Big Blogger has them coming thick and fast. And he and Little Blogger keep giving us more tasks.

I've been pressed for time recently, so have had to do a rush job with my latest post over there.

I'll update here shortly, with a sordid tale no doubt.

In the meantime, a huge hello to the gorgeous tanned blonde man who turned his head four times (I checked) to grin at me today. If we hadn't both been jogging (in opposite directions) and I wasn't in such a hurry, I feel sure we would have hit it off. Rest assured I have taken note of your jogging schedule and will endeavour to bump into you again. Not that I am a stalker or anything, but you seem worth getting to know, and it has nothing to do with your sexy, sculpted, toned, muscular legs. Nope, nothing.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have some private matters to attend to, and some muscles of my own to flex.

It's that time again: Big Blogger set another task, and I finally managed to find some time to add my attempt too.

Nominations are also occurring on the Big Blogger site. Do visit, have a read of the other blogmates' entries, and add your nomination via the sidebar.

Remember, only vote for someone if you want them OUT of the Big Blogger house, not if you wish them to stay in.

Enjoy.

Dear God,

I know we don’t have a close relationship; that would have something to do with the fact that I am atheist and I don’t believe in you. But putting that fact aside for a moment, I’d like to have a little chat.

You see, I have a bone to pick with you. It’s not about the tsunami that devastated so many lives six months ago. Nor is it about how millions of people are afflicted by HIV and AIDS as a result of following the Vatican’s mindless preaching. It is not even about how huge parts of this planet are dying due to needless waste and selfishness on the part of its participants. No, it is about a much more important issue: the problem of my being a sex fiend.

Whilst I do not hold you directly responsible for the issues that arise as a result of my condition, it is, I think, fair to say, that some of these things are not necessarily of my own doing, and that I have no control over them. Since it appears that you ‘move in mysterious ways’, I can only assume that you have some connection with my own uncontrolled cycle of events.

An example:

It is well known (amongst my friends, and long-time readers of this blog) that I am not a fan of the police force. This might be because I once spent 11 hours in casualty after getting my head cracked open by a particularly sadistic copper after presenting myself as a ‘threat’ when I sat down in the middle of a street on a peaceful march. Plus, I have handed out flowers to riot police as a peace offering, and still been hit by their truncheons and riot shields: put a riot uniform on any copper and you get someone hungry for power and prone to violent outbursts. Added to which, most (yes, most) policemen tend not to be the most progressive ‘new’ men - racism, sexism, conservatism are all endemic within the force - I don’t believe in the ‘It’s only one bad apple in the barrel’ view: in my opinion, they’re all representative of a pretty bad bunch in society.

So, dear God, it came as rather a surprise to me last week, when I found myself lusting after a copper, and, in all honesty I am rather annoyed by it all and want a full explanation from the responsible parties (you, that is).

There I was, minding my own business, buying a paper in the local shop, looking forward to returning to the hectic day ahead involving sunbathing, coffee and reading about current events. I didn’t expect to get involved in a violent dispute between my neighbours. And I certainly didn’t expect to be checking out a policeman’s arse and wondering what he would look like naked.

It began innocuously enough: a group of police arrived, separated the brawling parties, and began to take statements from everyone. My interviewer just happened to be a rather handsome thirty-ish well-built man, with sparkling blue eyes and dirty-blonde hair. (Not that I was paying attention to his looks or anything, just an observation – I am perceptive about such things). He asked me lots of mundane questions, and apologised for the dullness of them, trying to crack some jokes to liven them up. I found myself answering him sarcastically, and he laughed as I took the piss out of his not being able to write them down fast enough.

Whilst we chatted about the sequence of events, and joked about my dumb neighbours, I suddenly realised I was twirling my hair in my hand and stroking the back of my neck, laughing out loud at his jokes. God, I was flirting with him.

And when he walked over to his colleagues to check some details, I noticed that I was scoping out the wonderful curvature of his delightful bottom. Whilst he conferred with them, I realised how erect my nipples were as well; their bullet-likeness protruded clearly through the flimsy t-shirt I had quickly thrown on over my bikini top. Shit, I was turned on too.

He came back over to me, and we continued chatting, whilst I attempted to will my nipples into a state of relaxed submission. (I don’t think it worked, since his eyes darted over them more than a few times). I then noticed his chest: the hair poking out the top of his shirt filled me with a desire to undo the buttons and run my fingers through the mass that lay within, discovering his own protruding nipples beneath the material, and caress them gently with my fingertips and tongue. I tried not to think about what he would look like without his uniform on, but it was to no avail: as he stood there and flirted with me, I was imagining him naked before me, his cock as hard as the truncheon on his belt.

