Not all sex is good sex – fact! Not all sex is memorable sex – fact! But unmemorable, ordinary sex can still leave you with a sense of personal achievement.
When I was working in theatre back in the early noughties I was somewhat obsessed with a particular patron who I thought looked like a chubbier version of James Redmond (an actor who played Finn in tack Channel 4 teen soap Hollyoaks and moved onto Casualty playing Abs). James Redmond was a model so looking like a slightly chubbier version of him was by no means an insulting comparison. If anything he was drop dead gorgeous. I shamelessly threw myself at the patron but with little success. He himself was a little overwhelmed at my attention and couldn’t quite appreciate why someone was so desperately attracted to him. I worked hard on his visits to the late night theatre but reaped very little of what I attempted to sow. In fact I think the closest we got to sex was when I walked him from the theatre to the tube station and in a dark alley he squeezed one breast and asked for a flash of my ample bosom. I obliged and he asked if I would like to dress up in leather and play the dominatrix to his submissive. Sadly, on the spot in public (however dark) I was caught off guard and unsure of how to respond to such a request. I had holding hands and romantic picnics on the brain, he clearly had other ideas that were at the reverse end of the relationship scale. People assume sometimes because one is voluptuous, outspoken, gregarious and sexually aggressive that they’ll be like that in bed. I wasn’t. I spent most of my time behaving like that so when I was in ‘fuck’ mode I wanted to be dominated so I could turn off that particular personality defence for an hour or two and reveal the gentler more sensual aspects of my soul. Thus taken aback from his bold request I pulled my blouse down and scurried back down under the arches of Charing Cross train station to attempt to recover some dignity.
Dignity was something I had little of with that patron. Another time I seduced him into staying back with free drinks and my obvious besotted desire for him and he moved in so close I could feel his breath and waited for him to finally brush my lips with a kiss I’d been wanting for months and he whispered ‘You are so lovely. You’re like an angel, but you’re never going to be the girl a man wants to marry – and I’m looking for a wife.’
I was crushed. In fact that comment crushed what little ego I had left. I soon let go of that crush. I wanted the wait of his gorgeousness crushing my body while we writhed around on the floor or in the toilet of the theatre. All he crushed was any self respect I had.
The one that got away. But there are more James Redmond look-a-likes out there I’m thankful to report.
One night a few years later my friend L and I were having yet another debauched weekend in Great Yarmouth – England’s premier seaside town. As I was getting my groove on (as much as one can throw shapes with the difficulty of moving effortlessly on a sticky alcohol drenched dance floor) I spotted at the bar another James Redmond look-a-like. He was not a chubby version. He was more like a younger brother. Similar hair, figure and features – not identical but still gorgeous.
I’d like to say I’d learnt something from my previous encounter chasing a TV/Model/Presenter lookey-likey but I hadn’t. Within seconds I was unglued myself from the dance floor, trotted over to the bar and declared my intense attraction to him alongside my intent to bed this beautiful man. Unlike London, Yarmouth is a small town. An Australian partying in the town is a news-worthy event in itself. To be the recipient of her affection is altogether very flattering. Perhaps London lookey-likey felt he could be more choosey, perhaps many had commented on his uncanny physical similarity to James Redmond, but Yarmouth James Redmond responded far better to my shameless, slutty suggestions…and who could blame him. With such blatant overtures I suspect he knew I was looking for a husband any more than he was looking for wife that evening – or maybe he was sensitive enough not to criticize my inexperienced approach to acquiring a shag for the evening.
Before long he had allowed me to drag him from the club onto the Pier, where behind closed arcade and seafood venues we could commence some serious kissing, quickly developing into heavy petting and fumbling. I could feel his hard cock through his jeans and when I unbuttoned his fly so I could get a grip on it it felt even harder. As hard as his cock was I have no doubt in my mind he could feel how wet I was for him as he slipped two fingers into my knickers, working them into me as I groaned and held his cock. He pulled them out, licked them and without even doing his flies up took my hand and quickly led me down the stairs from the pier to the beach.
There wasn’t much time for small talk – other than my babbling about how stunningly attractive he was. The need for fucking was so great, neither of us bothered with finding shelter under the pier or even attempting to find a place on the beach a little more secluded. All I was aware of was stumbling through the sand and then kissing and collapsing where we were – only metres from the pier (the lights of the clubs shining brightly on the beach).
