I was sitting on my therapist’s couch yesterday in a bid to determine why exactly I hadn’t updated my blog as regularly and routinely as in the past. A few points arose:
- I was getting absolutely no action in the present and therefore was as mentally distant from my sexual self as I was physically,
- Reflecting back on these posts I realised as fun and as frivolous as fucking a hundred plus men had been there had been numerous times I glossed over the reality of some of these situations which had in fact been somewhat psychologically traumatic and this fact was beginning to permeate my memory rendering the blog a more tortuous task than a body of fun work;
- We also considered the lack of direction, control and focus in my life but that really is the boring psychotherapy stuff.
So I’ll give you an example and I’d be interested as to who finds this story sexy and who finds it disturbing (and who finds it shit…maybe don’t comment on the last point given my low self esteem at this moment).
Many moons ago I fell for a married man. Chris – the inbetweener. I’d had my first love and was quite convinced I’d never love again. Now I’m married so my husband who is my true and grand passion, but Chris was the man that allowed my heart to realise it could love again. Now I’m married – no to Chris – clearly didn’t work out with him, but I’ll roll onto that story at some other point in time.
Because I was heart-broken and fully aware Chris himself hadn’t really wanted to end the relationship, it was just practically it couldn’t work long-term, I felt the best way to punish him was to fuck other married men. Enter the website ‘Illicit Encounters’ set up purely for married people (or those in long term relationships) looking for like minded people to fulfil the sexual side of their relationship that has gone wanting over the comfortable years with a long term partner.
I had put my age down as 27 when I was in fact 31 and tended to approach older men….like late 50s, early 60s. In this way they’d be so flattered and surprised by my tentative advances they would be less inclined to reject me. I have to say in most cases this was true. Occasionally you would get the odd ‘honourable’ (if you can adopt such an adjective for members of the website) gent saying he felt it wasn’t the best idea because of the age gap and that having daughters of a similar age made it inappropriate. However on the whole I’d get many an invite for dates and more because they tended to have daughters older than me.
One such man was called…..Peter…maybe…I think. He was a 58 year old engineer from Essex that had made his life in Ireland. He seemed an attractive enough man with a frame of 6’4, broad shoulders, a gentle but square face. He was literate enough over email to attract my attention and almost consumed by the fact that I wanted to ’embark on an affair’ with him – which wasn’t strictly the case but I felt we could iron out the finer points of the relationship upon meeting. What was spectacularly unusual was that he was actually willing to fly from Ireland to Dublin to spend a night with me under the premise, to his wife, that he was visiting his family in Essex.
In some respects I found this phenomenally becoming but I was also a little struck by the impulsivity given we’d never spoken on the phone r met in the flesh. I was completely honest and up front about my size issue – I was undoubtedly photogenic but was considered very voluptuous at a size 16. Perhaps warning bells should have gone off with me when he wrote back ‘so you’re a fat bird then – you can’t be that big given the photos’ (he clearly knew nothing of how to angle a camera for the best shot).
He was undeterred by my weight and decided to pay the fare (I assume he went Ryan Air – for a sex fuck you’d only risk a discount airline) to visit. I decided he was either smitten or a psycho. It didn’t matter which. Well not until I found myself typing a message that he was welcome to spend the night at mine – I felt a little mean insisting on a hotel given he was flying over to fuck me; free accommodation seemed a reasonable contribution on my part. This was, in hindsight, perhaps not my best or most considered decision. Heartbreak and payback sex are not a combination to bring out the ‘sensible head’ on anyone’s shoulders.
Friday came and I dressed accordingly. I was due to meet him in a pub on Carnaby Street, where my workplace was located. I worked in the music industry so my attire had to be casually flattering in a semi-professional manner. I opted for my jeans and a figure-hugging blue top which not only accentuated my curves and rather perky large breasts but the depth of colour accentuated my pale skin tone against the dark features of my hair and eyes – unassumingly stunning. Because of his height I could even afford to wear a pair of very high heels.
He was handsome for his age and dressed in cords with a collared shirt and some patterned knit-wear jumper. He looked me up and down and decided I’d do. I reached this conclusion as he delivered a hefty slap to my rump with an introductory comment of, ‘You weren’t kidding about your weight.’
That comment sat heavier with me, than I did on the pub stool I suspect. We chatted inanely about his work, situation and I’m sure I exchanged equally banal conversation. I saw his eyes light up when he spoke about how I was younger than his own children, and what a coup it was for him to nab someone so young at his age – what a topic for discussion down the pub at the village he lived at in Ireland (I didn’t think bragging about a young online conquest in a small village was the best idea given it could easily get back to his wife, but steered clear of advising him of this). The more I realised I was nothing but a boast, the more I realised how much my heart still hurt for Chris and how this man, whose name I honestly do not even remember, could not have been any further from being the man Chris was – or had been to me.
