The Language Of Lust (Real Sex In Amsterdam)
I’m not sure how the Dutch see themselves from an international perspective, but aside from the fact you can smoke dope legally (although I hear they have cracked down on tourists visiting the country for that specific purpose), I believe the majority of people associate the country with sex. Maybe not the entire country, but when you here the word Amsterdam you tend to think of prostitutes in windows and live sex shows…and smoking dope!
I was fortunate for a time because my brother’s best friend from primary school (who I grew up with) was half Dutch and spent a good few years working in Amsterdam, which meant I always had free accommodation in a rather luxurious gay bachelor pad when I was inclined to pop over and taste the delights on offer. Since then he has decided he isn’t gay and was straight after all (bet his ex-girlfriend was pissed when he rejoined the hetero team). Now he’s married with babies and living in a far more ‘family friendly’ area of the country.
Anyway on my first visit, being my temporary GBFF (Gay Best Friend Forever – well for the duration of the long weekend) he was attentive and showed me all the wonders of the city. Because his father was Dutch he had family further away from Amsterdam and suggested we visit because they had their annual beer festival on – it could make for a good day. Who was I to refuse my host?
I have to confess it was an inspirational idea on his part in respect of immersing me in the culture of the people. I learned to love chips with mayonnaise and that 1 Euro for a pint of beer is not only cheap but will have you wasted in a very short space of time.
My mother had this theory that the Dutch aren’t keen on fat people (my host’s father had never been particularly kind to her) and I have to say my subsequent experience has made me realise her assumption wasn’t too far from the truth.
There I was, drinking and enjoying the atmosphere when a lovely young boy came and spoke to me. He looked about 16, but was perhaps a little older. I was in my mid twenties at the time but it was all harmless fun. He couldn’t speak a word of English and I couldn’t speak a word of Dutch, but when it comes to casual sex, conversation isn’t a necessity for the event to take place. Alcohol, body language and physical attraction is all that’s required. As we drank and became tactile, enjoying the crowds and music we got a little hands on.
He implied to me that he was going to visit the bathroom and signaled for me to mind his drink. I smiled and nodded and off he went. No sooner had he gone than his father, who’d be standing at the table next to us strode over; a man on a mission. Unfortunately for me he could speak English.
‘Stay away and leave my son alone when he returns back.’
I was somewhat taken aback and said I really felt the decision was up to his son. As I voiced this thought his son reappeared and spoke in Dutch to his father. He was irritated by the exchange and stood firm by my side, drinking his beer. His father, physically tried to drag him away and I was obliged to enquire as to what exactly the problem with him having a drink with me was.
‘You’re too fat. You’re grotesque. My son can do much better than you. Stay away, I will find him someone else.’
Sadly back then I wasn’t as good at disguising my emotions publicly as I am now. Outraged, embarrassed, full of self disgust and loathing and more than anything hurt, I retreated immediately, telling me host I needed the toilet. As luck would have it he had missed the entire scene, so I was spared the mortification of him hearing me referred to as ‘fat’ and ‘grotesque’. His 50% Dutch DNA may have had him applauding the man or joining in with the verbal insults about my weight, instead of defending me!
I left the alfresco drinking area and made my way into the heaving bar and headed straight for the ladies cubicle. I can’t deny I needed to break the seal after drinking an extraordinary amount of beer, but in truth I figured by the time I’d had a good old cry over the humiliating fat attack, father and son may have moved on to find someone skinny.
Allowing myself ample recovery time, I decided to venture back out to find my friend. The difficulty was the bar was massive and when I walked out, I couldn’t see my host for love nor money. Without a mobile phone and any concept of the national language, I had no other option other than circling and scrutinizing every patron in the bar in the vain hope that I’d spot him ordering drinks or coming up from the toilets himself. I was at the point of getting panicking when a brutish drunk asked if I wanted a drink.
What I actually wanted was to scream, cry, wail, drop to my knees and beat my breast with both hands but a drink with a hunk from Holland didn’t seem a bad substitute.
Whether it was because he towered over me at 6’4 and was built like a brick shit-house or he preferred a fuller figure I didn’t get an anti-‘fat’ vibe from the man. What I did get was a pint of beer and a rather nice kiss.
There’s something rather sexy about linking your arms around a stranger’s neck and forgetting yourself in the crowd of public onlookers as the kiss gradually develops into a more feverish and intense experience. A foreign tongue in your mouth in a foreign land.
Having been rejected, it was a relief to have it counteracted with lusty intent from another individual. Feeling his erection against my stomach took the sting out of my earlier encounter.
His English was very broken but when coming up for air he asked if I wanted to take a walk along the pier. I didn’t even know there was a pier. My first thoughts were related to the predicament of having lost my brother’s best friend and in that respect my guide; wandering away from where we’d last been together was unlikely to improve my chances of finding him (if anything disappearing would seriously hinder my tracking him down to return me home safely). That said, I knew he wasn’t going anywhere because we were waiting for the appearance of a few of his cousins. As we’d already been separate for over half an hour, I figured a tiny stroll couldn’t hurt.
The throng of an entire town being drunk had been a little overwhelming so I found it a relief that the pier was completely empty. It was only tiny, with few boats but it was pretty with the sun setting. An idyllic location to finish off what we’d started in the bar.
The soft lighting flattered his looks.; it was as if he’d stepped out of a Hollister or Jack Wills advertisement. He was tall and broad and as we resumed kissing I reached under his shirt to find the mass of the man was muscles. The toned frame combined with piercing blue eyes, buzz-cut length brown hair, even lips and a noticeable tan had me forgetting the boy and his fatist father.
Nothing’ beats a proper kissing section. Like when your teenagers and on the brink of embracing your sexuality. Too shy to go straight to sex, but keen to explore so starting at first base with kisses. That’s what his mouth felt like on mine. In my head it was a picture-esque image of a real man kissing me with the water behind and hazy orange skies.
He wasn’t, however, a teenager on the brink of embracing his sexuality. He was a man and I was a woman and as soon as my hands went from under his shirt to trying to edge down into his jeans it was game on.
I kicked myself for having dressed down that day. Had I worn a skirt or dress it would’ve made the sex easier, but I hadn’t. I had to kick off my trainers and lose my cargo pants within close proximity and cross my fingers there’d be no passer-byers to see us and no gusts of wind to sweep my clothes out to sea.
For the first and only time in my life, he actually lifted me onto the top of the rail of the pier which wasn’t to high and without a word smoothly slid in his cock. I have to say, his penis was in perfect portion with his build. Plentiful in length and girth my moaning aloud was a result of instant gratification. As he worked his massive shaft inside me, he refused to kiss but insisted on maintaining eye contact for the duration. His expression was one of determination. Upon each moan released in accordance with his ploughing, he would glide in deeper each time to elicit a more audible groan.
When the ramming became too powerful and I thought he might bang me into the sea, I was obliged to steady myself by wrapping my legs tightly round his waist and my arms round his neck. At this gesture he seemed please with his performance and broke into a smile. It was only then he kissed me. I could feel his hips wanting to jerk harder, but my vice-like thighs were restricting him. Before I knew it he had lifted my off the rail and was fucking me as he stood. It did give him deeper penetration, as well as a thorough work both aerobically and anaerobically. I was concerned his thighs might give way and he wouldn’t have the stamina to keep up the speed while supporting my weight. Full marks – he didn’t.