Without wasting any time he had already pulled my underwear and tights down (I didn’t even have time to wonder what a passion killer tights and control knickers may have been). I quickly removed one of my shoes to free a leg from the underwear allowing him to slide into me missionary style. He never said a word but breathed heavily as he moved in and out of me deeply, thrusting forcefully. There was little technique involved but I was unconcerned. The fact that he seemed to want me (or the sex) as much as I did was reward in itself.
He pulled my dress down to expose my breasts and buried his face in them, suckling them as he continued to pump away.
Soon enough people moving up and down the pier changing clubs had spotted us and were wolf whistling and enjoying the free live sex shows. He swore under his breath and pulled out. As I went to sat up from the sand to rearrange my clothes he said ‘Fuck it!’ and grabbed me by the waist, telling me to get on all fours. I did as he said and he mounted me doggy style, switching between holding my hips for depth and grabbing my tits which he seemed very taken with. There was little talk apart from the odd expletive and dirty talk like, ‘Fucking yes’ and ‘You’re so fucking tight!’. I could feel him grow thicker inside me and the talk became less as the breathing became heavier. I had just enough time to say ‘Don’t cum inside me’ before he withdrew to a round of applause from the gathering crowd on the pier.
Fortunately his sperm missed my dress. Admittedly it was on my thighs but I wiped it away with the tights and discarded them. I wasn’t looking for sex again that night so could deal with having corn meat legs on the dance floor. It also meant I only had to put my knickers on and do without the fuss of arranging tights and checking for ladders so it was a sacrifice I was happy to make.
Having only to do up his jeans, he waited till I was dressed and we walked back to the pier on the lit beach to the comments (cheering and critical in equal measures). We waited under the pier in silence for the crowd to disperse. He rested against a plinth smiling shyly at me. After a time he nodded that we should go back. As I took a step, he put a hand on my shoulder, kissed my lips and said thank you. He judged the time correctly. The pier was empty. He held my hand and walked me back to the original bar we’d found each other. He kissed my hand and said thank you. Then strolled off down the Pier back into Great Yarmouth town centre.
I stepped back into the bar. L was busy on the dance floor dealing with her own complicated love life. She smiled and waved at me as I entered with a ‘where have you been?’ expression. I danced over to her grinning. Mid song, while waving her hands (like she just didn’t care) to the music she pointed at my suddenly bare legs. ‘Your hair looks fantastic,’ she said, ‘the sand and wind have given it real volume!’
Even a cynical, seasoned professional purveyor of penis can get caught off-guard by someone saying the right things at the right time. Drunk with a desperate heart; hearing the right words at the right time can trick your mind into thinking the man saying them can only be Mr Right. One’s expectations are raised, hope begins to bloom and you relax thinking after years of searching he’s finally turned up.
At times I wonder whether I clocked up so much cock on account of my relatively appealing good looks or if it was due to the fact that my pheromones and general behaviour just screamed slut to any passer by-er. A little of column A, a little of column B perhaps
Once you reach the phase where random fu*cking is your fix; like a proper junkie you’re more concerned about getting your fix. The whys and hows of how you get the fix become irrelevant. But if you have a decent dealer the relationship is as valuable as the drug itself.
As mentioned oodles of times previous, Great Yarmouth was a fertile playing field for me in terms of easy guaranteed cock, but low self esteem ensured I was never brimming with confidence. Hence when a tall, dark stranger appeared to be checking me out one night my natural instinct was to quickly survey the dance-floor to see which lucky bitch was the object of his blatant admiration. A few sharp neck swivels (in time to the music of course) and I realised it was me his eyes were lingering on. And I was flattered. Whilst I tended to go for a more mature man there was no getting away from the fact that he was very good looking. At least 6’2 (which given my size – especially in heels could only be a blessing), broad, dark hair carefully and deliberately moulded into porcupine spines all over his head, hazel eyes and an open, symmetrical, good-natured face. Coupled with a casual dress shirt left hanging out over smart trousers and shoes as he lent against the wall leading to the toilets (giving him full view of the antics of the entire venue) he certainly stood out from the usual clientèle at the run down Pier Bar with it’s stonking cheesy pop tunes from decades ago.
I assumed it was a general glance from him so when I was forced to walk past him to go to the loo I was pleasantly surprised when I felt him intentionally yet casually brush up against me as I passed him. Things were starting to look positive so on my return I purposely, yet accidentally touched my entire body to his. It was then he grabbed my hand and when I looked up at him I almost melted in his eyes – they were so kind and friendly…and genuine.