Dammit. He was a copper. A fascist in uniform. A power-hungry Servant Of The State. Why was I attracted to him? Why was I wondering what it would be like to kiss him? Why was I imagining ripping off his trousers and sliding my hands around his cock?

Something was wrong – very wrong in my world.

All I could think God, was that, in your mysterious way of doing things, this must be part of some larger Plan I am unaware of. That you have a Reason for this to happen: that your Will manifested itself into this insane attraction. It certainly can’t be explained any other way: I may be a sex fiend, but I can categorically state that dating or shagging a member of an organisation that has physically wounded me is never going to happen. Ever.

Even if he is devilishly handsome, with a cute smile and a fantastic arse.

So, with this in mind, I would like an explanation. Some kind of sign to give me an insight into these events. You don’t need to do anything flash like a thunderbolt or storm, but sending me a winning million-pound lottery ticket, or a three-book publishing offer, or even a new gorgeous boyfriend would certainly help me understand things a little better and put all the disturbing recent events into context and regain my rational perspective on the world.

Waiting to hear from you, on my knees as always,

Girl xx

We stood on Holloway road kissing.

I love kissing. It’s got to be one of the most underrated aspects of sex. But it’s probably my most favourite. A good kiss will get me going, no problem. A good kiss is like making love with your mouth. A good kiss takes me away to that place where the only thing I can hear is the synchronised breaths emitted from our mouths as we part our lips, and the only thing I can feel is the throbbing between my legs as he presses against me.

He was a great kisser.

No, strike that: a fantastic kisser. His kisses sent shivers down my spine, tingling into my fingertips and throbbing between my legs. His kisses made my whole body feel electric. His kisses made me forget who I was and what I was doing.

So, we’re standing on Holloway road, kissing like two drunken teenagers on a night out; snogging away, oblivious to the people milling around us trying to get the last tube home. The warm summery air is making us both frisky: our hands explored each other eagerly as our mouths moved in synch. We stood there and kissed, and the world revolved around us. Magical.

I was it is fair to say, very turned on. And from the feel of him pressed up hard against my thigh, he was too. The heat between us was intense, the passion fired up. So when he asked me, if he could ‘feel’ me, I didn’t question what he meant: it felt only natural to go with the flow (so to speak).

Even when he slid his hand underneath my jeans and pushed two fingers inside me.

As we stood on Holloway road.

With people walking all around us.

I don’t know if it was because

a) He turned me on so incredibly much

b) I am such a sex fiend that doing something so risqué in public excited me

c) He seems like such a well-brought-up boy, that doing something like this appears out of character and that this daringness appealed to me

But whichever it was, within 60 seconds of his fingers sliding around inside me, I was having a massive orgasm.

As we stood on Holloway road.

With people walking all around us.

I did of course, try to control and hide my climatic convulsions and shuddering, (which wasn’t easy); when the shaking subsided - as if a hypnotic trance had ended - I suddenly became aware of my surroundings and what had just happened: I got very shy and embarrassed and made him remove his hand, as I tried to compose myself.

I have to say that I have never, in all my sex-fiendishness, done anything like this. And if he had given me longer to think about it, I would not have let him to do it. But after being seduced by his glorious kisses, and with time seeming to stand still all around us, I didn’t have time to think: before I knew it he was fingering me in full view of anyone walking past us.

How he had the guts to do that, I have no idea. How I had the guts to let him do that, I have no idea. Maybe he thought I was the sort of girl who would be up for such naughtiness and took his chances. He lucked out I guess: no matter how dirty or sordid I might think I am, I now know there’s always going to be someone else with a far dirtier mind than mine.

Even if he looks like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.

Well I didn't get evicted this week (thank you), although I was leading the ladies in the nominations, so I expect to be out very shortly (unless you all vote for the other people when the nominations come around *cough*).

Anyhow, the fourth Big Blogger task has been set.

My entry (short and sweet) is here.

Do check out the other blogmates' entries too.

Enjoy.

The wonderfully supportive response from an ex-boyfriend upon sending him a picture of me in shorts, vest and running shoes:

“Girl, I gotta tell ya, you looked FIT!!!”

“Shut up you.”

“Serious! I knew that you were training, but I didn’t realise you would look so good!”

“Honestly, be quiet. You’re talking out your arse.”

“I’m telling ya - that picture - boy, you was HOT!”

“Look, you saw me last month, I haven’t changed that much.”

“Yeah, but your thighs and arse weren’t on display then. You’re trim man! Looking good Girl!”

