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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?’ 

‘What’s wrong?’ 

‘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.

‘How Sex Works – Playing the Field’ (that was the week that was…)

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.

For the full episode of ‘How Sex Works:Playing the Field’ on BBC 3, click here.
(Copyright of the programme belongs to BBC)

Festive Fu*king – My First Christmas Cock

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.

But continuing…

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.

I’m glad.

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.

South London’s House Of Sodom

My sex life is so bordering on non-existent at the moment, I forget at times that I have had a hundred dicks.

Ages ago I did say I’d detail how I ended up losing my anal virginity. I’d like to say it took a long time, a lot of persuasion and seduction but that would be a lie. It took an Irish man, a slow dance and an awful lot of Red Bull and Vodkas.

Back in the time machine to the early noughties and back to the Norbury – February 2000 I do believe. By now L and I were practically part of the furniture. This isn’t too far form the truth. I remember one night the titchy toothless goon that mumbled broken English through his broken teeth, responsible for cleaning the decimated club at 4am on Saturday took it upon himself to empty an ash tray on L. I’m not sure why exactly. Perhaps he just wanted us out of the club so he could clean or perhaps it was because he had overheard L and myself discussing the sizeable owner of the Norbury in a rather unflattering way. Whatever the reason, we certainly didn’t hang around that night and left promptly brushing the ash off L’s favourite black skirt and not a man in tow.

The night resulting in bursting my bum hole open was on all accounts a success (as ashtray goon wasn’t around to reduce our leaving routine). Eoin was his name and being a solicitor was his game (I confess I still have his business card in a box tucked away in the loft). It all sounded so impressive, coupled with the accent and the combination of black hair, blue eyes and a rugby players build I found myself unable to refuse the offer back to his place to continue the night. L had scored with his model-esque friend – sadly she was in such a state of shock at his beauty and unable to comprehend his attraction to her she quite convinced herself it was too good to be true and decided that he would ultimately be unattainable and therefore gay. He wasn’t and spent a good part of the night trying to convince her of this.

Still for all her protestations, she decided not to end the party early and we all went back to Eoin’s place. It wasn’t a foursome though. Through the amber haze of excessive Red Bull I think there was at least four men, to the two of us. We crashed into there house and I can really only remember what I was after – and that was cock and some sexual attention.

L was not after this. She was after….some sleep.

On reflection, back in the day, we did some very careless and dangerous things. What on Earth possessed us to think going back to a strangers house with at least four men (that I recall) was a good idea is now beyond me. But in youth we see only our immortality and how good it might be, not how disastrous it could be. L was not in good shape. I grabbed a condom from her purse and hoofed it upstairs to Eoin’s bedroom, assuming she would entertain the others downstairs.

I’ve moaned about bedroom etiquette and how important it was but at this point in my sexual career it was certainly not something I had an abundance of. To my shame I vividly remember him ready and waiting naked in bed and me standing in the middle of the room, whipping the control knickers down to my ankles, peeling my tights down, bending over – big bumwiggling ungainly in the air – undoing the straps of my shoes, kicking the lot off and then hitching my dress up and climbing in the bed. I am fully aware there was nothing gracious or saucy about the strip tease. It screamed amateur and ‘use me’.

And he did. Or rather he wanted to. In those heady days he started in the most conservative way. A simple missionary style pumping. Still new to me, as he furiously thrusted, without any affection or tenderness I spent my time just trying to fully experience the sensation of having a cock inside me. This was only the second man I’d slept with, so I was trying desperately to learn what to do, how to lie, how to move rhythmically, how to touch, where to touch in a drunken soulless scenario. One thing that stuck out was that it hurt a lot less than the first time. In fact I half wondered if perhaps (having only seen one previously) he had a small, or smaller than average cock. Certainly his cock didn’t have me yelping out loud, nor did it bring tears to my eyes…but I still liked it. So much so that no sooner had he filled one condom than I was practically shaking him and begging him for more. More cock…but not in mouth…that practise was still unsavoury to me at that point.

At this stage, I think he realised I was a cock hungry bitch or rather my 22 year old vagina needed to be satisfied and was insatiable. It was dictating the terms of the action thus sleep after his first orgasm was not on the cards. He played a good hand and sent me downstairs for another condom if I wanted to continue – little did I know what I was in store for.

I trotted down the stairs into the living room. I had assumed L would be there – or in a bedroom, but she wasn’t. I think she was in a reception room. Sleeping on all fours. A position inviting doggy style sex but communicating sheer exhaustion – dancing to Wham can take it out of you. I loved L and I was very concerned that she was sleeping with her shoes on. It looked uncomfortable. I felt inclined to make her more cozy. Did I wake her or find one of the flatmates to pop her on a couch or in a bed or find a blanket? No, I decided to take off her shoes. Only my minge was aching for more cock and that particular desire was far stronger than that of playing the good friend. After removing one shoe, I raided her handbag and grabbed two condoms. One condom I popped in her bra – just in case she should wake and decide to go for gold she’d have protection. The other I held like a precious flower and flew back upstairs.

I flung the door opened, hitched my dress up and hungrily handled his cock. However in the excitement of getting fucked twice in a night and having missed sex education at school due to band practise (thus bananas and condoms were never part of my school curriculum) I ripped the condom. Fatigue had gripped Eoin, he tried waving me away, as if the broken sheath was the Universe telling me that a second shot was not going to happen, but cock fever had gripped me and I was back out of the bed and back down the stairs into L’s handbag.

When I returned with a third condom Eoin looked a little perturbed, as if having access to so many condoms cast some sort of doubt as to my alleged innocence and ‘girl next door appeal’. That we should have actually bought condoms for this eventuality may have meant we were ‘professionals’. Maybe it was just his Catholicism, but me excitedly waving the third condom almost killed that second session. Perhaps though my childish excitation and the fact I was waving the Durex like it was a golden ticket to Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory reassured him of my sexual naivety. So he let me back into bed, and lulled me into a false sense of security by adopting the classic position. I thought it was very daring that he flung my legs over his shoulders. His cock ploughed much, much deeper and much much slower. This sensation was instantly more gratifying and because it seemed more about my pleasure I felt physically more content and emotionally more hopeful. But he’d adopted the position and pace for a vastly different reason.

I thought his cock slipped out naturally and due to my inhibitions and insistence the covers remain on he was struggling to replace it. Only he knew exactly what he was doing and there was enough natural lubricant from me and the rubber protective shield for him to force his cock into my arse. I didn’t say no, nor did I want to. My bottom though was naturally inclined to say no. After all it had 22 years of releasing things not ingesting them. As far as my virginal arse was concerned it was a one way passage, and the force of him stretching and sporadically sliding his hardness into me didn’t really persuade my bum into thinking otherwise. His assumptions I was eager, inexperienced and foolishly romantic were all bang on. I allowed him to because I thought it might mean more than one night. But it didn’t. It just meant I had anal sex. It hurt. In fairness though he did it the best he could – that is for a guy that wants to fuck a girl in the rear, knows she’s a virgin but has no real consideration of her feelings or her body. The position though made it bearable. The surprise of it all, the tension and tenderness of my ring-piece afterwards meant I wasn’t going to be getting a fourth condom and forcing him for another fuck.

I certainly scurried back down the stairs, but that was to grab L and flee before my bleeding bottom was penetrated again.

L was awake and in a panic when I found her (apparently someone stole her shoe)…until I pointed it out to her so we could go.

The sun had risen and bed beckoned us both. Given we were without transport and L’s home in Essex was a hike from Norbury she decided she would cajole her father, who worked at Liverpool Street in Central London, to allow us to take his car home. We could get home quicker and go to bed and he could rely on public transport to make his own way home from the weekend shift.