His warm hand prevented me from returning to the dance-floor and I allowed him to gently drag me past the toilets and out onto the pier. The air was cool. Whatever time of the year in the wee hours of the morning by the sea the air is always fresh on the skin. It seemed there was little time for words and yet I’m sure we talked. Perhaps it was just that the immediate connection allowing for a comfortable silence because before long I was pressed against the wall of the closed arcade lost in his lips and feverish kisses. What few words were spoken were enough. Pinned to the wall, his hands eventually found mine and I felt him directing them towards his cock which was trying to burst out of his trousers. But I didn’t want that. I didn’t want to be just some holiday slut for a night. Funnily enough when I told him this he was completely fine. He didn’t accuse me of being a prick tease, become abusive in the face of potential sexual rejection or shrug his shoulders and find some other easy lay. We stood together again and spoke and after a time he took my hand and returned me to the club and my beloved side-kick, L. So it was a nice moment and one I had the sinking feeling I was going to have to write-off as just that. A nice boy on a nice night.
But it wasn’t. Allegedly he had just moved to Great Yarmouth and was beginning work as a barman in the venue (our favourite and most frequented no less). He asked how often I came to Great Yarmouth and after a quick conference with L and the potential this new encounter promised, I confirmed I’d be back in 4 weeks time. We didn’t exchange numbers but he said he’d wait for me and left it at that.
I was kind of seeing a married man at the time (quite a significant ‘relationship’ at that) and was emotionally committed to him but I couldn’t push away this young man – whose name I now can’t even remember – from my mind. Working in an open planned office, I discussed both the guy and my married man at great length and the general consensus from the girls (ranging in age from 18 to 48) was the Yarmouth bloke sounded like a sweetheart and it was definitely worth following up on. Four weeks later we travelled up to Great Yarmouth again, myself with Great Expectations.
A little to keen and over eager we took up residence in the Pier Bar early afternoon and keenly watched the going ons as staff clocked in and out for the evening shift. Bizarrely enough true to his word he turned up, gave a friendly smile and began to work. Like a little school girl and keen to avoid any form of rejection I sent L up to the bar. He chatted with her and spent a lot of his time serving with an eye constantly on me. At one point I was given a drink by a random stranger who said it was a gift from the man behind the bar who also sent him with the message that I was easily the most beautiful girl in the bar that night. At this stage even L swooned at his authenticity. Sometimes small gestures and simple words are the most effective way to pierce a heart. I was smitten and refrained from my normal motto of ‘keep your options open!’ I declined any invitation for a dance and was happy to hang outside on the pier when he had his ten minute breaks. By 4am L was being walked home by an ‘old friend’ which left me with my man.
There is always something romantic about sunrises and empty beaches and walking hand in hand with a man that makes your heart sing for joy.
It’s not so romantic trying to have sex while standing underneath a pier. Romance was high but a pounding need to consummate this blossoming relationship was also present. Lips pressed together, probing tongues and lusty hands groping, feeling and undoing meant there was only one direction this was going. Strangely enough despite some minor protestations I was happy to oblige because he seemed so wanting and firm and…true.
However fab my new outfit was I was regretting wearing jeans. The fitted top accentuating my curves and high heels may have made a killer look but in terms of outdoors sex it just was not good. Frankly speaking rolling down tights and pushing up a dress is easier to access, more graceful and just that little bit safer for being busted for indecent exposure than tight black jeans. In all honesty the guy only needs to unzip for his member to do the job, for me it was trying to wriggle out of my jeans as elegantly as possible to allow the sex to take place. But I was keen enough so ended up kicking my jeans off. As luck would have it my top was long enough to cover my modesty should any early morning wanderer find their way under Great Yarmouth’s main pier.