Bouncing up and down on his boner and his breath warm and panting in my ear had me, literally, dripping and wet for him. My self-consciousness prevented me from responding too ferociously to his vigorous pounding. Truth be told, while I enjoyed the stretch workout he was giving my vagina and the mental image of the stallion mating with me in public view, it was his fucking me without any aid of a bed, rail, wall or toilet that delighted me. Even then, I resisted revealing how much more of his cock I needed in me. I was wanton and wanting, but when you have issues around weight they can impinge on all aspects of your life – including sex.
I was actually relieved when he came. Disappointed because I was loved the rawness and roughness of his technique, but happy that I could clear my mind of the potential guilt I’d have if he gave himself a hernia by choosing that position.
He may not have had much grasp of English, he did fully understand the concept of chivalry and helped collect my clothes and shoes, then kept watch as I dressed. He escorted me back to the pub, bought me a drink and assisted me in circling the venue in search of my friend. Transpires the pub was two premises linked together. I’d gone to the toilets in premise one but exited the toilets into premise two and hadn’t noticed the difference. The alfresco area I’d been scouring wasn’t the section we had been drinking in. As soon as I was in the original alfresco area I saw my host and he waved me over (I was grateful the man that originally ruined my confidence had departed, with his son in tow, seeking a skinnier venue).
‘I take it you were having a poo and not a wee,’ said my friend.
Saucy Outdoor Sex With South London’s Sweetest Drug Dealer
People may condemn me for what I am about to commit to paper so to avoid excessive offence let me preface the fact that the following statement is based solely on my own personal experience.
‘It’s far easier for a woman to get sex than it is for a man’
The reason behind this gross generalization is the cold hearted truth is women are more discerning choosing their sexual partners as opposed to the majority of hot blooded heterosexual men who place greater emphasis on burying their cocks in something wet, warm which will allow them to achieve an orgasm. They place more value on the act of sex than women do. Brainwashed with romantic comedy after romantic comedy, growing young adults believe the men they select should resemble these hugely fictionalized, romantically extravagant and emotionally mature matinee idols whom grace the silver screen to steal a woman’s heart.
It’s a crushing disappoint in one’s sexual journey to discover most of these romantic heroes are merely portrayed and created to appeal to the emotional nature of women. The other strange factoid here is that the writers of such works are usually men. These authors know what women want and need but I’d love to know if they behave at home in a similar manner to the heroes they create when drafting a script.
The upshot of it all this is women are constantly seeking out unrealistic men and swatting away any man that doesn’t measure up. Women will refuse sex if, whether drunk or sober, they decide a guy can never compare to their ‘dream man’. They’ll skip the sex and remain on the lookout for Mr Right…at least until someone they really fancy buys them a drink and gets them feeling wet and wanton – in which case they may accept the proposition of sex.
Men aren’t as particular. As long as they can manage to avoid any features of a woman that may diminish their erections (that’s why doggy style gained such popularity), they’ll take whoever is available, capable, consensual and willing to allow them to unleash an orgasm and pound them until their cocks are satisfied.
Fortunately for me I cottoned onto this imbalance of the sexual scales between genders early on. If I wanted to get sex I could and very easily…as long as I was willing to adjust my standards. I tried never to lower them too much otherwise the experience, quite possibly, would’ve been crap. In which case I’d wake the next day with low self esteem and spend too much time dwelling on my inability to sleep with an attractive man. The new found knowledge on the lower standards men have did give me the injection of sexual confidence required to score the kinds of men I wanted to be having sex with.
Again I revert to Great Yarmouth and our annual trips throughout the summer, with a lot of time frequenting Vauxhall caravan site.
Recollection is a little vague but I believe L and I were visiting Yarmouth for a bank holiday. We allowed L’s younger sister ‘A’ and the sister’s best friend to join us for the weekend. We took up residence in a B&B for the night. L’s sister couldn’t have been any more than sixteen. Regretfully as a demonstration of our own immaturity, inability to effectively manage and care for the two girls we ended up buying them drinks and getting them drunk.
Both L and I were drunk, but I was seeking a shag and L a kebab. We split with L taking the girls to the kebab shop and me choosing something a little sweeter as opposed to the savoury delights L was in dire need of.
Now Vauxhall caravan park, and I assume most caravan parks in general, tend to be very family friendly so it’s unusual to find singletons or small groups of young people holidaying there. It was our choice of preferred partying venue because L’s parents had chosen it as their regular holiday destination many years previous, plus L was the first person in England to befriend the mad Australian, thus our friendship had developed and grown stronger at that very location so our presence there was a celebration of our friendship.
The real reason responsible for us becoming permanent fixtures at the caravan park was because we paid a lot of attention to the security guards who managed the site. It was mandatory for people requiring access to the grounds to present their keys to the main entrance security man as proof that they were staying in the park and could make use of all its facilities. All we had to present was a very short skirt and a little harmless flirting and we had entry without having to fork out for accommodation.
Although it forever remains an alcoholic haze I undoubtedly collected a young man named Carl at some point in the evening and had either verbally or as a result of body language confirmed he was on a promise. However with two tired teens, one horny twenty-something and one hungry twenty-something we had to divide and split up in order that everyone’s individual needs and wants were achieved.
In fairness L did draw the short straw. Okay she got to have her kebab but she was also left as guardian to the girls because I needed cock. I think L had taken on the role of ‘mother’ that evening and informed me once she had her sister and friend settled, she would be back to collect me so anything I needed done I should hurry up with. L could be controlling at the best of times but this was only because she couldn’t bare the thought of losing any one of her nearest and dearest loves and as her best friend I suspect that’s why she was being so head misstressy responsible.
Once the girls had disappeared it was time for me to finally get what I’d been waiting for all night.
Carl wasn’t stunning or particularly good looking but he wasn’t unattractive be any means. He was about 5’10 which gave him an inch over me in my 4 inch heels. The fact he was so slim gave him an almost gaunt looking face, but he had soft features facially. His jet black hair had grown out of its original buzz-cut and needed to be styled. His eyes were a golden brown and his lips were in perfect proportion to his face. When he did his half smile I almost melted.
It wasn’t his looks that reeled me in. What drew me to him was there was a strong element of edginess and danger surrounding him, which I associated to him being from a particularly rough area of South East London. At that time whether 23 or 16 we were all kids. I remember he was three months shy of 18. He skinny as rake – too thin. When naked I noticed his rib cage visible, I’m ashamed to say as someone who carries a few extra pounds I was jealous rather than concerned about his dietary and nutritional habits.. As we walked the caravan site where silence had descended as holiday makers slept for the evening, he took my hand affectionately and walked us through row upon row of identical caravans trying to find the one he was staying in.
Weirdly what sticks in my mind was at that age it wasn’t all about one night stands so there was time to talk and get to know each other in the most innocent of manners. Somehow worked cropped up and he told me he was thinking of joining the armed forces. I was curious as to why and he explained he’d been a bit of a bad boy and felt the army may discipline him and give him a career path. I asked what he did currently and he laughed and I said he was a bit naughty but trying to change. I laughed aloud wondering how he could shock me with his line of work and blurted out, ‘You’re not a drug dealer are you?’
