In the time honored tradition of the British seaside holiday camps toward the end of every season the ‘talent’ would become somewhat scarce. Good looking men were thin on the ground and finding a decent shag became more of a quest than a game.
My best friend ‘L’ and I would ritually attend the final week of summer season when all the staff at Vauxhall Holiday Park in great Yarmouth would let standards slip with the end of work in sight. When I say standards slip, I don’t just mean the entertainers would lose their gusto on stage and the security guards would be more flexible in letting ‘visitors’ onsite after hours – I mean the staff would stop shagging all the good looking people and happily throw a bone(r) in the direction of the uglies.
But ‘L’ and I were never uglies…there were however years when we (well ‘I’ if I’m being strictly honest) possibly fell in the category of fatties – and no one is ever forgiving if you’ve got a few extra pounds swinging from your hips.
Because of the fact we’d ‘sized up’, ‘L’ and I had to take our nocturnal activities off site and into the pulsating hub of Great Yarmouth town centre; where the locals were far less discerning in selecting their annual summer flings.
‘L’ had picked up a cute impish guy that was totally smitten with her. Unfortunately he was a bit of a damp squib and while easy on the eye his company wasn’t scintillating. ‘L’ insisted I chaperone all dates so that she had someone she could talk to and have a laugh with. Had ‘L’ been a boy or vice versa, there’s no doubt in my mind we’d have ended up together, but our heterosexuality and my nymphomania meant there were times we were forced to separate and hunt out a ‘dick’ for the night.
So it’s a week night out of the summer season in Great Yarmouth and ‘L’ insisted her date take her (with me in tow) to the Pier Bar for karaoke night. ‘L was the most supportive friend. She loved my karaoke. I think she appreciated while I could hold a tune, what I lacked in talent I compensated with passion and performance.
Only recently I was telling my husband how ‘L’ and I did a resounding version of Meatloaf’s ‘Paradise by the Dashboard Light’. My husband asked who sang what part and I looked at him queerly and said ‘I sang the boy and the girl’s part. ‘L’ did backing vocals.
On the night in question with an audience of at least six people I did a stonking version of Will Young’s ‘Who Am I’ which had been an anthem of heartbreak two years earlier on our annual holiday.
When I finished I searched the startled and stunned faces of the audience for a potentially available man. There was only one man in attendance as a singleton. Sure he was close enough in age to be my father, but beggars can’t be choosers.
He won me over instantly with his Geordie accent (Aussie’s love an accent) and went into ‘good impression’ overdrive by complimenting me on my performance – although he was quick to point out it was a boy’s song (we can’t all be sopranos and Leona Lewis!).
What I found particularly endearing about the giant teddy bear was that he was incredibly flattered by my attention.
Want to know why?
Turns out this 47 year old oil rig worker married when he was 19 to a woman eighteen years his senior. That meant his wife’s current age was 65. He was fucking an old age pensioner and he was prime beef.
I won’t lie – the revelation of his marital status was something of a blow. I was determined to get at least one shag by the end of the week and at the moment things weren’t looking good. That I’d invested my time in a dud root was frustrating to say the least.
I had a flash of insight which drew my attention to the fact that I am a sexual predator. If this man did want a liaison, I could be the one to make him take a leap.
I allowed him to buy me alcohol. I laughed like he was Billy Connolly. I listened to him like the words coming from his mouth were said by Jesus himself. I gazed into his eyes like he was George Clooney. I was tactile an overtly affectionate like Jenna Jameson.
He was putty in my hands and as last orders was called and he accepted my offer of an invite back to our caravan.
Moseying along the grass in the moonlight trying to find the number of our caravan in a section where every mobile house looked the same he confided in me that he’d never cheated on his wife. I raised a cynical eyebrow which was unseen by him thanks to the clouds passing the moon. He continued on and informed me that he’d never slept with a woman other than his wife. For any man is reading this – If you think having a near virgin status in your late forties is a turn on or a good ‘pulling’ tactic you would be wrong. Inexperience in your mid-forties is not sexy. The fact that he said it out loud made me believe him which in turn meant he probably wasn’t lying about never having cheated on his wife.
Although the horrid staff on the holiday park had made me feel pretty bad that year about my weight gain, my ego was hugely boosted by the security that my voluptuous curves and ample bosom could tempt a man to stray from his wife of twenty-eight years to see what sex with another woman would be like (reading that back is horrible – how fucked up was I that I thought playing around with a married man for a night was a ‘positive’ thing in my personal and sexual development???)
To avoid having to have sex with her beau, ‘L’ insisted we have the double bed and that her date would be sleeping on the couch. I ushered by prime beef oil rig hunk into the cramped bedroom and offered to get him a drink.
In the time it took me to get a bottle opener and knock the lids off two bottles of Smirnoff Ice he had stripped completely and gotten under the covers. As I breezed in with the two drinks I was greeted by a naked man with the sheets pulled up to his chin.
I have to say I was quite taken aback. Clearly sex was always going to be the end result but a little coy conversation and flirty foreplay never goes amiss. I could literally feel my oriental shaped eyes widen in shock by his brazenness.
‘Toilet’ – was the excuse I offered to remove myself hurriedly from the scene.
I stood outside the door trying to come to grips with things. I didn’t mind a ‘slam-bam-thank you ma’am’ sex session but given his shy and gentle sex life I wasn’t expecting him to be quite so in your face.
He was hunky in a traditional sense. Well over six foot two, short cropped black hair, kind brown eyes, nice lips and a strong jaw on a masculine but gentle face. He wasn’t overly defined in terms of his chest and stomach, but he was solid and firm. No soft bits. The broad chest with a smattering of hair and the muscular arms should have looked inviting, not had me scarpering out like a frightened mouse.
I flushed the toilet and snuck into the living room where ‘L’ and her lovelorn man were chatting quietly.
“I don’t like to bad mouth a guest when they’re in our van,” I said to ‘L’, “but if I didn’t know any better I’d say my gentleman friend is expecting to have sex with me.”
‘L’s beau looked stunned as if I shouldn’t have expected anything else.
“What makes you say that?” asked ‘L’.
“Because in the time it took me to get the drinks he was lying in bed with a massive erection. I know I’m easy but talk about presumptuous. I don’t think he’s left me much wriggle room to play ‘hard to get’ at this late stage in the evening.”
‘L’ rolled around at thought of the massive man, naked on the sheets with his hard on eagerly and unquestioningly awaiting me. ‘L’s man looked decidedly envious knowing he wouldn’t be in any beds with a boner that was inevitable going to be tended to.
Taking a deep breath and rolling my eyes exaggeratedly, I braved the forty-something near-virgin.
I wasn’t in the mood to give oral. I really just wanted to give his cock a mind blowingly good time in my cooch. So I did.