As fantastically well turned out as we were on the Friday evening, I’m not sure the façade was still in tact as we rocked into the factory L’s dad worked at on the Saturday morning. He didn’t look unhappy to see us, but I suspect he knew the reason as to why we were making an appearance at his half empty workplace. L was doing her best to please him and offered to make tea for the skeleton crew working the graveyard shift at the factory. Before she got down to milk, teabags, sugar and hot water she shrugged off her faux leather biker jacket, in front of all her father’s colleagues. And there it was poking out of the top of her bra and the low cut top – the corner of a Durex.

As I wasn’t in a position to sit down comfortably (at least not without an inflatable ring cushion) like a well practised magician I was able to snatch it out and slip it down the sleeve of my matching faux leather jacket. L looked flummoxed at my groping her breast so openly in public but my expression told her not to pursue the issue there and then. It wasn’t until I was sitting on an inflatable ring cushion in the car home that I explained alongside being the culprit for removing her shoe for the sake of comfort, I had also come to her aid offering emergency protection should her invitational yogic cat pose whilst sleeping be taken advantage of during our visit to South London’s House of Sodom.

A Vagina’s Tale – ‘the highs and lows of just one dick’

I feel uninspired at the moment, so have been advised to write this entry naked in bed on my laptop.

It was somewhat ironic that I was for a period of two years celibate (my definition of celibacy being an absence of vaginal penetration – blow jobs and anal sex were allowed) and when I finally broke the drought I immediately fell pregnant. There is little humour for me to ebb out of that particular dick but one I will examine at a more appropriate time.

That incident aside, what I can say for myself is despite skipping from partner to partner I never fell prey to any genital or sexual pitfalls the majority of women in an exclusive committed relationship (or those with an unlucky one night stand) will inevitably encounter at some point.

That is until I found myself in an exclusive committed relationship.

People think being partnered an alcoholic is all bad – it’s actually not. Don’t get me wrong it is rather horrendous, but those with an alcohol dependency are pretty much restricted to bed. So no they may not be able to hold down a job or even accompany you out for social gatherings but being bed bound means the one activity they can participate in is sex (that is those that escape the curse of brewers droop – which my guy did). Thus for the first year we were together it was a non stop sex fest, kinda normal for the honeymoon phase. For me the biggest treat was sex on tap. Okay I might have fucked 100 men over the course of ten years but given they were almost all one night stands that actually means I was only having sex once every 5 weeks – which is pretty pitiful. Thus to be able to fuck all-day everyday was heavenly to me.

Until I learnt about thrush. The irritation started and he, being all the more experienced with relationships, diagnosed it early and recommended exercising abstinence in a bid to prevent it worsening. Theoretically it all sounded good, but alcoholics are addicts and addicts are not great at exercising self control, hence their predicament. Coupling that with my own addictive personality and insatiable sexual appetite the abstinence cure lasted all of maybe 12 hours. Then his chaffed cock decided to visit my yeasty haven. As a result my vagina, clearly unhappy with my callous treatment, declared war in my knickers.

I have never known an itch like. Yes thank god for Canestan (why does that dog look so decidedly smug in the advert – is there more than just friendship going on there?) but it still takes a while to kick in. My parents generously bought us tickets to go and see The Jersey Boys. It was a brilliant show and I’d like to say my memory of that theatrical experience was the wonder and joy of the music of Frankie Valli and the Four Season, but in fact whenever I hear ‘Oh What a Night’ all I can remember is squirming in my chair in a bid for the crotch seam of my jeans to scratch my fiery cunt.

But how quickly one woman can go from a hundred dicks to one dick to no dick.

There’s nothing like a series of ongoing challenges pervading all aspects of your life to dampen one’s desire for each other’s. Endless months of constant stress, tension and pressure is the equivalent of castration for both genders. Occasionally things would subside or we’d feel we’d has some small win, some psychological advantage and we’d fuck to celebrate, remember how wonderful sex is (and it’s free!) and make sincere promises from ‘let’s make sure we have a minimum of sex three times a week’ to ‘let’s make sure we have some form of sexual contact for at least ten minutes everyday’. Then fate would deal a cruel blow, our foundation shaken, our position threatened again and the sex would be sapped clean out of us. Our entire house a vacuum free of any sexual energy.

Hence it’s been a rather hit and miss year. You would of course, not fully appreciate the degree of this unless you’d been fucking me seven months ago and fucking me today. The visible effect of the absence of sex is most demonstrable by my entrances being somewhat unwelcoming of my partners attempt to rekindle his once familiar and frequent relationship with them.

He once proudly boasted he could put eight fingers into my arse and stretch it to rival any hardcore porn stars. My arse could hungrily hoover up large 10 inch ribbed glass dildo’s that would make any woman’s eyes water. This is something of a turn on for him, I’m not sure if men generally find this an attractive feature. I have felt obliged to continue my courtship with him not just on the grounds of unconditional love but because I’m not confident another man would be happy with such a pliable ring-piece. Alas the last time we attempted anal intercourse all I could think about was Bum-cleaver’ from the Marquis de Sade’s 120 days of Sodom. Who is ‘Bum-cleaver’? – ‘The head of his prick resembled the heart of an ox, it was eight and three-eights inches around; behind it, the shaft measured only eight, but was crooked and had such a curve it neatly tore the anus when penetrating it.’ With this thought in mind my bottom was so tense and frightened he was lucky to pry one finger in, let alone his proud perfect penis (aka PPP).

It wasn’t just my rectum that was wary of the return of the PPP, but even my cunt greeted him like a small child presented with an absent father of many years who expected immediate affection and a jolly rapport despite abandonment of said child. Oh I was desperate to feel him fill me up but afterwards I felt akin to an athlete returning to competition after a season off with injury.

His first ploughing resulted in me feeling satisfied but violated. In the words of the Kings of Leon my sex was on fire. Given the lack of horizontal play I knew it wasn’t thrush but my lips were throbbing and my clit was stinging. I like to think it was out of concern for my well being but I suspect it was more in a bid to rectify any problems so as he could re-enter sooner rather than later. Hence when I raised an objection to sex on the grounds of a sore vagina he promptly had me spread eagled on the bed with a splayed vagina. After a detailed and probing inspection it transpired my cunt was so unused to the PPP he had stretched and inflamed it with one brief vanilla style session. He merely plastered it with antiseptic cream, told me it was something like nappy rash and that I’d be fine before the day was out.

And so while my gender may nod knowingly at tales of thrush, carpet burn, cystitis, stretched ham strings, pulled groin muscles, red raw knee caps and other such happy complaints from excessive sex, they must also beware of the pitfalls of the effects on the body if work takes priority over sex.

Vaginas are made for babies to pop out of, if you’ve left things so long your hymen’s regrown and you’ve become re-virginalised you need to gird your loins and commit to the fact that those orifices need regular exercise to – and getting into shape is hard work and will hurt. Ain’t no baby gonna be popping out of you if you can’t pop a prick in you. There’s no way you’ll be recapturing those heady honeymoon rewards if you don’t have the stretch or stamina for even the most basic and simple sex tasks. Take it from me sex is not just a game or pastime, it’s a passion, it’s a sport. It requires dedication, commitment, an investment of time, imagination, creativity and pure unadulterated unfathomable filth.

On that note, fully aware I am paying the physical price for thoughtlessly neglecting my minge and arse, I am now doing some jaw stretching exercises for the other orifice that will encounter severe gag reflex and relearning the useful skill of breathing and sucking at the same time a little later this evening. Time to remaster the blow job.

I’m back in the game.

Getting Wet At The Seaside (not quite what I had in mind)

Often in youthful exuberance one’s sexual (mis)adventures occur more by mistake than good management.  While some of us carefully plan out and detail the perfect execution of our first introduction to something that strays (even if only mildly) from the path of playing it safe and straight, others – including myself, usually in a drunken and slovenly state – find ourselves inadvertently playing out some particular kink or fetish we (or perhaps nature itself) never intended.