“Well, thanks. But if you really think that from seeing that photo, you’re mad.”

“You must have men queuing up outside your door!”

“Um, no. None at all actually.”

“What??? Come on! There must be a few – looking like that, they should be begging to get at you!”

“No, sadly, they’re not.”

“Not even one?”

“Can we change the subject please?”

“Honestly Girl, all the blokes you know must be fucking stupid or something. What the fuck is their problem? A beauty like you shouldn’t be single.”

“Thanks, I repeat the same thing to myself every day in the mirror. I wouldn’t be able to leave the house without doing so. Now can we change the subject please? Got laid recently?”

“Fucking fools, the lot of ‘em. I think you’re fucking gorgeous, you know that right?”

“Yes, and I love you for it, thank you. But if I ever get rich and famous, I expect you’ll sell our sordid sex tales to the highest tabloid bidder without hesitation wouldn’t you?”

“Of course. You know me.”

“Well, as long as you give me 50% of whatever deal you cut, and make sure I come out looking good, I’m fine with it.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell them about you squirting all over my bed. Your wet secret is safe with me.”

“You mug. That wasn’t me. That was the girlfriend you had after me.”

“Oh. Shit. Well, anyway, wanna meet for a beer next week?”

“As long as you don’t stare at my arse my dear, it’d be a pleasure.”

When I woke up, I was wet.

Not that this was anything unusual for me, since I always wake up horny, but this situation was different. Firstly, because it was only five am, and not the time to be wide awake with the raging horn, and secondly because, not even three hours ago, I had been given the most intense orgasms by the sexy man still lying next to me in my bed.

I looked over at him in the dawn half-light. He seemed to be sleeping, his gentle breathing rhythmically lifting his diaphragm up and down. I watched him for a moment, and pondered what to do.

I considered going to sleep. I was after all, very tired; the session a few hours previously, had drained me a little.

But I was still horny.

I couldn’t understand it: it wasn’t as if the sex we had hadn’t pleasured me – it had – the powerful orgasms he had given me had more than satisfied me, I was deliciously content.

But I was still horny.

I lay there and felt annoyed with myself. Why couldn’t I just be a normal woman? Why did my body have to plague me with this perpetual horniness? Why was I such a sex fiend?

I watched his sleeping face for a moment, and got a flashback of his expression whilst he was in the throes of passion the previous night. I closed my eyes recalling the pleasure that was linked with it as I did so, trying to rest my brain with that image, the beautiful post-coital moment of bliss.

But I was still horny.

I knew that sleep would evade me until I had relieved the pressure between my legs, so I decided to have a quick fiddle.

I slid my hand between my legs and stroked. Jesus I was wet. I couldn’t recall the last time I was that wet; even my thighs were slick with my juices. I rubbed myself as I thought about all the sexy things we had done the night before. I watched his face as I pressed my hand against me, wondering what he might think if he knew I was playing with myself thinking about him.

Suddenly he jumped out of bed. He was awake.

In shock, I turned over, and saw him standing by the end of my bed. For a moment, I thought he was putting on his clothes and was leaving.

My heart sank. Not because it was the first time in my life that a man had left in the morning, but because I was shocked that he would scarper so early. Didn’t he like the sex? Was I too demanding? Or, was it because he knew I had been playing with myself, and was put off by my high sex drive?

He had cramp. He rubbed his leg and then jumped straight back into bed and laid his arm across me.

I am such a neurotic twat.

We lay there for a moment and snuggled. I debated trying to go back to sleep.

But I was still horny.

With his arm touching me, and him being awake next to me, turning me on even more, I knew that there was no hope left: I had to achieve some release.

I slid my hand down between my legs again and told him I was playing with myself.

He lifted the covers, saw what I was doing and moved closer to me, resting his hand on my arse and draping his leg over mine. I couldn’t bear it: I was so close. I needed him. My own hand wouldn’t do it.

So I told him how wet I was.

He slid his hand between my legs and discovered I wasn’t lying. I was dripping wet. And when he pushed his fingers inside me, I felt myself gush onto his hand.

As he deftly worked his fingers in and out of me, I felt him rub himself against my thigh - his cock pushing into my arse cheek - and it turned me on so much: I knew I wouldn’t last long. Within a couple of minutes I was having a mind-numbingly-intense orgasm and as I felt him spurt against my thigh, my body convulsed so much I felt like I was going blind.

We lay there afterwards, both grinning, the post-climatic pleasure still pounding through our veins. And then, the nicest thing of all: he fell asleep. I had felt guilty about all our previous night’s activities preventing him sleep, given he had to be up for work in a few hours. And I was aware that he hadn’t slept well during the night either. So when he started snoring softly after the explosive five am quickie, I felt relieved and happy: at least something good (aside from shagging), can come out of my being such a sex fiend.