He didn’t deny it but shrugged and said,
‘It’s not hard stuff I sell but at least now you know why I’m thinking about joining the army when I’m old enough. It’s kind of the only way to get away from what I do.’
It was confusing hearing he was a drug dealer as he simultaneously held my hand in an open display of affection. It’s something men can struggle with at the best of times and even then it can take years to coax them that it’s okay to be tactile in public. This 21 year old drug dealer was so sweet.
‘This is it,’ he said at the front door.
We both stood observing it hesitantly. Someone needed to break the silence as to why we were still outside rather than inside and eventually Carl spoke.
‘My Dad and Uncle and two brothers are in there. I don’t know if they’re sleeping in the bedrooms or if one of ’em has crashed on the sofa bed thing in the lounge.’
I didn’t want to pass up the sex and I think he was trying to ascertain whether I was willing to consider alternative arrangements. The only sensible solution, in the dark night with the camp site all asleep was to fuck on the grass by the caravan. It was soft and being drunk neither of us thought about any possible ramifications.
He was wearing all black and when I lifted his shirt to see a six pack exposed I noted how pale he was. The black clothes made him quite striking to admire in the moonlight. He pulled his shirt down, implying he did not want to get naked. On reflection I suspect he was all too aware that his Dad or Uncle could wake any moment to see what was going on and he wanted to maintain some modesty if discovered.
That kind of stuff is easy for the guy but far more difficult for women. If I wanted his cock so bad I had no option but to undress significantly to give him full access to me.
Thank god he was young and thank the lord we were both drunk because it may have been easy enough to push my short skirt up but trying to get me out of tights and control knickers was nightmarish. Carl was attempting to be both seductive and of assistance in wrenching off everything. It was not a good look and sober would’ve been a major turn off. In a young hormonal state it was completely overlooked.
The grass was wet as it was well after 2am and in between my legs was just as wet. My lower half was fully exposed but all Carl wanted to do was unbutton his fly and drop his jeans enough to get inside as speedily as possible.
Aware his father was in the caravan right next to where we were having sex and knowing security patrolled the grounds and any other holiday-maker might stumble across us only added to the sexual charge.
He was incredibly lean and I was surprised at how strong he was. After much fumbling in the dark with exuberant French kissing and a thorough finger fucking, he finally managed to insert his cock in me after managing to get a condom on.
Not every cock is a porno cock and that’s fine. I loved having him shaft and thrust inside me. At that point in time I had little experience in sex so was satisfied just that I was being fucked. Technique meant little to me. However the location offered all sorts of sexually tempting goodies for me to delight in. The wet grass against my buttocks was an alien sensation. Reaching into his boxers to claw on his perfect bottom to draw him further into me, only to hear his audible moaning was tantalizing. The knowledge we could be caught at any moment was thrilling. All these external factors impacted directly on the sex. To force the deepest penetration in missionary position he grabbed my wrists with each of his hands and pinned them above my head preventing me from resisting or in any way controlling the rhythmic screwing of me. In his leanness I could see the muscles in his upper arms, defined and prominent holding me down with sheer brute strength. To be wholly dominated, not in a kinky or brutal way, was hugely sensual.
As a big girl, sometimes that’s all men see. Their initial assessments about my bedroom antics is that I’m some kind of dominatrix, but those assumptions couldn’t be further from the truth. To have a man exert his strength, keeping me trapped under him even when I did put up some resistance had me wetter and wanting more vanilla style fucking. It reminded me whatever additional weight I carried, ultimately men are stronger than women. This reinforced my perhaps naïve belief that there were men around that could make me feel my most feminine without me ever having to sacrifice my voluptuous figure.
Realising I couldn’t squirm away from this Duracell bunny combined with the fact I was almost powerless to control the depth or rhythm of his grinding and thrusting into me I decided to lose myself in the action.
I splayed my legs wider for him. When he rammed into me I rocked vigorously with each thrust. I wrapped my legs around his waist allowing him the deepest penetration possible and he kept his head down and continued battering me with his youthfully exuberant sex.
As I wound my thighs around his waist, I felt him try to wriggle out. With every effort I kept them locked tight and squeezed restraining him. His shirt rode up and I could feel him sweating. He panted and his breath was warm on my face. The more I clenched my thighs the deeper he ploughed. The restriction I introduced resulted in him only capable of continuous thrusts; small but violent as he bore into me desperate to orgasm. There was no time for changing positions and trapped between my thighs Carl was unable to withdraw his cock completely to change the motion of this childlike fuck we both were relishing. Eventually he released his cum and to stop himself screaming he kissed me hard on the mouth.
I saw him stand up, remove the condom and throw it under a caravan adjacent to his own. We had a laugh and exchanged mobile numbers. I felt for the first time in a long time this could well be the man to actually return a call or want to see me again.
By now it was getting on for 3am and as luck would have it the security van veered in our direction. George, a rather jolly but formidable Scottish man who was the head of security reached out of the window and opened the slide door on the van. I gave Carl a kiss and said I hoped I’d see him again at some point. Given he was a South London boy and my permanent residence was located in the same city, it was actually feasible this could develop beyond a one night stand.
When I got in the van there were two other security guards. Kenny who was trying his best to romance and form a long distance relationship with L and another random. I can’t say for sure but they recall Head of Security, George giving me a right telling off because L had returned to the camp-site and couldn’t find me any where to give me a lift to the B&B, thus the boys had been combing the camp-site in the van for ages trying to find me. That particular chastising I do remember.
They then allege I stood up in the van and my control knickers and tights dropped from under my skirt. Apparently I looked down, picked the under garments up and shrugged it off as a normal occurrence. Carefully stepping out of my knickers and tights and declaring I’d take them home by hand. More than ten years on and they continue to recall this incident with much mirth.
However given the van arrived, literally as we were getting up off the ground I can’t envisage how this could practically have eventuated. When did I have time between Carl withdrawing his cock from me and the security vehicle arriving to redress in tights and control knickers? It was a two man job necessitating enormous effort to remove them, so how did I get them untangled and redress myself in the brief time-line between the end of copulation and arrival of security. The other huge plot flaw is if I had managed to get them on, the control knickers were a size to small for me (squeezes you in just a little bit more girls) and given how tight and inflexible the control knickers material is in order to perform the wonders of shaping one’s body how could that style of underwear be lose enough to just ‘fall down’ to my ankles.
I have no doubt, being intoxicated I didn’t put my underwear on and chose to carry it on the van. As an open Australia I would have had no hesitation flashing them round to show everyone whilst bragging about my latest conquest. However the Vauxhall caravan legend this story became has been grossly exaggerated and embellished. I’d love to brand it a lie but I can never be 100% certain it didn’t happen. Ten years on I shoulder the teasing and continual references to this incident because after ten years of hearing about an event you participated in but can’t fully recall you start believing the gossip yourself – even if the evidence and facts don’t support the story.
My night, and indeed my sex life for that night did not finish there and then with me being taken back to the B&B, but I shall return to this night in a fortnight to complete what happened only thirty minutes later.