This was certainly the case with the boy, Raymond.

The new millennium was the start of a good two year run for me, but by the time Raymond appeared I was nursing my first heartbreak – and as any woman knows first loves are the worst to recover from (if ever we truly do). Certainly for me the wound was still very raw. L and I decided (whether in a bid to mend my broken heart or just get ourselves a change of scenery) to head to Great Yarmouth for a week.

Great Yarmouth, you’ll find, is writ large in this saga – indeed each and every summer as Ra took flight we were beckoned for end-of-week forays to that most traditional of seaside towns. It was L’s routine and regular holiday destination as a child, a world to which I was then introduced, at first dubiously but later fully embraced.   So after T broke the news he was back on with his alleged ex-fiancé, a girls’ holiday was swiftly arranged.

It was arranged (and funded) by questionable means with L and I taking advantage of our position in the Company for which we worked, under the guise of my having won a holiday to Ireland.  Earlier I’d genuinely won one to Sweden but in order that we could both get the same week off, we’d concocted another prize-winning break, so dates were set and we had both to be off work the same time. I must’ve seemed the canniest person at the company just then. That is until my mother called reception and was told I was on holiday, to which she responded ‘Oh I forgot the girls are camping inYarmouth.’   Even though we’d gone to the bother of buying fake Irish souvenirs I suspect our cover had been well and truly been blown by our return to work.

Nonetheless, L and duly I booked onto the Vauxhall Caravan Site for the town’s ‘Gala Week’, the glamorous last seven days of the holiday season. The site was fully booked and we had no option but to take a small pitch and buy ourselves a tent. There’s a whole other story about that week – one deserving of a book in itself – so I’ll leave this for another time.

Anyway, with the tatters of my heart in tow (it was somewhat ironic and possibly telling I burst into tears by the Vaseline shelf at Superdrug onYarmouth High Street) we made our way onto Vauxhall bringing more than tantrums and tiaras that year.

In my misguided and desperate state I decided to opt for the philosophy of ‘the quickest way to get over someone is to get under another’ and went on the prowl. At that time we were young enough to do so – later we were ill-placed on a site catering to ‘families’ as opposed to single girls. But at twenty two there were enough young men to keep us interested so while L focussed her attentions on a security guard (dare I say guards Mrs J?) I played for patrons as opposed to the staff.

And there among them he was – the boy Raymond. 6’2”, carrying just a little puppy fat, chubby but cute, like he’d lose both in time to come.  He was 18 and I was secretly pleased he’d chosen me, despite his father trying to persuade him to consider a few other options available that year. Although Dad was British, Raymond was fromHollandand English was by no means his forte. I managed to gather he’d slept with four women. I’d slept with six men so it seemed an even enough match. I liked his boyish looks and was hugely flattered by the attention. That is until he kissed me, grabbed my quadruple Baileys, threw it away, then pushed a chewing gum into my mouth and told me I was reeking of booze.  His English did not let him down at that moment.

L went ballistic at the four shots of Baileys rocketing across the car park (I wasn’t best pleased myself, but cock always came before alcohol even then, so I gritted my teeth and smiled sweetly through the comet of creamy beige). L initiated an all-out war of words til he promised to replace all drinks the next night.

Thus, given the circumstances – he Dutch and eighteen, me twenty two, drunk and a bit of a mess but both full of a youthful sexual zeal – I can’t quite remember exactly what night I had my first foray into to watersports.

I suspect though it wasn’t that first night (Raymond, his father and two workmates were staying in the chalets).  Raymond and I got as far as the campsite male toilets before surrendering to a bout of frenetic, foolhardy sex. It was all locked chipboard doors, hitching up of skirts, knickers down, him trying to undress himself enough to penetrate me in the restrictive space of the gentleman’s cubicle kind of thing. I really had no idea if this could be classed as good or bad sex. But it was fun, the location was (then anyway) unusual, and it had an element of danger because we knew the grounds were patrolled.

But our age, the fact we were with there with companions and the barrier of language did complicate matters somewhat. We knew we had to get home and the site was large and difficult to navigate especially when drunk or needing to guide someone who was. And the fumblings, however short and inadequate, had us still hungry for each other. We were at that delightful time when kissing for ages is as physically pleasurable as the act of intercourse itself. We mooched around the site, all longing snogs and yearning hands groping for what had been unclothed only moments earlier. Until eventually we found our respective trails back to habitation.

The second night, I suspect was the night ‘it’ happened. The scene was exactly as it had been the night before. L and I would primp and preen ourselves before descending on the Regency Room (this was the location for ‘family entertainment’) to flirt outrageously with everyone we took a fancy to. I made sure I secured Raymond’s attention early on (just so we were both clear sex was on for later) and enjoyed the rest of the evening.

Once again by the end of the night, we were drunk and slovenly. L, who if you know her, is not suited to the harsher side of life so a little high maintenance for the tent, headed back to the apartment of her beau-to-be. I don’t recall her spending even one night in that tent for which we had both shared costs – not that I can blame her after I’d sullied it mind you, but Raymond was not quite as fussed.

The difficulty with camping, and not having one of the mobile homes or even a flashy caravan is the whole lavatory debacle. If you need the loo it’s a trek to the site’s showerblock (which invariably has bugs flying round it and is rarely as clean as you’d wish). Once more I’d been drinking all evening. A fountain of alocopops and sweet milky baileys (true to his word he’d replaced my quadruple shots from the night before) and the seal had already been burst at the club. Now though, back in private with this boyish hulk, sex – rather than the relief of my bladder – was at my mind’s forefront.  Bad mistake. We tumbled into the tent, rolling around on two double air mattresses, undressing each other, stroking, playing, examining and exploring. That wonderful sensation of new hands examining the softness of one’s body as your own delight in the firmness of his was exquisite. Only I was desperate for a wee.

In all honesty I could’ve just said I’d needed the loo and been up there and back in five minutes but somehow I thought I might be able to hold it. Yeah right. Ten orange Bacardi Breezers and eight shots of Baileys, that’d be easy.

In the darkness and drunkenness as he forced himself (perhaps not as forcefully as he might have had he not been battling with numerous pints of beer) into me I could feel pressure mounting. By the time he’d entered me and built up a degree of confidence his member was firmly in its intended warm, wet opening he decided to increase the pace a little changing from entering me splayed sideways to the more traditional missionary position. This manoeuvre was no friend to my bladder. The weight of him was exerting huge strain. Being drunk, slovenly and lost in the act I really just couldn’t exert the restraint required and began to wet myself freely, thus the next thing I knew as we were at it like rabbits I was inadvertently at the same time giving what is in polite circles referred as a ‘golden shower’. He didn’t seem to mind (then again his English wasn’t great so perhaps he didn’t have the words, or was merely being gracious). It wasn’t an unpleasant sensation for me at all. If anything it was a great relief, although I don’t remember it feeling particularly sexy. There were in any case two thick duvets to soak up everything. At first when it started sprouting out of me I thought perhaps I was having a female ejaculation but as it went on and the size of my bladder subsided I realised what was happening.

Looking back I wonder if it was a turn on for him. He certainly didn’t stop, anyway – in fact, if memory serves, he removed himself from missionary, spread my legs, tilted me sideways and took me that way again. My exceptionally lubricated cunt was more than willing. On reflection, the fact that he could keep going, despite an initial brewers droop must have been a positive.

I don’t remember much more. I’m ashamed to say to I fell asleep while on the job.

It wasn’t the last occasion Raymond spent in the tent though. He came the following night. This time his Dad insisted on accompanying him with his friends to see where this ‘young lady’ was entertaining his son. I wonder now what the odour must have been like.