Even if I had to sleep in both our wet patches.

The third Big Blogger task has been set.

My entry is here.

Go check out the other blogmates' entries too.

When I wrote the last post, I had no idea that so many people would write in and comment; that people who have never spoken out on my blog, finally did so, alongside the regular speakers.

I didn't put the post up expecting solidarity from my readers, and I have been truly overwhelmed by the positivity from you all: I never knew that everyone would show me such support.

For once, I really am speechless, because I am so touched by all your kind words. So allow me to say thank you; for whatever it's worth in this anonymous blogging world, you have all made this Girl's day a happy one.

Except I am still in a bad mood, though regarding an entirely unrelated matter:

I have broken my vibrator.

Again.

It's funny being a blogger sometimes.

While I was running today, I was thinking of the post I was going to write tonight. It would have been a humorous post about female seduction.

I laughed as I ran the final mile, planning how I might offer tips on flirtation with body language, and the use of a smile during a blow job. I grinned as I thought about how the the rule of threes always applies on a first date: breasts, arse, or legs, but never more than one at a time. I got excited when I considered just how important that first body contact is - that gentle touch on the arm can be the beginnings of the intimacy that follows later.

And then I got home, and discovered abuse in my inbox and comment box.

I don't care to repeat anything that has been said to me, but it is fair to say, it was highly unappreciated.

I always used to wonder why Belle didn't have comments enabled on her blog. I assumed that it was because her readership was in the thousands and that her blog would be overwhelmed by comments. But now I realise, it was because of how much abuse she must have got.

I have generally been lucky. Many of the visitors to this site have been loyal readers for a long time. They read, they comment, they debate. And they do it with respect. But sadly not all people connect with my blog in this way. A few seem to become very aggressive reading it. And it is these people who have attacked me, both on my comments and via my email.

Now I understand the need for debate - hell, I support it enthusiastically and value constructive criticism - but what I don't appreciate are hateful or derogatory comments: whatever happened to the saying,

'If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all'?

I have, as expected, deleted all offensive remarks, but I have to say I am very tempted to turn off my comments on this blog permanently.

It would be a shame to let a few people spoil the good that has come out of having them there so far, but then, it's always the one arsehole at the party that ruins the night for the rest of us.


*This post may be deleted, when I stop being in a shitty mood*

Voting has now commenced over at Big Blogger.

Choose the housemate you want to evict this week. (Hopefully not me *cough cough*)

May the best blogger win.

Dear Man on the Street,

We need to talk. There are some things you should know. I hope this letter will shed some light on such matters.

When I walk down the street, it does not, as you may presume, give me pleasure to be shouted at, just because you have spotted my breasts and approve of them.

Contrary to what you may think, it does not make me happy, when your eyeballs are transfixed onto my tits. Staring, ogling, drooling: none of these make me appreciate the male race. In fact the opposite is true: when faced with a man unable to tear his eyes away from my chest area, I am more inclined to think ‘arsehole’ than ‘knight in shining armour’.

I know this may come as a shock to you. I assume you think that when you shout at me,

‘Nice tits!’

that I must love the attention, but you are wrong. Very wrong.

Let me explain:

I am not complimented when you make a remark like that to me.
I do not find it a turn on when you stare at me.
I do not go home and rub myself into oblivion, thinking how sexy your words made me feel.
And your behaviour does not tempt me to drop my pants in front of you, and say,

‘Oh please, I love it when you say that, fuck me now!’

In fact the only time anyone has a right to remark on my breasts is when a lover, in bed with me, tells me how much he likes them, and asks me to rub them against his cock. Then and only then, do I like them being talked about, stared at, and fondled. Any other time is just not on. Especially if you are a stranger looking at me in the street.

This goes for being at work too. You may think just because you are a colleague, that this automatically gives you privileged access to leer freely at me. Not at all. I will challenge you on your breast staring and ask you to stop immediately. (Being generous, I’ll often then give you 30 seconds to stare solely at my breasts, before disallowing you to ever look again. You should value that half-minute: it’s all you’re going to get).

You might think that I have no right to say these things, considering my own preoccupation with sex, and my admittance at looking at men’s crotches and arses, but I beg to differ: I occasionally look, and when I do, I observe subtly, and hopefully never get caught doing it. I wouldn’t dream of staring blatantly at a man’s package or making a verbal remark to him – intimidating or offending him would be derogatory, and I would hate to make him feel objectified.