Prior to his bold assumptions about my chastity (a lack thereof), I had every intention of making it a slow, tender affair. Now I just wanted to get it over and done with.
I needn’t have worried too much.
The second I climbed under the sheets with, his heart rate accelerated and he started panting like a thirsty dog. He seemed to delight in stripping my dress from me and letting his hands explore the soft, round flesh of my thighs, bottom and tummy.
When I released my breasts from my favorite diamante wonder-bra he imbibed them as though they were a pair of Big Mac’s on a tray. He didn’t so much as suck my nibbles as mouth my tits and grind his teeth softly on the milky white flesh.
He hadn’t been lying about having only slept with one woman. When I took his hand and placed it between my legs so he could feel the damp crotch of my knickers he moaned and bit his bottom lip as if he were trying to stop himself screaming out in ecstasy.
I could see the warmth wetness of my pussy was too enticing to him explore with his fingers for fear of shooting his load. Taking charge of what might prove to be a rather short affair, I reached down for his cock.
Average in length and girth – which was something of a disappointment given that he was a bear of a man.
He was rock hard and given the number of med in their forties that I’ve bedded, I have to say I was suitably impressed by just how strident and tall his member was. The blood was in full flow because I could feel the pulse of it as I worked the shaft. His teeth were gritted as I spat on my palm and massaged his length. Alight tickle of his balls had him begging me to stop.
Then came the penetration part. ‘L’ knew better than to come a knockin’ because the caravan was clearly a rockin’ with the two of us pleasing plump humans making sweet love in a bedroom with paper thin walls.
He was frozen on the mattress for fear of climaxing before he’d actually got his cock in my cunt. I needed to get laid so ultimately, I was going to have to endure the strain if I was going to get my holiday fuck.
With a mammoth effort I straddled the man and sank easily on his cock. It was a nice secure fit. To guarantee he remembered the ride for good I put my recent pelvic floors exercises to ensure my slit held him tight as I bounced up and down on his dick.
And bounce I did.
I built up such a rhythm and vigor, it was like I was a five year old riding a space hopper for the first time. I was literally rebounding off his pubic mound as I slammed down hard and let my pussy lips feel the graze of his pubic hair. Rising up I took the head right to the end of the slit, but never releasing him. It was only as he started moaning and thrashing on the bed I realized if he’d been married since he was nineteen contraception probably never featured in his sexual repertoire.
I made a time finish by sliding my cunt slowly up his shaft with a final squeeze of my kegal muscles which had him cummign instantly on the outside of my cunt lips and down my inner thighs.
Our farewell was somewhat over the top given our briefer than brief encounter. As he dressed in his jeans and check shirt (I kid you not) for the oil rig and went to head for the docks to catch his boat, I stood on the very tiny verandah and waved him off with all the drama of a wife watching her husband go to war.
Then I went inside and made a weight watchers banana and nutella crumpet.
Then ‘L’ came out and said she had the most awkward night ever trying to keep her horny love puppy at bay while the caravan shuddered on its support structures while I rode the hairy bear to the edge of ecstasy.
It was an awkward breakfast – especially when the horny love puppy shot up sharply when I sat on the sofa to eat my weight watchers banana and nutella crumpet.
The trouble with becoming addicted to sex is that the ‘desire’ to have sex soon eclipses the ‘real reason’ as to why you embarked on a sexual journey of self destruction. Thus, in my case, having regular sex with new partners became more important to me than actually blindly hoping one of these casual one night stands would in fact be the love of my life.
The most shameful thing about my alleged sex addiction – a label I still vehemently deny – was that there were times I was willing to drop my standards. Fortunately my standards were impeccably high which meant that when I did drop them, instead of sleeping with a guy ranked about eight or nine in terms of appearance, I’d sleep with a seven. Typing those figures my confession doesn’t seem so bad. Sadly the truth is … I vividly recall a liaison with a guy who I want to say was a six but if I’m honest… he was a four. That’s right, looks wise I genuinely believe the majority of the world’s population wouldn’t find him passable in terms of his physical presentation. I want to sell him to you as a six, but in my heart of hearts he wasn’t.
Let me pitch the guy to you. He was five foot five and slightly overweight (definite paunch) with dark hair (which was balding and medium in length with a comb over) and olive skin. His uber brown eyes were somewhere between feline, oriental and with pronounced epicanthal folds (i.e. were positioned in a southward diagonal direction on his face). He had quite high cheek bones, but the rounded jaw line made his face long like a horse and chubby like a chipmunk. The broad shoulders promised a masculine build despite being vertically challenged, but I was disappointed to discover his arms and legs were fleshy and flabby, as opposed to toned and muscular.
On the night in question he was wearing pale grey chinos and a white long sleeved shirt and smart, shiny black leather shoes. In fairness he made the most of his appearance and pay packet, but dress a frog up in Ralph Lauren or Georgio Armani and at the end of the night you’re still with a frog.
What was even worse was I met this particular man when I worked at the theatre come late night bar where me and the entire staff spent the whole time crucifying him as a complete sleaze that was only after one thing (weren’t we all???). Hypocrisy aside, it wasn’t his insatiable sexual appetite that turned our stomachs and I don’t think it was the fact that he wasn’t part of the ‘beautiful’ crowd (occasionally some non-entertainment bodies were able to wrangle a membership to the theatre bar) – what we objected to was his slippery, sneaky manner. He literally slithered around the theatre preying on women that were too off their heads with excessive alcohol to possess a clear state of mind to reject his advances. Truth was our bar was full of those kinds of women (staff like myself fitted the bill as well…in and out of work) so it was a playground for him.
There will be those readers thinking if those girls were careless enough to let themselves get into that state then they deserved all they got. But we actually cared about our patrons and that kind of devious, unchivalrous and dishonourable approach left a sour taste in our mouths. Thus as he took advantage of our pretty, merry members, we’d watch helplessly; knowing those girls would wake the following morning feeling severely disadvantaged at having experienced a devastating misadventure they would never be able to confide in even their closest of friends (hell it’s taken me over ten years to write about). Hence Mr Sleaze had nothing but our simpering disapproval and disdain.
I think the major criticism of me in this story is that Mr Sleaze had come to our attention because his efforts in seducing the theatre’s drunken and disabled women were generally with rejection and a significant dollop of revulsion. So my encounter with him wasn’t new or fresh; this potential sexual candidate and his background were very familiar to me.
Did my long term observations of this member stop have me rethinking him as a sexual suitor on a particularly dry night where I needed some action and an abundance of opportunities were not presenting themselves to me?