As an epilogue I was surprised and extremely flattered six months later after receiving a text from Carl informing me he’d been accepted into the army and because I ‘blew his mind’, he was wondering if I fancied hooking up to be his last shag before he started training. As I write this I do hope now this it wasn’t a ‘mass marketing’ standard text sent to every girl on his contact list. Anyway I had to refuse. At the time I was a committed North London resident and crossing the Thames to South London only ever happened out of absolute necessity or under enormous duress.
Public Teen Sex On A Staircase
As a woman by the time you hit 30, if you’re still single, generally speaking society will still impress its traditional values on you that you have in fact been ‘left on the shelf’; are a spinster; will soon be buying kittens to fill the gap in your heart/life. It’s not said out loud but it is implied.
We thirty-something singletons cling to ‘Sex and the City’ like some sort of new age bible. A guide through the wilderness of being society’s silent spinsterish outcasts. You feel it though. The ring finger on your left hand is all to obviously naked to the eyes of other women. The continual ‘plus one’ or do we even need to include a ‘plus one’ on invitations to you (they can save the money on at least one head with permanently single friends) at large functions….normally weddings.
So how does one combat this unspoken discrimination and disdain from the women that somehow managed to nab a man in their twenties? We brag about being ‘good time’ girls and loving our ‘independence’ as well as embracing out first foray into cougar town. In order to do this though, one must at least hold up the pretence of these qualities in public. I did for a good 18 months – it’s hard work though.
My friend, L, who was always destined to be successful in her professional life and was wanted by many a man was actually discerning enough not just to settle in a rush before hitting 30. What she had done was not only secured a high flying position within an international company before 30 – financial director no less. This afforded us a couple of things:
- A taste for champagne thanks to easy access to the company credit card
- A rather swish new build one bedroom flat above Romford Market Square – kitted out for two ladies on the prowl. A comfy bachelorette pas as it were in a good location.
From the financially secure and rather lush surroundings we had those familiar with Essex, or more particularly Romford you may be surprised to hear it wasn’t Liquid & Envy or the Buddha Lounge we would glam ourselves up for to demonstrate the wonderfulness of being single and 30 (the closest we came to a trendy drinking hole was the Yates’ and it wasn’t all that trendy). Our preferred choice of location that had a romping good old 80s/90s/00s discos in a pub with a sticky dance floor and punters that were either locals, those strapped for cash or a more elderly clientèle was the Lamb.
We were there for a guaranteed good time but it was slim pickings on the male front. However at some stage throughout the proceeding you could guarantee that some hapless youths (maybe those that couldn’t face the queues of Liquid & Envy) would stumble into the Lamb and L and I would zone in quickly before any other potential femme fatale competitor could edge their way into the frame.
L loved that flat. I guess it was her home, she owned it and it was safe. Mostly if we got a slow dance and a snog we’d be happy for the night. We’d have kept up the façade of single 30 something good time gals. But me? I had an insatiable libido. And an insecurity that only having a cock inside me could possibly alleviate for a time and those Friday nights in Romford threw me that occasional lifelines.
One particular night stays vivid in my mind on the grounds that I managed to hook a young lad that was eager enough to pursue me beyond the obligatory slow dance and snog and was, in my opinion and to my tastes worth allowing a successful sexual pursuit. At 18 to my pending 31st birthday, the 12 year age gap was an attractive enough attribute. The fact that his fashion was neither ‘chavvie’ nor reflective of his work appealed – a simple paid of faded denim jeans, plain white t-shirt, skate shoes and hoodie ensured he wasn’t a fashion faux pas or an intimidating fashion statement to be compared with on the journey home by passer byers – the five minute walk from the pub to L’s plush pad still required us crossing a good deal of pedestrian traffic whose drunken shout outs and cruel comments could scupper the deal for me and my one night stand. What really sealed the deal the messed up brown hair that looked like it ought to have been cut and styled months earlier that hung in his huge caramel puppy dog eyes on his cherubic face, set off with plump lips that turned into an almost diagonal smile when he did take his mouth off mine long enough to ensure he’d secured a shag for the night.
But L was not a woman of compromise. Actually that’s not fair she was. She wouldn’t leave me to have sex in the street (not that I hadn’t previously on countless occasions) but she wasn’t willing to invite a stranger into her pristine flat to infect the house with boy sex germs either. This left me and my teen with the staircase.
At this point in our sexual careers both L and I had ditched glam for comfort. Jeans and a sexy blouse was as effective, given the rather low brow standing of our frequented venue, as a glitzy dress or short skirt. It did however mean urgent access for a quickie was out of the question. Trousers are no real problem for a guy – it’s a mere unzipping and perhaps a slight shift and the erection is out and ready to power in. For me, clad in jeans, the only way that erection was going to gain entry to the (not so) forbidden fruits was complete removal of the jeans (and the high heeled boots!).
For me I had alfresco sex numerous times and I wasn’t a permanent resident of the flats so any shame associated being discovered mid-act was minimal to me. Fortunately because the teen had joined us in downing numerous shots over the duration of the evening so any inhibitions he had or concern about his reputation (being a local and all) seemed almost non existent. Weighing up the pros and cons as a new build not all the flats had been sold or rented so the chances of being caught were low.
Getting the jeans off and being bare arsed was risky to say the least but I concede there’s an awful lot of scope for steps to be incorporated into sexual activity. In the initial neediness and desperation we felt to connect physically I could easily bend over and rest my hands on the fifth or sixth step up which allowed him to penetrate me quickly from behind. The stairs offered me the support I needed as he pounded me furiously – somewhat aware of the time and location.
Once the first burst of lust had been satisfied and we were secure that the lights had automatically timed out in the staircase leaving us lit only by the moon and the street lights of Romford market we had more time to play.
Young and eager to please he had me sit on the third step and parted my thighs so he could perform orally on me. At the end of the day in those circumstances experience is irrelevant. Any man wanting to put his tongue into your wet pussy and laps at it like a dog is a massive turn on – more so because this young thing was kneeling before me to perform the act. And the more he licked the more I moaned. I got a feel for the body beneath the skater boy looked when he came out from between my legs and hooked my legs over his shoulders and began fucking me on the stair. Pushing and trying to plough as deep as he could. The deeper he got, the more I whimpered caught in the pain pleasure scenario and the deeper he tried to go. When he started being vocal about the timing of his potential climax, I pushed hard at his hips to prevent him from doing so given there was no protection involved.
I stood up and looked down at him kneeling. His youthful, bewildered expression looking up at me barely registered as his cock that looked fit to burst and dominated the picture I was gazing down upon. I raised my leg up to the third step and gently pulled his head to my wet cunt to let him lap a little more and lick my clit until I felt the orgasmic moment he so desired had been delayed.
I told him to sit on the steps and he obeyed without question knowing what I was attempting to do. When he was lent back and could support himself (and me) I sat slowly on his cock and bobbed up and down on it. My thighs were not in for a full workout so I eventually settled on his cock; rocking slowly and feeling his muscular chest against my back. Supporting most of my weight, I guided one of his hands to my breasts as I reached down and massaged his ball as I continued to gently move on his cock. When the panting in my ear graduated from a whisper to a more audible level and his balls tightened in my hands I jumped up quickly and before I had time to kneel between him to suck him to the moment of ejaculation he’d already released.