But on the contrary, it seems very acceptable for you to do this to me: it’s like men have a free-for-all when it comes to their views – you can say what you like, when you like. And when you speak your mind, more often than not, it is offensive to me. Your behaviour makes me think that very few men have actually seen breasts in real life, let alone, felt them. Why else would you behave the way you do, when faced with mine? Surely you know better than to be so rude? And how do you expect me to respond, really?

So, I hope that this will clear up any misunderstanding when you heard,

‘Arsehole’,

‘Wanker’, and

‘Tosser’,

shouted back at you today: it wasn’t personal love, promise.

Yours truly,

Girl

I am fed up.

I'm practically at my wits end.

I feel like it's all out of my control.

My sports bra doesn't support me and I need some help.

That's right. There I am, pounding away on the streets, trying to train hard, but my breasts just keep jiggling all the time.

Now, this may seem like fun to some people - a little tit wobble hurt no-one right?

Wrong. It does hurt. Plus I don't really want to be facing my later years with stretched, droopy mammaries just because I am busy training in my thirties: it seems like a high price to pay for keeping fit/running in a race.

The worst of it though, is the attention I get whilst running on the streets of London. Every fucking bloke cops a look at my chest. And what do they say, as I run past them?

'Can't get many of those to the pound!'
'Nice tits luv!'
'Whoooar!'
'Want me to give them a squeeze?!'
and to his mate, 'Blimey, look at them!'

This was just during my run today, and I could hear them say all this even with We Are Scientists blaring out of my ipod headphones.

It's enough to make a girl want to hide herself away, or just go jogging in her local park, like a coward. Seriously. I know I have talked about men looking at my breasts before, and granted my tits are not small, but there is a time and a place for scoping a look at them: in a bar or pub I can understand, on the street whilst I am running is not a good time. It just makes me feel self-conscious and annoyed.

I have tried to get good sports bras. I even invested in a Berlei bra and discovered Anna Kournikova was lying when she said 'Only the ball should bounce' in their ad campaign. I was wobbling all over the place in that bra. But then I should have known that before I bought one, since her tits are far smaller than mine and those bras are obviously marketed at similar sized women.

I have even resorted to wearing tight tops on top of the bras to add support, but this doesn't seem to help either, it adds to the uncomfortability factor and makes the extra weight I have to carry more painful.

So, what should I do? Are there any female readers with DD+ breasts who do high-impact training and can recommend a decent bra? Should I be worrying about droopage? If I find a bra that clamps my breasts to my chest so that they remain static, will men still shout at me as I run past them?

This, and the answers to life, the universe and everything will be summed up in my comments box shortly. (I hope).

The Big Blogger second task has been set to the 15 blogmates.

Here is my entry.

Go check out the other blogmates entries too.

Sometimes I wish I were a man.

Not so that I could know what it is like to fuck loads of women (well maybe one or two), but so that I would know what it was like to fuck myself.

Narcissistic I know, but this desire of mine stems out of genuine curiosity about myself rather than arrogant self-love; I have no idea what I am like when in an erotic state and wish I could see and feel it from the male perspective.

Why should I want to know what it is like to have sex with me? Surely I should just enjoy the sex I have, or if I am that interested in the other viewpoint, ask the bloke, right? No. I mean, I enjoy sex. A lot. I love it in fact, that is not up for debate. When I am in the midst of passion with someone, I am not psychoanalysing or obsessing about what experience I am having: it’s all very simple – he makes me come, I make him come. Hopefully we can come together. Shared pleasure, combined release, electric intimacy. We can fuck with a passion, or we can make love with intensity - it’s all the same: two people sharing something wonderfully pleasurable, expressing themselves through physical intimacy.

But occasionally after the event, I find myself wondering: am I any good in the sack? When I let my kiss linger on his lips, does it excite him as much as it does me? When I run my hands across his chest and caress his nipples gently with my fingers, does it send shivers down his spine, like it does mine? When I am sitting astride his cock, does he feel electricity surging through him, almost pushing him to the edge, as I do?

I wonder if men know just how much pleasure they give me; if they are able to feel just how intensely turned on they make me, and if they know how much I enjoy myself. And I wonder if their pleasure matches my own heightened state of ecstasy, or whether I am just an average shag.

I really don’t know. Even when lovers tell me they loved a blow job or the way my pussy gripped them, or how I kissed them, I still feel moments of doubt: did they really enjoy it? Being the neurotic that I am, I regularly worry that they didn’t get as much pleasure as me, that my lustful endorphins cloud my views of the event: that whilst I was having convulsions, they were wondering how much more there was to come.

