Hello.

My name is Girl, and I am a sex fiend.

1. I have admitted I am powerless about sex – my life has become unmanageable.

Frenetic masturbating at every given opportunity is rather inconvenient.

2. I have come to believe that a Power greater than myself could restore me to sanity.

Who would have known that Duracell Extra Strength could last so long?

3. I have made a decision to turn my will and my life over to the care of God as I understand him.

I’ll gladly give up my will; handcuffs and ankle restraints help.

4. I have made a searching and fearless moral inventory of myself.

The use of a compact mirror often comes in handy.

5. Admitted to God, to myself and to another human being the exact nature of my wrongs.

Screaming out his name just as I am about to climax is the best admittance of all.

6. I am entirely ready to have God remove all these defects of character.

Returning over-used broken vibrators to their maker is my speciality.

7. I shall humbly asked Him to remove my shortcomings.

Although I am all for the quickie, I do prefer the longer more drawn-out climax.

8. I will make a list of all persons I have harmed, and be willing to make amends to them all.

For all those I gave rushed blow-jobs to, I thoroughly apologise; it was only because I was going crazy not having your cock inside me that made me hurry so.

9. I will make direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others.

For all those I gave rushed blow jobs to, and who are now partnered-up with someone else, I thoroughly apologise; you’ll now just have to imagine my lips around your cock, sucking you for an hour.

10. I will continue to take personal inventory and when I am wrong promptly admit it.

I promise to throw out all my other sex toys and only keep the best one.

11. I will seek through prayer and meditation to improve my conscious contact with God, as I understand Him, praying only for knowledge of His will for me and the power to carry that out.

If asked nicely, I will gladly worship a cock; clasping my hands together and bowing my head when requested. Crucifixes are optional.

12. Having had a spiritual awakening as the result of these steps, I will try to carry this message to other sex fiends, and to practice these principles in all my affairs.

I will try to spend less time looking at pornography, and more time on foreplay.

I will try not to judge the fuckability of all men I meet; I can just be friends with men.

I will try* to spend my free time doing artistic and creative things, rather than always end up with my hands between my legs

*But twice a day is still necessary, or I’d go insane.

I’ve been quite busy recently; working stupid hours once more, and making inroads in other areas of my life too, all of which has left me chasing my tail somewhat.

Annoyingly, I haven’t had the time to chase anyone else’s tail, so sex and/or romance has evaded me somewhat.

But all is not lost – oh no. For in what spare time I can find, I have made the discovery that divine pleasure exists; so much so, that if I could arrange a matrimonial ceremony to state my devotion to it, I would.

That’s right: I have been getting intimate with the ultimate sex toy – my most favourite of all vibrators – the fantastic, the brilliant, the awesome, Rock Chick.

Forget Rabbits, or Butterflies, (or other weird animal-named toys), this toy beats all of them: by hitting both the g-spot and the clit simultaneously, with only a rocking motion needed - you can climax without the use of hands. What more could a girl want?

Vibrations, you say? Well, it also has a bullet vibe for that extra buzz inside and out, when you want it, so all bases are catered for.

This toy is the real McCoy; nothing I have ever used comes close to it; I am seriously debating chucking all my other toys, because they’ve been sitting idly in my drawer ever since I discovered the Rock Chick. (Charity shops do not take unwanted toys, sad to say).

So gents, if you want your girl to hump, grind, and moan with delight, then I suggest you buy one of these for her instantly. At the very least, it’ll help her discover her g-spot (if she hasn’t already), and the orgasms she will get from it, are worth every penny; she will thank you for giving her one (quite literally), trust me.

And ladies, believe me when I say, one try with this silicon beauty, and you’ll be wondering what all the fuss was about, with the noisy, ugly, cheap rubber vibrators; nothing comes close – again, quite literally – to the Rock Chick.

Plus of course, because of its original non-vibrator-type design, you can carry it in your bag without anyone knowing what the hell it is; always an advantage, especially if you are due to be boarding a plane and travelling to a land where laws preventing free sexual expression may cause you problems when entering the country.

Though my plan to flirt outrageously with the immigration man/woman if they pull me aside, should hopefully allow me to get through.

I am a hypocrite.

A charlatan.

A fraud.

I have made a mockery of everything I said recently, about not getting caught staring at someone’s cleavage.

I got caught.

It was all going so well; we had been working together for a few days and getting quite friendly. Not overtly flirtatious, but there was still a hint of sex in the air; a suggestion, that if not explored now, there may still be a possibility of it in the near future.

Or, in other words, I hoped a shag might be on the cards shortly.

But when he walked in one morning last week, wearing a t-shirt that hung low, I could not stop myself looking at his cleavage.

Now I am not talking about man-breasts, since extra flesh in the male mammary department is not something that appeals to me. Rather I am talking about man-cleavage: the hair on a man’s chest that shows above his clothes.

Just as seductive as the pressing together of two female bosoms (a delightful sight, by all accounts), the sight of a man’s chest hair poking above a t-shirt, or being revealed via a shirt with the top-button undone, is like a drug to me: my eye is drawn to it, and my pants get wet. It is so unbelievably sexy to me, and when faced with it, I just want to run my hands through it and kiss the fuzzy mass.

This man had gorgeous cleavage: his chest hair rose right up out of his t-shirt, and tickled the underside of his neck, whilst pushing against the collar like a soft furry lining.