Whilst I can’t recall his name, I can recall the sex. Pleasingly his cock was in proportion to his 6’2 broad frame. There was a length and girth to it that could only be rewarding for a willing recipient. I remember in my hand his cock was not only hard but it was hot and literally I could feel the blood pulsating through it as he moaned. His main concern was coming too quickly because he hadn’t had sex in some months after a break (well that was his story). Still there was no chance of premature ejaculation because the logistics required for sex meant a lot of stop starting and position changing – which didn’t kill the ambience thank God. I didn’t feel comfortable fu*king standing in heels so removed them, which immediately had me 8 inches shorter than him. Additionally being on the big side, however ripped and fit he was, it wasn’t like he could just lift me up to enter me for a good shagging,
He ended up turning me round to face a pylon – I guess if it could support a pier, it wouldn’t crumble with my weight resting against it. At this point he ran his hand down my buttocks and pushed his hand between my legs, forcing me to open them wider for his eagerly anticipated entry. His groaning in my ear increased as he felt how wet I was for him, his fingers slipped in and out of my dripping c*nt and I could feel my own juices on his fingers as his body pressed firmly against mine and the length of him slowly penetrated me. It was as if time stood still, or slowed right down as I felt my kegal muscles involuntarily clamp round his cock and I moaned in tandem with him – vocalising how full my vagina felt. The sex remained slow, his cock rhythmically reaching the back wall and internally stimulating all the right places. The weight and warmth of him against me only made me feel safer, protected and sensual.
He refused to speed up, determined to take his time as if I was some present to slowly be unwrapped. Eventually though all good things must come to an end. As he whispered into my ear, ‘I can’t wait much longer’ he withdrew and asked if I’d finish him off. It was a reasonably new request and while I was keen to have him in my mouth I wasn’t so sure about my juices being all over it. Still I didn’t want to kill the atmosphere so dropped to my knees, as he gently held my head and guided himself into my mouth.
I have to say – I tasted pretty good. There’s a lot to be said about diet dictating the taste sensation of someone’s excretions. Given my penchant for sweet food it turned out to be a delicious dick. There was far more than a mouthful there so I did my best to relax my reflux which allowed him a little deep oral. Fortunately when I did, unsurprisingly, gag on his cock those muscles rejecting his size seemed to tip him over the edge as he pulled out and allowed himself to cum over my chest – his cum dripping down the deep v-nect cut of my top all the way to my milky white breasts which were all but overflowing from the garment.
I stood up and we kissed (which I felt okay about cause clearly he was now tasting his cum too). I went to grab my jeans, realising the sun was taking away what little cover there was left under the pier when he dropped to his knees. Realising what he was going to do I pulled his head back and insisted that he really didn’t have to but he was adamant he wanted to. I spread my legs at his soft command so that his tongue could work it’s way around me. Clearly he approved of my diet of chocolate and ice cream because not only did his tongue skim over my clit but he seemed desperate to get his tongue where his cock had been ploughing only minutes before. Because of my sizeable thighs to allow him to do this I had to assume an almost yogic position raising a leg and attempting to balance on the one remaining grounded leg. He may have been wanting to bring me to orgasm but this acrobatic feat had put that idea to bed, so I faked it in order to finish up.
His demeanour didn’t change as he gallantly kept look out whilst I got dressed and we took a slow walk home. He lived and looked after his mother in a flat above a shop in one of the main streets in Yarmouth. In the flush of first love, our goodbye at the door took another hour and I promised to meet him that evening.
I got home, slept, woke up, filled L in on the details, showered, changed and headed back to the Pier Bar to continue my perfect weekend. Only he wasn’t working in the Pier Bar, he’s been sent to the opposite end of Britannia Pier to work in Long John’s nightclub for his shift. This venue had thumping music and was filled with all the beautiful, young, pretty things. When we headed up there I felt fat, frumpy, old and out of place. Whilst he did his best to catch the odd conversation with me there was no time for him to take breaks, send over free drinks or sweet messages. In fact he was so busy and seeing endless girls flirt outrageously with him I opted out and headed home. We said goodbye but I felt pretty flat about things. Could it all have been a lie to get a free fuck (please let that bit about him not having sex in months be true because if I was one of a long line of holiday fucks it was even more meaningless to him)???
Back at work Tuesday, after the Bank Holiday and the girls at work were as taken as L and I had been with his behaviour and treatment of me. In fact my mother figure, M, convinced me to drop the married guy and go for it with this new fellow. It had been busy in the club that night and I had stomped out so I guess it hadn’t been entirely practical to exchange numbers. On M’s advice I rang his workplace and left a message with my phone number. Later that evening he returned my call, said he was surprised and a little hurt at my departure but was happy I’d contacted him. He took my mobile number and gave me his, making sure I called his whilst on the land-line to ensure I had the number correct.
