My friends’ boyfriend keeps looking at my breasts.

Granted, they aren’t small bosoms.

But he blatantly checks out my tits in front of her, and it’s really troubling me.

The thing is, I know that men look. All men look. But they do it surreptitiously, not in front of their girlfriend's eyes. His eyeballs however, seem permanently etched onto my chest and he fixates on them whenever he is in the room with me, regardless of my friend being there too.

I can’t understand why he makes his glances so obvious. Faced with,

Me being her close friend;
Her boobs being bigger than mine;
Her and me noticing him looking;

it seems odd that he would take these risks. I’m sure my friend knows, or if she doesn’t, that she would be thoroughly pissed off if she did.

Without trying to blow my own trumpet, I haven’t ruled out the possibility that maybe I represent some fantasy material for them both, and that not only does she know about his ogling, but that she quite enjoys it. That is all possible. But knowing her, not that likely.

Unfortunately it just seems that her boyfriend has a wandering eye: whether or not this brings his trustworthiness or fidelity into question, I cannot answer. I can’t jump to any conclusions here, or talk about it with my friend – I have learned the hard way that these things are better left up to a couple to work out, without the interference of a caring friend.

Ten years ago, I lost my best friend of 14 years due to a similar circumstance. B and I grew up together, spent our childhoods, teens and early twenties as close as sisters. We shared everything together: first period, first cigarette, first boyfriend. She was there for me when a friend of mine committed suicide; I was there for her when her ex-boyfriend was convicted of a violent crime. We were inseparable.

Naturally we talked about sex. We even explored each other once or twice when we were drunk and curious and laughed about it afterwards. Always supportive, we were the crutch for the other to lean on, when love dealt us the pain of heartbreak. We cried a lot together, and we told each other everything.

So when her boyfriend handed me his pager number one night, laid his hand on my knee and breathed into my ear ‘that if I ever wanted a fuck, I should call him’, my first instinct was to call B and tell her what he had said. She was totally besotted with him – I thought she would want to know that he had made a move on me. I was so wrong.

At first she was shocked, and angry and was going to dump him, but that soon changed. She swallowed his lies about me having come on to him instead of the other way round, and dumped me instead. Our last ever conversation was he calling me a ‘lying cunt’ and a ‘fucking bitch’ on the phone whilst she wept in the background.

I haven’t seen her for the last 10 years. (Happy end of friendship anniversary B)

Of course I tried to rectify things with her. I spent months calling her and writing her letters, hoping that she would see some sense and know that it was him that was lying, not me. But she didn’t want to hear, and shut me out of her life totally, whilst continuing to be in a relationship with him. The whole thing tore my heart apart; I felt the loss of her for many years.

I know that what happened says more about her being weak and an unloving, untrusting friend, than it does about me doing the ‘right thing’, but given the chance to go back in time, I wouldn’t tell her about him coming on to me. I would warn him to watch his fucking back, that he’d better not hurt her, or else, but I would let her figure out for herself what a prick he was. That way I wouldn’t have lost my best friend as a result.

So, faced with this hindsight, I know that I cannot tell my friend about her partner's wandering eye. It seems almost futile and far too risky to be worth the bother. It makes me sad, because I’d like to think that I am an honest and trustworthy person, who can tell the people I love, what I think and feel. But given the risk of losing another friend, I think I’ll just stick with wearing baggy tops and letting my shoulders slouch – a hard thing for a Girl like me to do, given that I like to wear things that compliment my figure and good posture.

Still, if I cover up, and my tits are less noticeable, he’ll have less to look at: hopefully he’ll rest his glance elsewhere in the future, right?

I'm one of the 19 new entries on the most linked UK weblogs chart May 2005.

Thanks to Troubled Diva for collating all the Technorati data.

And, to all the people that have linked me, ta very much.

I generally don’t do the blog-baton-passing memes that get passed round the web. I’m a bit cynical and jaded about them really. I suppose I find it a little too saccharine when us bloggers go on about how close we all are in cyberspace, that we’re all linked to each other in one way or another, and we all end up giving each other mutual back-slaps as much as possible.

What ever happened to arch rivalry, bitter competition and bad-mouthing, I ask you?

But, in all seriousness, given the egalitarian nature of blogging, combined with the fact that so many people are participating in this right now, I have decided to break my silence on such matters and join in.

So I have below, outlined the questions recently asked of me, alongside some unique ones of my own. These should be interesting enough for anyone who wants to know the minutae of my life, sexy enough for those looking for stimulation, and hopefully detailed enough to stop me getting any more tags in the future - this post should cover all.

Here goes:

Last 5 songs I listened to:

1. Mr Brightside – The Killers [to give me the extra power I need to sprint whilst running]
2. Crime for Crime – Ani DiFranco [to help me on the uphill run]
3. Kiss – Prince [to make me feel sexy]
4. Never loved a man – Aretha Franklin [to sing out loud to]
5. Let the music move you – Nightwriters [to feel happy at the end of my run]

Last 5 movies I saw:

1. Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy [I enjoyed it: have a slight crush on Martin Freeman]
2. The Assassination of Richard Nixon [Great performance from Sean Penn, but far too long. Worth a dvd rental]
3. Kingdom of Heaven [Utter nonsense and dull as dishwater. Ridley Scott is a self-indulgent twat]
4. A movie I worked on (not yet released) [Dreadful cinematography, some good acting]
5. Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind [Fabulous, wonderful original film]

Last 5 books I read:

1. The Time Travellers Wife – Audrey Niffenegger [Time travel, love, sex and loss? Yes please - I am such a romantic]
2. Charlie Big Potatoes – Phil Robinson [Wonderful funny portrayal of male angst]
3. Dr Mukti and Other tales of Woe – Will Self [He is totally warped. I love it]
4. Brass – Helen Walsh [She represents my cynical, bitter and twisted side. Not necessarily a good thing]
5. The Lovely Bones – Alice Sebold [Brilliant. Read it in one sitting. Wept a lot]

Last 5 cultured events attended:

1. The Lee Miller photographic exhibition at the National Portrait Gallery [She was a Girl with a one-track mind too]
2. A We Are Scientists gig [Fantastic. You heard it here first]
3. A live comedy night with Rob Newman, Mark Thomas and Daniel Kitson [I wet myself laughing]
4. A book reading with Will Self [Something about his nihilism turns me on]
5. A performance of a friend’s play [Bad acting, great dialogue]

Last 5 masturbatory fantasies:

