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Recent posts

How not to have a one-night stand: part one
Why Fuck-Buddies are NOT friends that you fuck
Why (so many) men are crap at one-night-stands
One Night part two
One Night
London - part two?

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Fleshlight UK
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Friday, August 05, 2005

How not to have a one-night stand: part two 

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.

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