Sadly, and in total fuckedupness on my part, I was heartbroken for an older guy and somewhat desperate for a father figure. Thus when Raymond’s Dad excused himself to go to the gents (as opposed to just pissing himself there and then in the tent as I had the previous night) I offered to walk him to there. Once inside I found myself attempting to do with his father what I’d done with Raymond the first night we met. He made no effort to stop me, but I stopped myself from anything more than a kiss….and a grope…and a….no that was it – HONEST!

That night was Raymond’s last in the tent staying over and I must confess there was a repeat golden shower. I kind of figured if he’d coped the night before, he could cope again and perhaps that was my mistake. The second time it was more overtly sexual; something about his accelerated breathing when he felt me do it, the way he deliberately rubbed his cock in the fluid before thrusting it into me.

But as I have said, this aside it was his last night. I don’t know whether Dad had said something or the fact I’d promised to meet him the following night at a proposed time and ended up arriving a few hours later to find him dancing with another girl which sent me into a lunatic rage.  But screaming at someone who doesn’t speak great English did not satisfy the psycho in me and his behaviour sent me straight back into the arms of his father for one final last dance. I did not, in any case, ever sleep with Raymond again (although I do recall his father popping round for a visit to the tent without his entourage that night).

As for the duvets, they belonged to L’s mother. I’m told when she returned home and her mum began to assist her unpacking the car boot, she took one look and smell of the bedding and said ‘I don’t think we need to keep those anymore, they can go straight in the bin.’ Sorry Mrs B, even if belatedly.

Trumpet David – A Cautionary Tale

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.

The ‘Slutty Value System’ Or ‘A Slut’s Tangent’

I need to fast forward a bit. Not just because there’s no way I can manage this chronologically (oh, the first four or five are always memorable, then afterwards….just a series of – for the post part – indistinct penises and faces whose stories are triggered, usually at inopportune times, with the most tenuous links) but because I found myself with an online acquaintance discussing ‘the Slutty Value System’. It’s kind of where the ‘one hundred dicks thing’ comes in.

However much we want to slip into our Union Jack dresses, do peace signs and screech ‘girl power’ at the top of our lungs (sorry, is that just me?) or bang the new feminist drum, we do live in a patriarchal society where women like myself are labelled by small minded (or threatened) men and prudish women in a negative way. Thus I was forced to establish the aforementioned ‘Slutty Value System’ in an attempt to keep numbers down to acceptable levels within some social circles.

I’m from the Clinton camp. If there no vaginal penetration taking place, you’re not in my numbers. Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, Anal Sex only – you are hereby disincluded from the official count. My friend K, a homosexual, posited this system could imply a gay man that has never had sex with a woman would forever therefore remain a virgin. Well I’m sorry K, but that’s how it is with my slutty values. I need to keep my numbers down, for my own personal sake. Frankly speaking ‘One Woman, Three Hundred and Twenty Seven Cocks’ just isn’t a catchy blog name.

With my Slutty Value System thus established I had to consider the trajectory of my sex life in general. I somehow went from being an inexperienced virginal 21-year old to slut, to experienced slut, to deviant, .filthy personal whore to my soul mate; and that’s not the end point – I am after all just reaching my amatory peak.  There must have been significant events (well dicks) plotted on the graph of this sexual trajectory signposting and directing me towards he dark course of my current place of degeneracy.

Sometimes its best to work backwards – I need to gauge where  I am now to further establish the prominent ‘dicks’ that got me to where I am now.

And where might that be?

I remember my current beau once suggesting it would be quite a turn on for him if I were to display how desperate for an orgasm I was by grinding myself against the door frame. At the time – perhaps six months into our relationship – I obliged….reluctantly. There was something still very inhibited about me. I loved the slut part, the sheer filth and I knew I really was that desperate to come, but with one hand gripping a hook in the bedroom ceiling of that 300 year-old cottage (and yes, it has many alternate uses) to lever myself against the frame – I felt hugely self conscious. I didn’t feel sexy at all. If anything, I was concerned about my ‘bingo wings’ flapping around, my arms hurt from holding the majority of my body weight and I couldn’t quite position myself so my clit was actually being rubbed. It was like a cheap soft porn film where they stimulate sex but don’t actually do it.

Yet only a year down the line when I have on my leather collar – the word ‘WHORE’ proudly displayed – and am told to demonstrate how desperate I am, I think nothing of getting on the floor, spreading my legs and moving my hips up and down as my slippery girl-bits grind against the edge of a bookcase. I can bring myself to orgasm in seconds just from that. Forget what’s wobbling and what’s a good angle; the sheer pleasure of feeling the sensations tingle and burn until the wood’s nearly dripping and I’m gripping and thrusting and moaning – lost in a thunderous climax…and if it turns him too on all the better.

I mean, the guy comes up with the idea of a funnel and tubing (what follows is not the funnel story, just one) and using these to piss into one another’s arses. I thus find myself, only months later, in a frenzy of filth taking the initiative, and pushing said tube deep into my anus (one hand holding it) and moving the funnel under my cunt and pissing directly into myself. The experience, for my partner’s viewing pleasure then is not just me pissing but watching it sporadically flow and gurgle its way deep inside me. What came next?  Well, then I kinda thought it might be fun to remove the funnel and put the other end of the tube into him so we could swap my piss back and forth before it all eventually dribbled on the heap of towels ever present in sex marathons such as these. Extreme watersports some might consider it. It could be an Olympic sport, akin to synchronised swimming.

But even these anecdotes don’t quite fully encapsulate the lengths of my dirty insatiable desire. The big question without answer now is whether the desire is for sex or for him.  Are these barriers and limits being constantly pushed to test me sexually or to impress him, gain bedroom approval, join some club where he won’t wanna sleep with another, or is it something as simple as sharing a journey together and exploring all the elements within a relationship?  Maybe I can’t be Jenna Jameson every night…although I frequently find my mind is.

The braid of ultra-intimacy and sex….that’s where I am now.

Take a look at this pic.

Did this burn happen because Peachy was being a bad boy?

Or was I attempting the medieval skill of ‘cupping’ and my first attempt heated the glass almost to melting point as opposed to creating a vacuum to help suck the pus from a bum-boil?

Looking at the entire portrait of my sex life from a distance and which I’ll fully piece together in over time, I see this particular endeavour as a kind of post-Post Modern feminists ‘Rake’s Progress’ in words, which had, I not titled ‘One Woman One Hundred Dicks’ I could have called ‘A Slut’s Tangent’. I went with the existing title because most of my encounters were with Dicks both of a literal and metaphorical nature.

More on those dicks and which ones teased me into an at-first gentle learning curve of sensuality which didn’t take too long in becoming tick shaped.

How I Didn’t Cum To Lose My Anal Virginity

Once upon a time there were two DJs called ‘Pete Mac’ and ‘Dave the Rave’. Actually, I can’t say for sure whether Dave was a real DJ at all, but Pete Mac certainly was. He did Friday nights at that infamous cattle market described in my previous post – the legendary ‘Norbury’ which you’ll find, if you feel like you must, not far from…er…Norbury Station.

One night ‘Dave the Rave’ (as Pete called him) arrived in tow with Pete who was in fact so keen on my friend ‘L’, had driven from another gig to see her that night.

Looking back, I realise Dave was actually Pete’s wingman; God was I viewed as a ‘Grenade’ as Mike ‘The Situation’ would call the uglier of two girls in a Jersey Shore episode (cultural reference from trash TV – yes I do whore myself intellectually every now and then).

But going back. Maybe I had been a grenade that night.  A pretty big one at that, although one with a pretty face and hopefully one that wasn’t a chore

So, to my best mate L.