It was all over him, not me. This made getting dressed all the more easy for me. The goodbye was awkward. I would love to have invited him to stay the night, or even have a nightcap or to call a cab but it wasn’t my premise to offer out. Fortunately L had already made it very clear he wasn’t welcome in the flat so he headed down a flight of stairs and I headed up the stairs to the entrance to L’s place.
Simple, satisfying, sex. Two people. One staircase. No strings.
Celebrity Sex On The Beach
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!’
Festive Fu*king 2 – The New Year’s Nightmare (Will anyone get laid on the 31st???)
I’ve always thought people can be easily separated into two groups; those who favour Christmas and those who favour New Year’s. Personally I’ve always been a Christmas girl. People are more spirited, friendly and benevolent with their sexual favours (treating them like presents to give out to a stranger) in that party atmosphere where Santa and his elves peep in from the outskirts. It’s almost as if you have to be naughty to be nice in December. It’s a time of sharing and giving – so with beer goggles firmly attached people are more likely to hook up out of a general feeling of goodwill. It’s a fabulous feeling.
New Year’s though … people are out for themselves. It’s no longer about sharing and giving; it’s about cutting off old ties, burning bridges and creating a new and better life for one’s self. It’s about new starts and hopes and they spring from each individual’s wants and desires. Whereas Christmas is about being with other people and loving what we’ve got, New Year’s is about moving on from what we have in the hope of finding something better.
It’s always been fucking shambolic for me and absolutely dire in the sex stakes. I blame this solely on the fact that people become self absorbed, self obsessed and overly critical and analytical of themselves on New Year’s and thus are unable to focus on the people around them. They look at potential shag’s on New Year’s Eve as if they are potential life partner’s … and clearly I never quite made the grade. Christmas people are just looking for a good time in a warm setting where everyone leaves happy but knowing it’s all been easy Christmas fun. No pressure, no strings. New Year’s is all about the pressure to start anew so everyone becomes tunnel vision.
Hence I’ve always avoided New Year’s. It’s nothing but a constant disappointment for me.
I give you a few examples. When I lost my virginity in 1999 I pretty much became a cock hungry whore. I remember the evening before the work Christmas party my friend and I decided to go clubbing in the West End. I preferred to steer clear of the West End of account of my rather voluptuous figure and general lack of experience in more expensive (or classy) environment. This night though there was decorations and mistletoe. At a time when boy bands were at their height I found myself being approached by a little cutie that could easily have jumped off the cover of smash hits magazine with his black curtains haircut, chiselled features and perfectly packaged body. He’d come from work in trousers and a smart shirt but it wasn’t long before he had smiled and whispered to me he was going to the toilet.
I wasn’t sure how to read that but felt there was an invitation in his declaration of requiring use of the club’s facilities. I made my way down the stairs and he was waiting at the bottom. As soon as I appeared he grabbed my hand and dragged me into the women’s toilets, locking us into a cubicle. Without further ado hands were down pants, tights and control knickers were being clumsily taken off. I went to sit him on the toilet so I could ride him but he took one look at the state of the toilet and shook his head. For some reason it was okay to have sex in the toilet but not on the toilet.
Because he was short and I was in 4 inch heels the sex was quickly becoming a logistical nightmare. Soon enough I was slipping out of my shoes to lower my height. My hands pinned to the toilet wall and legs spread to allow him access. He just had an inch or two but the cubicle was so small my thunderous thighs couldn’t spread as wide as required. The next attempt I had my hands on the side of the cubicle. One leg on the floor, the other leg raised and rested onto the toilet bowl. This gave him the spread to enter me clumsily. Both young and somewhat inexperienced and overly horny and desperate to do the deed to go and brag to our respective friends. A few thrusts and I found my hands slipping. He was frustrated he couldn’t go deeper…and so was I. Again we tried a re-position. He stood, semi squat, over the toilet bowl and tried to life me up. I have to say he was a brave sex soldier trying given my bulk! He lifted me up and onto his cock but as muscular and wiry as his build was he would be no means have the stamina to continue supporting my weight while fucking me like a rabbit. I then attempted my own acrobatic feat by clutching the walls of the cubicle and supporting my weight while trying to ride on his cock. Being unfit and having no upper arm strength this only lasted a few more thrusts.
By this time it was painfully obvious what was going on. Did people make complaints, bang angrily on the door, call security??? NO! It was Christmas and people were happy. In fact I remember one girl finding my shoe, kicked down a few stalls and slipping it under my door wishing me well with my activity and reminding me not to forget my shoes.
He was desperate to cum; I was desperate to be more fully fucked. I decided to give my first Christmas gift. I braved the toilet bowl. I bent over and rested my hands on the toilet bowl. This gave me the stability and height for him to enter and fuck me like the Duracell Christmas bunny he was. Fortunately his cock was young enough, strong enough and determined enough to have me biting back cries of ecstasy rather than being deterred by the state of the toilet and what germs were there. Soon enough I could feel his cock swelling inside me, my vaginal muscles clamping tighter around him inside. I stood up preventing him from any potential explosion. Looked at the toilet seat…thought of what Jesus would want (a safe but heavenly experience I guesses…and sat on the toilet seat.
I began licking his cock up and down. It was to be my first proper blow job. I pulled the foreskin down and traced my tongue around the head of his cock. I sucked the top – he moaned. I didn’t know if I sucked it too hard but he groaned loudly. I continued licking up and down and all around and soon enough I decided it was time to take the beast in my mouth. I opened up and wrapped my lips around the head of his cock. I was careful not to let my teeth graze his prick – I’d read in some woman’s magazine that could cause pain. Slowly I began to ease him further and further into my mouth. I only got it so far before I started to gag. I got a shock and released straight away.
Aware of my inexperience he gently took my head and began to slowly insert himself into my head. Each time I gagged he pulled out. Eventually I began to relax and the more relaxed I became the more of him I found I could fit in my mouth. Feeling a little more in control I began to build up a rhythm. He released his gentle hold on my head and let me manage the job in hand – sorry mouth. Soon enough I could feel him swelling again and I stressed and panicked as the gag reflexes kicked in, but I’d done enough. Just as I was frightened I couldn’t breathe I felt my mouth fill up with a sweet salty liquid. I heard him moaning and could see his hands had gripped the sides of the toilet cubicle. He lent down and kissed my head. While he was zipping up I spat the substance from my mouth into the toilet bowl and began to dress up. We had a kiss, exchanged numbers, ensured our respective friends mingled for the remainder of the evening and went home. Me with a cum stained face and wearing tinsel like a scarf.
The following night at the works Christmas party we found ourselves sharing our venue with another company. Being a virgin – thrice removed – and still buzzing from the night before at 22 I found a lovely young trainee accountant throwing some haphazard drunken shapes to the sounds of Lou Bega and Ricky Martin. Before long we were shimmying on the dance floor closer and closer to each other. As our bodies got closer and closer so to did our lips. But we were both young and being lip locked wasn’t enough. Pretty soon we were almost dry humping on the dance floor. I was the cock hungry, uninhibited Australian within minutes my hands were down his trousers and working their way inside his boxers. Soon enough to allow me more freedom to wank his cock he was unzipping and I was literally performing a hand job in the corner of the dance floor in full view of the partner’s, managing and financial director. Fortunately for me the head of the secretary pool had taken the role of surrogate mother of me in my time in London and within minutes was pushing the boy off saying he ought to know better, seizing my arm and marching me off the dance floor then scolding me like a child at a private table.