It was driving me crazy; all I could do was wonder what he would look like with no clothes on, the glimpses of his chest hair a delightful pointer to what lay beneath. And every time he leaned forwards, his t-shirt dipped downwards, and I got a view of his chest, full of glorious hair. It was mesmerising. And I couldn’t help but stare.

At some point, he bent over towards me, and I found myself with a clear view of his nipples; it filled me with an incredible urge to reach out and touch them, and caress them through the fur that covered them. Just seeing this – previously hidden – gorgeousness made me want him; didn’t he realise what he was doing to me?

Clearly he did, because as I looked up, he was staring at me: he had caught me ogling his cleavage.

Nothing would change the fact that he knew I had been staring at his chest; not even a quick eye movement elsewhere. He knew, and I knew that he knew.

I felt myself going red, and all I could do was grin at him stupidly. To my relief, he grinned back. Somehow, we then ended up having a serious discussion about getting older and wanting meaningful relationships and thankfully the moment seemed to pass with no further embarrassment.

And later on, I caught him glancing at my boobs, which ironically, was actually some relief to me, since I had been a bit out of order staring so intently at him and felt like I deserved some kind of retribution.

Especially since I’m sure he caught me drooling.

“You have the feet of an angel”

I turned around to find a thirty-something man in a suit grinning at me.

“Excuse me?”

“I said, your feet, they’re angelic - so beautiful”

I looked down at my feet. Granted, the turquoise nail polish I had on was cute, and the sparkly flip-flops quite sweet, but my size eight-and-a-half flat feet, angelic? I think not.

I looked back up to find him smiling contentedly at me.

“You see, lovely; they really are gorgeous”

“I think you’re mistaken” I replied, adding “but thank you anyway for the compliment”

He shook his head. “No, no, no, it is you who is mistaken, you have perfect feet – I saw them from over there”, he gestured towards the tube station I had just exited, “and I just had to tell you how lovely they were”. He grinned widely at me.

I looked back at him, trying to mask my suspicion with an ironic arch of a single eyebrow, but quite probably looking like I was grimacing instead.

“Don’t think I am weird” he said, cottoning on to the exact thought running through my mind, “it’s just that, well you are a very foxy lady, so I wanted to talk to you anyway, but when I saw your feet, I just had to say something, because they are the most gorgeous ones I have ever seen”

I laughed. “Well, thanks; I’m not quite sure I agree, but cheers”. I shifted my feet uncomfortably, aware that his gaze kept dropping to toe-level, and for the first time in my life, finding it somehow more disconcerting that he was looking at my feet, rather than my breasts.

“I know this may sound a bit forward, but, um, could I massage them for you sometime?” he asked, his eyes lighting up a little.

Oh great. A foot fetishist; just my luck. If it’s not a breast fixated man, or an emotionally immature guy, it’s a bloke who wants to worship my feet. Fabulous. I must have a sign on my forehead that says ‘only approach this girl if you are odd, an arsehole, or just plain weird; normal guys need not apply’

“No thanks”, I replied, “though it’s very kind of you to offer”

“Is it because you have a boyfriend?” he asked, pursuing the matter.

“Yes” I lied, thinking that he would take the hint, “he wouldn’t really approve”

“Oh but there don’t need to be any strings attached, I just want to stroke them” he reasoned, thinking that this would convince me more, rather than give me even more of an incentive to run as far away as possible.

“Thank you, really, I’m just not interested” I said, adding, “but five gold stars for your approach; the most original I’ve ever encountered”

He grinned. “Well, your boyfriend is a lucky man: you really are quite beautiful you know, and I hope he spends all night caressing your lovely feet”

“He does” I lied, thinking that if that was on my list of requirements for a partner, I would be destined to be single for the rest of my life. “He’s a lovely man; I’m on my way to see him now”

He shook my hand, and wished me well, and I walked off in my flip-flops, trying to appear both elegant and on-the-way-to-see-a-boyfriend-like, which resulted in my tripping up on myself and almost stumbling over.

It didn’t seem to matter: he was still staring contentedly in the direction of my feet – a look of awe and delight on his face.

I suppose in terms of approaches, he was really quite harmless – and certainly better than the guy who recently grabbed my arse when I was walking along Shaftsbury Avenue at 1am and who thought he would win me over by then saying “hey babe” to me. (I shouted at him as he ran away from me, that he was a “fuckingcunt” and a “motherfuckingprick” and he disappeared, embarrassed, into Soho).

Don’t get me wrong, The Girl does like getting chatted up, but when it seems like it’s just the inept tossers or weirdos who approach me, it doesn’t give me much hope in meeting a normal bloke through these means.

Which is why I tend to do all the chatting up myself; at least this way I get to establish their normalness (or not) through my Personality Detector Test, or in other words, cut through the bullshit and find out if they

a) have a brain and are interesting/good company

b) are upfront and honest

c) feel intimidated by assertive women

Obviously this is a basic minimum, but I apply it to all men I meet, (regardless of sexual interest) and it does often prove to be a good judge of their character.

Admittedly, there is also a,

d) are someone that makes me throb between my legs, in which case how much wine do we need to drink before I get the chance to snog them

but lets not discuss that for the moment.

Whilst I am busy imagining I have a cock, over at Rentboy Diaries, I thought I would balance things here, and talk about the most female of things I could think of.

No, not multiple orgasms (though clearly, this is how nature blessed us, and I thank her every time I gush for the fifth, six and seventh time, all over some nice chaps' hand).

Rather, I am talking about periods.