But if I could know what it was like to see myself in an erotic state; know what it felt like to be inside me; know what it was like to feel me climax - then I would know just how much my lover felt - and enjoyed - whilst shagging me. If I could, just for one night, have his perspective, then I would be able to:

Observe the sway of my breasts as I sit astride him.
Feel the heat of my pussy wrapped around his cock.
See how deep he can thrust into me.
Watch my face as the waves of pleasure consume me.

But I cannot ever know these things. I am truly jealous. I am stuck with seeing my pleasure reflected in my lover’s eyes, a mirror-image that doesn’t represent the truth: what he is able to see and feel and how much he enjoys it. It saddens me that I will never know this, that I will be forever dependent on estimating his pleasure through my own.

Still, it’s not all bad: I get to watch him come, feel his cock inside me, and have multiple orgasms, so it’s not like I was hard done by, being born a woman.

What is currently occupying my time?

Funny music

Sexy thoughts

Thoughtful words

All brilliant.

A few of us are participating in a competition over at Big Blogger 2005.

Twice a week we have to pass the tasks set to us, or via a public poll, be evicted from the Big Blogger house.

My first post is now up over there.

Go have a read, and check out the other blogmates too.

After it all, I now feel nothing.

After a year has passed since I met him.

After six months of being with him.

After six more months of not seeing him, I no longer care.

I contacted SP a while ago. I didn’t post about it then, because I was embarrassed that I was back in touch with him after all I had said and with how things turned out between us.

A party came up – a type of swingers thing. I’ve never been to one, and was eager to go. I decided to email SP and invite him. I made it clear, what it was I wanted:

“I can't think of a better way to end a fun evening than to be lying handcuffed on the bed and have you sliding your cock into my mouth, before you fuck me hard. I am wet now just thinking about it. We had some great sex together: it would be nice to spend a night fucking each other again”

I explained why I was inviting him:

“I would like to go with someone who I know I'll have fun with, who I enjoy having sex with, and whom I can trust, not because I want anything more than that from you. Accompanying me to this event would involve having a laugh and enjoying having no-strings-attached sex with me all night long. Nothing more: there is no catch.”

I meant what I said.

I felt I was past the point where he could hurt me emotionally, or where I would feel uncomfortable having intimacy with him. I was ready for whatever happened, whether he said yes or no.

But I didn’t expect this:

“I know it’s not very clever of me but I spend my weekends with P these days and don't want to jeopardise what I have there.”

P is the 19 year old that he was fucking whilst he was seeing me. Hearing that he was now spending his weekends with her made me think one thing:

Cunt.

That’s it. Just Cunt.

The people that know me know that I hate that word. That I use it rarely, and only when I see that someone truly deserves the definition.

SP does.

You see, back when we were seeing each other, it truly messed with my head that he was fucking a teenager. I went through the typical self loathing and doubt that women being cheated on go through:

Is she prettier than me?
Is her body sexier than mine?
Is her pussy tighter than mine?
Is she better in bed?

And,

What does she have that I don’t?

Stupid, I know. But I couldn’t help myself from questioning why he wanted to be with her – surely I was enough for him?

And then I realised, it was far less to do with me, and much more about him: here was a 38 year old man – an alcoholic – incapable of being having a meaningful relationship with a woman of his own age. A man so shallow and so lacking in self-esteem, that he had to have sex with a woman half his age to feel better about himself.

I’m not denying that it may be a buzz for any older man to get a teenage girl into bed (and that most men would leap at the chance if it fell into their lap), but knowing SP and how shit he actually felt about himself, I know it was more about his feelings of worthlessness than about his sexual prowess and his abilities to pull a young woman.

And I got over the self-loathing I had at the time. I realised I was beautiful, I was sexy, I was good in bed – and I had a tight pussy (15 years of doing Kegel exercises certainly pay off when it comes to the ability to clench a cock well). And being a woman closer to his age, I could offer him intellectual stimulation, emotional understanding, and loving acceptance. A teenager lacks the worldly experience to be able to offer anything like that.

So rather than feeling angry with SP for cheating, and being so emotionally immature, I felt sorry for him instead. I knew he had problems, I was aware of the issues, and I tried to accept his baggage and work at a relationship.

It didn’t work out.

I documented all of it here over the last year, boring myself in the process: it most certainly was time to move on.

So even though I sent SP the invite to have sex with me, I was half expecting him to turn me down because he couldn’t cope with seeing me again – my emotional maturity may have been too threatening for him. I was even ready to hear that he was seeing someone else; in fact, I was actually hoping that he was. I had hoped that he was pulling his life together: drinking less, being healthier, meeting a good woman and falling in love again. That would have made me happy for him. I wanted the best for him.