But like all naughty Christmas elves once the Christmas party venue closed we somehow gravitated back together at the cloakroom and soon enough found ourselves fornicating at the fire exit of some office building in London’s West End. We literally got lost in the dark doorway, my hands found his cock, he got my dress up and my knickers down far enough for him to thrust into me quickly, desperately and without a sound. It was anonymous Christmas sex, a brief and cheeky pounding for me and something warm and wet for him to remember this particular party in years to come. Unsatisfying because due to time restraints and venue neither of us climaxed but a secret Santa fuck was definitely the order of the night – so once we’d scratched the sexual itch we departed to our separate after parties.
At our recovery party the night after the works Christmas do, L and I made our way to our favourite club in Norbury. The big, black bouncer I had always had a soft spot for allowed me to flirt incorrigibly with him and I made all sorts of promises about him taking me home and revealed all the private sexual thoughts I had carried with him throughout the past 12 months. After a few stolen kisses, by the time the end of the night came the thought of his big black cock became a frightening reality so I began to retract the vows I’d made earlier in the evening. Did he take offense? Refuse entry on our next visit? Start insisting I pay for entry? NO! Because he knew it was Christmas and there was no malice in my last minute rejection, everything was taken in good spirit and a light hearted manner.
That was just three nights over one Christmas. The Christmas of 1999. Do I have any similar tales of New Year’s Eve antics?
Let me think.
Okay so the raunchiest New Year’s experience I had in 32 years – and this is without a word of a lie. In 2003 we decided to do something very last minute for New Year’s. So last minute we didn’t leave home until 11.30pm.By the time we made our way through the throng of the humming West End the countdown had begun. I was wearing combat trousers and a bra covered by only a net top. I was looking pretty cute I think – sex in a girl next door kinda way. There was the smell of a million different aftershaves and perfumes mingling with the abundance of pheromones, the mist of the smoke machine and alcoholic cocktail haze the room was immersed. As the crowd roared the last count down 3 -2 -1 everyone whooped for joy. At the same moment a man got his watch caught on my net top. Whilst everyone was saying happy new year he was tugging his hand. He kissed me quickly on the mouth and shouted ‘Happy New Year.’ I smiled up at him, expecting a longer, lingering more sensual kiss. ‘Can you undo yourself from me there’s a girl over there I need to get to before someone else does.’ Stupefied in shock, my momentary pause took too long because he ripped his watch from my top, tearing the netting and didn’t bother apologising or looking back. As I looked round the room everyone seemed to be looking for the next best thing and no one was looking at me.
That was the closest I’ve come to sex at New Year’s so you’ll understand my reluctance to blog on this particular time of the year. It’s hardly scintillating stuff a story that can ever be considered ‘Gone Wild’….although his manners had clearly gone somewhere as they weren’t present around me. Fuck New Year and roll on next Christmas.
Love ’em & Leave ’em ‘gagging’ for more – The Smooth Operator
Even a cynical, seasoned professional purveyor of penis can get caught off-guard by someone saying the right things at the right time. Drunk with a desperate heart; hearing the right words at the right time can trick your mind into thinking the man saying them can only be Mr Right. One’s expectations are raised, hope begins to bloom and you relax thinking after years of searching he’s finally turned up.
At times I wonder whether I clocked up so much cock on account of my relatively appealing good looks or if it was due to the fact that my pheromones and general behaviour just screamed slut to any passer by-er. A little of column A, a little of column B perhaps
Once you reach the phase where random fu*cking is your fix; like a proper junkie you’re more concerned about getting your fix. The whys and hows of how you get the fix become irrelevant. But if you have a decent dealer the relationship is as valuable as the drug itself.
As mentioned oodles of times previous, Great Yarmouth was a fertile playing field for me in terms of easy guaranteed cock, but low self esteem ensured I was never brimming with confidence. Hence when a tall, dark stranger appeared to be checking me out one night my natural instinct was to quickly survey the dance-floor to see which lucky bitch was the object of his blatant admiration. A few sharp neck swivels (in time to the music of course) and I realised it was me his eyes were lingering on. And I was flattered. Whilst I tended to go for a more mature man there was no getting away from the fact that he was very good looking. At least 6’2 (which given my size – especially in heels could only be a blessing), broad, dark hair carefully and deliberately moulded into porcupine spines all over his head, hazel eyes and an open, symmetrical, good-natured face. Coupled with a casual dress shirt left hanging out over smart trousers and shoes as he lent against the wall leading to the toilets (giving him full view of the antics of the entire venue) he certainly stood out from the usual clientèle at the run down Pier Bar with it’s stonking cheesy pop tunes from decades ago.
I assumed it was a general glance from him so when I was forced to walk past him to go to the loo I was pleasantly surprised when I felt him intentionally yet casually brush up against me as I passed him. Things were starting to look positive so on my return I purposely, yet accidentally touched my entire body to his. It was then he grabbed my hand and when I looked up at him I almost melted in his eyes – they were so kind and friendly…and genuine.
His warm hand prevented me from returning to the dance-floor and I allowed him to gently drag me past the toilets and out onto the pier. The air was cool. Whatever time of the year in the wee hours of the morning by the sea the air is always fresh on the skin. It seemed there was little time for words and yet I’m sure we talked. Perhaps it was just that the immediate connection allowing for a comfortable silence because before long I was pressed against the wall of the closed arcade lost in his lips and feverish kisses. What few words were spoken were enough. Pinned to the wall, his hands eventually found mine and I felt him directing them towards his cock which was trying to burst out of his trousers. But I didn’t want that. I didn’t want to be just some holiday slut for a night. Funnily enough when I told him this he was completely fine. He didn’t accuse me of being a prick tease, become abusive in the face of potential sexual rejection or shrug his shoulders and find some other easy lay. We stood together again and spoke and after a time he took my hand and returned me to the club and my beloved side-kick, L. So it was a nice moment and one I had the sinking feeling I was going to have to write-off as just that. A nice boy on a nice night.
But it wasn’t. Allegedly he had just moved to Great Yarmouth and was beginning work as a barman in the venue (our favourite and most frequented no less). He asked how often I came to Great Yarmouth and after a quick conference with L and the potential this new encounter promised, I confirmed I’d be back in 4 weeks time. We didn’t exchange numbers but he said he’d wait for me and left it at that.
I was kind of seeing a married man at the time (quite a significant ‘relationship’ at that) and was emotionally committed to him but I couldn’t push away this young man – whose name I now can’t even remember – from my mind. Working in an open planned office, I discussed both the guy and my married man at great length and the general consensus from the girls (ranging in age from 18 to 48) was the Yarmouth bloke sounded like a sweetheart and it was definitely worth following up on. Four weeks later we travelled up to Great Yarmouth again, myself with Great Expectations.