What’s worse is that I wasn’t off duty on the night, so can’t claim being drunk and disorderly as an excuse for the liaison. My drinking whilst managing the theatre was controlled and minimal on the night in question. When I called last orders and was badgering the patrons to scoot out of the bar, he was the one guy to catch my eye as the only possible shag for the night.
I want to say beer goggles pushed him to an eight, but no amount of alcohol can double someone’s score of attractiveness. I guess maybe the haze of needing a big fat cock made me see him as passable rather than dog ugly and unappealing in every possible manner.
I invited him to stay back and have a one-on-one lock in with me. I initiated the kiss. Yes I decided those thick, rubbery lips stretched wide on his face were deserving of my full, perfect mouth and expert technique.
For all those people I worked with, I’m going to ‘fess up (cause we all know who I’m talking about). He was actually a decent kisser. Those thick, rubbery lips were soft and his kiss was tender and intimate. Sleazy man knew what he was doing and I liked it. In fact the kiss was so good I was inclined to let nature run its natural course.
Within minutes we were lying on the couch opposite the bar (under the picture of Queen Victoria) and I was kicking my kitten heels across the theatre reception area as he was burrowing under my long full skirt. I let his fingers slip under the elastic of the waist band of my panties and peel them down. I let him breathe on my pussy and undoubtedly my lips would’ve been quivering having been exposed to the early Thursday morning air breaking into the theatre through the drafty locked doors. As his tongue swirled around my clit, I found myself lying back and focussing on the sensations he was lavishing on such a sensitive area. The wide tongue was lapping at me like a dog. I knew I was dripping because he was making noises not too different to what my husband sounds like when he’s tucking into half a chicken at Nando’s.
Pretty soon he was sucking on my clit and his tongue was edging ever lower to my slit. One of two things would inevitably come next:
1) He’d slither up me in a snaky way as he wriggled out of his chinos to mount me and slip his dick in or
2) He’d lie on the opposite end of the couch unbuckle his trousers to expose himself, inviting me to suck his cock
That’s when it happened.
A moment of clarity.
This was Mr Sleaze – a sly, snaky man who we all disliked with vehemence and passion. I needed to get laid, but did I need it badly enough to sacrifice my self respect and standards?
No I did not.
After all, I’d just had someone go down on me. That sexual action was enough to keep me going until tomorrow’s night shift (there was always more cock available on a Thursday night than a Wednesday). There was no need to continue this sexual liaison for the sake of proper, formal bedroom etiquette.
I was well mannered and polite, but did that require me licking and sucking the prick of someone I found repulsive and repugnant?
I told him so.
Not brutally you understand. It was more of a ‘sorry, I really can’t do this – you’ll have to go’ way. (I was well mannered and polite after all).
He didn’t like the rejection.
He thought I was bad mannered and impolite by not reciprocating.
Even though I thought he had a valid point, it still wasn’t going to happen.
What concerned me was that he and I were alone in the theatre.
What concerned me more was that he was bulky and broad and easily stronger than me.
What concerned me more than that was that I was a 23 year old duty manager; NOT the owner of the theatre. It wasn’t really in my job description or roles and responsibilities to be inviting psycho, sexually deviant patrons to keep me company in the theatre when I was cashing up and responsible for the entire venue and all the stock and profits.
The scene had the potential to get ugly. It’d be terrible id I ended up being raped or succumbing to sexually pleasing the man out of obligation. It’d be even worse if I resisted and the struggle drew attention or came to the notice of my employer.
Frightened and unable to analyse the situation objectively, I did the only thing a voluptuous, outgoing Australian duty manger could – I called in a favour.
How thankful I was that in the winter our kitchen often gave free hot soup to the security guards, doormen and medics on Heaven nightclub (infamous gay club owned by Virgin’s Richard Branson – it’s since changed hands). I unlocked the door. Mr Sleaze’s hand went to pull it shut. I threw it open and politely called under the Arches of Charing Cross for Heaven to come lend a hand.
Never has my generosity and fag hag tendencies been so useful. Two of the Heaven staff jogged down the cobbled stones to the theatre door. The tugged it open and Mr Sleaze’s hand went slack. He looked up to see two ‘9s’ glaring down at him from above six foot. Athletic, muscular, protective, respectful of women and drop dead gorgeous I wished I could grow a cock on the spot to get me a little action there and then. They were far too good looking to ever join the heterosexual team. Distracted by their beauty, I forgot the menacing hazard I was currently embroiled in. My peril was short lived when the boys asked how they could be of assistance and Mr Sleaze (I kid you not) literally slipped under the arm of the tallest security man and crept down the arches in the shadows of the closed shops littering our street.
I recounted the entire story to the men. They didn’t bother searching for Mr Sleaze (although they offered to) because (as strictly homosexual guys) the thought of having to go down on a girl and not getting a blow job in return was punishment enough.
I figured they had a point. The next time Mr Sleaze was at the bar I gave him one of my most winsome smiles and was generous enough to extend my hospitality to a free drink as well. It would’ve been bad manners and impolite not to and as this story demonstrates – that’s just not me.
The first theatre I worked in closed. Actually it went bankrupt. My gang felt somewhat bad regarding the umpteen free drinks we helped ourselves to on consecutive nights. When we found the locks on the theatre door changed with a notice up explaining the poor financial situation of the venue we wondered if we were to blame. Sitting down and doing the maths (overestimating the free drinks we consumed), we realised we could only account for a maximum 3% of the debt – it eased our consciences. Sadly it also meant the ‘gang’ disbanded suddenly; with everyone out of a job and owed money.
There were some people I never saw again (no, not even on Facebook) and those whom I tied to forever more. Turns out blood is thicker than water – well certainly shared experiences in an underground world can bind you to another, no matter what the time or distance is between catch ups.
At this point in my life I was knocking around with my best mate and his wife. We were as thick as thieves. People assumed we were a manage-a-trois.I can honestly confirm, here and now, that we really were going back to the couple’s flat, drinking loads and listening to or watching ‘Erasure’.
My friend, who was an actor, decided as his career was a little stagnate (non-existent would be a more accurate description) that he would dabble in stand-up comedy. Fair play – he’s very dry, perspicacious and witty so it seemed a good career move (he once made me laugh so hard at his ‘pooper-man’ story that I farted in hilarity). So as he did the rounds of all the open mike comedy nights in London to start acquiring some experience, hone his act and catch the name of the right promoters, me and his wife played as devoted unofficial groupies.
This is going to sound arrogant, but if you were going to have a competition on funniness between me and my friend, I’d be in with a bloody good chance of stealing his comedy crown. As he accumulated regular and paying gigs, my presence and talent became recognised by his new ‘work’ colleagues. Thus my company was welcome as we’d frequent late night drinking holes catering to performers in London’s West End.