But hearing that he is not only seeing P, but spending his weekends with her made me feel angry: he didn’t even give up his weekends for me.

And his stating:

“I have never been very good at lying so I cannot look her in the eye and come meet you for the night.”

is like a slap in the face: he lied constantly to me about shagging her, seeing her the same day as spending time with me. Plus, though I thought it possible at the time, you can rule out the likelihood of him being in something more meaningful with her, than he was with me:

“I am fully aware that the age difference alone means it will never be a relationship but it is certainly a lot of fun for an old codger like me.”

So, I don’t even feel sorry for him anymore: I think he is pathetic. And disgusting. And totally shallow. And I am glad I am not with him. And I am glad that I haven't had sex with him again.

Receiving his email suddenly put it all in perspective: I have absolutely no desire to be with someone like him. He is no longer attractive to me, emotionally, mentally, or sexually.

And just like that, he was out of my mind. The thought of masturbating whilst thinking about him again makes me feel quite ill. I don’t find him appealing at all. I don’t have feelings for him. And I don’t care about him as a mate anymore.

Or to put it simply: I just don’t give a shit.

This is a shame: I like to stay friends with my exes – some of my good male mates are people I have been intimate with - I love them to bits. But I have no desire to ever see or speak with SP again – I wouldn’t be mates with a man like him, why should the fact we fucked each other change that?

So, like a spring clean where you get rid of old books and cds that you never read or listen to, I have cleared out my head of all SP material. I no longer want to recall the first time I did anal with him, or when he gave me 20+ orgasms. Thinking about these events don’t make me feel sexy anymore: I have moved on from that. I want to forget this part of my life.

And I have. I feel - free. And happy. I have learned from this experience and grown as a person. All good.

But it would still be great if I could just delete these memories like in Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, and sell the data removed from my brain. It'd be a much neater way to close this particular chapter in my life.

Plus, given the wealth of sordid material in there, I’d make a fortune I bet.

A girl can have too much of a good thing.

Not sex obviously, I can never have too much of that.

Nor of my other addiction - underwear - which at least gets the chance to make an appearance in my life on a daily basis.

No, I am talking about condoms.

Whilst cleaning my flat today, I came to a conclusion: I have too many condoms. It’s like I have been invaded by a pharmacy - they are everywhere.

The variety I have managed to collect astounds me. Alongside the Durex staple mates Extra Safe and Fetherlite (thin) that I have bought, I also have their more interesting Sensation (studded) and Pleasuremax (studded and ribbed) brands.

There are also boxes of Trojans: Ultra Pleasure (thin), Her Pleasure (ribbed), and Shared Pleasure (warming lubricant) that have been given to me free via some safe-sex marketers [what about His Pleasure?]

Then there are the freebie NHS condoms: the Condomi Nature, and Pasante Naturelle, Trim, Regular, Large and Extra Strong.

And as for flavoured, how about Blueberry, Strawberry, Orange, Lemon, Mint, Chocolate and Vanilla?

Every type, every size, every flavour. Too many.

It’s not like,

a) I have any need for condoms since my life is currently sexless
b) I am Belle De Jour and can get condoms as a tax break
c) I am planning any orgies where I’ll need such a huge variety of prophylactics

No. Most of these condoms will stay tucked up in my flat, never to see the light of day, or fulfill their short lived latex destinies of being inserted deep inside a very wet me.

Now, I am a progressive woman who believes that safe sex is a 50/50 split between both partners. I always have condoms at home, and like to give my partner the choice of type, seeing as it’ll be him wearing it. But this can be difficult: on the one hand, I want him to know I am a modern woman who comes prepared for any eventuality; on the other hand, his seeing 100 odd condoms spread all over my drawer might lead him to think me quite odd at best, a sex maniac at worst.

Plus this could make for very difficult dialogue at the heat of the moment:

“So, do you like ribbed? Or maybe silicone lubricated? Or perhaps flavoured?”

“Anything is fine, just hurry up”

“You’re not XL are you, it’s just that I’ve run out of those…”

Even with all this variety, when the 'condom moment' is there, in my experience it’s far less about ‘what type is it?’ and much more about ‘just roll it on honey, I want to fuck you now’.

Not that I am against enjoying condoms as part of foreplay (application by mouth is certainly fun), but having to interrupt the moment to ask your partner what variety he’d like to use, kind of kills the mood I think. And 99% of the time, one size really does fit all, so I guess it doesn’t matter what you use - as long as you use something.