A little to keen and over eager we took up residence in the Pier Bar early afternoon and keenly watched the going ons as staff clocked in and out for the evening shift. Bizarrely enough true to his word he turned up, gave a friendly smile and began to work. Like a little school girl and keen to avoid any form of rejection I sent L up to the bar. He chatted with her and spent a lot of his time serving with an eye constantly on me. At one point I was given a drink by a random stranger who said it was a gift from the man behind the bar who also sent him with the message that I was easily the most beautiful girl in the bar that night. At this stage even L swooned at his authenticity. Sometimes small gestures and simple words are the most effective way to pierce a heart. I was smitten and refrained from my normal motto of ‘keep your options open!’ I declined any invitation for a dance and was happy to hang outside on the pier when he had his ten minute breaks. By 4am L was being walked home by an ‘old friend’ which left me with my man.
There is always something romantic about sunrises and empty beaches and walking hand in hand with a man that makes your heart sing for joy.
It’s not so romantic trying to have sex while standing underneath a pier. Romance was high but a pounding need to consummate this blossoming relationship was also present. Lips pressed together, probing tongues and lusty hands groping, feeling and undoing meant there was only one direction this was going. Strangely enough despite some minor protestations I was happy to oblige because he seemed so wanting and firm and…true.
However fab my new outfit was I was regretting wearing jeans. The fitted top accentuating my curves and high heels may have made a killer look but in terms of outdoors sex it just was not good. Frankly speaking rolling down tights and pushing up a dress is easier to access, more graceful and just that little bit safer for being busted for indecent exposure than tight black jeans. In all honesty the guy only needs to unzip for his member to do the job, for me it was trying to wriggle out of my jeans as elegantly as possible to allow the sex to take place. But I was keen enough so ended up kicking my jeans off. As luck would have it my top was long enough to cover my modesty should any early morning wanderer find their way under Great Yarmouth’s main pier.
Whilst I can’t recall his name, I can recall the sex. Pleasingly his cock was in proportion to his 6’2 broad frame. There was a length and girth to it that could only be rewarding for a willing recipient. I remember in my hand his cock was not only hard but it was hot and literally I could feel the blood pulsating through it as he moaned. His main concern was coming too quickly because he hadn’t had sex in some months after a break (well that was his story). Still there was no chance of premature ejaculation because the logistics required for sex meant a lot of stop starting and position changing – which didn’t kill the ambience thank God. I didn’t feel comfortable fu*king standing in heels so removed them, which immediately had me 8 inches shorter than him. Additionally being on the big side, however ripped and fit he was, it wasn’t like he could just lift me up to enter me for a good shagging,
He ended up turning me round to face a pylon – I guess if it could support a pier, it wouldn’t crumble with my weight resting against it. At this point he ran his hand down my buttocks and pushed his hand between my legs, forcing me to open them wider for his eagerly anticipated entry. His groaning in my ear increased as he felt how wet I was for him, his fingers slipped in and out of my dripping c*nt and I could feel my own juices on his fingers as his body pressed firmly against mine and the length of him slowly penetrated me. It was as if time stood still, or slowed right down as I felt my kegal muscles involuntarily clamp round his cock and I moaned in tandem with him – vocalising how full my vagina felt. The sex remained slow, his cock rhythmically reaching the back wall and internally stimulating all the right places. The weight and warmth of him against me only made me feel safer, protected and sensual.
He refused to speed up, determined to take his time as if I was some present to slowly be unwrapped. Eventually though all good things must come to an end. As he whispered into my ear, ‘I can’t wait much longer’ he withdrew and asked if I’d finish him off. It was a reasonably new request and while I was keen to have him in my mouth I wasn’t so sure about my juices being all over it. Still I didn’t want to kill the atmosphere so dropped to my knees, as he gently held my head and guided himself into my mouth.
I have to say – I tasted pretty good. There’s a lot to be said about diet dictating the taste sensation of someone’s excretions. Given my penchant for sweet food it turned out to be a delicious dick. There was far more than a mouthful there so I did my best to relax my reflux which allowed him a little deep oral. Fortunately when I did, unsurprisingly, gag on his cock those muscles rejecting his size seemed to tip him over the edge as he pulled out and allowed himself to cum over my chest – his cum dripping down the deep v-nect cut of my top all the way to my milky white breasts which were all but overflowing from the garment.
I stood up and we kissed (which I felt okay about cause clearly he was now tasting his cum too). I went to grab my jeans, realising the sun was taking away what little cover there was left under the pier when he dropped to his knees. Realising what he was going to do I pulled his head back and insisted that he really didn’t have to but he was adamant he wanted to. I spread my legs at his soft command so that his tongue could work it’s way around me. Clearly he approved of my diet of chocolate and ice cream because not only did his tongue skim over my clit but he seemed desperate to get his tongue where his cock had been ploughing only minutes before. Because of my sizeable thighs to allow him to do this I had to assume an almost yogic position raising a leg and attempting to balance on the one remaining grounded leg. He may have been wanting to bring me to orgasm but this acrobatic feat had put that idea to bed, so I faked it in order to finish up.
His demeanour didn’t change as he gallantly kept look out whilst I got dressed and we took a slow walk home. He lived and looked after his mother in a flat above a shop in one of the main streets in Yarmouth. In the flush of first love, our goodbye at the door took another hour and I promised to meet him that evening.
I got home, slept, woke up, filled L in on the details, showered, changed and headed back to the Pier Bar to continue my perfect weekend. Only he wasn’t working in the Pier Bar, he’s been sent to the opposite end of Britannia Pier to work in Long John’s nightclub for his shift. This venue had thumping music and was filled with all the beautiful, young, pretty things. When we headed up there I felt fat, frumpy, old and out of place. Whilst he did his best to catch the odd conversation with me there was no time for him to take breaks, send over free drinks or sweet messages. In fact he was so busy and seeing endless girls flirt outrageously with him I opted out and headed home. We said goodbye but I felt pretty flat about things. Could it all have been a lie to get a free fuck (please let that bit about him not having sex in months be true because if I was one of a long line of holiday fucks it was even more meaningless to him)???
Back at work Tuesday, after the Bank Holiday and the girls at work were as taken as L and I had been with his behaviour and treatment of me. In fact my mother figure, M, convinced me to drop the married guy and go for it with this new fellow. It had been busy in the club that night and I had stomped out so I guess it hadn’t been entirely practical to exchange numbers. On M’s advice I rang his workplace and left a message with my phone number. Later that evening he returned my call, said he was surprised and a little hurt at my departure but was happy I’d contacted him. He took my mobile number and gave me his, making sure I called his whilst on the land-line to ensure I had the number correct.
Turns out soon after divulging his contact details Mr Right promptly ceased even being Mr Right Now – he was Mr not so Right…or just plain Mr Wrong, Not a response to a text did I ever get back. Not an answer to me calling him ever took place. Just enough missed calls and unanswered texts for me to get the hint. Four weeks later when we returned to Yarmouth he’d disappeared from working at the Pier (sacked or moved on I’ll never know). With a cock like his I have to say it was a good servicing on his part but very poor after care and follow up support – still I hadn’t dumped the married guy so at least I’d kept my options open.
