One of the main problems in going  for a more casual approach to sex is that you run the risk of encountering members of the opposite sex (if that’s your persuasion) who have a different set of values to yourself or even just different views on what is socially acceptable or not.

I remember a friend, K, telling me once he was going in for an anal attack on a one night stand and as his cock entered Vegemite valley, the guy receiving tried to force out a poo. Yes he tried to poo onto a cock that was inside him. So outraged was K that he flung him out onto the street – I’m guessing definitely without a cab fare and I suspect without directions to the nearest public transport.

I thought this behaviour was excessive. Not because I’m into scat (it’s one of three things I don’t indulge in) but because it seemed a little bit harsh, dare I say an over-reaction. Don’t get me wrong, had I been in possession of potentially pooey penis I wouldn’t have been best pleased but how is anyone to know what a one night stand is into? K felt it just wasn’t something you should do on a one night stand or at best you would at least discuss it with your bed partner for the evening before straining away.

I always felt if it’s a one night stand and I was never going to see again, then I could do as I please – try to get the best and most out of them. But in doing so, if it’s not one’s own house their wrath and reaction is one you have to deal with. Which means you either restrain from anything too unconventional or kinky, always take them back to your place so you’re in charge or take your chances.

I used to take my chances.

That wasn’t always the best idea for someone as thin-skinned as myself.

I remember when we were doing regular jaunts to Great Yarmouth one summer I fell for a Hugh Grant type fop – a Londoner in Great Yarmouth, wearing a scarf in a nightclub and looking like someone I used to fancy. I got involved in a rather public intense and deep display of kissing one night but thanks to my dalliance with another man earlier in the evening my outrageous flirting resulted in the first guy becoming possessive, aggressive and looking to rough it out in the car park to decide the matter. Crushingly enough for me, my lovely fop held a hand up to stop him and said ‘you can have her!’ – just as the song petered out for the entire club to witness my being cast away like a used tissue. I was left with a dented pride and the predicament of fending off the attentions of someone I wasn’t even keen on.

But, as Great Yarmouth is a small town, the fop came back. The next time though I was actually in the midst of some imagined love affair with a married man and desperate to try and be faithful. But with an unfinished conquest my monogamous stance went flying out the door. Fortunately for me he was very drunk and my boobs that night were particularly large, soft, white, buoyant, perky and exposed. As I kissed him outside the toilet, the waft of vomit on his breath from what had obviously been a long day of drinking, I tried a little of my Australian charm. It worked – in  private. Transpired he was engaged and his father-in-law to be was also inside the club. Not to be deterred I threw my relationship in his face and that was enough of a carrot for him to talk me into leaving the club early.

I should have been prepared for his thoughtless words given his quick disposal of me on our first meeting. As we strolled along the beach, hand in hand, walking back to his house he said ‘I really want to have sex with you but I just want to make sure it’s okay given your condition. How many months gone are you?’

I wasn’t pregnant AND I was wearing control knickers – clearly the knickers were not doing their job of holding in my tum. Perhaps I should have been more outraged or mortified but when you take your chances you have to expect these things…and no I didn’t go out and buy an abdominizor nor start a regime of excessive sit-ups each day.

Anyway he wasn’t all insensitive. He had Fosters flop and was unable to ejaculate. In the end I gave up, finished myself off and began to make a move. Rather politely he asked if I wouldn’t mind him wanking off (he clearly still believed he’d be able to orgasm) to the image of me after my departure. As if I had some control over his imagination or could prevent him from storing me in his wank bank. Flattered (anything was an improvement on the pregnancy blunder) I left feeling rather pleased with myself.

It seemed physics were in full flight that night and indeed every action is accompanied by a reaction of equal magnitude but opposite direction. Thus his verbalising the high degree to which he found my faux pregnant form attractive cancelled out any offence taken at him mistaking me for being with child.

Yet another time, a birthday in fact, I found myself at the in the Roadhouse in Covent Garden, a notorious cattle market where almost anyone could pull amongst the 80s rock anthems and array of fluorescent cocktails. It must’ve been somewhat slim pickings for me that night because I recall deciding my birthday fuck would be a ginger – normally recounting this story I would describe him as strawberry blonde but…the pubes gave it all a way.

Having done his best for the ginger brigade and in fairness he did fuck me all night – I found myself for the majority of the night pogo-ing on top of an albino cock and a springing nest of gingerness. At one stage he had me on all fours like a tomcat mounting a fat persian. He was thrusting so hard I could feel my uterus blowing up like a balloon – to the point of bursting. Desperately trying to angle myself to temper the wind I could hear whooshing into my vagina.

Once finished (his sperm was white not ginger) I somehow managed to turn over onto my side ala Kate Winslet when being sketched by Leo Dicaprio in Titanic. The only problem was the bubble of a fanny fart bobbing at the entrance of my vagina. I knew it was coming and decided as we were both adults and given the pumping he’d given me it wasn’t to be unexpected. So I parted my legs slightly to let the excess air out. I had intended it to be a burp  but it was a bellow – a long aching, rip-roaring non stop vibrato fanny fart tearing into the silence of the night. Not only did we hear it but I suspect all the neighbours did as well. Neither of us mentioned it and went straight to sleep.

When he woke early the next morning to find me frantically scrambling in my clothes with less than half an hour to get to work he scrutinised me carefully (minus beer goggles and without the ringing sound of my front bottom flatulence) and said ‘wow you’re actually really pretty – fancy fucking again tonight?’

The answer was a resounding ‘No’. NOT because of the back-handed compliment – he was clearly as desperate as I was by the end of the evening – but because I was due to fly back to Australia that day…also my reputation couldn’t survive being attached to someone with such vibrant hair.

You’d think now being engaged I would no longer have to concern myself with these types issues in respect of my sex life but sadly it’s not the case. Whilst our current sex life is non-existent due to an excessive amount of stressful external circumstances that doesn’t mean I haven’t in the past, nor will in the future avoid these kind of awkward sexual situations. The fact they’re unrelenting and delivered ferociously are magnified in the realisation that these ‘playful quips’ will haunt our bedroom ‘to death do us part’….more next time on the 22nd March 2012.