I’d had one near run in with a comedian, but truthfully having told me he wanted me to fuck him with a strap-on, refused to have a coffee at Starbucks for political and ethical reasons, presented me with a book on Milwall fans (he used to be a yob), was considered an old hack (someone who steals other people’s jokes) on the comedy circuit and wasn’t the prettiest man in the playground – the sex part was never really on the cards (despite me having led him to believe the possibility existed).
Seriously, I’m open minded but the ‘strap-on’ request really could have waited till we were at least actively participating in a sexual relationship. I’m all for being honest and up front, but sometimes revealing too much too soon is a major turn off. The mere mental image of my twenty-five year old body wearing a giant strap on and fucking a significantly overweight, pasty faced, greasy mousy blonde man in his late forties quite turned my stomach. By divulging that particular secret, no matter how many of my personal favourite jokes he included in his set and directed at me, I just couldn’t bring myself to even amble to first base with him.
I digress. That was the comedian I didn’t fuck and the reason behind it is mildly amusing. This post is about the comedian I did fuck and why it wasn’t funny.
A small group of us were crowded round a table in a members bar. There was a cute comedian present, who was significantly more attractive than his predecessor (old, fat, strap-on comedian). Yet again, I cannot remember his name, but I clearly remember what he looked like. He was about five foot nine, medium build, a buzz cut, brown hair, twinkling brown eyes, casual clothes (jeans and t-shirt) and was genuinely a real cutie.
What was particularly appealing was his lack of confidence. Rather than just ‘claiming’ me, which he could easily have done after every pint by stamping a kiss on my lips, he spent the time in the bar getting gradually drunker and building up his confidence to a point where he was able to be openly tactile with me.
I thought the process very sweet. That is until he was telling my best friend that we were well suited because we had matching moles on our faces. He then persisted in rubbing his brown mole against mine. I’ve always thought my moles to be interesting and a feature that accentuates my beauty, a la Cindy Crawford. Hearing I should be paired off because (and I quote) of our ‘witchy hairy moles’ was actually offensive.
For a start my moles aren’t hairy – I carry a pair or tweezers on me at all time in case a big black hair sprouts. Secondly, that he drew attention to it made me think, for the first time, that when people meet me they must immediately notice the mark on my face. There are probably those who are repulsed by it or, even worse, make comments about it behind my back. I was riddled with insecurity. If/When people do impressions of me; do they draw a large exaggerated mole on their left cheek???
I was pleased I was on a promise, but the alleged reason behind the comment bordered on insulting. It was like I was getting a shag off a fellow ‘mole’ who knew what it was like to be ostracized because of a facial disfigurement. Only I’d never seen it as a disfigurement. What I thought was a beauty spot was viewed in the eyes of others as a wart. D for depressing and D for distressing.
He would redeem himself by insisting on acquiring a kebab for each of us (and paying for them both – last of the big spenders!) to eat as he walked me home. As I was in need to a new notch on my bed post, obviously the night didn’t end with him kissing my cheek (the one with a mole) and bidding me farewell. It continued with me sneaking him past the security guards of the YWCA and up to my room for a quick sex session.
Only his nerves and romantic nature resulted in it not being a ‘quickie’. As we devoured our grimy fast food, he flipped through my 500+ CD collection and picked out tracks for me to play. What sticks in my mind is us both half-propped up on pillows on my single mattress and the ‘Ash’ song ‘Girl From Mars’ playing. He said it reminded him of his misspent youth (didn’t we all feel so old thinking about being seventeen as our mid-twenties threatened to move into our late-twenties) and said there’s a beautiful line coming up. Then he turned to me and sang in a husky voice ‘I know that you are almost in love with me, I can see it in your eyes’.
He loved music.
So did I.
He loved kebabs.
So did I.
He loved late nights drinking with friends.
So did I.
He had a mole on his left cheek.
So did I.
We were, of course, perfectly suited. My heart was lost to him in that instant.
We had sex like teenagers. I struggled to remove his sweater and t-shirt from him. He wrestled my jeans off me in a fashion not dissimilar to the late great Steve Irwin taking down a crocodile. The lights stayed on and he pulled the bed covers over us to protect our modesty and not expose his less than toned frame.
He wasn’t sexy, but he was adorable. I liked the smattering of hair across his broad chest. I liked that he didn’t have a washboard stomach (it made me less insecurity about my ‘fuller’ figure). There was an innocence attached to the act, as my hand sort his cock under the dark of the covers. Landing on it, I attempted to work it as best I could without any night vision goggles. I was to learn from my vigorous attempts that a little lube doesn’t go astray and that saliva is fine to use.
His fingers were tentative and exploratory. He spent his time running them between my slippery lips. The fact he was motioning and circling his index and middle finger on a spot about an inch away from my actual clit demonstrated not only his inexperience, but a willingness on his part to please me in bed. It might have been frustrating, but he eventually found a way into my slit and used his fingers to fuck me – which was absolutely sensational.
Too wet to build up a friction, there was only one direction to take and that was actual sex. Tossing, turning and twisting in the bed linen, he managed to mount me. Despite my wide spread legs, laying on me missionary style, his cock seemed unable to locate the place his fingers had. I adjusted my position, raised and tilted my hips to offer silence guidance, but it was all in vain. In the end I reached down and just pulled his dick directly to the entrance and let the head burst through.
I have to say, I was pleased with the girth. Average in length, the stretch on my slit was delightful. Finally embedded, his peachy smooth buttocks rose and fell slowly as he inserted his length in and out of me. He lifted himself on his arms to gaze at me as we fucked leisurely.
It seemed poor timing on his part to ask after he was in me if I took birth control pills. Shooting out a quick negative response, he leapt off me like I’d said I was HIV positive. Pale and naked, he scooted under the duvet to retrieve his jeans, fish out a condom then struggle to put it on his penis which had diminished in size since initiating the ‘safe sex’ issue.
He was determined though, because even though he was more flaccid than erect, he physically worked his dick back into me. Once my slit sucked him in and my cunt tightened round the stubby shaft, I could physically feel his prick expanding inside. It was hot; feeling the shaft grow and touch the various nerve endings secreted in my pussy. Confident he wouldn’t slip out or disappoint, he returned to pumping me. The connection had been broken and he laid on me jerking sporadically, face buried in my neck, mouth delivering sloppy kisses until he came. He obviously hadn’t had any sex for sometime because I could feel the condom fill up with his semen.
As he removed himself, the condom separated from his cock and the spunk ran down the crevice of my cunt to my rear entrance. In years to come I’d suggest some dirty antics to follow up, but there and then I just relished the foreign and divine sensation of the thick white liquid spreading on such sensitive and delicate areas of my person.