1. In a café with my lover. I put my hand on his thigh and discover he is hard, rub him a little through his jeans. He slides some fingers underneath my skirt, feels how wet I am and rubs me. We hurridly leave and he drags me into an alleyway. He pushes me against the wall, lifts my skirt and enters me.
2. In bed, massaging my lover with oil. I run my hands all over his body. He turns over and I see how hard he is. I rub the oil into my breasts and after sliding him between my tits, lower myself onto his cock, fucking him slowly.
3. In a lap-dancing club with my lover. He pays a beautiful buxom woman to dance for me. She moves against me, pushing her breasts into my face. He watches me, seeing how excited I am. Then he has a dance from her too. I watch her grind herself against him, and I know that he would be hard. Whilst she dangles her breasts in front of him, he looks over at me, and smiles, knowing that I am turned on by his desire. The lapdancer finishes. We leave, and jump in a cab, my hand on his cock for the journey back. When we get home we fuck each other furiously.
4. I am in a hotel bedroom waiting. I have on the requested clothing: cream satin underwired ribbed basque, cream satin thong, flesh coloured stockings, all underneath a fitted white blouse and grey knee-length skirt, topped off with 4-inch cream leather heels. I lie on the bed anxiously anticipating, my underwear already wet. I hear him enter the room. He walks straight up to the bed, and unzips himself, pulling down his trousers to reveal his erection. He gives himself a couple of strokes, before bending down to me, lowering his face into my crotch. He breathes me in and nuzzles me through my panties. I can feel his mouth pressed against me, the heat of his breath through the material. He does nothing except press his face into me. But it’s too much for me, and I begin to move against him. He still does nothing, and I am desperate for more stimulation, craven for him. Gently he tugs my underwear to the side with his tongue and pushes his mouth up against me, sucking me all in. I am going crazy, wanting more – a finger, a tongue, anything. But he just sucks me gently, continuing to drive me into a frenzy. Just when I think I am going to go out of my mind with desire, he suddenly lifts his face off me, and before I know it, has lowered himself onto me, his cock sliding into me in one fluid movement. We both climax together.
5. I am washing up dishes at the sink. He comes up behind me, kisses my neck, then grasps both my breasts gently, caressing my hardening nipples with his fingertips. I feel his erection pressing into my bum and push back against him. I hear him unzip himself and a moment later, can feel the heat and hardness of his cock pressed up against me. He slides one hand in between my thighs and gasps as he feels how wet I am. He pulls me back towards him, lifts my dress up, pulls my thong aside and slides himself into me, gripping my hips hard as he does so.


Right. In the spirit of blogging, I hereby pass on these same questions (minus the last one, if you’re too chicken to post your wank material) onto:

Southern Bird, Alba Gray, The Man Who Fell Asleep, Figleaf, and Just a Girl.

I have in this blog talked about how much I like funny men. I have also mentioned my attraction to musical men. But I haven’t yet delved into what really turns me on about a man: his mind.

For me, the biggest aphrodisiac of all is intelligence. Being in the company of a man whom I find intellectually challenging is simultaneously attractive and intimidating: I love that a man can stimulate my mind and fire up my neurons; I also feel nervous faced with his ability to highlight my own intellectual weaknesses. The result of this paradox is that it excites me. Ergo, I feel horny.

I remember one of my tutors. A few years older than me, he was not a particularly attractive man. He drank and smoked far too much and obviously indulged in unhealthy eating given his large size. And aside from having no sense of fashion, it was clear that he was quite a geek and somewhat of a nerd too – not really your typical testosterone-fuelled Alpha Male type that is supposed to be what women fancy.

Yet I am sure he had pussy falling out of his pockets.

Or at least he would have had my pussy falling out of his pocket had I decided to cross the line between tutor and student.

You see, regardless of how he looked or carried himself, the man had a brain on him, which was just intolerably sexy to me. My mind would go to mush every time he would talk about Postmodernism. One mention of Derrida, and I was captivated. A brief exploration of Lyotard and I was hooked. A quick attack on McLuhan and my heart started beating. And when he began to talk about how pornography was a transgressive movement against conservatism, my pants would get soaked.

It is fair to say that I had a massive crush on his mind.

During his lectures, I would sit there, transfixed on his arguments; his every word making my breath race and my pussy get wet. On more than one occasion, I would have to leave the lecture hall to go to the toilet to relieve myself from the throbbing between my legs. I even sat at the back of the room, so that I could make a quick exit to enable myself to frig. For three years.

And after the lectures, we would have seminars. Otherwise known as getting drunk with the tutors in the cheap student bar. We both got on very well of course, and would spend hours in debate, discussion, or in blazing arguments, whilst seeing who could down the most beers at the same time. Other students would join us, but the connection between us two was on another level. And that level was sex.

He knew about me. That is to say, he read me very well. Not only because I regularly wrote theses about feminism, pornography and sexuality, but through our discussions about sex, and our ability to be very frank with each other, I know that he was as open-minded as me, if not more so: not many students would know that their tutor liked to tie his partners up, and whip, spank and tease them, before fucking them hard. But I knew this - and more - about him. And he knew about me too.

There was some sexual tension between us to say the least. But neither of us explored it. Apart from the issues surrounding tutor/student relationships (ie, not allowed), I didn’t want anything to jeopardise my studies.

Being a fiend for knowledge and a proud student, I absorbed every piece of information I could and always strived to be the best. I would get disappointed if I got less than an A minus in any subject, and would work even harder to ensure that my grades kept up to the A plusses I expected of myself. If I had fucked my tutor it would have meant that I couldn’t trust his grading of my work afterwards: something I couldn’t bear to happen. I wanted to know that I had earned and deserved every mark I got and not worry that he was being biased based on the abilities of my pussy.

So we didn’t shag and I’m thankful, because it meant I knew my final mark was based on my knowledge, hard work, and ability to construct an argument - skills I have tried to maintain in my everyday adult life.

Plus of course, not fucking him left me wanting more: there is nothing nicer than being on the edge of your chair with excitement due to debating with someone whom you find intellectually stimulating.

Even if your pants are soaked.

Having my parents discover my masturbatory material.

Masturbation: everyone, at some point in their lives has done it, will do it, and should do it. The majority of the human race has had a tug, or a frig at least once. Masturbation is a good thing – it’s a pleasurable experience after all. We all enjoy this pleasure, and accept that others do too, even if we keep this knowledge private.

Especially with one’s parents: I found myself many years ago, having to deal with the reality of my parents knowing a little too much about my self-pleasuring. It had a major impact on my life at the time.

Still living at home, I was stuck in one rainy night, the house to myself. What better time to indulge, I thought, as horniness raged through my teenage body: I’m all alone and free to frig all night. Lovely.

So I got the mood set. I took out my vibrator and love-balls and checked the batteries were working. I found a sachet of lube and put it on the radiator to warm up. And I got out my collection of porno magazines and laid them out on my bed, ready, each publication open at the page that would get me off the quickest (thus leaving my hands free to do more important things than turn the damn page).

I seem to recall having a variety of images of women in various states of undress. I didn’t have any hardcore (erect penis and penetration based) porn back then, and found it a little frustrating to have to look at semi-clad women in soft-focus poses pretend to finger themselves – without actually fingering themselves. But it was still stimulating to me, and gave me some good wank fodder regardless. So, with pictures spread out, I got the balls lubed up, slipped them in and turned them on. And then I rubbed the vibrator against me. It wasn’t long before I was climaxing, and whipping the balls out to replace them with the vibrator. I gave myself a few more orgasms, before collapsing exhausted and sated onto the bed.