L used to be let us say…pleasingly plump. I, on the other hand, was very voluptuous (my now boyfriend might call it Titian-esque – that’s Titian the artist, not Titan as the big ship) so the attention of two DJs (albeit one alleged) was, both to L and myself more than welcome at the time.

In the heady days of 1999 in fact it gave us real kudos.  As any clubber knows, irrespective of the nature of the club itself, being ‘in’ with the DJ bestows on one great status. What was a huge bonus that night for me was to find that, as it turned out, of the two boys concerned, it was Pete Mac who was the actual ‘grenade’ (of the two boys), thus leaving me with the deliciously handsome intended-to-have-been-shotgun rider, Dave.

Don’t get me wrong, Pete was far from unattractive looks-wise, but the fact he had his own place and drove an Audi something-or–another meant little to me but much to those in need of a  trophy boyfriend.  What I can say for sure though is Pete the (real) DJ was definitely, infinitely further down the looks-scale than Dave The (perhaps, might be DJ) Rave.

I thus by chance inherited the looker of the two (Pete’s heat-seeking missile programmed to target the inside of L’s knickers). Allegedly Dave was ‘staying on the couch’ at Pete’s because he was ‘having problems with his girlfriend’. So there we were, the four of us.

How naïve I was then.

To this day, and with a now world-weary cunt (as well as brain) I wonder still whether Dave’s ‘staying on the couch’ was a bait to lure ‘L’ back to the flat;  Pete had thoughtfully ensured her bezzie mate – that is I – would not be neglected so L would be more receptive to the lure of his bedroom.

So now here’s where some confessions are confessed. Over the past ten years it’s been believed I lost my anal virginity that night.

I didn’t.

I don’t exactly know how that rumour came about either.

Except I kinda do.

Basically L was in Pete Macs room and they were indulging and he aimed for a hole which L prissily but innocently informed him, as if his navigation had gone a little awry – ‘Ooops, wrong hole’ (unsure whether this was squealed, murmured, or assertively announced).

I’m told his response was ‘No that was the one I was after’. I can neither confirm nor deny whether L let him do it; if accurate recollection doesn’t elude me my belief remains, she did not.

Later when L was regaling me with her antics, I exchanged what had happened with me – and herein lies the confession.  Perhaps being a novice (you’ll recall I’d only had real sex once at his point) I wanted to look impressive and in all probability lied.  I’m sure I didn’t mean to – that it was inadvertent;  I genuinely believe there was miscommunication going on, but unfortunately it grew legendary, even disproportionate (between the two of us) as I didn’t feel I could ever correct the ‘mistake’ – until now.

Here’s actually what happened Mrs J as you are today, in case you’re reading this.

You and Pete Mac departed to his boudoir leaving me on the couch with Dave the Rave. Remember, I’m then at a time in my life when I was totally unaware of any physical appeal I may have had to any member of the opposite sex – or even mine, come to that,

Dave was the type of man I suppose I should have been ‘seen’ or coupled with in public. He was tall. Easily 6ft-more and broad. He had model-esque looks but on the traditional, bland, mannequin-type side. There wasn’t anything especially unique in his appearance. Attractive, absolutely; but not unusual. Brown hair, dark brown eyes, evenly proportioned face, wide shoulders, thick, hairy forearms – very masculine looking – a man’s man. I remember his build as medium, not overly toned but solid. Something in the physicality of him made me, overweight and tall for a girl, feel feminine while in his presence.

Just sharing a sofa with him seemed treat enough that night – any night in my youthful excitement. I wonder now did he see my chest heaving rapidly in anticipation. When his hand brushed mine as we reached for a drink on the coffee table, did he feel the same electricity as I, or was I merely a ‘favour to a friend’?

It was all so clichéd on reflection. To break the uneasy, randomly pleasant conversation he grabbed the remote and turned on the TV. And what appeared on-screen?

Porn – and not awfully good porn at that.

Oh how very predictable.

I wasn’t shocked – mildly embarrassed and a bit uncomfortable perhaps, but not shocked.

Nevertheless, the whole scenario was foreign to me (including the language of the ‘actors’ on the TV).

My first encounter with this kind of thing had only come only a couple of months earlier when L and I went to Sweden and found our ‘first class’ room furnished with free filth on demand. We spent eight marvellous hours, squirming hornily on our separate beds watching this hardcore new planet unfold. ‘White Angel’ remains a memorable title, if only by title alone.

At that time, babe-in-the-woods that I was, watching a woman swallow, or even have, semen in her mouth, disgusted me. It turned my stomach (oh god how times have now changed!). The material Sweden supplied was very different to the offerings I’d rooted from my older brother’s bedroom as a curious (some would say invasive) teen.  Certainly though after the ‘Swedish Experience’ I was far more at ease with the kind of stuff Dave had flicked on than I would otherwise have been.

And then suddenly it was as if the porn somehow gravitated from the small screen into the very lounge room itself.

Dave looked at me and said: ‘You know what happens now, right? What would happen in this type of movie?’

His heavy arm snaked round my shoulders and he pulled me in for that first exquisite kiss. Back then I was still really romantic. I could get lost in a kiss for hours; well……lengthy durations at least. I still couldn’t get my head round the fact I‘d scored the looker, let alone that he seemed attracted to me.

His hands moved down and I allowed them to explore my upper thighs.

Scenes of losing my virginity flashed back, and  I speedily removed my shoes; one less obstacle to worry about.

His hands became demanding. In my experience men prefer stockings and suspenders as opposed to tights. But as many a girl knows, tights are more practical and affordable for anyone prone to ladders like me.  Anyway, I knew they needed to go and I was all too aware of the control knickers – those reliable friends both holding them up and tucking my tummy in.

Somehow in the time it took me to get off my shoes  he managed to use his size and weight to have me lying on the couch, him on top, I had just enough freedom at my hips to wriggle out of the tights and knickers. It felt strange to feel my bare flesh on the couch. Another totally new experience.

I liked the experience of feeling a little crushed by him, I liked the physical dominance, the fact that he was totally in control. My senses were in overdrive, my dress riding up, my naked flesh feeling the material of the couch and his hands just stroking. The strokes were firm but there was something kind of forgiving in them. Forgiving of my inexperience I suspect.

Hunky as Dave was there was a boundary crossed that night though – the hairy back!

This is so not a turn on – speaking at least for myself.

Running my hands through the fur on his chest felt great; the knowledge of being with a man, not a boy, feeling safe and cradled – if only fleetingly.. But my hands, running over his shoulders and into a veritable forest of hair at the back – yuk! It’s still a no-no for me but that night I merely accepted his gorgeousness, finished at the top of his neck and restarted again, this time safely below the buttocks. This all happened just as Beckham was ruling the world, so being a Metrosexual wasn’t unheard of but for Dave, clearly waxing was not part of his Friday grooming ritual.

We somehow twisted to be lying side by side and I remember his fingers lightly stroking my bum. Normally I’m quite conscience of the size of my behind (these days I accept and embrace its roundness and bounciness) but in that moment I remember how intimate it felt. Ticklish. I had to bite my lip, unsure whether to laugh girlishly or purr like a kitten at the pure pleasure of having someone explore my body so delicately for the very first time.
Reality always bites back though, however young and idealistic you are.

He pushed the coffee table away with his leg.

‘Get on all fours,’ he instructed.

Obligingly I did as requested and felt my black dress bunch up round my waist. His hands gripped my breasts and massaged them. I was never keen on this. It felt weird having them pulled from a bra and I was self conscious they weren’t sexy.

On all fours and totally inhibited one becomes acutely aware of the concept (and power) of gravity -the underwire of the bra was markedly uncomfortable.

But pleasure can easily distract from the rational mind. I felt his cock rubbing against the wetness of my entrance. I didn’t grind against it, or apply any pressure myself.  I put myself completely in his charge.