You see, the cycle of getting (madly) horny, being in pain, bleeding (a lot), getting more pain, becoming even hornier, stopping bleeding, (but staying horny), never ceases to amaze me. And how my body can stop bleeding totally – for 24 hours - and then start up again – full flow – as if it were day one of the cycle, I find most intriguing.

It’s like a last burst of energy to remind me, that no matter how much I think it’s over, there’s still some more blood left to come out and, (very annoyingly so), ruin a perfectly good new pair of turquoise satin hipster hot-pants.

Every woman knows what I am talking about here – it’s the final dreg of blood – that last gush, that always, without fail, ruins our most favourite knickers (when you’ve haven’t bled for a day, it seems perfectly reasonable to assume it’s all over and done with, so we get caught out every time we put our new sexy pants back on).

And we all know – and have experienced – this final spurt, whilst with someone else haven’t we? It’s quite clear that doing vigorous exercise, or – more preferably - having a cock thrusting inside of you, will always bring on that final bit, occasionally covering said man in enough blood to look like a battlefield.

This situation isn’t often pleasant; I’ve even had a final spurt whilst a guy was eating my pussy: “I thought you tasted metallic”, he said to me later, whilst I groaned with embarrassment and felt obliged to give him a blow job for an hour to make up for covering his stomach and cock with what seemed like gallons of my blood.

But it’s not all doom and gloom. Oh no. Sometimes, this final spurt can have its advantages.

I was thinking today of the guy I was seeing last year, SP. Yes, he with the ability to have fantastic sex, combined with an inability to commit.

I was remembering – with immense fondness - one of the last times that I saw him, and realised that, for once, I was thankful and appreciative for my final period spurt.

We were fucking on his couch by candle-light. He was exploring every inch of my body with his hands, before finally thrusting his fingers in and out of me, making me climax over and over again.

I remember being soaking wet – feeling that, even more than my normal miniature waterfall down below, I was gushing with more intensity when I came. Which, as it turned out, I was.

SP’s thing was to make me come – and boy did he; I had climaxed six or seven times before he finally gave me what I wanted: his cock, fucking me hard.

He took me from on top, underneath, side by side, behind, and finally - my ankles around his neck - kneeling in front of me, as he pummelled me hard, making us both climax together intensely.

Both drunk and tired, we went straight to bed after, and immediately fell asleep.

The next morning, when I got up to make some coffee, I got a fright. For a moment, I thought an intruder had been in the flat and had killed someone: there was blood everywhere. And not just drops – entire handprints covered the couch, their presence feeling like an eerie recreation of some act of despicable violence.

I looked at them and retraced the events of the night before: ah yes, that was where he had me on all fours and was trying to fist me; oh, and that must have been where I sat on top of him and he was rubbing my g-spot; oh yes, and that was when I was on my knees and he was ramming his cock into me as fast as he could.

For a moment, I felt dreadfully guilty: even though I thought my period was finished and I therefore did not expect to be bleeding, it was my blood after all, and his pale cream couch was clearly ruined.

Not that I am a vindictive or malicious person who holds grudges, but somehow, in the scheme of things - his cheating on me, and being a fucker – it seemed like some kind of karmic retribution: my body had found a way to royally shaft him. Better than telephoning him and hanging up; more effective than cutting up his clothes; more original than letting down his car tyres – by bleeding all over his couch, my body was telling SP, “Fuck you, you prick”.

It felt good.

And when I went back (for one last fuck, a month later), this utterly house-proud man still hadn’t managed to get all my blood out of his couch.

I was very sad when I finally walked away from that situation, but the little bit of sadistic pleasure I got from knowing that I left my mark - his handprints of my blood still visible for anyone to see – in his world, more than made up for the heartbreak.

Fellow Big Blogger Jonny Billericay has released a video opposing Post Office closures across the UK.

Although his single hasn't yet made #1, with your help, we can still get this issue to the top of the political agenda.

Have a look at the video here: you'll feel better for it, I promise.

As well as writing here, I'll also be guest blogging on Rentboy Diaries over the next few weeks, where I shall be attempting to understand sex from a male perspective.

In other words: I'll be writing about all the things I would do if I had a cock.

Of which - at my last count - there are many.

"Would you please stop looking at my tits!" I pleaded.

"I'm not" he retorted, his eyes still glued to my bosoms.

"Yes, you are - look!" I pointed at the direction of his gaze, which was focused solely on my nipple line.

He quickly averted his eyes upwards. "See, I'm not looking" he said, defensively, his eyes immediately reverting back to breast-level position.

I stood there and raised a solitary eyebrow at him. Pointing at my breasts, I told him, "Do I look blind?! You haven't been able to keep your eyes off them since you began talking to me".

I shook my head in disbelief.

"But they're just - you know - there" he pleaded, gesturing towards them, adding, "I can't help it"

I looked down at my non-low cut, non-revealing blouse and watched him attempt to give me direct eye contact and fail. All he could do was glance from my breasts to my eye-line, and then back again. He looked up at me and shrugged hopelessly. Clearly this man needed help.

He had spent the last half an hour trying to chat me up. Trying, being the operative word, since his technique was severely lacking. Unable to remove his eyes from my chest area, he had barely been able to maintain any form of conversation, and had asked me to repeat everything I said, such was his inability to concentrate. I knew that if he used the technique he had been using on me, on another woman, he was risking being ignored (at best) - or, more likely - getting a large slap from her. So I decided to help him.

"Look, um, what did you say your name was again?" I asked

"G" he said, asking that I emphasise the latter consonants in his name. (Interesting, I thought, this attention to personal detail; and ironic that he could then overlook the necessary basic social skills with women).