I assumed, because of the lack of intimacy, that the spell the band ‘Ash’ had cast on us earlier was broken. I was wrong. Although he needed to get home for work the next morning, he was insistent on taking my number.
The trouble with ‘almost in love’ is that it isn’t actually ‘in love’. That word ‘almost’ is perhaps one of the most powerful in the dictionary – especially when used in relation to love. ‘Almost’, I suspect, was the reason not to give me that follow up call. I like to think had he been in love with me he’d have rung. If he was only ‘almost’ in love with me he had an excuse as to why he wasn’t obligated to fulfil the promise he made me on the doorstep as I kissed him goodbye.
Comedy gold? I wasn’t doubled over laughing so hard it hurt my belly as I waited for him to call in the following three weeks.
(I’d like to say the comment on my mole was a one off and up until this year it was. Sadly my six year old step son went to give me a kiss the other month and said, ‘not that cheek, it’s got a yucky mole on it. Let me kiss the other side!’)
Sex, sex and more bloody sex; it’s all and only what you get on BBC3 right now. That stuff sells, right? So naturally, the sickly, angst-ridden pubescent bastard of the world’s greatest broadcaster has grabbed desperately onto the buoy (or, more accurately ‘boys’) of what’s best in life and allegedly – sometimes – free. ‘Let’s get down and dirty,’ fantasises Beeb3 ‘with our rival tarts on Channel Five say, or perhaps Channel Four. They may charge a bit more for their own televisualerotic versions of the King’s Cross/Marylebone Road type of charm, but if we can get something cheap and cheerful out there at least it’s a foot in the door, however ravaged and raddled our offering might be.
To be straight so to speak, I’m in no way describing anyone as being whoreish per se incidentally, but I do wonder who exactly kerb-crawls this sort of thing.
Nor do I write as some wannabe TV critic but as a person conned (well, ok, then willingly agreeing to) taking part in one programme in BBC3’s ‘Sex Season’ currently boring us half to death (and not in a good way), night after night with show upon show (imagine that – TV progs actually shagging each other) about…well…in truth, how incredibly boring sex really is. That is unless you’re actually doing it.
And regardless of the initial ‘shock-horror’ stories wrapping up the tabloid Sundays, the aforementioned season is most certainly not that; this sheep in wolf’s clothing has been as much of a penile let down-as damp squib and desiccated girl bits. Turn on, tune in, turn off would be my mantra if a bit of titillation’s what you’re after; what we’ve got here is just the opposite.
At this point though I must come clean – if ‘clean’ and ‘come’ are the right words – and say how bitterly disappointed I was in my by far all-too-brief appearance in what was initially pitched to me as featuring a vignette of the girl who’d had a hundred dicks (at least) only to emerge, shaken if not stirred the other end, finding true love at the denouement.
And the programme, to my absolute horror, did exactly that, concentrating not, as I’d been given to believe, on my merry dance of sexual adventures (mis- and otherwise) but on a sad slag having fucked behind dustbins, in toilets and so on to discover my ‘Prince’ at the close of my ‘journey’ down a street of kebab takeaways and seedy underground clubs. The metaphor of having sex with strangers and buying a pasty is now stuck with me for life. One sentence out of possibly thousands and you just had to squeeze it in. Cheers for that guys, I can never eat such a thing in public again – and that lovely new Reggae Reggae Hot Chilli Beed Pasty tastes so good after a night out!
So, not entirely the truth exactly, more accurately ‘The Truth’ – a short and saccharine-sweetened version of it anyway, in Programme Two of a trilogy titled ‘How Sex Works: Playing the Field’ screened no fewer than five times at varying times of the night over the last week, its final showing early this morning. In it my comparator was, among others, an interminably boring and distinctly un-erotic CGI hermaphrodite illustrating, in sub-GCSE Biology terms, hard-ons, hormones, glands and vaginal lubrication. Next to him/her, I might have been interesting but then add to this a shoe-obsessed, body-building bi-sexual Titan of apparently little brain happy to poke anything in trousers, skirt, dog-collar or you name it, a sex-crazed orgy-loving goth with the libido of Silvio Berlusconi on steroids (and I’m talking about a girl here) plus an admittedly gorgeous black ego-maniac with a two year old daughter, kept strictly ‘separate’ from his amatory existence, you’ll imagine how easily I could have been (and indeed was) contrasted as some sort of sore Thumbelina.
Next to these over-sexed, intellectually bottom-feeding specimens were posited a young gay man recently diagnosed with HIV and, strangest of all an ‘asexual’ Oxbridge undergraduate with a multi-coloured crop who’d clearly just fallen in love. Her adamant disavowal of genital association was clearly soon to be self-challenged, she having found some sort of weird soul-mate who’d just moved into her flat in full knowledge of these (non-)predilections and by all accounts happy with that but with sexual tension apparent. He, geeky and posh, her intelligently weird, they made a very sweet couple, coo-ing like lovebirds while making dinner a deux together and in doing so creating at least one story worth following up.
Then, as I say, there was me.
Emerging, somehow, like Mother Teresa of Calcutta, I seemed to provide the perfect foil for the ‘excesses’ of all others involved, including that fucking digital monstrosity sharing its secondary school brain chemistry. Moral purity so intact it might as well have been my hymen I wondered ‘how did I manage this after all I’ve been through and after all that’s been through me?’
Where, I asked myself were the stories I told to the camera during numerous interview hours involving my having sex in a car park against a white van while a pub was emptying out? Giving a blow job in a church yard? Fucking in a theatre – on stage, in the dressing room, on a piano, in a bar, on a desk and one time giving a 15 year-old head ‘til I found out his age and then the scarpered?
Where were my current, and it has to be said most perverted, sexual practices?
After the first showing last week I got a shed-load of texts and a number of emails from friends and (somehow) people I barely know or remember, most expressing shock at the manner in which I’d been depicted. I also had one from the show’s producer/director (who I’d still like to call a friend) telling me how well he thought I’d been portrayed and how gorgeous I looked.
I include a selection of such messages at the end of the following clip which is the sum total of my fifteen seconds of fame. For those wishing to see the entire show, click the link at the end of this piece.
Meanwhile I shall naturally continue to chronicle, with the best that memory allows, how I worked my way through those one hundred dicks only to end up sainted on a TV show I’d genuinely hoped would provide at least a glimpse of what most who know me already know: I am very far from the paragon of virtue you’re about to see in front of you now.
With thanks to Pioneer Productions .
What the people that know me thought…..
SD: Bless. You came across well. I was chuckling at the images of you and Ian – again, you could have included something much fruitier. Glad you didn’t tell the funnel story. I like how you compared having sex to playing tennis to buying a pasty – I didn’t know you played tennis!
