiss was tender and intimate. Sleazy man knew what he was doing and I liked it. In fact the kiss was so good I was inclined to let nature run its natural course.

Within minutes we were lying on the couch opposite the bar (under the picture of Queen Victoria) and I was kicking my kitten heels across the theatre reception area as he was burrowing under my long full skirt. I let his fingers slip under the elastic of the waist band of my panties and peel them down. I let him breathe on my pussy and undoubtedly my lips would’ve been quivering having been exposed to the early Thursday morning air breaking into the theatre through the drafty locked doors. As his tongue swirled around my clit, I found myself lying back and focussing on the sensations he was lavishing on such a sensitive area. The wide tongue was lapping at me like a dog. I knew I was dripping because he was making noises not too different to what my husband sounds like when he’s tucking into half a chicken at Nando’s.

Pretty soon he was sucking on my clit and his tongue was edging ever lower to my slit. One of two things would inevitably come next:

1)      He’d slither up me in a snaky way as he wriggled out of his chinos to mount me and slip his dick in or

2)      He’d lie on the opposite end of the couch unbuckle his trousers to expose himself, inviting me to suck his cock

That’s when it happened.

A moment of clarity.

This was Mr Sleaze – a sly, snaky man who we all disliked with vehemence and passion. I needed to get laid, but did I need it badly enough to sacrifice my self respect and standards?

No I did not.

After all, I’d just had someone go down on me. That sexual action was enough to keep me going until tomorrow’s night shift (there was always more cock available on a Thursday night than a Wednesday). There was no need to continue this sexual liaison for the sake of proper, formal bedroom etiquette.

I was well mannered and polite, but did that require me licking and sucking the prick of someone I found repulsive and repugnant?

I told him so.

Not brutally you understand. It was more of a ‘sorry, I really can’t do this – you’ll have to go’ way. (I was well mannered and polite after all).

He didn’t like the rejection.

He thought I was bad mannered and impolite by not reciprocating.

Even though I thought he had a valid point, it still wasn’t going to happen.

What concerned me was that he and I were alone in the theatre.

What concerned me more was that he was bulky and broad and easily stronger than me.

What concerned me more than that was that I was a 23 year old duty manager; NOT the owner of the theatre. It wasn’t really in my job description or  roles and responsibilities to be inviting psycho, sexually deviant patrons to keep me company in the theatre when I was cashing up and responsible for the entire venue and all the stock and profits.

The scene had the potential to get ugly. It’d be terrible id I ended up being raped or succumbing to sexually pleasing the man out of obligation. It’d be even worse if I resisted and the struggle drew attention or came to the notice of my employer.

Frightened and unable to analyse the situation objectively, I did the only thing a voluptuous, outgoing Australian duty manger could – I called in a favour.

How thankful I was that in the winter our kitchen often gave free hot soup to the security guards, doormen and medics on Heaven nightclub (infamous gay club owned by Virgin’s Richard Branson – it’s since changed hands). I unlocked the door. Mr Sleaze’s hand went to pull it shut. I threw it open and politely called under the Arches of Charing Cross for Heaven to come lend a hand.

Never has my generosity and fag hag tendencies been so useful. Two of the Heaven staff jogged down the cobbled stones to the theatre door. The tugged it open and Mr Sleaze’s hand went slack. He looked up to see two ‘9s’ glaring down at him from above six foot. Athletic, muscular, protective, respectful of women and drop dead gorgeous I wished I could grow a cock on the spot to get me a little action there and then. They were far too good looking to ever join the heterosexual team.  Distracted by their beauty, I forgot the menacing hazard I was currently embroiled in. My peril was short lived when the boys asked how they could be of assistance and Mr Sleaze (I kid you not) literally slipped under the arm of the tallest security man and crept down the arches in the shadows of the closed shops littering our street.

I recounted the entire story to the men. They didn’t bother searching for Mr Sleaze (although they offered to) because (as strictly homosexual guys) the thought of having to go down on a girl and not getting a blow job in return was punishment enough.

I figured they had a point. The next time Mr Sleaze was at the bar I gave him one of my most winsome smiles and was generous enough to extend my hospitality to a free drink as well. It would’ve been bad manners and impolite not to and as this story demonstrates – that’s just not me.