"OK G" I said, rolling the other consonants off my tongue as if I were practising my favorite dabbling technique on the underside of a cock, "this is how it is: you are not to look at my tits from now on. Got that?"

He grimaced and looked at my tits.

"You must be able to give me eye contact - try it" I pleaded

He stared at me with all his concentration. Three seconds later he was staring at my breasts again.

"Honestly", I groaned, "you're just not trying, you're pathetic..."

He shrugged, and looked back at my tits once more.

"For fucks sake G, do you really think that is the way to win women over?" I asked him, "is that your tried and tested pulling technique?"

He mumbled something incoherent and tried to focus on my eyes. I watched his eyes lower themselves to my tits again. I knew that I was fighting a losing battle.

"OK, enough. We're going to have to try a different tactic. I want you to look at my tits"

He looked up at me. "Really? No, I couldn't possibly..."

"Seriously, I want you to stare at them, really get an eyeful. Go on, look at 'em" I glanced down at my chest hoping his eyes would follow.

He stared at me, speechless.

"Come on G, take a good look, do it. I know you want to", I said, trying to be persuasive.

"Really? Are you sure?" he asked, shyly, his face going a little red.

"Yes. Go on, look. Have a really good look."

He still seemed unsure whether I was being serious or not and his eyes flitted between my eyeline and my breasts awkwardly.

"Do it G. Look. I want you to get a really good look, because that's all you're gonna get. For the next thirty seconds, you are going to look at my tits, and after that, you will not look at them again. Understand?"

He nodded.

"Right. Now look at them" I lowered my hands to my breasts, cupped them through my blouse and gently squeezed them together.

Unsurprisingly he lowered his eyes to my hands and stared at my chest, not removing his gaze.

"That's good", I said, reassuringly, "look at them. Get a really good eyeful. Picture them in your mind, memorise every curve, each outline". I removed my hands and looked at my watch. "15 seconds left".

He stared - a man possessed - his expression one of awe mixed with excitement. I watched his mouth turn into a wide smile.

"5 seconds"

He bit his lip and his eyes wandered across my chest.

"Time's up"

He looked up at me.

"Right. You've had your look, yes?"

He nodded.

"And you can recall them clearly in your mind, every detail?"

He grinned.

"OK, good. Now, pay attention: whenever a woman you are with is speaking, or you are talking to her, you must look her in the eyes, just like you are doing with me now. Do you understand?"

He nodded again, his eyes levelling mine.

"There are two exceptions to this rule. Number one is that you can look at her tits, but - and I cannot state how important this is - never when in conversation; only when she is looking away. Got that?"

He nodded enthusiastically.

"You mustn't even slightly glance at her tits whilst either you or her are talking - don't think you can get away with a small sneaky peek - you can't: women always know when guys are staring at their breasts and you'll get rated as a class A arsehole if you do it. Still with me?"

"I think. So I can look, but only when her head is turned, right?" he asked

"Yes. Like this" I turned to look at the dancefloor, "you can look at my tits now, but as soon as I turn my head back, you need to give me eye contact again" I turned round to face him once more.

He was staring at my eyes.

"You're learning. Excellent. You've got to practice this; you'll get better, trust me"

He looked at me excitedly. "Fantastic. So I can look at tits, but as long as she doesn't catch me looking, it's fine?!"

"Something like that, yeah"

"So what's the other exception to the rule then?" he asked me, somewhat gleefully.

"Ah, well that's simple. If you're sitting in a darkened corner and her tongue is down your throat and her hand on your crotch, then you can take it as a given that you can not only look at her tits, but you can give them a good feel as well" I answered.

He laughed. "You are an amazing woman. How do you know all this stuff?!"

"Lets just say, I have a lot of male friends and I do my best to ensure they get laid, seeing as many of them are hopeless with women", I said, quickly adding "and if you make sure you don't stare at another woman's tits like you have with mine tonight, I'm sure you'll do just fine"

"You should be charging for this" he said, "men would pay good money for advice on how to pick up women"

I laughed at the irony of the situation - given how poor I currently am - and then thought about how best to blog about it at a later date; wondering whether he may be right.

1) Get visual of subject in sight

2) Check for wedding ring on finger

3) Then check for tan-line of removed ring from finger. If nothing’s there, you are free to go ahead

4) Smile when woman turns around; give her direct eye contact. Do not stare. Especially do not stare at her breasts ^[1] Being nervous is fine. Just keep up the smiling. Try not to grin wildly nor grimace. You are being friendly here, not trying to show her your expensive dental treatment

5) Introduce yourself, offer your hand out and shake hers with confidence. Do not give her a bone-crushing grip, or a wet-fish (a definite no-no). Be firm and friendly. Trying out a learned chat-up line, like “haven’t I seen you somewhere before?” is not recommended, unless you are highly skilled in being charmingly sarcastic and can appear to be either ironically post-modern by saying it, or can otherwise be self-deprecating about it in an endearing way. A boyfriend of mine used that very line on me when we first met, and when I replied, “Oh really? Well then, you’ve got ten seconds to tell me where we’ve met”, he burst into laughter, said “You’ve caught me, I am a twat”, and then proceeded to take the piss out of himself. His humility won me over: we dated for a couple of years.