I stared at his over night bag as he reluctantly bought me alcopops (clearly he despised my common taste on that front) and felt my eyes well up with tears. It would sound clichéd, but it was true and if I said it and committed to the decision I may well escape the night unharmed. Through the tears I admitted the whole scenario was a bad idea. I apologised profusely that he spent the money flying here (even if he did have friends and relatives to see) but that I couldn’t sleep with him. I just wasn’t ready and to try wouldn’t be right for me.
It’s funny how quickly a man’s character will change for a bit of fanny. He became gentle and caring and tactile; in an instance saying how he completely understood my change of heart and it wasn’t a problem. He even offered to walk me to the tube station. It was a kind gesture. Feeling fragile I accepted. Then he offered to walk me down the steps into the tube station itself. I suddenly had a sinking feeling that I knew exactly where this was going. I gave him the goodbye kiss with as much fake passion and tongue as I could muster but it was the wrong move.
Suddenly he became overbearingly nice saying he’d accompany me home, I didn’t have to sleep with him, he could just cuddle me, he was in an awkward position having to ring friends and relatives for a place to stay at this hour (it can’t have been any later than 8pm). I suppose I wanted him to be genuine so I said as long as he understood the situation he could of course stay at mine. There’s nothing like being guilt tripped with the price of an air-fare (even if it was a discount airline).
As an aside when we got into my bedsit/semi studio which consisted of a large double bedroom and a second room which was a large kitchen I noticed my hamster’s cage which resided in the kitchen was vacant. I couldn’t find the creature anywhere and was slightly perturbed at the idea of him running round the walls and shitting everywhere. I’d given up handling him after a bite so I was as frightened of him as he was of me. I think shifting my focus to the obsessive need to recapture the rodent resulted in my guard coming down and my senses not being overly aware of my predicament.
The next thing I knew the 6’4 old man was behind me attempting to grind his hard penis against me as he tried to be seductive and grasp at my breasts. I felt flustered, completely compromised and very threatened. I muttered that I really didn’t feel I could have sex with him. My attempt to avoid his lechery in the kitchen meant my only escape was the bedroom. Here his physical dominance came into play; his stature and determination as he walked, talked and invaded my private space – his voice was almost calming and reassuring me this would happen and I’d be okay – I was eventually backing away until I had no where else to fall back to other than sitting on the bed.
I knew what was coming. I felt defenceless to refuse or stop it. I began crying saying I wasn’t ready but he said it’d be okay and we’d just cuddle.
I didn’t realise cuddling for him meant undoing his trousers and tugging them down enough so his hard old penis had room for some forceful action. I was unaware that cuddling meant pushing me down on the bed and telling me to just close my eyes and relax. I didn’t know cuddling meant he would undo my jeans and pull them off hurriedly. Who’d have thought cuddling would have involved him climbing on top of me trying to kiss my lips as I cried. Who’d have guessed cuddling would involve roughly grabbing and sucking someone’s breasts as they hopelessly repeated ‘I don’t want to do this, I don’t feel like doing this.’ I certainly didn’t know cuddling would result in someone forcing my legs apart, easing their cock in me and slowly and rhythmically working it in and out of me while pinning my wrists to the bed. I never thought a cuddle would eventuate with an old man moaning in my ear about how tight I was, how young, how much this meant to him, how grateful and thankful he was as he built up speed and came inside me.
He got off me and I felt anything but a boastful sexual conquest. I felt fat, my body manipulated into an unattractive position so he could get his one last young fuck for the wank bank. And I must’ve looked it because all he said as he pulled up his trousers was, ‘Don’t worry I’ve had a vasectomy.’ I stared up at the skylight and noticed how heavily it was raining. I wished the window would break and the rain could wash it all away – the pain, the shame and him.
I didn’t have to worry about him staying the night. Seemingly spending the night in a storm that didn’t look like it was about to ease up any time soon was far more appealing than spending it was me.
‘I’ll go now,’ he said.
‘You can stay – it’s silly if you’ve nowhere to go.’
‘I can walk round in the rain till morning. To be honest you’re really fucked up and you need to get help.’
And with that he left. I don’t know if it was unfortunate, foolishness or rape – who can say. I did feel though, as an outside observer, having witnessed both our behaviours in that situation, on a scale of fucked-upness he would’ve scored higher than me.
So that’s one more of the one hundred. That particular encounter brings back no fond memories or frisson as I write it. But fucking 100 men, one was never to expect a 100% perfection hit rate in all those sexual encounters. Good with the bad and all that.
What I will say, is after the absence and devastation this vile old predatory creature had left me stewing in and a good deal of comfort eating on my part the hamster eventually made himself known within the bedroom walls (And I thought my nightmare ended with the faux-rape but nothing will drive you mad than constant squeaking in the walls). By Monday morning the hamster had been moved to a dumpster with all his food and bedding. I hope nothing bad happened and he escaped the bin men. I like to think some rats adopted him and he’s part of a rough gang still going strong in Stockwell. He was better off out of the apartment – so would I have been on that particular night.