In my opinion, one of the main challenges between men and women is that of communication. Even when we converse, and are talking in the same mother tongue, we often seem to be speaking a different language to each other.

One example is the difference between men and women when they arrange the next time they shall speak on the telephone: I regularly hear complaints from my female friends that their latest bloke didn’t call them when he said he would. And my male friends complain that women are too demanding, expecting to be telephoned at any given moment.

In my own experience - I think I can speak for the majority of women here - when I say that there is nothing – I repeat NOTHING – that pisses us off as much as someone saying they are going to call at a particular time/day and then not doing it. (Or not then immediately apologising with a very reasonable excuse, like crazy work hours, family commitments etc).

If a man doesn’t want to call on Monday, then why make an arrangement to, when it will only be broken? As far as I am concerned, if they have broken their word - even if it is as ‘trivial’ as a phone call - then that is a form, of dishonesty and deceit, and to me, it’s the same as lying. Which I have no time for in my relationships, since I am an upfront honest person and expect the same in return from people, whether or not sex is/will be involved.

But, like other (normally mature, rational, balanced) women I know, I also have on numerous occasions acted like a demented fool, and stupidly waited and hoped for the phone to ring, asking myself,

“Why hasn’t he called? The date went well, he said he wanted to see me again and would call me in a ‘few’ days. It’s been 7 days since then. What the fuck is going on?”

Of course I didn’t realise that a ‘few’ days to him, didn’t necessarily have the same meaning of a ‘few’ days to me - 3-4 days - a length of time that is universally agreed across the planet by the female race.

So when the call finally does come through, some days later, I am likely to be in the process of deleting his number and thinking he obviously wasn’t that interested. And ironically (well, sadly too), he may have been very interested, but didn't want to seem 'too eager' by phoning too quickly. [© Watski]

The problem with this situation, is that it leaves women having to

a) interpret the man’s delay in calling (his level of interest etc)
b) assess whether he is worth waiting that many days for
c) wonder whether there are any men out there that can keep to their word

And it leaves men having to

a) interpret the woman’s reaction to them (why is she cold/distant/angry)
b) apologise for something they feel they haven’t done
c) get annoyed about having to apologise

And eventually the woman has her ego a bit crushed and feels resentful and annoyed with herself that she allowed something as simple as a phone call to bug her. And the guy feels angry that he’s had to explain himself unnecessarily. (Though obviously not all men and women are like this, occasionally the situation is reversed, or, like Andre, the guy calls when he says he will) But still, this is not a good state of affairs.

Why do we have this constant mis-firing of communication? According to men, they are keeping to their word. And according to women, they aren’t.

It seems quite simple to me: men’s words and women’s words mean totally different things.

Based on extensive research with all my male and female friends, I have compiled a detailed list of common verbal agreements made by men and women when they are making arrangements to see someone of the opposite sex again (relevant to friends as well as prospective and current lovers).

This list is intended to help decipher the different meanings behind normal statements. It took me a while to get the info, so I reserve the right to think it is funny/useful/insightful.

You have the right to print this out and refer back to it, if you wish, especially if you are a man – if you want that second date, make sure you ring her within 3 days - if it gets you laid, a credit would be nice, cheers. (If you are married, you already know all of this, but this list might refresh your memory a little and help you to get back in your partners good books, male or female. Again, if you get a shag out of it, a credit would be nice).

What women say:

I’ll call you in the morning – means before 12pm
I’ll call you in the afternoon – means before 5pm
I’ll call you in the morning to confirm our lunch date – means before 11am
I’ll call you in the afternoon to confirm our evening date – means before 4pm
I’ll call you later – means later that day
I’ll call you tomorrow – means tomorrow
I’ll call you midweek – means between Tuesday and Thursday
I’ll call you at the end of the week – means Thursday or Friday
I’ll call you at the weekend – means Friday to Sunday
I’ll call you after the weekend – means Monday or Tuesday
I’ll call you in a couple of days – means 2-3 days
I’ll call you in a few days – means 3-5 days
I’ll call you in a week – means within 7 days
I’ll call you in a couple of weeks – means within 2-3 weeks
I’ll call you soon – means within a month
I’ll call you sometime – means I am not that eager to see you, but perhaps we’ll meet up again sometime; I’ll keep your phone number handy just in case
I’ll call you – means please call me

What men say:

I’ll call you in the morning – means before 5pm
I’ll call you in the afternoon – means before 9pm
I’ll call you in the morning to confirm our lunch date – means around 12pm
I’ll call you in the afternoon to confirm our evening date – means around 6pm
I’ll call you later – means anytime in the future
I’ll call you tomorrow – means at some point in the next few days
I’ll call you midweek – means anytime between Wednesday and Sunday
I’ll call you at the end of the week – means Sunday or Monday
I’ll call you at the weekend – means Sunday or Monday
I’ll call you after the weekend – means anytime from Monday to Friday
I’ll call you in a couple of days – means 4-6 days
I’ll call you in a few days – means 7-10 days
I’ll call you in a week – means around 2-3 weeks
I’ll call you in a couple of weeks – means about a month
I’ll call you soon – means I am not that eager to see you, but perhaps we’ll meet up again sometime; I’ll keep your phone number handy just in case
I’ll call you sometime – means I have no interest in seeing you again and will delete your phone number from my mobile whilst travelling home
I’ll call you – means I won’t ever call you again

So you see ladies, it’s not that men are intentionally being selfish thoughtless bastards by not responding when they say they will; it’s just that what they mean when they say something does not correspond with what we mean when we say it.

And likewise, all you lads out there, we are not being whinging, moaning bitches when we complain you don’t call us; it’s that you don’t call when you SAY you are going to that bugs us so much.

I think that if more men and women realised the basic differences in the meanings behind words we use, then our communication would drastically improve; resulting in us not spending so much wasted time being exasperated, angry, disappointed and hurt. We all have better things to do with our time – like shagging for example.

So, have a look at the list, see if there’ s anything you can take from it, or anything that needs to be added to it, and let me know what you think.

I’m not a very superstitious person. I’m not of the belief that if I walk under a ladder, break a mirror, or step on the cracks on the pavement, that bad things will come my way. Nor for that matter, will good things come my way, should I have 3 fiddles before I leave the house, wear matching black satin bra and panties and stare at men’s crotches all day. (I should know, I’ve tried)

But I am a believer of fate. Call it what you will – destiny, karma, the cycle of life – it all comes down to my own personal belief that what you contribute to the world comes back to you in some way: positive energy breeds positivity, negative energy breeds negativity.

[That’s not to say that people deserve any kind of tragedy in their lives, whether it be illness, misfortune or unhappiness because of something they have done. Far from it.]

I think in the smaller scale of things though, the karma rule applies: if you treat people with respect, dignity and honesty, then you will be rewarded with the same back.

And in the bigger scale – relationships, work, sex - what goes around comes around: when one door closes, another one will open. That all of life’s experiences are for a reason. That things can and do, get better.

So it is with this thought that I find myself now, in a period of transition; at a crossroads. A door in my life has recently shut. I am more than a little scared. But I am excited too. I have the feeling that the next few months will be a huge learning process for me, filled with challenges on both a professional and personal level. I look forward to this, and am intimidated by this, equally.

Maybe my life was fated to be this way – to be in this place, here and now – to be trying to find some answers to all the questions currently swimming around my head.

Or maybe things are just fucked up, I am at a loose end, and am attempting to put my usual positive spin on the world to help me cope. I don’t know.

But what I do know is, though there are many doors behind me right now that seem firmly shut, locked, and with no access to the keys, all that means is that many more must lie ahead of me, waiting for me to open them: another relationship, a career, some kinky rampant sex – all these things are waiting to be discovered, explored and incorporated into my life. I hope so, anyway.

And I also hope that I will have to have the courage to go seek these things out, to be perceptive enough to know when I encounter them, and also to be able to embrace them when I do find them: opportunity is one thing, missing the chance to take it when it comes along, is an entirely different story...

Vibrators should be banned.

Evil evil contraptions.

Forget wanking; they seem to exist solely to aid in the art of procrastination.

You see, for people like me - lazy wankers - having a vibrator is like adding petrol to a fire: it only increases the laziness whilst fuelling the fire that burns within.

Let me explain:

A normal (non-film set) day might consist of waking up feeling horny, rubbing one out quickly, getting in the shower, having a coffee and getting to work on the pc.

If I am lucky, a few hours might pass before the horn strikes again, during which time, there would be some work to show for the time spent on the keyboard.

Now, if I didn't have a vibrator, I wouldn't bother to go and have a fiddle during the day. Not only does it interupt the work process, but the time needed to be spent frigging with my keyboard-tired fingers is not conducive to good time management. Or in English: I take longer to climax using my fingers. (I have some sympathy for men here, it can get boring trying to make a woman come with the hands sometimes - I should know, I am a woman).