After climaxing I generally get hungry. Quite ravenous actually. Whilst food is the preference, I have been known to want to devour a cock in my post-orgasmic state. (I obviously have an oral fixation of some sort) and will gladly indulge in a blow job. But with no cock around, my only option was to go and eat something immediately, so I grabbed a towelling robe and headed upstairs.

Now, normally after wanking (at my parents’ house), I would remove all evidence of my activities as soon as I could lift my head from the pillow post orgasm. But this one regretful night, I forgot. I was so sated, and so hungry, that the only thing on my mind was food. The last thing I thought of was my parents walking in to my bedroom and seeing all my ‘materials’ spread out on my bed.

And see them they did.

Unbeknown to me, they had come back early from their night out. And upon entering the house, had decided to see if I was in my bedroom (which was next to the entrance hall). From the kitchen I heard them calling me, and I knew that they would push open my door, which I had left ajar, to say hello.

It suddenly dawned on me what they were about to see. Laid out on my bed were the mechanics of my masturbatory session: a vibrator still wet with lube; a set of love balls, also damp; an open sachet of lube; and 6-7 porno magazines spread out on the pillow, displaying women with their legs apart and their fingers rubbing their genitals.

I ran out of the kitchen, calling my parents, hoping that they hadn’t yet got to my bedroom. But like some terrible nightmare, I just wasn’t quick enough: when I got to the top of the stairs, I saw them both exit my room.

They saw it all.

There was absolutely nothing I could say to them that would explain my way out of the situation. They not only knew that I masturbated, but they knew how I did it, and what got me off too.

To say I felt like vomiting on the spot is an understatement: I thought I would pass out from embarrassment.

We all pretended that nothing had happened. But all of us knew, that they knew. And this was far too much information for my parents to have about me (regardless of how liberated and open-minded they are): I couldn’t get off on those magazines again, knowing my parents had seen them.

So there was only one thing for it.

I moved out.

And when I finally got my own place, it was a tremendous relief to finally be able to masturbate freely without worrying about parental interruption.

Plus, I had a backlog of wanks to catch up on, since the discovery at their home, and would have gone quite mad if I had had to wait much longer to pleasure myself in private.

I’ve never looked back since.

Even though I'm sure my neighbours are fully aware what the variety of vibrating noises are, that emanate from my flat on a regular basis.

Not that type.

But due to a lack of time and a desire to post something tonight, I have resorted to working my archives.

That way, new readers can enjoy some older posts, and older readers can get reaquainted with my words of wisdom.

And I get to go to bed early.

Win/win/win.

So here's an excerpt from back in November, about my thoughts on penis size:


The pros and cons of differences in cock size

LARGE COCK PROS
a) It fills me up and I feel like I am getting 'fucked'
b) It pushes against my cervix and stimulates my womb
c) It pulls on my labia and thus indirectly stimulates my clit
d) It looks beautiful when hard underneath jeans
e) In fact it looks beautiful full stop
f) I feel like a girl when I hold it, or put it in my mouth
g) It can reach any position, any angle, any depth

LARGE COCK CONS
a) Being filled up can hurt and prevent me getting fucked hard
b) Pushing against my cervix constantly can be painful and annoying
c) It can rub my labia too intensely making me sore
d) It doesn't rub my g-spot
e) I can't get it all in my mouth
f) It can be more labourious to give a hand job
g) Not all positions can be comfortable
h) Forget about anal: no chance that is gonna fit in there mate

SMALL COCK PROS
a) I can get fucked as hard as I like and want
b) It can rub against my g-spot
c) The length of it can rub against my labia and tickle my clit
d) I can get it all in my mouth without choking
e) Easier to give a hand job - if it fits into one fist
f) Holding it makes me feel powerful and sexy
g) It feels wonderful inside my arse

SMALL COCK CONS
a) It doesn't fill me up, sometimes it's hard to feel it
b) It doesn't push against my cervix
c) It doesn't always show through jeans when hard
d) I can't always feel it pressed up against me with clothes on
e) Using fingers (not whole hand) can be frustrating when stroking it
f) Spooning can be difficult
g) As can face-to-face penetration
h) As can fucking whilst standing up

But I really don't give a fuck either way. Cock is cock is cock. Big, small, wide, narrow: they are all the same. If I had to choose, I would say I would like to be with a man who is happy with who he is and what he looks like and isn't afraid to explore his desire or mine than with a guy who was endowed one way or the other.


Talk amongst yourselves why don't you.

Not that sort, sadly.

Due to a backlog of things to sort out, a proper update is temporarily delayed.

So a favour to ask in the meantime:

My hit counter (at bottom of page) is about to reach 500,000. It would be fabulous if each reader could scroll down and check this, and see if you've hit the magic number. If so, could you please make a screen-grab of it, and email it to me? Many thanks.

I'm not trying to show off here, it's just a little ego-boost for me: a way for you to ensure I get stroked. And if you're looking for a little stroke of your own, I understand this post may point you in that general direction.

Thanks all.

It doesn’t take much to get me going.

Seeing a handsome man sitting with his legs splayed apart on the tube.

Observing the breast jiggle of a buxom woman as she runs for the bus.

Or watching my neighbour get a blow job as he was preparing dinner.

The latter was from the comfort of my own kitchen, which allows a perfect view of the flat directly opposite.

Not that I was sitting there in the dark with binoculars or anything.

No, my neighbours have no blinds (bless them), so their activities are on display to all who care to watch.

Which is where I found myself, some time ago, transfixed by the sight of my neighbour getting his cock sucked by his partner.

I happened to be idly looking out my window, enviously eyeing up the copious foliage growing in my neighbours’ flat. Obviously green-fingered, I was thinking to myself, as I looked at the trundling boughs of ivy and ferns that hung all over their kitchen. I spotted my neighbour (‘Tall’) amongst the greenery, his back turned, preparing some kind of meal and I debated whether next time I saw him at the newsagents I should ask him growing advice, since I can kill a plant at a glance (but good with animals and children, ironically).

Then I spotted his partner (‘Skinny’) walk in. He looked like he was tip-toeing quietly to surprise him; I could see him creeping slowly into the room. I felt like I was privy to some dramatic moment – I couldn’t wait to see how it turned out.

Skinny crept slowly forwards. Tall continued chopping veg. And then, when Skinny was only a foot away, he reached around Tall and kissed his neck. I could see Tall laughing and he pushed his body up against Skinny who held him tight.

It seemed like a nice warm embrace. I felt like I was intruding a little on their intimacy and was about to stop looking, when I suddenly saw Tall turn around and face Skinny, and in a split second, Skinny was on his knees, had unzipped Tall’s cock and was sucking it furiously.

I was mesmerized.

I couldn’t move; I was rooted to the spot.

All I could do was watch.

Skinny sucking Tall deeply. Tall grinding his hips in towards Skinny. Skinny’s hands on Tall’s arse, pulling him in closer to his mouth.