Big Mistake.

Pleasant as it was, feeling the length of him externally, sliding playfully, darting quickly in and out, teasing my cunt, what I was not expecting was the sudden force of him pushing against, what my darling of today refers to as my ‘chocolate starfish’ (I’ve yet to join the Hollywood elite for a good, old-fashioned anus bleach). My body didn’t have to resist much because my evidently iron-strong sphincter muscles weren’t having any of it. I suspect though the jolt from my entire self didn’t warrant me verbalising his intent was not only highly unpredicted but a nigh-on physical impossibility – certainly not without some severe and thorough prior attention.

Perhaps he was as embarrassed as I because I found us both gravitating back towards the couch, sitting now as two teenagers who fancied each other but couldn’t act on the urge – first cousins perhaps. I felt a little impolite. I was grateful for the attention after all. I instinctively knew I wasn’t going to have sex with him now and the disappointment was crushing. I wanted to rescue the moment or at least have a tale to tell.

I opted for a hand job. This too was a newie for me. I once touched an oriental man’s cock in the toilets of a cruise ship when I was 15, but ran away after he slipped his fingers into my knickers.

As his trousers were down I didn’t have to worry about looking unprofessional in releasing the beast – that bit was done. What was concerned me was the thing which that had been thrusting at my….’rusty sheriff’s badge’ (as my current boyfriend also calls it) seemed to have retreated, diminished – shied away in embarrassment like our words and previous actions had.  The porn, still playing on TV, now seemed distant, contributing nothing positive to what ambience was left. Not even its blurred moans and Teutonic entreaties filled the space we so desperately needed to recover the place that we’d been.

Thank the lord I was a musician. I have a firm grip from the instruments I play and great rhythm – and with those talents I figured I couldn’t go too far wrong. What though – and I have no other word – frightened me was the sleeve of skin I found, all wrinkled and thick, like a fleshy nozzle that seemed to be overgrowing his cock. I’d never seen one. Most men in Australia are circumcised and the few I had encountered…well, let’s just say I’d never seen in that state. I was thus completely ignorant as to how best (or at all!) to deal with it.

The porn on the TV gave no clue or direction in respect of the matter, so I could only give it a guess by sliding my hand up and down. I noticed the head poking out depending on how low I handled this rumpled, alien entity called ‘Foreskin’ (which to this day still sounds to me like a nasty character from some sordid tale courtesy of Brothers Grimm, or maybe an adult Shrek).

But doing so made him moan. This was encouraging, as was the flesh firming up in my hand. Pretty soon that sleeve seemed to have disappeared and looked more like the penises I was more familiar with.

I was able then to get into my stride.

After the debacle of ‘my first’ not having cum (I refer once again to Dick # 1) and being significantly upset about it, I felt it of substantial importance I allow Dave the Rave to deliver his goods this good night.  And he was keen enough.  So keen in fact he was demanding I get back on all fours again, down on the floor. Whether the clenching of my buttocks, the knowledge there wasn’t a condom in sight, or my own mental image of how unflattering a position I felt myself likely to be in, I just pretended not to hear and pumped till the spout was nearly upon us.

Then though, what are you supposed to do with it? Where do you aim? God, it was someone else’s couch – that’s just bad manners at best right? Vandalism at worst. My head flooded with Swedish porn nightmares (not to say what was on the TV) so it seemed the only option was to direct the stuff back on him.

And there it was. A pool of cum – the first I’d ever seen; sitting (and I do mean sitting, like a person in a council-flat room wearing nothing but Y-fronts) there, on his hair-covered tummy.

What inspired me to do it I have no idea, but it seemed then and there a sexy thing to just rub it all in.  Maybe I wanted to rub it out of sight.  After my reaction to the Swedish porn cum-gargling thing it certainly wasn’t going anywhere remotely near to my tongue.

I suspect this lathering (because as everyone knows, it does whip up like shampoo) wasn’t what Dave wanted. He held me politely me for all of thirty seconds then nipped to the toilet to wash off his belly.

I will say it ended sweetly enough. L finished whatever she did or didn’t do that night with the DJ and I slept in Dave’s arms. Later I picked up my shoes, knickers, tights and then left.

But it’s here, I suspect, the miscommunication between L, I and the anal sex came in. Seeing my shoes off, (knowing the trouble they proved when I lost my virginity) L assumed I had had sex with Dave. Her reference to the ‘wrong hole’ and my mentioning Dave’s initial preference for the backdoor entrance somehow got confused. In my best friend’s mind I’d lost my anal virginity to Dave the Rave.

When as you now know I did not.

And, as per much of my life, sadly, all this it was a short lived love affair-cum-scene.

Excited by the two DJs and the potential for where it could lead, L and I were foolish enough the following week to pack overnight bags. If I were writing a ‘Hitchhikers’’ Guide to the Galaxy for Innocent but Sexually Adventurous Girl’ I’d have as Rule Two ‘Don’t bring overnight bag after first fuck.’ But we brought matching, satin, baby-doll nighties, clean clothes for the next day and considered hiring a limousine for our arrival. When we got to The Norbury, there was no Dave to be seen and Pete Mac was doing shout-outs and dedicating songs to someone called PAMELA!

Depending on your stance, age, gender or personal-political persuasion about the pros or cons of this, feeling outraged L and I nevertheless underwent a rite of passage most young women would admit to having experienced at some point themselves. We did a little stalking.  Or, actually, in hindsight, by some standards, quite a lot, but we all know everything is relative. I suppose though over a period of several weeks we did it about five or six times in total

It was a simple series of sorties, and something that kind of became a night out in itself. We’d drive first to Pete Mac’s flat, I’d climb in the garden to see if ‘Pamela’ (or whoever) had gone there and sometimes we’d put chewing gum in the key-holes of his car. Innocent enough I think….or psycho?  We girls know, don’t we, but never say.  Neither Pete nor Dave had a clue.

But….times moved on (they do so more slowly the younger you are) and I remember getting an invite back at some later date and Pete being very surprised L ‘remembered the route’ while I innocently handed round chewing gum during the ride for all of us to feast on, one way or another.

But ‘Dave the Rave’ was for me one of the ones that got away. In a cock sense I mean.

Some years later, I found myself in that Club again with L and this time her younger sister.  He came over to chat and bought me a drink which I took. We were babysitting L’s little sister, introducing her to clubbing and the whole clubbing scene.  As we staggered out, siblings leading the way, Dave pulled up in a red sports convertible – top down, one arm on the wheel the other hanging out of the door.

‘So are you coming back with me or not – last chance?’

It came out of nowhere this invite, and after such a long time.  Perhaps I exuded more sexual confidence than previously, or my slutty reputation in the club had by now grown out of proportion.

It was my last chance and I knew it.

I declined the offer though – for the sake of sisterhood.

A Very Tame Beginning – woof!

I’ve thought long about where to start and it has to be the beginning. But please don’t think the unfolding of my Odyssey will follow chronologically; with the cock-numbers I’ve clocked up I really can’t remember it that way. Sometimes, on a tube or in the middle of a street, I’ll get a really vivid sexual flashback to some encounter – one I’d long forgotten. Thus for the purposes of this recounting I’ll write as I remember. It certainly couldn’t be done on an alpha-names-basis because I honestly can’t recall every one.

In fact, I’d quite convinced myself every guy I slept with whose name I couldn’t immediately remember was called ‘James’. Then I realised, statistically, it looked like I’d slept with an inordinate number of Jameses so I decided to ‘fess up to myself and admit at times I maybe hadn’t even bothered finding out. As per the title of this blog though, all but a tiny few of these ‘Jameses’ were complete and utter dicks.

But I digress.