Turns out soon after divulging his contact details Mr Right promptly ceased even being Mr Right Now – he was Mr not so Right…or just plain Mr Wrong, Not a response to a text did I ever get back. Not an answer to me calling him ever took place. Just enough missed calls and unanswered texts for me to get the hint. Four weeks later when we returned to Yarmouth he’d disappeared from working at the Pier (sacked or moved on I’ll never know). With a cock like his I have to say it was a good servicing on his part but very poor after care and follow up support – still I hadn’t dumped the married guy so at least I’d kept my options open.
Throughout the numerous liaisons in my twenties, I can’t honestly say I viewed every one of them as a one night stand – a story attached to a penis to recount when I hit my 30s and began settling down a little. But somewhere the naïve romantic in me was half-heartedly hoping that shag-of-the-night might leap from close encounter of the genital kind straight to husband-to-be.
For the most part this wistful ideation remained firmly locked in my head (or heart) but – emotionally expressive type that I am – I would confide these traditional and at time stalker-esque notions to my best friend L.
Once we’d outgrown the Norbury, we spent a lot of time, especially come summer, clubbing in Great Yarmouth on an unhealthily regular basis.
It had always been my and L’s dream to find two friends (or brothers) and marry them. We figured this convenient arrangement would mean we ourselves would remain best of friends. Fate though has dealt us a hand where we didn’t meet such a duo and immediately espouse them. Thus whilst still being incredibly close, time, relationships and children have meant that intimacy has dissipated somewhat – though friendship and shared past experience has not. Sad but I suppose life moves on….and it’s a real bitch getting from South East London to Essex.
Anyway that was the plan back in our early to mid 20s…and beyond. On one particular occasion however the Universe threw us a lifeline.
L was…shall we say encouraging(?) an on again off again long term flame from Great Yarmouth, but making no promises. They’d always try and implement the ‘let’s be friends’ façade which worked well for L – she was the one that always dumped him and pulled the strings so her heart was somewhat safer. Kenny on the other hand, while desperately trying to behave platonically, could never quite get over his intense feelings for his former love. Rather than just telling her he couldn’t be do it, or even just staying away, he would attempt to play the game they’d set up only to find himself awfully wounded when he found L enjoying her single status. I felt for him, but since she didn’t exactly lie to him, nor, if I’m honest, did she actively discourage his advances. She had nonetheless verbally confirmed the state of play.
And that’s what L and I wanted; to play!
And we did.
There are two clubs on Great Yarmouth’s main pier, the Britannia.
The first and aptly named ‘Pier Tavern’ as you approach Britannia, is for the more mature folks and has a resounding set-list of cheesy songs from the 60s to the noughties. The other – ‘Long John’s Show Bar’ at the pier end stretches out over sand and sea. ‘Long John’s’ was where the younger set of gentlefolk inhabited; it was bigger, had a long bar and played modern music – some to my and L’s taste but only for short durations.
In true form what started out as a ‘friends night out’ ended with Kenny becoming rather irate at the attention L were receiving and to mask his feelings he began acting like a complete …..what’s that word again that rhymes with ‘hunt’?
So L and I played hide and seek leaving him with the fogies in the Pier Tavern, ourselves hot-footing it up the pier, (as best we could with our high heels getting caught in the spaces between the planks of wood), to Long John’s to join the pretty young things there. Fortunately this establishment seemed more attractive to tourists and we stumbled across what I vaguely recall was a stag night – or just a boys weekend of some sort. Despising the music, but eager to avoid Kenny we were grateful to the invite at the table this group had colonised outside the club.
As the only two girls present we seemed to have quite a choice. Two men were vying for L’s attention but I was happy with the guy that approached me. He was named Ben and in my mind he seemed like a shorter, slightly less attractive version of Andrew Lincoln of ‘Walking Dead’, ‘This Life’ and ‘Teachers’ fame. There also seemed to be a sincerity to him which I think now was actually a combination of desperation and beer goggles. He was all too keen to exchange numbers and reiterate how he was looking for a girlfriend. This caught me hook, line and sinker. Once the club closed we didn’t really want the party to end.
L had hooked up with a beefy blonde sweetheart called ‘C’ who was, without doubt the personality of the two with a masculine caring aura around him. This put me at ease and made me feel like he could quite competently look after out little quartet.