6) Find out about her, ask her questions about herself. Most guys appear to talk with their cocks ^[2], ignoring that they are speaking with another human being, and instead resorting to telling a woman they are beautiful/sexy/’da bomb’, rather than trying to connect with her mentally. Make her feel she is interesting and important and you will be more likely to get results with her. Remember: human beings are essentially arrogant and love to talk about themselves. Even if you just want to get in her knickers, you’d do better to at least feign interest in whatever she says ^[3], – she’s more likely to find you attractive if you listen well

7) Build a rapport with her. I recommend the two-tier method™:

a) Verbal rapport – Talk to her. Find out what bugs her. Most likely she will be somewhat cynical about men approaching her, given previous experience with ones that proved to be arseholes. So build on that; ask her if she’s had any bad approaches that night. Be on her side; let her know that she can come to you if she gets harassed by another bloke. By being empathetic and friendly, she’ll be more trusting and interested. You’ll certainly be in with more of a chance than the tosser who tells her she has a fine body and tries to grab her arse

b) Physical rapport – not in the first instance, sexual - I am talking about body language and how you can get her to feel a connection to you - this will help build her sexual interest later. Do not grope or grab her body ^[4]. Try to mirror her movements instead: If your body matches hers, unconsciously she will feel more at ease, and thus more likely to be attracted to you.

8) Once rapport is built, and some time has passed ^[5] drop the question. I recommend something similar to the following:

“I hope I’m not being too forward here; I was wondering if you would like to go out for a drink with me sometime?”

9) Be prepared for one of the following responses:

a) She laughs at you

b) She ignores you

c) She smiles awkwardly and then makes an excuse and leaves hurriedly

d) She says

“Thank you, that would be lovely, when did you have in mind?”

e) She says

“Thank you, I would love to say ‘yes’, and if things were different, I definitely would. But I have a boyfriend, so I cannot take you up on your offer. Though that’s not to say I’m not tempted; shame I’m no longer single”

10) If it was d), do not allow any embarrassment you might feel to get the better of you. Although rejected, and shag/meaningful encounter-less, at least you put yourself out there, and took a risk: life is too short to let opportunities pass you by. Plus, you boosted her ego and made her feel good, which is always a nice thing to do. Especially if she suspects that you went home thinking of her.

But do not be tempted to tell her you are going home to have a wank about her (even if you are). Unless that is, she’s already run her fingers against the outline of your cock and intimated that she wants to fuck you senseless, in which case feel free to give her something for her own ’bank’ later; it’s only fair that she has something to think about too.

[1] This will win you no favours. I find it insulting and irritating when guy cannot take his eyes off my bosoms, when I am talking with him. I challenge men about this constantly; asking them to give me eye contact when their gaze wanders. Now, I know not staring at her breasts can be difficult – believe me, I am as guilty as the next person at gawping at some beautiful tits – but the key is, to NOT stare when she is facing you, but to get an eyeful when she looks away. As long as you maintain eye contact when she is looking at you, you’ll be fine.

[2] Many men are unable to strike a conversation when they are attracted to a woman. It’s as if their cock is talking:

“Hey baby, I want to slide up next to that fine arse and rub myself against you. You really turn me on”

A woman always knows when a man is on the pull because of this; it is obvious when a guy seems totally disinterested in her brain, and is only talking to her, because he thinks she’s pretty and she makes his cock hard. So, more likely than not, he won’t get lucky, because she’ll see through his shallowness and she’ll move on to the next guy, and will shag the one who makes her feel important and clever and sought-after – even if he too, was only after sex. It’s all about how you make someone feel: if it’s like a piece of meat, or wank fodder, you can forget about getting into her pants.

[3] However, if she starts talking about shoes, shopping, or fashion, then do not feel obliged to listen: I too, drift off to sleep with such inane nonsense.

[4] There is nothing more irritating or insulting than a guy grabbing a part of my body without my wishing him to. If he thinks he’s going to get in my knickers because he grabbed my arse in a bar, he is wrong. Very wrong. Of course, if we’re sitting somewhere, snogging, and he runs his hands up my thighs and then squeezes my arse gently, that is a different matter; but to be poked, prodded, or groped whilst just conversing is definitely the nail in the coffin if he was hoping to get lucky with me. Keep your hands to yourself – for now.

What you need to do, is observe her body language. If her arms are crossed and her body is facing away from yours, whilst you are talking with her, most likely she has no interest in you and you could be wasting your time pursuing her. But she might also be shy, so try to be open with your own body language: do not sit there with your legs wide open and your crotch as a centrepiece – many women find this intimidating and respond negatively when faced with this bravado display. Instead, unlock your own arms, express yourself openly with hand gestures and make sure you nod and smile in appreciation when she says something you agree with.

Once you are sure there is physical rapport and she has expressed an interest (she is laughing; playing with her hair; rubbing the back of her neck with her hand; crossing her legs towards you and pointing her foot in your direction), a non-invasive gentle touch on the arm, or shoulder or upper back whilst conversing, is ok and lets her know that you are interested.

[5] Depending on the outcome you want, I would suggest around half an hour if you are seeking casual sex, and a minimum two hours if you want something more substantial. If you're not getting positive signs at these points (laughter, smiles, eye contact), it may not be worth investing any more time. Even if she is stunningly gorgeous and your cock has been hard for the last hour. (You can always go home and have a wank).