NM: Mate u look great. U said that casual sex was like going to the shop and buying a pastie. Si and I cracked up as we were remembering how much a pastie and a turnover meant to you. Lol…it was such a S thing to say!!! U were defo authentic. U didn’t shame urself, that’s the main thing. I felt there should have been more info on your promiscuity. I’ve heard much racier stuff but that was good enough for TV!!! If they want more they should read the blog. I was most shocked by the engagement.
LD: Brookie! You looked gorgeous and didn’t come across like a dick like a lot of these people can. The thing is, you came off so well, but I know you to be SO sordid, even more that these others, but media fuckers seem to just do what they like! I bet a few people will be googling ‘brooke sex’. LB: Haha! A threesome that never happened. You came across really well Brooke! You have some guts to go on TV talking about it sweetheart! And really good that you were honest about how it made you feel in the end! And actually, you made the point that it was becoming so mundane, which let’s face it buying a pasty is! 😉 I think they were obviously interested in being sensationalitic but it needed a story that ended differently after going through what they spent most of the hour showing!
KH: Did you say pastie for me? We were just saying you looked great. I think the soho bits looked staged, and the normal chatty bits were you…I thought you came across well, the whole programme was a little sensationalist.
I thoroughly despise the Christmas song ‘Santa Baby’ and, frankly speaking, ‘I saw Mummy kissing Santa Claus’ is downright offensive. The reason I have such a violent reaction to both songs is that for me Christmas is about the kids….or pretending to be a kid again. Sexual overtures this season are inappropriate yet somehow innocence hard to protect. I don’t want to have sex with Santa (the soot would ruin my pristine white sheets) and I wouldn’t want my children (if I had any) to see me kissing…well..actually the whole thing is a myth (or giant lie, or giant fantasy) and really it’s your parents anyway (or should be). If they catch me kissing Santa Claus I’ll end up paying for their therapy for years to come.
So, sex and Christmas don’t work for me in combination, period.
Though I base a lot of my thinking on the word ‘but’, when retracing my sexual career I actually do find Festive Fucking has never featured prominently on my vaginal calendar.
Nowadays of course I have a boyfriend, so having sex at Christmas seems a weird obligation; kinda like a present in itself. What depresses me is that for the first two years of our relationship we did nothing but have sex. Birthdays, Christmas and other special annual events were an excuse to get out of bed and do something else; a respite from our compulsive rabbit-like behaviour.
After our recent ‘annus horribilis’ (that’s Occa Latin for ‘I’m an Australian Royalist that had a bad year’, rather than some sort of anal sex game turning sour) I feel we have edged closer to becoming one of those couples that fling on their lingerie or best boxers and trim or shave their bits knowing these dates are enhanced by a fuck – irrespective if either party actually wants to participate. Long sentence I know, but if you read it twice you’ll get the gist, and while you’re doing so, by the time I’ve written and posted, you’ll be reading and I’ll be busy fucking wild style.
I remember a friend once telling me her partner insisted she give him blow-job as a birthday gesture. Only it was her birthday, so how it was a gift for her remains a mystery between themselves, especially as I gather he was not particularly keen to reciprocate.
Suffice to say since meeting the love of my life I have always had Christmas Sex – albeit mostly tired, unimaginative and vanilla in style as a result of excessive eating, doing the unwrapping thing and very little else. A cold Norfolk beachfront just several yards (or metres) away was a nice option, but as in life generally, the knowledge it was there obviated the need to experience it too much.
It still fills me with certain warmth though, to be able to have perfunctory sex (or a walk on a beach) on these dates in the security I’m guaranteed these luxuries annually for the rest of my life, unless he dies first, and even then I wouldn’t rule it out (much as I prefer the thought of being the first to go).
Am I starting to sound like one half of the kind of suburban couple you’d already like to murder?
Having written this I intend to ensure that we don’t!
The Chinese may see 2012 the Year of the Dragon I’ve decided it’s the Year of the Rabbit for me, at least in my nether regions.
Pre-boyfriend, there’s only one specific encounter that falls into the category of my Christmas cunt becoming a nativity scene…a stable waiting for a donkey to arrive.
Every two years my parents fly from Australia to spend Christmas in the UK with their daughter. For years we have frequented the same hotel in Norfolk, minutes from the Royals at Sandringham and for years I was the only guest ageing without displaying any signs of my life maturing like a normal person. I wonder if for a time they wrote me off as a lesbian. While my brother appeared with a wife and then children a few Christmases on, I kept arriving constantly alone.
And then I lost 9 stone. I’d like to say I was a slip of a girl but it’s be a big fat lie, but I was no longer a heifer for some cattle-ranch owner to be proud of. It was this year I decided L should come and spend Boxing Day with us. In tradition steeped at the hotel, Boxing Day was cause for a gala dinner (shame on you for cancelling it this year Best Western!) and after so long solo I wanted company. Inviting my best friend and saying we’d share a room probably only fuelled the fires that I was of the homosexual persuasion, but she was my longest relationship so why not?
It was the first time as an adult I was comfortable in my own skin and confident in dresses. I remember sashaying into the reception to greet my parents and was informed heads literally turned. I headed to the bar to order drinks a well built man in a tux bounded over the room next to me to do the same. We exchanged pleasantries and he made mention of seeing me in the dining room.
Back then I used to drink, so L and I went for gold that night. My father tried to keep up but finally pulled out of the competition leaving L and I to it but warning me I might want to make every second drink a water….I don’t think so.
The age old flirtatious glancing game was played over the 5 course meal with the man from the bar, who was sat at a table with a friend. The set up seemed fine and par for the course for L and myself, routinal almost.
As the live band played cheesy cover songs, L and I took to the floor to bust a few moves. Rather embarrassingly the two guys got up and tried to shimmy over to us. It’s one thing for girls to be dancing together, it’s one thing for gay guys to be dancing together – it all looks so right and aesthetically pleasing, but two straight guys dancing together…neither being particularly skilled at the art looked awkward at best, visually and mentally disturbing at worst. Still fair play to them for going into some male heterosexual dancing to woo two fair maidens.
L was the master of executing ‘hard to get’ so we ended up playing a skewed form of kiss chase of us gliding musically into another area of the dance floor as the men rhythmically stomped there way after us. After much teasing and sadistic pleasure at the sight of their macho jerking we allowed ourselves to part and naturally pair up with our respective beaus for the evening.
Eventually my parents retired for the evening, my father somewhat disapproving of the age of the man attempting to keep up with me and the music and my mother observing that my dancing was so perfectly pretentiously postured I looked like I was dancing in a pop video – not sure whether that was an insult or compliment.