Determined to carry on the proceedings, L confessed she’d borrowed Kenny’s house key earlier in the night mid-argument with him and suggested we return to his flat to retrieve the booze we’d left there, pinch a bottle opener then head back to the beach for a very early picnic breakfast of…..alcopops.
Being young, brazen and unashamed we pulled it off. Kenny, desperate to keep dignity intact and not weep at L having found some amatory fun, girded his loins and (I’d like to say while managing a watery smile) verbally abused us but not to the extent of jeopardising the remaining strands of his relationship with L. We marched out waving the bottle opener victoriously, confident our overnight bags would not be on the street when we returned.
Trooping off to the beach, we separated with our respective men.
I was fortunate enough to find some children had dug a sizeable bunker in the sand – it was an at least two foot deep hole that could spaciously accommodate myself, Ben, four bottles of Smirnoff Ice and plenty of drunken lust.
Now, boyfriend, one night stand, or anything else, what I do expect is sex. And my kind of sex is real. Honest to goodness vaginal penetration – a pushing, grinding, pounding, slapping full flesh fest. I didn’t get it. My magical musician hands, now so used to firmly and rhythmically playing an array of instruments (some musical, some fleshy and snake-like) not only slipped off Ben’s pants but also found their way to his cock, kissing him passionately as the sun rose over Yarmouth beach. By then I was so deft in the delivery of hand-jobs that within a minute I felt that familiar, warm, sticky fluid seeping over my hand. I didn’t feel I could wipe it on his clothes and I didn’t want to soil my own, and the more I tried brushing it off the more my hand began to look like it was transforming into some sort of sand sculpture.
You’d think, wouldn’t you, that having performed such a successful operation I might at least have gotten a cuddle, a kiss….or even a cheeky finger or two; something, anything – some reward…..even a bloody ‘thank you’ would’ve been welcome. But other than sand on my hand all I did get was a quiet resentment at his embarrassment for his premature and amateur shot. Suddenly the bunker didn’t feel like such a romantic hidey-hole anymore – it felt full of his inadequacy. Him thinking it, me knowing it. Not that I was a bitch. I couldn’t have been more pleasant or polite. Waved away his excuses, told him it wasn’t unusual, said I was happy, tried to kiss and engage in conversation. But it it seemed though my magic hands had once again performed the amazing trick of turning a guy off instantly. Fortunately I was youthful and unknowing. I assumed my words and his advances of earlier still meant something and held some sort of genuineness.
Despite the exchange of numbers and promises of ‘I’ll text you’, he didn’t. Worse still, throwing my own dignity aside, I attempted to initiate contact with him. Occasionally he’d return a message or two but would steadfastly apply the ‘three day’ rule before deeming me worthy of a response.
C on the other hand proved the knight in shining armour. His words to L had actually been honest and earnest. He had wanted to see her again and also respected as her best mate that to make such a thing happen it would have to be a package deal (L and I didn’t really do ‘alone’ back in those days). So it was he who persuaded Ben to head back to Yarmouth in order to have a weekend with us.
Ben had flung a few crumbs of attention my way in the shape of the odd text, but there was no call and only cold confirmation he would be attending that forthcoming weekend.
It was actually the first time L and I had travelled anywhere out of London for a real-life double date and the fact our dates were friends…..we still held firm to our fantasy of marrying two best mates in order that our own intense relationship would remain unchanged. Thus we let ourselves dream.
When we finally arrived and went to meet them, we realised we were in fact dating the male equivalents of ourselves. Like L, C was well dressed, calm, thoughtful, reserved, intelligent, generous, happy, content in the company and wanting to enjoy the evening. Ben, on the other hand, was a mass of neuroses, already stupidly drunk to build up his confidence, talking loudly, quickly and over exaggerating any and every story he told, wanting to be the focus of attention and not quite knowing how to behave when we lavished it upon him. His words were his costume and my words complimented my little black dress as well (I was funnier than him though – or so I like to think).
Not unexpectedly as the evening progressed we all got drunk. I could almost see Ben’s beer goggles growing thicker and thicker with each new bar entered and each new cocktail served. His body language changed from clinging to C like a child to gradually moving closer and closer to me, till he eventually whispered ‘I was really dreading this weekend, but I’m glad you came. You’re real pretty.’
Despite everything that had happened upon and since our introductory night, I could close my eyes, breathe out and start believing again. Hell by the end of the night we were holding hands stumbling from club to club (and I’d always said holding hands was naff and embarrassing).