Tall suddenly looked up for a moment and, as if by chance, he spotted me watching him having his cock sucked.

He smiled at me.

And then closed his eyes and thrust his cock more forcefully into his lover’s mouth.

God it was so erotic. Not only to see some form of real (non-porno) sex – unfolding before my eyes – but also to observe a couple who were relaxed and free enough, to drop everything and just have sex there and then. I almost cheered Skinny when I realised that his way of saying hello to his lover, was to surprise him with a blow job whilst he made dinner – my kind of man indeed.

This got me thinking about the mundanity of having sex in the bedroom. That the familiarity and repetitiveness of our lives can manifest itself in the way we have sex with our partners. Who honestly does not get bored from the same old, sleep, work, return home, eat dinner, go to bed, shag routine? Sure, having sex in other rooms, or at other times of the day helps to spice things up, but essentially, what seems to be missing from the sexual experiences of those in long-term relationships is spontaneity.

And this was how that spur-of the moment blow job by my gay neighbours made me realise, that it’s not so much about when you do it that matters, as what you are doing when you do it: by surprising his partner with a blow job whilst he was making dinner, Skinny ensured that as well as the sex, the chore at hand – chopping vegetables – was made more interesting and exciting. The next time Tall chopped veg I bet he got a hard-on as a result, remembering that night.

Some examples of how I would like to incorporate this into my own life immediately spring to mind:

My partner ironing some shirts. I walk up behind him, kiss his neck, caress his nipples and slide a hand down the front of his jeans, gripping his cock.

Me washing up. My partner comes up behind me, squeezes my breast, lifts my dress, bends me over the sink and slides his cock into me.

My partner dusting the ceiling. Whilst he reaches up, I pull down his zipper and slide his cock into my mouth.

All these scenarios have this in common: they incorporate sex spontaneously but regularly into a domestic routine. The outcome: spicing up sex lives and the mundanity of the chores that we have to do as well.

The only drawback I can see, is that those chores might take slightly longer than normal to complete, given the brief interruption of shagging. But with orgasms in the short term and a healthy sex life as an outcome in the long term, the temporary delay in household chores being finalised seems worth it to me.

Certainly since it takes a lot to get a Girl like me to be domestic in any way. But if some wet soapy tits and a cock thrusting inside me whilst I am bent over a sink, were offered by way of an incentive, I may just end up doing some washing up after all.

I have to confess something.

I have a fetish.

No, it’s not rubber.

Well, yes, obviously there is that too, but not only that.

I have a thing for men in suits.

That’s right, suits: buttoned up shirts, stylish ties, smart trousers with matching fitted jackets. Anything that makes a man look like he’s going to work – serious work.

I’m not sure when, or even why I find this look attractive, but it’s been something that I have found more appealing as I have got older. I do find odd, something that looks so conservative, can also be so sexy to me. Especially since it represents the things I dislike about the establishment: capitalism, moneymen and politics, their suits a common uniform for all.

But then it’s not so much what the suit looks like, as what lies beneath - the male body - that is so appealing. Maybe it’s the contrast between the two: the sharpness, rigidity and conformity of the suit, juxtaposed with the hidden roughness of the body hair, muscular curves and hardness of the cock. Or perhaps it’s just that it seems so tantalising to see a man fully suited and booted with his erection pressing up against his smart pressed trousers: his carnal desire contrasting with his restrained appearance.

Seeing men walking along in suits, their bodies restricted by the cut of the material, makes me think of how these clothes are like a mild form of bondage: the shirt buttons tight across their chests, the tie choking them, the trousers squeezing their genitals. Not to mention, uncomfortable shoes too. It’s like the male equivalent of a woman in a short rubber dress and platform heels: everything’s squeezed in tight and it is hard to move, but damn does it look good.

When I see a man dressed in a suit, it makes me want to rip his jacket off, pull him roughly towards me with his tie in one hand, whilst undoing his zipper and freeing his cock with the other. To have him - and his suit - at my beck and call, a reversal of the power that this uniform seems to epitomize to me, is tantalisingly sexy.

A man in a suit also seems to carry an air of authority. I don’t mean in the traditional ‘this man is obviously brainy and important’ way. Rather, in the ‘throw me down on the bed, tie me up and spank me’ kind of way. Being smartly dressed not only allows a man to be elegant and appear important but it also gives him a mask to hide behind and perform in. Like the sharply dressed gorgeously sexy James Spader in Secretary, a man in a suit can appear to be a restrained, polite, decent man; but given the opportunity, he will pull his cock out of his smart trousers, bend his girlfriend over the desk, and then fuck her hard from behind. Elegant and rampant together, wonderful.

And it is this thought in mind that I find myself preoccupied with, when men in suits walk past me on the streets: are they a normal everyday guy, who likes football and beer, or behind their clothes, are they the rampant thrusting craven man who wants to rip off his suit and give his wife a good seeing to?

Sadly most men I know don’t wear suits (but jeans and shirts can be sexy too). And of those I know that do, they are more the type of guys who have to take each item off and fold it neatly, before entering into any nookie: a passion-killer if there ever was one.

So for now, it’ll remain just a fantasy that a lover will turn up at my house wearing a sharp new suit, unzip himself, and tell me to ‘suck it’, before bending me over and fucking me hard from behind whilst slapping my arse.

A damn good fantasy though.

Now, where was it that all those City Boys hang out again?

Being caught having sex in the kitchen by my parents.

Sometimes I long for the teenage times of working all day, drinking all night, and fucking all weekend. (It would be nice to have that now, come to think of it).

Back then my boyfriend would stay over most weekends. We barely made it out of my bedroom: we would venture out only occasionally for food, drink and a quick shower. The rest of the time we spent sleeping, talking, and of course shagging. Though there was a lack of privacy, given that I was still living at my parents’ place, we still managed to get through boxes of condoms with some consistency such was the voracity of our love-making.

During one brief break, I remember staggering downstairs with him one evening. My parents had gone out and we had the house to ourselves. Dressed only in towelling robes, we began to snack on some food to fuel our appetites: peanut butter on toast for him, Marmite sandwich for me. Being English meant we had to have a nice cuppa too, and I brewed up the kettle to make a big pot of tea.

Whilst it was boiling, my boyfriend sat down on a chair and called me over to him. I turned around, and he was grinning at me. I smiled back at him, a little confused, but followed the direction of his gaze. It led of course, to his crotch. I looked closer, and through the towelling, I could see a bulge. He looked back up at me, smiling even more and with one small motion, undid his robe and grasped his hard cock in his hand.

I stood there for a moment, pondering his erection.

And decided to walk towards him, opening my robe as I did.

I slid myself on top of his thighs so that his cock was pressed up against me, and pushed my breasts into his face, the way I knew he loved. Sucking furiously on my nipples, he grabbed my arse hard, and ground himself against me, until he could feel I was wet enough to take him. He lifted me by my hips, swivelled and adjusted my position, and then pulled me down onto his cock roughly. I remember crying out and trying to wrap my legs around his waist so that I could grind my clit against him harder. He moved in me deeply. I felt him pulse and knew that both of us were near, and as we were about to come, I heard,

“Oh sorry Girl! We didn’t know you were…um…in here. Er…”,

and I turned my head to see both my parents backing out of the kitchen, blushing furiously.