Next entry: how NOT to chat up The Girl

1) Get visual of subject in sight

2) Check for wedding ring on finger

3) Then check for tan-line of removed ring from finger. If nothing’s there, you are free to go ahead

4) Smile when man turns around; give him direct eye contact

5) Introduce yourself, offer your hand out and shake his with confidence. Do not give him a bone-crushing grip, or a wet-fish. Be firm and friendly

6) Find out about him, ask him questions about himself. Remember: human beings are essentially arrogant and love to talk about themselves. Use this to your advantage and feign interest in whatever he says – he’ll find you even more attractive if you listen well

7) Build a rapport with him. I recommend the Two-Tier method™:

a) Verbal rapport – agree with him as much as possible.^[1] For example, if he moans about having to work long hours, say to him ‘that must be awful, you must be very tired’ and listen once more, as he then tells you how right you are, and that his boss doesn’t appreciate all his efforts. The key is making him feel that you have something in common with him, even if it is just empathy.^[2]

b) Physical rapport – not in the first instance, sexual^[3] - I am talking about body language and how you can get him to feel a connection to you. This will help build his sexual interest later. The simplest thing you can do is to subtly mirror his movements and behaviour, eg. lean up against the bar with your left arm, if he is leaning against it with his right; if he smiles widely, greet his grin with one too. If your body matches his, unconsciously he will feel more attracted to you.

8) Once rapport is built, and some time has passed,^[4] drop the question. I recommend something similar to the following:

“I hope I’m not being too forward here; I was wondering if you would like to go out for a drink with me sometime?”

9) Be prepared for one of the following responses:

a) He runs away

b) He smiles awkwardly and then makes an excuse and leaves hurriedly

c) He says

“Thank you, that would be lovely, when did you have in mind?”

d) He says

“Thank you, I would love to say ‘yes’, and if things were different, I definitely would. But I have a girlfriend, so I cannot take you up on your offer. Though that’s not to say I’m not tempted; shame I’m no longer single”

10) If it was d), do not allow any embarrassment you might feel to get the better of you. Although rejected, and shag/meaningful encounter-less, at least you put yourself out there, and took a risk: life is too short to let opportunities pass you by. Plus, you boosted his ego and made him feel good, which is always a nice thing to do. Especially if he suspects that you went home thinking of him – no nicer compliment can be paid.

Except perhaps,

“You are the best lover I have ever had”

But really that should wait until the third date at least.

[1] Obviously this does not apply if he is

a) A Tory

b) A sexist pig

c) An arsehole

[2] Do not however pretend you are less intelligent than him. This will win you no favours, and let’s face it, it is hard keeping up an act all night, even if there might be a shag at the end of it

[3] Touching his chest/arse/cock comes later, when you know what the score is. For now, limit any physical contact to the hands, arms and possibly the shoulder. Make the gesture small and light. Don’t be tempted to squeeze his upper thigh (even if he has fabulous quadriceps), unless you are prepared to deal with the erection you caused shortly afterwards.

[4] Depending on the outcome you want, I would suggest around half an hour if you are seeking casual sex, and a minimum two hours if you want something more substantial. If you're not getting positive signs at these points (laughter, smiles, eye contact), it may not be worth investing any more time. Even if he is stunningly gorgeous and the thought of him makes you wet your pants.

The Girl’s top 10 guide to chatting up a girl - coming soon

Never fuck someone when you have unresolved feelings for someone else

It wasn’t until I was sitting on his face that I began to cry.

Up until then I thought I was alright, but with the heightened sensitivity of the powerful orgasm induced by his tongue, my brain finally kicked into gear, and I was overcome by all the emotion I had been holding back.

A gap of two years since we had last seen each other, DK and I had a lot to catch up on; our lives were as disparate as the distance between us. Although never partners, we had over the course of a decade, been infrequent lovers, developing a growing knowledge of each other. So when DK called me to say he was in town, I looked forward to catching up with him, and of course, ripping his clothes off and fucking him all night.

When, after much vodka, he gently pressed his mouth against mine kissing me deeply, and it felt wrong somehow, I just put it down to my drunkenness and ignored it, pulling him close so I could feel his hardness against me, and concentrating on the delicious throbbing sensation between my legs.

Pulling off my underwear and kissing me all over, he lowered himself down my body, his tongue lightly dabbing and flicking whilst his fingers gently caressed me. I watched him for a moment, and it slowly began to dawn on me, what it was that I was feeling.

I didn’t want to be with him.

Not because he wasn’t turning me on – he was – but because he was not the person I wanted to be turning me on.

I had liked The Boy for many months, and had accepted that he didn’t want anything serious. Even though I would have preferred more, I was content with how things were and hoped that our friendship would endure, regardless of our having been intimate together.

But now that I was having sex with someone else, it struck me that perhaps I wasn’t coping as well as I previously thought: for the first time in my life, I was having sex with someone, and imagining I was with somebody else. As DK slipped his fingers inside me, I thought of how much The Boy turned me on; as my orgasm hit, I recalled his face smiling at me, and it made me climax even harder.

Then I looked down at DK and felt guilty.

I pushed him off me, and threw him onto his back: at least if I gave him some pleasure too, then all would be well, I thought. And having had sex with him many times over the years, I was familiar with his preferences: I immediately lowered my tongue to his perineum and slid both my hands around his shaft before sucking his cock deeply.

He responded well and ground his hips into my face within moments, but soon it became apparent that something was wrong. Or, more specifically, something was wrong with me: I wasn’t enjoying giving DK a blow-job. I was trying to pleasure him, but it wasn’t DK’s cock that I wanted in my mouth, it was The Boy’s.

I looked up at DK and I knew that it was pointless to continue: it was feeling like a chore, not a pleasure, and I know he was picking up the vibe from me: his cock started getting softer by the minute – not a frequent thing to happen to him at all.