Ever desperate for attention and ever the more intoxicated I was not ready to call an end on the night. The band and hotel management, however, were, so L and I took our guests to the hotel bar. Full of Christmas spirit I decided to run up a rather exorbitant tab on my fathers bill quoting his room number with each round – always easy to be generous with someone else’s money. Baileys was flowing freely and the men were having whiskey, it all seemed awfully civilised. It was actually civilised.
The 4 star hotel was designed for those seeking large, cosy, plush traditional comforts. The taste and cost of the hotel was reflected in the majority of patrons (basically everyone else apart from the crazy Australians) in so much as the matriarchal or patriarchal heads of the families there were in their twilight years and from very financially comfortable backgrounds. Each immediate family followed type in terms of being well dressed and well behaved with a heavy dollop of upper middle class pompousness. Coming from a classless, careless, undisciplined and extroverted background I swung between the extremes of despising their attitudes towards the less financially secure, to a wonderment of being part of this picture. All this is why I hooked up with the guy. Don’t get me wrong, the fact that they were the only two bachelors there did play a big part but the guy I was with, while not unattractive, was no stunner. His clipped perfect Oxford accent, coupled with the fact that he was a pilot for the RAF (as I write this I wonder if he just made that profession up to get the girls-loving a uniform and all that) was enough for me to allow him to lavish attention on me for an evening.
In terms of the Royal Air Force, L had done her duty by playing wingman for me for the night. Sadly while the guy she had occupied was better looking he was also incredibly boring to the point where L pretended to go to our room and never came back. I checked in on her to find she was exhausted in her duties and refused to return, leaving me to entertain both men alone.
L’s departure had left both men vying for my attention. It got even better but I thought it dangerous to play them off against each other. I had done so in past situations and it wasn’t always wise (more on that another time). Whilst I gently flirted with Mr RAF’s friend, I tried to do it as discreetly as I could. Keeping my options open but not severing any ties either. L was right he was boring and ultimately whilst realising he was a third wheel he had no intention of removing himself from the picture. So I decided I would remove myself, with Mr RAF from the picture and invited him to walk me to my room.
The hotel had been recently refurbished with a new lift. Each lift entrance opened a small lounge come reception room. Given L was sleeping in my room, I was grateful for disability legislation requiring the installation of the lift and said mini lounge as it was the only available space for sex. I was also appreciative the hotel had yet to be sold to Best Western and was run by a family. This state of affairs meant neither the management nor clientèle were of the nature to be roaming the hotel in the early hours of the morning looking for couples in flagrante in public areas.
Unfortunately the sex matched the attitude of the man. He was certainly keen to put on a good performance, possibly to make up for his below average penis, but he was staid, conservative and restrained in his fucking.
The chair wasn’t the best, it was a lounge chair so difficult to position myself in such a manner that allowed him to perform oral pleasure on me for any lengthy time without my limbs starting to cramp. I had the feeling he wasn’t overly familiar with one night stands, and certainly not an easy girl prepared to give it up within a few hours in a public place. He was over eager and thus overexcited and it all finished rather quickly. This didn’t bother me in the slightest. By all accounts I could now say I’d officially had a festive fuck, made all the more christmassy by his chipolata masquerading as a cock, AND I’d slept with someone in the forces – allegedly.
We exchanged numbers and he and his friend left. Either my openness (sluttiness) or general performance on the night in question must have been appealing and left him wanting because he was texting me non stop – texting became sexting, which is always an enjoyable pastime.
No, I never saw him again. The texting stopped promptly when he informed me he was going up to see ‘Mummy’ one weekend. I literally felt sick in my stomach that someone in there late 40s would refer to their mother as ‘Mummy’. My wonderment of the posh and my pretending to be a part of it left me quickly and I felt disgust rise at this revelation of how different we were because of the great British class system. He backtracked and said he’s referred to her as ‘Mummy’ as a joke but it was too late. All I could think of was him stripping bare in that lounge and fucking with socks on. My head filled with the image of his face bobbing up between my legs, his perfectly groomed head asking if he was doing the right thing and was I enjoying him tonguing my clit, like a puppy eager for approval. I could never go back there again and I was no longer sure a man that had a ‘Mummy’ could actually fly for Queen and country. That one text stole my fantasy life of living with the upper-classes – the closest I would ever get is Downton Abbey on a Sunday night.
This year at the hotel I had someone who could provide a perfunctory Christmas fuck and on any given day of the week come up with some perverted creative way to blow my mind and send my body into sensory overload.
And his cock wasn’t the only one on show to me this festive period. A whale had washed up on the beach outside the hotel. I walked around it feeling rather sad at the death of the great creature, and the looting of its teeth and jaw (which apparently generate some serious cash – this is true I saw one in the Museum of London Docklands this week). Until my boyfriend excitedly pointed out that what I had thought a fin was in fact a jumbo whale penis. It too was magnificent. The fact that it was so ‘out there’ made me curious as to how it had sprung out in death. Was it a relaxation of muscles whilst comatose, had it died in the act or was it knocking out a quick one before it met its untimely end. I’ll never know for sure and no I wasn’t sick enough to sneak back that night and collect its cock for cash or any other perverse sexual act.
From a chipolata to a whale dick, I have seen them all over the last few Christmas’s. Unlike the children on the beach that were kicking and jumping up and down on the whale’s jelly flaccid penis, I did not incorporate such activities on the chipolata I had been presented with some years ago…although I have a feeling he may have quite enjoyed it if I had. Having received the large bar bill the following morning and realising Mr RAF hadn’t once put his hand in his wallet and had slept with his daughter, I don’t think my father would have objected to me violently manhandling Mr RAF’s cock in such a fashion either.
Minimal internet access at the moment and short of time. Following the ‘How to make a blog successful’ website has urged me however to ‘post regularly’, rather like my grandmother advising of the absolute necessity for at least daily bowel motions. Having taken on board as best I can this homely advice, the following little Malteaser of a post is short, sweet yet, actually, extremely important as far as manners within the boudoir are concerned.
Thus far I’ve delved into my own early sexual inexperience and given just a little insight into the deviancy I relish today. Yet certain encounters with certain dicks have, more notably than others, shaped my bedroom etiquette – as opposed to expertise. Thus comes the story of David The Trumpet.
Within about 18 months of unleashing my vagina to the world I’d left the safety of a 9-5 office job and moved into theatre land, securing a position first as Office Manager before moving into full throttle as Front of House chief and immersing myself in the hub absolute of the action. What was unique about our theatre was that after the show finished, the venue played host as a late night bar which was frequented by a mass of actors, musicians, dancers and backstage workers from surrounding West End theatres once they’d finished their respective shows each evening. Those in the know will recognise instantly the establishment to which I refer.