When the clubs closed we headed back to the bed and breakfast we were all sharing. The nosy owners had been quite keen to meet us and guess if their pairings had been correct or not. I suspect they got it wrong. Because C was broader and more solid they would’ve assumed he was with the fat girl (me), Ben being slighter and prettier would likely have been matched with L.
I’m not sure how everything was sorted, whether there was any discretion involved or not, but because L and I had the double bed, Ben and I parked ourselves in this room immediately. L was happy to take the twin room allocated to the boys, allowing intimacy but with physical restraints to inhibit any unwanted libidinous compulsions that might potentially arise.
I began a ritual routine. Cuddle on bed, begin kissing, remove shirt, kiss chest, rub hand down crutch, undo zipper or fly buttons, reach in for…
‘Don’t touch it!’
My hand flew out of his pants like his crotch was made of molten lava…..or riddled with warts…or was in fact a vagina.
He was breathing heavily and muttered ‘I don’t want to come too quickly. Tonight it’s my turn to pleasure you.’
I couldn’t argue with that, nor did I want to – in fact I kinda thought he owed it to me. Suddenly I felt the warmth of his averagely satisfying penis enter me. I can’t honestly say there was a lot of pushing, grinding, pounding and slapping, but there was penetration and it wasn’t unwelcome. For me nothing felt better, more life affirming, more sexy than having the weight of someone attractive on me as they slipped in and out of my own warm, wetness. It was perfunctory though. I think that was the best he could manage at the time because clearly he was still racked with guilt over the sand-pit incident and had a set idea of how to make amends which was distracting him from any ‘game’ in bed. He was all too keen to visit my vagina to reciprocate the wonderful gift I’d bestowed upon him on our previous ‘date’ (it was a date in my mind; I appreciate it was a one night thing now).
I let him try. What woman wouldn’t – straight or gay. It feels good….unless you’ve had a particularly nasty prior sexual experience. But my god it seemed to drag. In fact, mid-way through, on all fours, faced buried between my legs, his arse raised proudly wiggling at the door, L and C thoughtfully entered the room to deliver my kebab and chips (not sure Ben had put an order in himself). The sight of the full moon up so close and personal had the two of them fleeing. I could hear their heavy, hurried footsteps and much giggling on the flight of stairs, escaping the room but, I assume, never able to escape the picture of Ben’s bare white bum from their mind’s eye (and no I haven’t offered to pay for therapy – learn to knock guys….or did you?).
In fairness Ben was committed, and, irrespective of the laughable interruption, he soldiered on like a faithful cavalier. But it wasn’t doing it for me. I was still chuckling at L and’ C’s faces and worrying whether my chips would still be warm enough to eat when the deed was finally done. I actually wanted to push his face away and finish myself off one handed. It would be infinitely quicker and I suspected more intense – plus I might still be able to devour that kebab and chips and savour the flavour. But when I thought about how inadequate he felt and how hard he was trying my softened heart knew I had but one option – to fake it.
So I did. I began moaning and tried wriggling orgasmically like I’d seen in my brother’s old porn movie collection. It did the trick. He came up beaming…or maybe it was the gleam of moisture on his face.
‘Did I make you come?’
I nodded enthusiastically. He looked so pleased I knew I’d done the right to thing. His fragile male ego saved, he was cuddling me again and talking about the future and I lay there contentedly thinking ‘finally L and I are going to date best friends, this is going to be my boyfriend’. But I was a romantic and boyfriends became husbands, and husbands were people you slept with forever – for the rest of your life, the ONLY one (good catholic girl that I was). And he hadn’t made me come. Hadn’t even come close. God if he believed he had, then chances were he was never going to be able to because he thought he could and didn’t need instruction. So how could I overcome such an obstacle in future? No, that would never do. If we were going to get married we had to have a good sex life. I had to be honest with him. Honesty in relationships is a good thing, right? It’s what makes them last.
‘Ben, BEN – are you asleep?’
‘You didn’t make me come.’
‘I know you tried and everything but I just want to be honest with you. You didn’t make me come earlier. I didn’t have an orgasm.’
His faced crashed harder than a Qantas Airbus.
I’d said he’d given me an orgasm then taken it back. It’s one of the worst things you can do to a guy. The epitome of bad bedroom language. A golden rule I’d broken in the silence of a quiet summer morning in Yarmouth. Honesty didn’t save that relationship.
I never saw Ben again.