With all this in mind - and my currently doing a clearout in my flat - I am wondering what to do with all these excess condoms. I cannot bear to throw them away - unused - it seems such a waste. But they’re hardly going to be fully utilised, given my current status. I wonder if my local charity shop would accept a condom donation?

So, when next faced with the prospect of some rampant sex in my flat, I think I might just ask the guy if he has any condoms with him instead. That way, I get to find out what he likes, and can make sure I am well stocked up on that brand for next time.

Though obviously, one box will be just fine.

When getting involved with a guy, I feel he should understand that there will be three of us in the relationship.

I don’t mean that I will have another boyfriend, or that he will have another girlfriend. Nor do I refer to our having a threesome with another woman/man (though obviously, I would not rule that out at some point, if he were (hopefully) into that sort of thing).

No, what I mean is that alongside my relationship with him, I will also be having a relationship with his cock.

I am not referring to this one body part of him because I fetishise it in some way: for me, my attraction to a man is more about his personality, intelligence and attitude, than the way his schlong looks in a pair of Calvin Klein kegs. But, it is this part of him, alongside getting to know his feelings, affection and love, that over time I become most intimate with.

There is something almost secretive – like a private dialogue – about becoming close to a man’s penis: he might not be talking with me, but when my mouth is wrapped around him, his cock certainly is.

An example:

I wake up early. My partner is still asleep, snoring for Great Britain.

But I am horny. I debate having a quick fiddle, and decide against it: I have other, more enjoyable ideas.

I move down the bed and lift up the duvet, moving close so my face is level with his crotch.

His cock lies there, spent from all the previous night’s activity. “Ugh, I’m tired”, it says to me.

I shift my face onto his thigh. “Yes, you must be exhausted”, I say quietly. I lay my hand across the shaft. “ Perhaps you should stretch out a little?”

His cock doesn’t move. “I’m too sleepy”.

I move closer so my breath grazes him. “You’re probably over-tired. I can make you feel better”. I press down gently and run my thumb across the length of him.

He pulses. “I’m aching a little…”

Me: “Perhaps I should kiss you then?” I lean forwards and kiss the tip lightly, feeling him pulse some more against my mouth as I do so.

His cock: “Yes, that’s a little better”. He begins to stretch out.

I can feel his warmth against my lips. “What about if I lick you? Would that soothe your tiredness?” I run my tongue lightly along the shaft, letting my tongue piercing lightly drag across the skin.

His cock stiffens slightly. “Yes, that’s better, I am beginning to feel more awake”.

I wet my lips and lower my mouth to him, letting just the tip slide slowly in. “How is that?”

His cock throbs against my tongue. “Mmm”.

I give his cock another kiss. Suddenly my partner stirs. I lie absolutely still, not wanting to give the game away just yet, my mouth poised over his shaft. The moment passes and my partner continues breathing deeply, oblivious to my little dialogue.

“Ssh”, I whisper to his cock, “let’s keep this to ourselves for now”. I hover over him again, and slide the length of him into my mouth.

His cock gets harder as it glides across my tongue. “Yes, let’s not tell him, it’ll be our secret”.

I agree, and purse my lips and suck him deeply, moving my mouth back and forth. I can feel his cock throbbing as I tickle him with my tongue.

We continue in our secret liaison, until his cock is rigid and bouncing around in my mouth. At this point my partner lifts the duvet and looks down to find my lips wrapped around his cock. He looks at me, as if to say “What are you doing down there darling?” and finds me grinning at him, my mouth full.

Now he knows and I know that I have been doing something without his knowledge since he has been sleeping for most of the time. But his cock on the other hand has been seeing me behind his back – though not quite an affair – it is doing whatever it (rather than he) wants to: responding to my subtle persuasion regardless of my partner’s lack of consciousness.

If I had just woken my partner up and suggested sex, he might have declined, due to exhaustion. But suggesting sex to his cock is another matter altogether and I fully exploit this to my advantage: gentle slow teasing blow jobs more often than not lead to a hard shag: a win/win situation in my opinion.

I know that my indulging in sexual intimacy with my partner’s cock without his consent, involves some manipulation and coercion on my part. I feel bad about this, I do. But when an average morning begins with a delicious blow job that leaves me, my partner, and his cock pleasured, I really find it hard to feel guilty about such things for long.

And since I have not yet had any complaints about my despicable behaviour, I can only assume that my partner is happy for me to have this private dalliance with his cock - if he understands that my relationship with his penis will occur parallel with, and simultaneously to the one with him, life can be very easy.

Although I’ve learned it’s best not to speak out loud to his cock – that’s just wrong.