We were both stunned. Too in shock, to speak. Our bodies said it all: moments before at the point of orgasm, now, numbness, softness and all sexiness out the window. There’s nothing like the anti-aphrodisiac of one’s parents walking in, to kill the moment.

With shame on our heads, we shuffled off back to my bedroom, and kept ourselves hidden from view for many hours. I was too embarrassed to face my parents properly for some days. And even though my parents are open-minded, progressive people, I felt uncomfortable with what had happened. It wasn’t just that they knew their daughter was having sex (in their house) that was making me cringe: it was that they had seen their daughter in the act (and pre-orgasmic) that was so embarrassing.

This incident was never discussed or spoken about, but I knew that they knew. And that’s a little bit too much information for any parent to have embedded on their brain in my opinion.

Still, it didn’t put my boyfriend and I off: we were back shagging again some hours later, albeit with less gusto and noise. He had a great appetite that boy.

But he hated Marmite, so it would never have worked.

The Girl’s Important and Helpful Rule for Men with Wives: Do not check out other women whilst you are with your partner.

If there is one thing that pisses me off, it is when married men/men with partners look at me/my body/other women whilst they are with their spouses.

I have zero tolerance of such behaviour and have been known to scowl as spitefully as I can at the perpetrators, especially if they make eye-contact with me, or, god forbid, smile at me.

This may seem contradictory for a woman like me; one might think that a Girl with a one-track mind would welcome advances from any (cute) men, whether they be taken or not.

Wrong.

My ego is not stroked nor my confidence boosted from being checked out by a man who is walking hand in hand with his partner. But my cynicism of the male gender being untrustworthy and selfish, is reinforced and reconfirmed, leaving me with even less hope of meeting a ‘good’ man.

However, I do not believe that once you meet a long-term partner you then lose all desire and attraction for other people. In fact I think if anything the opposite is true: the grass certainly appears greener when sex is involved. So, naturally men and women will find other people who aren’t their spouses, attractive, and they will look at them.

Fine. No problems there. I always look at attractive men, (and women), whether I am in a relationship or not and expect others to do likewise. But when I am out and about with my partner, I only have eyes for him. He is my man, my partner in life, the one I share my sexuality with. He is the one who makes me feel secure when he wraps his arm around me; whose arse I want to slap cheekily as we walk down the street; the one whose kiss will fuel me to survive the horror of Saturday shopping; the one whose eyes will fill me with fire and make me want him there and then, and rush to get home so I can feel him against me. With my man, why would I want to look at another?

So I find it insulting that married men check me out when they are with their wives. When they look at me, and check out my body and smile at me - secretly - it’s like they are indulging in their own secret fantasy, a momentary ego-stroke for them, or future wank-fodder for later. And my inability to challenge their behaviour makes me complicit in their sneakiness; just by being the woman they are looking at, makes me an accomplice in their fantasy. This private indulgence is offensive to both me and to their partners.

But it’s not the looking that I object to. It’s the looking without their partners knowing that I dislike. To me, this is an act of betrayal, and where trust, loyalty and honesty are the prerequisites to a good relationship, this duplicity lies very uneasily with me. Not that I am comparing a man secretly looking at another woman whilst he is with his wife, with secretly having sex with another woman: there are obviously huge differences here. But hiding a fantasy - the attraction to another woman - is like keeping a secret from his partner and it is this restriction of truth that seems so disloyal to me.

There is of course one exception to this situation, and that is where the man looks at another woman in front of his wife and then tells her his fantasy (and perhaps even incorporates her into it too). I have, a couple of times been checked out by a guy, where he has then leaned in towards his partner, and nudged or whispered to her, and she has turned to look at me too. They both ended up smiling at me, and I was left wondering whether they later used me as a stimulus for their shag, or even, what might have happened had I been confident enough to smile and flirt back. In this situation, the man was honest with his partner, and it made them closer because of it. The ideal scenario I think.

My last partner was unable to do this; he kept these fantasies secret, but I was aware of them: I always knew when he looked at other women when he was with me. I remember being with him at a social event, and he couldn’t keep his eyes off another woman with big breasts. He was staring and staring at her chest and I could see the horniness in his eyes. And it turned me on, seeing him turned on. All I wanted was for him to then look at me, wink and smile, and I knew that I would be part of his fantasy, that he was letting me in on his hardening cock, his desire to fuck this other woman, that we could talk about it later when we had sex, and both get off on the situation. But he didn’t look at me. He didn’t notice the fire burning in my eyes. He didn’t know that my watching him watching her, made me want him. He excluded me and continued ogling her, taking her in, as if to get every image of her embedded in his mind so that he could utilise it another time. This exclusion made me feel rejected, unwanted and undesirable and I became jealous (something I do not feel frequently) of his attraction to her.

When we got home, he pressed me against the wall and I felt his hard cock against me. And although my body responded as it always does (fast breath, erect nipples, wet pussy), I felt troubled. When he lifted my top up and cupped my breast with his hand, I wondered if it was her he was imagining. When he slowly sucked on my nipple, I wondered if he was thinking of her breast in his mouth. When he eagerly slid his cock inside me, I felt like it was her he wanted to fuck, not me.

All these insecurities and reactions I had - rational or not - would not have happened if he had have included me in his fantasy. If he had glanced over at me, and smiled, or come up to me in the party and said, “She’s got great tits, I’d love to suck on them, and watch her suck on you, it would get me so hot”, I would have responded totally differently. The fantasy would have been about us getting off on it, rather than just him. The knowledge that he excluded me from this - denied my joining him in the fantasy - and kept his sexual thoughts to himself, made me feel like I couldn’t really trust him and it created distance between us.

Given my cynicism about all this, I still long and hope to meet a man who will be able to trust me and be open about his desires and fantasies, and let me be open about mine. A man who’ll know that by being honest with me, means he can be free to express himself, and not be fearful that I would judge him or want to possess him. I want a man who will squeeze my hand on the street and whisper in my ear about how the gorgeous woman walking towards us is making him get hard, whilst knowing that it will make me want him even more.

Because a man who could do all this, is also the man who knows that he would have freer, more passionate, and wilder sex, than if he just smiled at women in the street when he was with his wife, and secretly masturbated about them without her knowing. A man that knows all this is a rare breed indeed: he's a real man.

I'm still looking.

The current lack of sexual activity in my life is having a knock-on effect.

Apart from the obvious (frigging three times a day, perpetually horny), I am also feeling the results of this tragic gap in another past-time I thoroughly enjoy: running.

It seems there is a correlation between shagging and energy levels: the more sex I have, the more energetic I feel. Endurance and stamina are just two of the happy side effects to getting laid. As well as all the other good reasons to shag of course.

I'm not getting laid = I have no stamina anymore.