Avoiding jailbait (a very sexy close call)
Under-age sex is never right – mainly because you can get done by the police, thrown into jail, be called a ‘nonce’ and have a particularly unpleasant sentence if you actually survive your time there. So stay away from jail-bait…even those that are knowingly on the prowl. I’ve had a close call but managed to steer myself into quite a different position. More on this in a while.
Whether people like to accept it or not this generation are much more highly sexed than the last and exposed to sexual imagery and an abundance of porn that used to be almost a pilgrimage trial to acquire some ‘tits & ass’ mags – let alone the ever elusive ‘Women’s Own’ (Australian) magazine that used to have a nice centrefold with a gloriously long schlong on display.
I read in the Metro last year a teacher had allowed five 15 year old students to fu*k her behind a rail line. Unbeknownst to her all the passing trains saw exactly what was going on and reported her. Now I can’t remember if she was jailed or not but was does stick in my memory was the judge at least admitting the experience had been in no way psychologically traumatizing or upsetting for any of the minors involved – indeed for them it had been a welcome opportunity.
Why I remember one evening L & I launched ourselves onto Vauxhall Caravan park for the final gala week looking like sex bombs and at 30 we convinced two fathers to allow us to take their respective sons 15 and 17 into town for some clubbing. You’d think it a dream come true for the kids but it really identified we were women and they were boys. The 17 year old spent the night dancing, suctioned on my face to the point where I was debating on whether to say ‘calm down, you’ve pulled I’ll fuck you tonight but gimme some air so I can throw some funky shapes on the dance floor’. L spent ages with the 15yr old moaning about his older brother’s (or were they friends) antics being over the top in a public place. At best she wrangled a light unpractised peck out of him before he complained about being tired. It wasn’t even 1am and we had every intention of pushing on till 7am so called a cab for them (so no I didn’t get to fuck the 17 year old…that night!)
Respect the law but be realistic. Frankly kids don’t do it for me, nor will they ever (even writing this makes me a little queezy – and that’s not because the story involved kissing a man from the kebab shop) but there are boys that develop quickly and can throw out a number which you wouldn’t question.
Back in the early noughties L & I were still frequenting the high-brow night club of Norbury Heights – ‘The Norbury’. By this time it was all about the cock for me. Freed from my virginity and I wanted was cock and plenty of it. As is the mating game two guys, clocked us two girls. They were both significantly younger than L and I who were early 20s, these guys had to be late teens. L’s looked significantly younger, I wasn’t even sure he should be in the club. My guy was 19. He was a builder, had a skin head, broad shoulders and stocky build but there was a teen youthfulness to him.
The Norbury wasn’t so high brow – in fact it was rather sleazy. We’d managed to climb our way sticky panelled dance floor and acquire a few tables and couches low lit with blue and green lights. When I say I was cock mad I really was. Not an ounce of dignity to be spared. I ‘dropped’ my ear ring and while L was lip locked with her guy I had unzipped and wrapped my mouth round the youthful builders cock. I worked on it, until we saw security checking us out and I miraculously discovered my earring on that black drink stained carpet. I sat back to sup my Metz and L’s guy leaned over and said ‘This is awesome. My cousin is having the night of his life – he’s 15 and you’ve just made his year!.’
I didn’t laugh. In fact I felt quite scared. I felt quite sick.
‘I can’t do this,’ I said and solemnly walked to the bar. L laughed and told me not to take it seriously but I did. Because that wasn’t my style – it’s not just a law thing sexual activity with children (however old they look or close to consent age they are isn’t a turn on for me – it only presses no buttons for me).
I decided to go cock hunting and hit the dance floor. Even with shoes bogged down by spilt alcopops and red bull and vodka I had just enough strength in my 4 inch heels to boogie on down while my tight black skirt rode up with wear. Soon enough someone was ‘body-shaking’ next to me and we were edging towards the plinths on the corners of the dance floor. The plinths were till enough and dark enough for his hand to delve up my skirt and wriggle his fingers through my tights and knickers into the warmth, wetness of my wanting cunt and I could r against his hard cock that was pressing against his trousers. My hands fumbled with the zipper so I could undo him and wrap my hand round his pulsating warm flesh.
I looked over to the couched area for L and spotted her easily enough but what pulled at my gut was the confused, hurt face of the builder boy. As the final song finished and the lights rose. I quickly readjusted myself and went to the cloakroom to pick up our bits for the long walk home.
Builder Boy was there.
‘It’s not true ya know.’
‘What?’ I asked, knowing exact what he was referring to.
‘I am 19, he was just fooling round. Winding us up. Don’t just go with some him. I like you, like properly. You’re funny and pretty and stuff. I can walk you home or something.’
And it was in that sentence I knew he wasn’t 19. Because if he was 19 he’d have started a fight, verbally abused me or insisted we find somewhere to fuck as quickly as possible.
I looked at him, told him he was lovely and that he needed a girl his own age. Feeling tears prick my eyes I scarped over to the Kebab Shop. If L and I ever got separated it was our own private meeting point.
I was absolutely drunk and now I felt a loneliness supported by the fact that I was horrible and hateful and pretty hungry. I thought I could stoop no lower. Until I heard the bell ring on the Kebab Shop door and heard L saying ‘S what are you doing?’. I realised I was clutching a cold half pack of chips and kissing some 40 plus Turkish man who had a wife and kids at home waiting for him. To make things worse L hadn’t ditched the two guys. So now the baby builder boy bore witness to just what pathetic things women will do when they have low esteem.
What made the situation even more difficult, was that having seen such shoddy behaviour didn’t deter him.
He chased after me as I staggered round to the back of the nightclub to get in on any final action to wash away the sting of his authentic innocence.
‘Okay so maybe I’m not 19 but does it really make such a big difference? I mean if we like each other. I’m not a kid. I work. I have an income. I have plans. I’m not in school any more. Is it that you don’t like me? Please just tell me what to do to make you take me seriously’.
I didn’t answer. It was just one night wasn’t it? Isn’t that how we all learn how old and cruel the opposite sex can be.
I went round to the back of the club and asked L to hold my purse. She took it wordlessly as I reunited with my last dance of the evening. I found myself pushed against a white van. My head roughly pushed against the side of the van. I felt his hands carelessly pulling up my skirt and furiously pulling down my knickers and tights. He spat on his hand and rubbed it round my anus. Without warning he mightily pressed his cock into my arse. I’m not sure if I even cried out in pain. I think part of me liked it. Well I liked the sense of connectedness. I liked the feeling of being full of cock. I subscribed to the whole pain pleasure theory so even though each rough thrust tore something about the sensation pleased me. But it was all in slow motion. A sad amateur porn display in a car park in Norbury with a minimal audience. When he finished fucking my arse, as he turned me round he prodded his fingers in my cunt – as if he only just remembered foreplay should be included in sex or perhaps he thought a ‘finger blasting’ (as Keith Lemon would say) an equivalent of a post coital cuddle. With a kiss and a thanks, not even an exchange of numbers I walked passed L, took my purse and suggested we go home.
The baby builder and his cousin accompanied us to the taxi station and waited till our cab came.
Faking It! (A sticky sandpit and a cold kebab)
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.