DK pulled me up over him and begged me to do his most favourite thing: sit on his face. Not really my preference, but at that point, two orgasms in, I felt obliged to do something he would enjoy. So I crouched over him and lowered myself onto his waiting and eager tongue.

With each lick he gave me, I felt sadder. With each nibble he offered, I felt guiltier. As his tongue lapped away enthusiastically and I felt the waves of pleasure emanating from my body, I was filled with self-hatred: how could I just use him like that? Was I really such a sex fiend that I could allow myself to be physically pleasured by someone even though I didn’t want to be with them? With these thoughts I felt my horniness dissipate, and I frantically concentrated on the sensations between my legs, knowing that I was nearing climax and I so badly needed the release - if only to let go of the emotional tension building up inside of me.

I closed my eyes and gripped the bed frame, and as my orgasm approached, a thought suddenly entered my head: The Boy didn’t want me, and no matter how much I liked him, nothing would develop between us. With my body shaking, I saw his face in my mind, felt the tears stream down my cheeks, and I gritted my teeth to bear both the intensity of the climax, and the intensity of my emotions shielded by it.

After a few minutes when my spasms subsided, DK cuddled up to me, and placed his hard cock in my hand. I looked at him and at his cock, and knew I couldn’t do it. I pulled my hand away.

“I’m sorry, I’m not really with it tonight”

“What’s up?”

“This guy… my head is a bit all over the place”

“A recent break up?”

“Not really: we didn’t even go out together. I am just a stupid twat”

“Why?”

“It’s not requited”

“Oh, I’m sorry. That’s tough”

“Stupid, more like”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, these things happen”

“Yeah, well, I was fully aware from day one that he didn’t want to get involved, so I have no excuse for feeling crap”

“It happens to the best of us”

“I guess. Anyway, it took me to do all this” – I gestured at our combined nakedness – “to realise just how much I liked him. I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to ruin your evening”

“Don’t worry about it. Sometimes it happens, sometimes it doesn’t; you know that. It’s no big deal, relax”

“Sorry all the same; I thought I was fine up until now”

“It’s ok. So you on speaking terms?”

“Not really – the last time we spoke was when we slept together, almost a month ago. I guess he’s trying to avoid me”

“Us men can be a bit crap sometimes”

“Well, it’s my own fault, always picking ones who are unattainable. Anyway... onward and upward and all that”

“That’s the spirit. Someone else will come along”

“Yup. Let’s hope”

And with that DK switched out the light and cuddled up behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist and sliding his thighs underneath mine. He kissed my back and neck gently, and then drifted off to sleep.

I know by holding me, DK was being affectionate and caring and probably thought it was what I wanted, and he was right, I did want to be held - just not by him. Instead him doing it reminded me what I really wanted – who I really wanted – and that The Boy didn’t want that with me.

As soon as DK fell asleep, I moved out of his embrace. I lay there for hours, unable to sleep, the constant hum of traffic and DK’s rhythmic snoring filling the room with white noise, adding to the loudness of thoughts in my own head. I knew it was irrational to think it, but in my highly emotive and drunk state, I began to question what I knew to be true (that The Boy not wanting to get involved was to do with him being in a different place to me – quite literally - and nothing at all to do with me); instead I began to wonder that perhaps if I was prettier, or slimmer, or less emotionally needy, that maybe then he would want to be with me. And I lay there and thought about why I was single, why the men I fell for didn’t fall for me, and why I was having meaningless sex with someone I didn’t care about, when a few weeks prior I had been having sex with someone I did.

I knew I had to get out of there, collect my thoughts, think clearly again; I wanted to be on my own, not curled up with this man. When the dawn broke and the morning sun burned my eyes as the first rays of light streamed into the room, I quietly got out of bed, put on my clothes and made my way to the door.

I turned as I reached it, and looked back. DK was still asleep in bed. Even though my impulse was to immediately leave, I felt he deserved more than that; after all, we’d been fuck-buddies for a long time, and I valued and respected him. So I woke him up and apologised, explaining that I needed to be on my own. Thankfully, he was sympathetic, and kissed me on the forehead before wishing me well and sending me on my way.

I left the flat, walked through the estate, jumped onto the tube amongst the early morning commuters, and as I found a place to sit, felt my make-up find its way past my sunglasses alongside the tears silently rolling down my cheeks. As I wept on that journey home, it struck me just how empty casual sex can feel; how difficult it can be, when you want more, or have feelings for someone else. And it made me realise that sometimes even orgasms induced by another can feel lonely.

But it also struck me, that the next time I saw DK, I would owe him more than just an apology; with the orgasm count currently running at 3-0 in my favour, I figure it’s only polite to attempt to balance out the books at our next meeting.

Though perhaps, like me, he will have tried to forget about this night; hopefully in time, I will be able to wipe the slate clean – in more ways than one.

Want to know more about me?

Then go here, and read my responses to questions set by a group of Norwegian bloggers (original version here for those fluent in Norwegian).

You can also find me in this month's (September) issue of Eve magazine, where alongside Belle de Jour, I am featured in an article about female erotic writers, entitled When Private Sex Diaries Go Public.

Never fuck someone you want more than just sex with

We knew of one another through mutual friends, and at work, had spent many weeks chatting, flirting, and speaking innuendo in volumes. He was a gentle intelligent soul, with piercing blue eyes and a soft Northern accent; I was smitten.

At a work do, plied by much alcohol, things finally took a step forwards. He called me over to him on the dance-floor and placed his hand on my shoulder before asking me,

“What do you think of masturbation?” grinning at me widely.