Terrible, I know.

You see, I'm currently in training for a 10 km (6.2 miles) race that's coming up in a couple of months. All very well and good, but I can't get past the 47 minute (4 mile) barrier. My body just conks out. I run till I can run no longer. It's not good enough. I feel like a failure.

Apart from wanting to be able to complete the race (and in good time), raise money for charity, and feel more energised, I also want to improve my own fitness. I won't be happy until I have lost two inches everywhere on my body (but hopefully not from the bust goddamnit), dropped a few pounds and toned my thighs and calves even more than they currently are. I am a vain fucker, it's true.

But I also want to be able to run for an hour without feeling tired (I am a competitive bastard as well) and my current 47 minute ability seems pathetic to me.

So, I am faced with few options: I begin to eat some more carbs again (No! Bloating is bad!) or I find a way to have some regular sex.

Either one will give me the fuel I need to enable me to long-distance run.

But I know which one I would prefer to indulge in, and it doesn't sound like porridge will be first on my list.

When it comes to masturbation, I am a bit of a lazy wanker. I often become bored by the time-consuming sensual/loving/relationship fantasy, and tend to think about whatever will make me climax the fastest, when I want to just have a quick frig.

I have found that, contrary to my rational, non-horny mind, the things that get me off quicker than any other fantasy, are often the things I find the most repulsive. I can rub one out in under a minute if the subject matter is grotesque enough for me.

What I am talking about here, are people that I would never ever shag in real life, people that physically and mentally turn me off and make me feel sick to my stomach. But ironically, these same people, by their very grossness, are appealing to me when I am desperately horny and in need of a quick fiddle:

1) Old men
2) Obese men
3) Slimy lecherous men
4) Fat fuck-witted Sun-reading “Oi, Darling” builders
5) Men who come too quick/selfish lovers
6) Ugly men
7) Right-wing men
8) Policemen
9) Politicians
10) A group of men standing over me doing Bukkake

I find all of these repugnant in every way, but when horniness strikes, and time constraints require a quick release, a brief moment perusing these thoughts will bring me off almost immediately.

I used to wonder about these fantasies, and spent some time trying to dissect them, to disseminate meaning from them, as if by understanding them, it would help me have some insight into myself.

Not any more. Now I just think, ‘whatever turns me on, turns me on’; I have accepted that sometimes I may think about my current partner; or I may think about a previous partner; or someone I would like to be my partner; perhaps I think about my friends and colleagues; and maybe that handsome man I saw earlier that day; occasionally I even think about the writers of some of the blogs I read; and sometimes, when I am in a hurry and feeling more carnal, more hungry than I can cope with, I rub one out whilst thinking about the things I find the most repulsive.

None of this has any meaning whatsoever in my opinion. The only thing in common, that all the above have, is the contribution to my obtaining an orgasm. Nothing more, nothing less. The things that turn me on and I find disgusting are just the flip-side of the coin where the opposite exists also: attraction is the synonym of repulsion. The two go hand in hand. What repels, also attracts.

By embracing this - by acknowledging that this contradiction exists in me, no matter how repelled by the idea I might be – I believe I am in a better position to know and understand my sexuality and desire. And having this insight will surely assist in my seeking of pleasure and obtaining the fulfilment of my desires.

Or in other words, I’ve got a few good wanks lined up in the future.

In the toilet at the cinema tonight, I suddenly had a faint memory of a particular cubicle feeling familiar, and when I closed the door behind me, I realised that I had shagged there some years ago.

It got me thinking: what public places have I had sexual encounters in?

Well, that was that one obviously; I recalled the narrowness of the space and my having to bend over the cistern as he fucked me from behind. He could barely thrust in and out, the cubicle was so small. But we managed. And I got a mild spanking too, which was nice.

Then there was the Leicester Square bar toilets. God we were drunk. On White Russians I recall. He followed me into the ladies loo and I attempted to push him down on the seat, so that I could straddle him and sit on his cock. He had other ideas though, and grabbing me by my hair, held me up, lifted my leg, slid it around his waist and fucked me hard against the wall. I lost my favourite watch in that cubicle, and was quite annoyed.

The train station was a great shag. It was winter and I had a long coat on. He stood with his back to the wall and unzipped himself. I lifted my skirt up and he entered me, the coat covering our exposed parts. We both came in under two minutes, which was reassuring due to the amount of commuters, and also convenient since it was bloody freezing and far too cold to fuck outdoors.

The lesbian bar was an interesting experience. A friend and I were drunkenly fooling around in the toilets. I recall we went into the men's, so that we wouldn't be disturbed (women only bar). I think we got as far as sliding fingers inside each other before the bouncer (big mean, strapping woman) hammered on the door demanding we come out. I could smell my friend on my fingers the whole journey home.

Another lesbian encounter was ironically, in a straight bar's toilets. I was with my recently ex-boyfriend, she was gorgeous, and had chatted me up and practically dragged me off into the loos. We then proceeded to snog, fumble, grope and rub, until her friends pulled her off onto the dancefloor. I never saw her again.

Then there was the elevator in a bank in the city. There were 19 floors, so I only had time to suck him off. It was only afterwards that we both realised that there were cctv cameras on us the entire time.

And then there was the shag at work, many years ago. My boyfriend had come to pick me up, but I still had some work to finish off. He sat in my chair and pulled me onto his lap, so that I could use his legs as a seat. Of course his erection was pressed against my bum, and I could hardly help but slide myself around on it, whilst talking on the phone. Since my bosses were also in the office, it got to the point where I could stand it no longer, and I dragged my boyfriend off to the loo. I pulled down his jeans, pushed him onto the seat, sat on his cock and came hard. It was great, but a little frustrating: we both had to stifle our groans and sighs, since the toilet was directly beneath my boss's desk.

Finally the quick drunken rub in a taxi cab. My hand on his cock, three of his fingers inside me. As I climaxed, I had an immediate reflex action of squeezing my legs together tightly. I almost broke his knuckles. He yelped loudly, proclaiming I had crushed his fingers, and proceeded to spend the rest of the journey nursing his hand and moaning. I felt bad, but managed to convince him that if it had been his cock instead, then he would have experienced my vice-like-pussy-grip, something which was immensely pleasurable and that in a short while, he would be experiencing. He stopped complaining after that.

Watching the lesbian sex scenes in Mulholland Drive whilst sitting next to my parents.

A few years ago, I had some preview tickets for David Lynch’s awesome dream-like film Mulholland Drive, and decided to take my parents, since they, like me were huge Lynch fans.

I expected some nudity – Lynch films regularly feature the naked female form (he has often been accused of sexism and misogyny in his work, due to the titillation factor involved) – so I was prepared to experience some element of embarrassment whilst viewing. It’s not that I am uncomfortable with nudity in general, but nothing prepared me for just how explicit aspects of this film were and if I had known, I would never have invited my parents to watch it with me.