First I’m going to tell you about my flowering (vomit inducing – but what phrase to use?). Fear not, for those of you with teak-like sensitivities when it comes to pure filth. I’ll get round to that, but just not here and now.

This tale is tame in comparison to what I get up to slightly later in life, but a girl has got to start somewhere – and like quite a few I did so hymen intacto, albeit later than most. I was 21 when I finally ‘did it’.

Losing your virginity will always be memorable. I think. Certainly for a lot of women, definitely for me.

I’m not a hair racist, I promise (though we have some floating round my family so the propensity is there. They’re called ‘rangas’ in Australia after the Great orange-coloured Ape. I apologise on their behalf.). But I nearly got fucked by a ginger. And not the best looking one at that. He would have been my first. He wasn’t unattractive, but had that kind of sallow, underfed, English look that weirdly appeals to me. I liked him. But this was back in the day when mobile phones were something you had glued to your hand permanently as status symbol and only a tiny few had discovered text.

Having met him the week before, I arranged to see him the following week at the same club. One we were routine regulars at in Norbury, South London, of which more shortly. Had it not been for my best friend and clubbing companion ‘L’s’ poor time-keeping and inability to value or prioritise the needs of others, the first cock that entered me would therefore have been attached to a bush of ginger pubes.

Still, ‘L’ was just…’L’ and, it’s important to note, that particular Friday she was ‘very ill’ but ‘forced’ herself to go to the place anyway ‘for my sake’ (and her own to some extent). But by the time we got there I was running well over an hour late for the pre-proposed rendezvous which had been arranged the week before and with no contact since. ‘L’, I (and my date) were such regulars there, that on waiting to be let in, the Bouncer himself delivered a rather short and infuriated message from my Ginger-(bread)-Man. He’d fucked off. So it was over before it even began.

‘L’ was indifferent. Her current fellow wasn’t present that night so she was happy enough to have me to herself – more so because Gingerbread had spilt two pints of beer over her the previous week (one of which we’d purchased).

But there that night was Gavin.

This was back in the late nineties, when boy-bands, particularly Irish ones, were all the rage. The nightclub we were at in Norbury (imaginatively called ‘The Norbury’) was at the back of an Irish pub so had quite a few Irish punters.

Gavin was every schoolgirl’s dream. I was a late starter at 21 so still possessed a teen girl’s heart and was immediately filled with a longing to just…just have a kiss actually. I wanted him as my boyfriend.

He wasn’t tall, maybe 5’7, very slim and had the hair style of boy bands at that time – curtains and beautiful blue eyes. Apart from the height issue (which is more to do with me being Australian and considered tall in comparison with my British counterparts – especially in 4 inch heels) he was undoubtedly my type.

But I knew from the rather meagre female pickings looks-wise in the club that night there were a lot of girls there thinking he was their type too, so competition was high. I was a big girl then, but not morbidly obese. With a great looking face and youth on my side, getting guys wasn’t difficult, but I was just on the cusp of discovering this.

My esteem and experience was low, but ever the determined dreamer and with wild youthful optimism, I thought I’d at least give it a crack. I felt very much aware of what I then thought were my physical failings so convinced myself I couldn’t rely just looks alone. The thumping music was hardly amenable to my dazzling him with personality, wit and intellect. I was left then with only one choice. It was this. For me to demonstrate – the dance.

I must’ve busted some serious moves on the floor. A fair criticism of my antics is that while I can execute some complicated moves and have great rhythm, I suspect if ever marked on grace I wouldn’t be standing with a gold medal round my neck. Others may differ. I AM good at this stuff so maybe I’m being hard on myself – because it did do the trick I wanted that night.

He boogied his way over to me. Then it was a dance off between me and some cougar-type who must’ve been in her odd-40s (which for me at 21 seemed ancient) but I shimmied her clean off the floor. One swing of my child bearing hips had her staggering back to the bar as I funked it up with my Gavin to the point where he said ‘It’s okay – you’ve got me now you don’t have to try so hard.’

I was completely mortified I’d been quite so obvious and more so at the thought of what my dancing must’ve looked like to have warranted such a comment.


It got to the end of the night and though I hadn’t had a kiss from him publicly – allegedly as a result of the presence of friends – he waited for me after as I collected my stuff from the cloakroom. Outside my best friend’s squeeze was waiting for her but I leapt at the invitation to go for a ‘walk’ with my prince.

He crossed the road heading us down some residential side street. I felt slightly worried here. My best friend and her boyfriend ware providing my lift home and I, completely unfamiliar with the territory was unsure how I’d navigate my way back to their car. But hormones and an abundance of intoxicants overpowered rationale. We’re not talking date-rape here, we’re talking lack of inhibition.

I remember walking to a front door. He reached in his pocket and drew out a ring of keys asking me which one to try. For some reason it hadn’t quite clicked this might be his house. There was a rush of adrenaline at the thought he may in fact be breaking and entering someplace. I got the keys wrong twice so the third time he chose and let us in to a very dark, modest and quiet dwelling. Period; typical suburban three up three down at a guess. He told me he lived there with his brother. Naively I believed him. Looking back, this might not have been a total lie but if it had been the case why wouldn’t he have taken me to his bedroom and why the necessity to ensure the lights were off and noise kept to a minimum? So I found myself in the kitchen, located at the back of the house.

So, as for that first kiss….

OK. I’d only ever really been kissed by three or four boys previously plus a girl (and I liked it). But he looked so bloody gorgeous. Even my friend ‘L’ was shocked that I’d ‘pulled’ him (bit of a backhanded compliment there) but then…

Then smell of his breath. It was like he’d eaten a four cheese pizza made with the strongest blue cheeses going, rancid meat and hadn’t brushed his teeth for a week. I tried to push my disgust to the back of my mind but the smell is always the first association I have with this memory.

He began undressing and I watched, in an unbelieving way, realising, actually, tonight I was entering (I thought at the time) another world – the world of the fully initiated. I felt excited, ‘grown up’. And the knowing I’d made the decision to do this with someone completely random rather than waiting for a relationship made it doubly true. It felt like an empowering choice (which in hindsight it was) and one that would lay the foundations of the following ten years of my sexual life.

His build was slight and boyish and I inhaled sharply at the definition of his torso. The sinewy muscles in his arms, the hairless chest and the six pack stomach chiselled out of the leanness of him. I felt my desire for him increase and there was part of me wanting to thrust my fist in the air and shout ‘yesss!’ at the joy of having scored such physical perfection and overall prettiness. The foul, the previous liplock I could forgive in exchange for the sight of that young, hard body. He took my hands down to his jeans but my fumbling at undoing his belt frustrated him to the point where he finished stripping himself.

I was almost too scared to look and face the reality of ‘cock’ but he was eager enough for me to do it and grabbed my hand, forcing it down there. I gripped it and it felt firm and smooth and warm and huge. Intimidating in a way. I wondered if they were all so big (in time I would discover he was a rare find and while the term ‘hung like a donkey’ might have been applied to him this is not the general rule as most women will have found). Somewhere in the duration of his undressing I mumbled I was a virgin and he told me it would be okay.

He stood there naked in the moonlight, shining through the kitchen windows. I was dumbstruck, holding his penis and not sure what I was supposed to do.

‘You’re going to have to take your clothes off, or do you want me to do it?’

I assured him it was fine. But the thought of being totally naked in front of him frightened me. I had awful body image issues. I kept having to remind myself if he didn’t fancy me he wouldn’t be there, certainly he wouldn’t be standing to attention so aggressively.

As nice as I looked (and believe me as a woman there can be massive effort involved) to have to strip down and reveal the accessories and garments used to achieve this is a daunting prospect. It was all about where to begin.

I knew the large waist-high natural control knickers had to be removed pronto and the tights would have to go too. I imagined those items were the most likely to make that…thing I was holding decline rapidly into a state of floppy uninterest.