I pondered this for a moment before I replied.

“Well, I think it’s great; I rather enjoy it in fact” which wasn’t technically a lie, but also wasn’t exactly the truth seeing as it clearly is my favourite pastime.

He laughed. “No, I meant, what do you think of guys’ masturbating? You know, seeing them do it”

I leant in to him. “I think it’s lovely, seeing the most intimate thing a guy could do; it’s an honour to watch.”

He stared at me with a fixed gaze. “Does it turn you on then?” he asked.

“Very much so” I practically whispered, as he leant in towards me and planted a soft kiss on my lips.

Thirty minutes later and we were sitting in his living room, refuelling our drunken bodies with more beer.

We sat on opposite ends of the couch, still shy, away from the confidence of the nightclub. Until, that is, he said,

“Do you mind if I play with myself?”

I was a little stunned and mumbled something incoherent, feeling myself blush at his forwardness.

“Would you mind if I masturbated” he repeated, “seeing you sitting there looking so gorgeous is really turning me on”.

Well, who am I to refuse such a polite request? I agreed, and immediately, in the bright lights of the communal lounge, he pulled out his cock and began to stroke it.

A mixture of apprehension, curiosity and horniness, I watched him play with himself. It was absolutely gripping - so to speak - I was transfixed by the sight of this man looking at me, whilst pleasuring himself. And I was frustrated that I wasn’t getting to touch him too. So I moved to his side of the couch, swung my hips over him, pushed my breasts into his face and kissed him deeply. We moved together for a while, before stumbling, half-dressed into his bedroom.

After undressing, he laid me on my back, told me to play with myself and knelt between my legs, with his cock in his own hand, watching me, as I watched him. It was very intense: our hands moving in synchronisation as we separately pleasured ourselves.

When he came the first time, all over my belly, it felt like we were connected; that his pleasure was part of something between us. We relaxed afterwards, kissing, and I thought about how much I liked him.

When he came the second time, all over my thighs, I felt a little disappointed; I had wanted to have penetrative sex, but he kept saying,

“Isn’t safe sex the best!” as he stroked himself and grabbed my breasts, so I didn’t say anything.

When he came the third time, all over my tits, I felt used; it seemed like I was no longer a girl he wanted to be intimate with, or get to know, rather I was just material to help him get off. Wank fodder, basically. He didn’t even look at me as he climaxed, and didn’t seem bothered about my pleasure either.

Maybe it was all the alcohol, but I couldn’t come. I had too many thoughts running through my head. I liked him, but suspected that I was just an easy fuck for him. I decided to test the water, and in my (in those days) non-assertive way, I mildly hinted at our meeting up again, and offered up my phone number.

He fobbed me off with a vague ‘of course we’ll hook up’ and ‘you know how to get hold of me’ before drifting off to sleep and snoring loudly. So I figured that even if he had liked me previously, now that he had got me into bed, he didn't want me anymore; that he thought I was easy, or a slut for having sex with him without dating him first. As I lay there, wide awake with my thoughts, I was filled with self-hatred and regret: yet again I had ruined a perfectly good opportunity for something to develop, by allowing my desire to rule my head and jumping into bed too quickly with somebody.

Even with all the alcohol I had ingested, I couldn’t sleep. With him lying next to me, I felt more alone than I could remember in all my nights of being single. All I wanted was to get out of there, to stop the conflict in my head, and the pounding in my heart.

I waited for the dawn to arrive, and when it did, I quietly put on my clothes, grabbed my bag and crept to the door. As I opened it I heard,

“Not even going to leave me a note then?” and I turned to see him sitting up in bed watching me.

I walked back over to him, and made some excuse about having to leave early to prepare for a meeting. He ran his hand around my back and lowered it to my arse, giving it a gentle squeeze.

“Come back to bed” he coaxed, “I’m already hard thinking about you”.

And in my mixed up little mind, all I could think was that he had morning wood and was looking for a way to get off; that after he had his pleasure, he wouldn’t want me anymore. It didn’t occur to me back then, that perhaps he actually liked me, and wanted me to stay.

And so, with the lack of sleep, blurred alcohol-induced thinking, and my own insecurities, I did something I still regret to this day: I said goodbye and left, knowing that whatever we might have had would never happen now.

He never forgave me for trying to walk out without saying goodbye. How could I possibly explain to him why I freaked out and had to leave, without sounding like a neurotic fool? All I could do was apologise – which I did, and his response to it showed me how much I had offended him:

“Don’t worry about your leaving. I know what its like. I’ll fuck anything when I’m drunk”.

Ouch. That hurt; possibly as much as I had hurt him.

We never spoke again after that, and avoided each other at work.

I would often wonder what might have happened if we hadn’t had had a one-night stand together, how things may have developed between us had sex not entered the equation. I am convinced that in this case, we would have dated: there was definitely mutual intellectual interest prior to this night. But sadly, due to my immaturity, insecurity and fear – not to mention incessant horniness – this situation resulted in regret, sadness and self-loathing, which makes whatever I or he might have got out of it sexually, meaningless.

But I have been able to learn from this, and recall it now, to remind myself not to have casual sex with someone that I want more with; if only because it fucks with my head too much. For me, having a one night-stand is fine, and can be a lot of fun, just so long as that is all I want from that person, and vice versa. There is nothing worse than wanting more from that person, and knowing that you are just a shag to them.

Except perhaps, having a one-night stand, when you still have feelings for someone else; I shall explore this in my next post.