It is fair to say I had, in the first hour or so of watching the film, developed a little crush on Laura Harring (Rita). She was beautiful: a sultry brunette with a seductive voice and she oozed femininity. Plus she had the most fantastic body: curvaceous, womanly, and with wonderful glorious breasts that I found mesmerizing. If there was any woman on earth that I wanted to shag, it was she, (sorry Angelina and Eliza).

Suffice to say I had felt a warm throb between my legs for some time.

So when Rita enters the bedroom wearing only a towel and Betty (Naomi Watts) suggests that she join her in the bed too, I was quite excited: some nice nudity me thinks.

I wasn’t wrong: Rita immediately disposes of the towel, revealing her gorgeous naked voluptuous torso, silhouetted in the half-light and then slides into bed with Betty.

I’m sitting there thinking – no, hoping – that they will get it on.

And they do.

It was fucking hot: two women exploring each other hungrily, passionately. Shot so sensually and sexily, it was difficult for me not to attempt to rub one out there and then. I recalled shifting and squirming in my seat, such was the heat between my legs.

That’s when I remembered.

I was sitting next to my parents. They were watching the sex scene too.

I am horny as hell, wanting a fiddle and my parents are next to me.

And that’s when it struck me. The one thing you do not want to think about when you think about your parents.

That is, that they might be horny too.

Now I don’t think I’m jumping to conclusions here. I know I was, like the majority of the audience in the cinema that night, having to shift in my seat as a result of the erotic content. It’s not such a huge leap to imagine (yuck) that my parents might find it a turn-on too.

But obviously not something that I want to spend any time exploring: having that thought in my head ended my underwear-mini-Niagara sharpish. I stared straight ahead, watched the sex scene and tried to ignore any movement from either side of me.

I thought I was doing ok too; the movie continued in it’s dream like non-linear narrative and I became immersed in the way Lynch pulled me into the story and then played tricks with my expectations. I relaxed a little again, and enjoyed the movie once more.

That was until the masturbation scene.

Honestly Lynch, give us a disclaimer next time love, so that I might be prepared for the embarrassment of having to watch a woman frig herself into oblivion on screen in front of my parents. It felt like a kind of nightmarish after-school detention:

“And now Girl, you shall have to watch hard-core penetrative porn with your parents picking out the title”.

Yuck.

But as cringing and uncomfortable as I was, I felt compelled to watch this scene. I thought Lynch shot it beautifully and realistically – almost worth watching just to see how well female masturbation can be filmed (unlike 90% of porn which I find totally unrealistic).

Diane (Naomi Watts again) is trying to pleasure herself after being dumped by Camilla (Laura Harring again). We see and hear her as she gets near to her climax; her vision keeps becoming blurred, her face in a tight grimace because of her frustration of not being able to orgasm. She rubs harder and harder and eventually is rewarded with her release: a literal analogy of her accepting the break-up; after she comes, her vision is clear again. Beautiful.

I’m watching it thinking,

‘Yeah, I can relate to that. So fucking frustrating when it can take that long to come, and horrible when it’s a result of being so emotionally distraught’,

and I turn around half-expecting the audience to be nodding their heads in appreciation too, and then I remember, once more, that I am surrounded by my parents.

Who have just been watching a young woman masturbating on-screen.

I think I physically shuddered, such was my discomfort. At the very least I attempted to disappear into the seat, hoping that it would swallow me up and take my embarrassment with it.

But I stayed to the end, and was rewarded with grateful thanks from my parents, saying that,

“It was the best movie exploring the unconscious mind (they) had ever seen” and that “Lynch has a wonderful imagination”.

Thank fuck for that.

Long-term Cringe Avoidance Strategy not needed.

My parents were unharmed and my reputation was maintained, even though they never brought up the movie ever again.

And there were some bonuses that came from seeing this film: I took my boyfriend to watch it soon after, and told him to squeeze my hand any, and every time he felt like he was getting an erection from what was on screen.

He squeezed it almost continuously for 90 minutes.

As soon as the movie finished, I pushed him into a cab and then fucked his brains out as soon as we got home.

A happy ending if there ever was one.

Wear a No Alternative t-shirt.

And a denim mini-skirt.

And black hold-up stockings.

And leather ankle boots with a 4 inch heel.

Be aware that random strangers will stop you in the street/park/pub and ask you questions about the election.

Make sure that you have your arguments ready about the benefits of a hung Parliament or a small Labour majority.

Be ready to challenge the myth about the Tories getting in.

Ask how the other person is going to vote.

Be enthused about protesting, explain the concept clearly.

Ignore them looking at your tits/legs/arse.

Even if they're cute.

See that you are winning them over to your side.

Have confidence that your argument has maybe inspired one more person to vote.

Carry on walking down the street/jogging in the park/drinking beers at the pub and know that you have done your little bit for democracy.

Stay up to 5am watching the results come in.

Debate the live televised coverage with some like-minded people.

Go to bed and have a celebratory fiddle.

The time has come to make a choice.

It has been long overdue.

I am anxious for change.

Having some last minute thoughts.

The line needs to be drawn underneath it all.

Nothing is perfect.

For once, I plan on doing something else with my hands other than pleasuring myself: some things are more important than my sex drive.

Have no fear though, I plan on returning to normality shortly afterwards.

“I thought you would have called me by now.”

“Sorry. I wanted to.” But didn’t want to give you the wrong idea.

“You wanted to?”

“Yeah. But I felt kinda weird after being so drunk”. I delayed calling you because I was worried that you might be too into it.

“So, you regret that night then?”

“No, no not at all. It was great.” What I could remember anyway.

“That stuff you said in your blog though, it sounded like you regretted doing anal with me...”

“Not at all. It was great. But I do regret drinking so much and feeling like I was out of control.” I scared myself doing anal with you: it was something sacred and special that I shared with SP. Doing it with you made me miss him.

“So you really don’t remember much?”

“Not really. But I do remember enjoying myself. A lot.” I wish I could recall what your cock looked and felt like; what a tragic waste being too drunk to remember.

“I had fun too. But I remember everything.”

“Really? Would you mind answering me some questions then?” Oh god, this is going to sound so offensive.

“Go ahead.”

“Um. Right. When we sat at the kitchen table and the others were across the room, you had your cock in your hand, yeah?” I remember how much that turned me on: your telling me to "Suck it".

“Yup”

“Did I suck it?” If I did I am such a slut.

“You most certainly did.”

“Wow.” I am such a slut.

“You leaned over the table, and gave me some fucking great head actually. Your tongue piercing felt amazing”.

“Yeah, I’ve heard that it adds to it.” Jesus, my friend was ten feet away and I was sucking a cock at her table. How uncivilised of me. I wonder what it tasted like.

“It was lovely.”

“Did we have sex for long?” I remember throwing up, passing out and having three orgasms, but not your cock inside me.

“A couple of hours I guess. You really don’t remember, do you?”

“Sadly no. Um, look I have to ask you: did you come?” I remember our using condoms; I don’t recall you pumping yourself into me.

“Ha ha, yes, twice. You were fucking hot I can tell you. You really fucking turned me on.”