My foray into this industry would pave the way for me in terms of sluttiness and upping the kink factor by vast notches at once. However my first experience in that role contributed little in way of all that but did nonetheless teach me a good lesson in life.
Still on the large side myself, I discovered bodies inhabiting the entertainment industry, in their own way, far less discerning looks wise than those of the City Boys with whom I’d been previously known to frequent. It was my experience that personality and perception of one’s talent and position was far more an attractive proposition in the West End market than superficial good looks. So there I would flourish, see myself cross into double figures sex partner-wise, becoming ever more open and experimental with each of my evening antics.
Originally, I was just the fat, funny office girl that stayed behind for drinks, but having been embraced by the ‘family’ of out-of-work actors, dancers, designers and so on otherwise known as the Front of House Team to members of the soi-disant ‘IT Club’ that haunted our particular drinking hole, I was seen as some pretty, young (albeit plump) witty thing that could potentially hit the headlines at some point.
For headlines, or stories of them, do keep watching this space.
Obviously not wishing to disillusion my patrons I was happy to be considered ‘beautiful by association’ which led me to one of my own, who shall forever be known as ‘David the Trumpet’.
Insecure, I was shallow beyond belief with my choices in men (hypocritical I know) and bid constantly for physical affirmation.
David took looks to a whole new level; he was, I thought then, totally out of my league under normal circumstances. But these weren’t normal circumstances. This was a whole other world where David had beer goggles, was drinking alone and I was…happy to take advantage.
By no means the best trumpet player in the West End (if memory serves he was actually 3rd player in one of the nearby shows meaning there were at least two others in that show alone better than him – perhaps more depending on the size of the orchestra). But in all his gorgeousness he was fortunate to not be solely reliant on his ability to blow a horn. In his early twenties he was very much the pretty boy with long lashes, deep brown eyes, perfectly cropped black hair to match an equally perfectly chiselled face on an even more perfectly toned body. Boy did I throw everything into obtaining that shag. Ensured he was given unlimited free drinks, watched in awe at his pathetic matchstick tricks on the bar (god did they actually impress women when sober?) and listened to his inane drunken mumbling.
And then I scored the prize of an invite back to his place, which I more than readily accepted.
It turned out to be a booby prize though; the only thing I won was the experience. David was all too aware of his good looks and my gratuity at the attention, thus when it came to the nakedness bit he just laid back and let me do all the work…and I mean all.
By dint of sheer willpower and massive effort I somehow pumped the Brewer’s Droop from his cock – quite a feat on its own – but having overcome that obstacle (I could and did worry about the RSI later) David had no intention of thanking me less still repaying in kind for the investment I was left with the prospect of having to get on and ride the (almost) dead donkey – and this my first time on top. Whereas I should really have been concerned about how my boobs were jiggling, what bits were wobbling or how to position myself so he didn’t feel my full weight along with the effort of ensuring he didn’t slip out, I suddenly realised I was having bad sex.
I mean Really Bad Sex. Boring sex, rubbish sex, sex that was exactly what it should not be – i.e. completely devoid of the slightest pleasure or fun. As we al know (but seldom admit) the ‘member’ isn’t the all important factor here – but a little imagination is. I bobbed up and down on his wilting stem til I realised making him come was beyond my skill, patience and now utterly diminished desire. I’d been up for twenty four hours and was tired. Sleep was infinitely preferable to silently bouncing about on his less than impressive cock wondering how long was polite before accepting, without verbally communicating, his reaching an orgasm was not going to happen that night and my doing so even further off the scale.
I persevered – it seemed the right thing to do – but after what seemed a more than reasonable amount of time, got off and held his cock, unenthusiastically massaging it until he dozed off to sleep. Then I could breathe easily; I figured I’d catch a few hours and then slip away, not cause a fuss or outstay my welcome, but at least be there for a quick ‘hi’and ‘bye’ when he woke. Chances are I’d see him again and …well no one wants tension on their own turf.
I lay in the darkness, staring at the ceiling and replaying how horrendously bland it had been was and what a disappointing scene I’d just played part in. I reached the conclusion that so confident was he in his looks David had never been short of women and therefore had never been desperate for sex. No need then to rely on other skills. By never having to make an effort around the opposite gender, the misguided fool had allowed this to impact on his performance. He’d never had to be good at it because he could get it as and when, but I wondered about what repeat performances he’d achieved. I suspect the women he’d sexually encountered for the most part considered him a one hit wonder. I’d had drunken sex before but in the fumblings both parties had made an effort so as to at least ensure they themselves had gotten off and (I like to think) hoping in the process the other consenting person did too. But not this time. He assumed because he got women with ease, he pleased them as easily. Even an inexperienced girl lacking in self esteem like me realised just how insignificant looks were in respect of a good shag.
Then the cautionary tale. As I mulled all this over, David the Trumpet farted…on my thigh…in his sleep. Failing to make the effort in bed with a one night stand was one thing but not even bothering to hold back the flatulence in their presence was downright disgusting.
I fumed in his fumes (a mix of his dinner and my indignation), desperate to take a flannel to cleanse my thigh until the morning. I threw my clothes on (leaving a bra on his instrument case) and tried to wake him, asking if perhaps he could phone a cab. He waved me away like a fly. I asked equally politely if he had a Yellow Pages so I might find a the number so I could call one myself. This was met with a groan and sleepy instructions to leave the front door, take a left then a left and in ten minutes I’d be at the tube station.
I was outraged at the sheer dismissiveness of it all (which is saying something given I’m an Australian and not noted for perfect manners). It didn’t seem overtly rude or deliberate as far as I was concerned personally, just pig ignorance and poor manners on his part. I felt I’d observed all the unspoken rules of the one night stand, but it was as if he didn’t even acknowledge their existence.
I understood that night not only the value of sexual prowess but the necessity for a little bedroom etiquette in order to be considered a ‘decent fuck,’ one to be remembered with some degree of fondness rather than revulsion. I’d given him the gift of my luscious lips and a bloody good blow job and all I’d received in return was a blow off. Farting on someone’s leg is inexcusable. Okay in a relationship I might refer to it as brown kisses or excuse it as a bottom saying ‘I love you’ but please – at least exercise the sphincter for the sake of good impressions with a stranger.
The following night when it got out round the workplace I’d had my first shag with a member, everyone was curious as to what ‘standard’ of guy I was capable of attaining. They assumed it would be Edwin, the morbidly obese stage hand from some theatre – desperate to confirm his questionable sexual persuasion. Instead they were in shock and awe that it was ‘David the Trumpet’. I on the other hand was not so surprised at my conquest those twenty four hours later. If anything, the only thing that mystified me was how this particular ‘air bender’ remained at 3rd Trumpet in his orchestra as opposed to first, given his penchant for the gusty bellowing of personal wind.