At the time I’d always insisted on wearing said knickers one size too small, really to ensure they held my tummy in in public. So I rolled them down and felt my tummy rolling out, toned-like appearance gone but the roundness of my stomach hidden by the kind cut of my simple black dress.

Then I realised I hadn’t factored my shoes into the equation. I looked down at the straps and tried to undo them. But it’s quite a feat (or perhaps feet) to remove strappy shoes while standing, kissing someone, massaging their cock and thinking about what a penetrated hymen is going to feel like.I got one shoe off, which then had me force one bare foot in tip-toe position so I wasn’t looking lopsided during the ongoing kissing thing.

The second shoe wouldn’t budge. The strap was so tight, it just wouldn’t slip through the link and because of its tightness I couldn’t just kick or rip the shoe off my foot. I was wrestling with it. It was now an enemy to the outfit, an enemy to my dignity and of the entire night. I saw my chances of sex slipping away.

Eventually I crouched down to do it. Not glamorous or seductive. The incident was traumatic, leaving deep psychological scars forever to echo through my life – sexual or otherwise.

But having flung the last shoe off and now able to kick off the tights and knickers I was left standing in my black dress. This I could slip off easily enough and the bra to follow, releasing my plump breasts in what I thought a downward swing.

Then I was standing – naked in the moonlight too. Nowhere near as pretty or toned as him I thought but the hard-on didn’t wither with his scrutiny of me. I could feel his blue eyes take me all in. Standing and being judged, purely on appearance.

‘Get down and suck my cock.’

I knelt down, self conscious of my nudity and all my wobbling bits. I gave it a try, a hesitant lick and put a bit in my mouth but it seemed…too much to take. My approach was unprofessional, amateurish. I licked it like a lollipop until he forced it in my mouth. I knew you weren’t supposed to graze it with your teeth so I was mindful of that but did one blow (as in the title of the job in question) or suck? He either took pity of my inexperience or was frustrated by it. He pushed me on my back and told me to spread my legs – wide. With no experience I could really only follow his direction.

The kitchen floor was hard and uncomfortable. It was summer and I could feel myself sticking to the lino but my curiosity meant the feel of the surface could be overlooked. Legs spread and my vagina exposed for inspection by someone other than myself had me quivering in the balmy summer night.

A lot of women I’ve spoken to discuss the pain involved with losing one’s virginity, especially if one’s hymen is intact – which, as I’ve said, mine was. But I’ve heard a lot say they suffered in silence.

Not me. I was very vocal about it all. He spread my legs even further, pulled at the sockets then gripped my wrists above my head and tried to slide his formidable cock into me.

Every time he tried to enter, he would be greeted with an ‘Ow!’ or ‘Ooh no that really hurts.’

I must’ve been talking ten to the dozen from nerves as well as the pain as he tried to insert himself. In the end he shushed me and told me to stop talking and put his hand on my mouth.

He forced his cock inside me. And yes it fucking hurt. Every thrust, the length of him going all the way in and then almost pulling himself out completely, repeatedly stretching me and causing pain.

But their was a pleasure to it too.. Eventually my muscles relaxed and began to accept, rather than reject this alien invasion of me. There was something soothing about the weight of him on top of me, sweat enabled him to slide his body up and down on mine, our skins as close as you can get which bought me to a state where I could more readily enjoy this new experience.

With that said, because I was quite a good girl and rarely stayed out late or went out more than once a week, the toll of our recent burst of socialising had taken its effect.. Once my cunt got used to the sensation of him moving in and out I began to feel my eyelids grow heavy at the rhythmic insertion and rocking. He must’ve noticed because then he told me to grip my thighs around his waist. I obeyed without question. He instructed me to do it tighter; as tight as I could. There really was a degree of fitness required to this new hobby, and I wasn’t the most energetic or gym-friendly of girls but I was still slightly worried about crushing him between my very ample thighs. Perhaps though, the warm, soft, silky pale flesh felt good because as I really gripped him he began to increase pace. His new vigour was sharp – painful again – but rather than risk a telling off or being physically restrained from verbalising any discomfort I bit my lip and endured it.

At this point, whether through noise, scent or both, a dog from outside made itself known but very unloved by barking, jumping and scratching at the kitchen’s back door. It immediately snapped me out of what at worst could have eventuated in an embarrassing slumber mid-intercourse or at best silent endurance of a consensual hard pounding. Gavin could see I was shaken by this and definitely put off my stride from our four legged friend announcing its presence at the door not three feet away.

‘Don’t worry about the dog; it’s okay.’

But by now though it had started to dawn on me that, given he was the same age as me, he probably lived with his parents and there was a chance they could walk in on us. By the time that thought popped into my head the reality of the situation really hit home. I was in a strange house, with a strange guy, in an area of London I wasn’t familiar with and no way of getting back to my bedsit.

I checked my watch – I’d really only been gone for a little over half an hour but if I missed that lift home I’d arranged on leaving the club I’d be lost. I endured more pumping but whilst he had his head down (in the work sense of the word) moving in deeper and more roughly I felt my attention drift to watching the minute hand move along on the watch face of my wrist.

‘I have to go,’ I whispered.

‘No you’re fine, just let me come.’

Great, I hadn’t even used a condom – one more thing to worry about.

‘No, I really have to. I’ll miss my lift.’

I began raising myself on my elbows muttering I needed to find my friend and put my clothes on. Possibly not in that order because I was getting quite hysterical and loud. As a result he withdrew his cock and let me stand and dress quickly.

I apologised profusely and walked to the front door. As I tried to open it, I found it forced shut. His hand was pressed on the frame, preventing any exit.

‘I want to finish fucking you.’ He was naked and his erection looked as angry as he did.

‘I want that too but…please I need to go home.’

I had the sinking realisation that irrespective of the difference in our weight he was infinitely stronger than me and could cause real problems if he wanted to.

‘I didn’t come. I want you to finish me off. It’ll be nice – for us both.’

I tried to push his arm away but it remained cemented. Whether he was fooling around, or he thought his parents may make an appearance or the tears welling up in my eyes hit a nerve, he moved, unlocked the door, and let me go.

A brusque kiss before I shot out, like a mouse released from a humane trap.

I found my friend’s car but no sign of her. Relief flooded me that I’d still get my ride. She turned up after five minutes, furious at me as she’ been walking the streets with her boyfriend (to be) in an attempt to locate me. Apparently I sat on the bonnet of her car swinging my legs like a pixie. I was shoeless. In the rush to leave the house I hadn’t bothered with retrieving my footwear. Getting them off took long enough, I couldn’t risk any more time in getting them back on.

So. What happened with Gavin?

The week after that incident I saw him at the nightclub, but was too shy to say anything. Eventually he came and found me at the bar and asked if I was going to avoid him all night. I was lost for words but thrilled that he found me and wanted to talk.. He told me he wanted to see me again, to fuck me again but couldn’t tonight because his girlfriend from Ireland was over visiting.

Then a sinking realisation in fact, this man, beautiful as he was, was never going to be my boyfriend. Chances were I would never sleep with him again. I swallowed the lump in my throat, and took drinks to my friend to update her. She did her best to protect me that night, ensure I kept my head held high and behaved in dignified fashion. And I did. But as we left the club on the last song (unlike us – we were usually to the last ones out) I broke free from her, ran back to his table where he was seated alone. I could see ‘L’s’ head shaking knowing what was going to happen.

‘Why?’ I asked, ‘I really liked you.’

‘I like you too but she’s…’

He shrugged and I knew where I stood in the scheme of things. It seemed somewhat fitting the last song of the evening was Ronan Keating’s ‘You say it best when you say nothing at all.

‘L’ was right – I shouldn’t have said anything.

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