“Thanks. I’m glad to hear you had fun too.” Thank fuck for that, I was feeling very guilty that I was the only one pleasured that night.

“Fun? Girl, let me tell you, doing anal with you was fucking amazing, I had a lot of fun.”

“It was great for me too.” It scared me how much I begged you to do it.

“Actually Girl, I feel honoured that I was your second. Especially after now knowing what you wrote about it being so special for you.”

“Thanks.” My head has been in a mess trying to figure out how I could do something like that with someone I have no feelings for.

“You were my first actually.”

“Your first? I thought you said you’d done it before? You certainly seemed experienced in it.” There’s no way my arse could have been fucked like that by an anal virgin.

“Not in anal.”

“What then?” Oh dear, I think I know.

“You were my first since the break-up.”

“Oh. I didn’t know. I’m sorry.” Liar.

“Yeah, it was a big deal for me actually.”

“Really? I didn’t know that.” Liar liar pants on fire.

“My head was all messed up after that night, I suppose it is fair to say.”

“I bet. It must have been hard for you.” Oh fuck. I didn’t want to be the rebound one. Fuck.

“And I thought we had got on really well. So I was confused when I didn’t hear from you.”

“We did get on well; we had lots of fun. I didn’t contact you straight away because I am in a weird place right now and I am not sure what I want.” I didn’t call you because when we woke up, you smiled at me, and pulled me close, and stroked my hair. And when you looked in my eyes, I saw a longing that terrified me. You were so affectionate and caring and loving and it all felt wrong after knowing you for less than 24 hours. I don’t want to be the replacement for her; I can’t be. I had to make sure you weren’t going to get attached to me, so I let the time pass until I felt it was safe to call.

“Me too. I am all mixed up. Not sure what I am doing right now.”

“So listen, it doesn’t need to be a bad thing. We had fun, right? We get on well. We don’t need to be a head-fuck for each other; we can have a laugh instead.” If you weren’t freshly out of a long-term relationship, heart-broken, with a child in tow, I would consider you as Boyfriend Material. But for my own emotional safety I am making sure you stay as a fun one-night stand. Though I would love to revisit fucking you whilst sober.

“Yeah. Perhaps we could meet up next week, or something?”

“Ok, let’s speak then.” If only you could be a fuck buddy, then it would be fine. Whilst you’re pining for her, fucking me is only going to cut you up.

“You gonna write about this on your blog?”

“Probably. But perhaps not.” Of course I will. I am bad like that.

“Are you sure you don’t want to send me the address?!”

“Keep dreaming honey, it ain’t never gonna happen.” God I hope he doesn’t do a Google search on the text I sent him. Fuck!

“Fair enough.”

“Normally no-one I write about gets to read what I have said. I like to keep things separate like that; that way I can express myself freely.” And if I insult them, there’ll be no comeback.

“Well thank you for sending me what you wrote about that night then. It made me hot reading it: my cock is getting hard right now thinking about it.”

“Excellent.” Mmm, a delicious thought.

“And I feel honoured you let me fuck you up the arse; it was truly magnificent.”

“Ta luv. It was pretty damn great for me too.” Though my arse cheeks were sore for two days afterwards.

I am a masochist.

Not just in the push me down on the bed roughly, rip off my clothes passionately, bend me over quickly, spank my arse sharply, tie my hands together tightly, spread my legs widely, fuck me from behind forcefully, kind of way.

Well of course like that, but not only in that way.

I am a masochist because I allow myself to become entwined in situations that will inevitably result in my getting hurt - emotionally.

I contacted SP today. It’s been 6 months since we last had sex together, almost 5 months since I last spoke with him. He’s been on my mind a lot recently; all I could think about when wandering around the Southbank, was feeling him inside me once more.

I felt compelled to see him, to lose myself physically and mentally by having sex with him. So I texted him:

“I want to taste you again. Lick and suck you deeply. I am wet thinking about your lovely cock in my mouth. Feel like something sweet to eat? I can be at yours in 2 hours...”

Of course he replied immediately. (What man ignores a booty call when it involves his cock being sucked?)

SP told me that he had already made plans, but that we should get together soon. I responded that I would think of him when I played with myself later. He said to “have a good one” for him, and that he would be in contact soon to make alternate plans.

I don’t expect to hear from him again.

He may have addressed me by the nickname he used to call me (“Sexy”), he may have flirted sexually in the texts, he may have even stroked himself tonight whilst thinking of me, but I doubt very much that he will contact me.

For his own reasons, SP is not able to be in a relationship with me, be friends with me, or even be fuck buddies with me. At this moment I don’t know whether I am happy or sad about that. But what I do know, is that attempting to have him in my life one way or another, will inevitably lead to my being hurt.

Texting him today was, in my view, weak. It showed me I am still vulnerable. I may want to shag the living daylights out of him (or, more correctly, have him fuck me as hard as I can take it), but I am conscious of what doing so might involve: eventual head-fuck and probable heart-ache for me; turning to the bottle for him.

As my friend K put it to me this evening, “SP is just bad news, why go there again?” and I cannot answer that right now. I know exactly what I would be getting into if we were to have sex once more, and yet I wasn’t able to stop myself from contacting him again, after all this time.

For a normally rational woman - and somewhat neurotic, but who’s perfect - consciously behaving in such a way as to end up leading to my being in pain, doesn’t quite fit in with my regular balanced perspective. Therefore I must be a glutton for punishment – there is no other explanation.

In bed I have come to understand this somewhat – I am beginning to accept I prefer to be submissive, (ironically I learned this through being with SP) and this is fine with me, I rather enjoy it. But outside the bedroom, this behaviour doesn’t make sense to me: I am an open-minded, progressive thinking, intelligent woman – what the hell am I doing walking into a situation (with my eyes open), where I know I am gonna get shafted, (in every sense of the word)?

I feel very uncomfortable that currently my masochism seems to be manifesting itself in a non-sexual context; I don’t want to be doing things or getting myself into situations that will leave me feeling shit or filled with self-hatred. I am aware that my contacting SP suggests that this is the path I might be going down.

But I hope this is just a blip, a temporary moment of blurred decision, out-weighed by my usual clarity. And perhaps if I stay focussed on the overall picture – being happy, having fun, moving forwards – SP will become a signifier of my past, not an indictment of my future self.

Even if he still makes nightly appearances in my masturbatory sessions.

There's a handsome man lying down in my front garden.

He is fully dressed.

And drunk.

I did for a moment debate whether to convince him it would be in his best interest to snog me, seeing as he's such a good looking chap and obviously in need of a good woman to look after him. Then I considered taking advantage of his situation and removing some of his clothing to get a peek at his goods. And then I wondered whether I should call an ambulance for him instead - he is very inebriated.

I decided I should help him manoeuvre himself into the recovery position instead, that way at least I know he'll be safe, should he fall unconscious.

Plus of course I lessen the risk of having him puke up in my home: by far the best option I think.

And if he's still there in the morning, perhaps I'll invite him in for a coffee...