So there's my vibrator, looking at me, all lovely and sexy with its 6" of pink squidginess Not that it for one minute can take the place of a man (or even a cock), but since all it takes is 2 AA batteries, the insertion into a wet pussy and 5 minutes of grinding against it to produce an earth-shattering climax, one can see the attraction of using it.

Fine. A quick wank, no repetitive strain injury to my fingers, and back to work, right? Wrong. When it's over and I'm blissed out in that lovely post-orgasmic way, I should by all rights jump up, and head back to work. But you see, the little devil machine begins to call -

"I'm here, waiting. I'm ready to throb inside you. Look, new batteries, I'll buzz as hard as you want. You can have me slow and deep, or fast and shallow. Don't you want to feel me inside you? Don't you want to come again?"

- and I find myself looking wistfully at my toy, knowing that I should just get up, ignore it and return to work.

But I can't. Not only am I an addict to my horniness, but I am a procrastinator too. The toy is a distraction for me, and one that I feel unable to turn down: I wasted god knows how long today, having 5 plays - the time could have been spent doing something much more productive than having orgasms, and I hate myself for giving in to such a short-lived pleasure, when it doesn't result in anything positive in the long term.

And not only that, but then I write about it here - I must truly have a screw loose - I need to work! So, I am considering chucking the toy, if there is some environmentally friendly way to recycle these things it would be good to know. Or failing that, buy a mini-safe, lock it up and give a trusted friend the key; someone that wouldn't allow me to have it unless I begged for it.

Actually, hold on... wouldn't it just be easier to get a chastity belt for myself?

39 hours.

39 bloody hours.

I'm no good at this abstaining malarkey: less than 40 hours into my smug "I'm not going to play with myself" mantra, I was utilising my fingers in the task they perform best at - that is, seeking and acheiving an orgasm for yours truly.

I had such high hopes - I was doing so well: I stumbled in last night drunk and horny and managed to ignore my vibrator looking suggestively sexy and taunting me with it's delicious possibilities.

But this morning, being hung over combined with the raging horn was just too much for me: I frigged myself into oblivion (and felt guilty about it too).

Plus, the frustration I have felt over the (seemingly never-ending) 39 hours resulted in my having to have 5 plays today, to make up for lost time, which was as always, enjoyably pleasant and I think I almost ejaculated (something which has to my eternal sex-fiended frustation, evaded me), since I gushed all over the place.

But it has resulted in Nil Points for me: Zero words on paper. No progression with work. A fucking waste of time.

It's all very well and good having lots of orgasms (and obviously I am crap at trying to abstain from having them), but I hate the fact that I am such a slave to my desires, especially since it's preventing me from focussing on what I need to do.

I really need to get my arse in gear and produce some results soon. Wanking unfortunately just detracts from my ability to do that. If there was a way of turning off my 'on' switch, I'd be grateful to know it: I really am at a loose end right now...

So far, so good.

It's been 30 whole hours and I haven't yet had a play.

And I am drunk.

And I have been talking about sex all day.

And I am horny as hell.

But I am going to fight off the temptation: I shall succeed at the task I have set myself: 2000 words on paper.

Not on the blog, no, real life work; stuff I need to do.

As luck would have it, my social life is currently blooming - lunches, dinners, and drinks have been had every day this week - all great fun, but friends and wine on a daily basis aren't a good combination for actually being able to get my head down and work.

So after this weekend, I may fuck off for a bit and try to knuckle down and produce something positive. Which means I may not update for a short while.

Rest assured I'll be back soon: with my abstaining from playing, I'll be a ravenous monster in a few days (ok, hours), so by the time I return, I'll have a backlog of horniness to contend with and write up...

I should be asleep by now.

Especially since today was at varying points spent hungover, then tipsy, then drunk again. This added to the chomping down of painkillers to stop my belly aching, and an insomniacal last night combined with an early morning today, means I should be knackered.

But instead my brain is wide awake; I am filled with (in order of their capacity in my brain):

1) Thinking about sex
2) Having creative ideas
3) Worrying about work

And in some annoyingly ironic way, right now, all three are currently related to each other; by thinking about one, it involves the others and vice versa. But doesn't make it any easier for me to try to find some clarity or focus on one above the other.

For example:

If I (allow myself to) think about sex, then all that happens is that 30 minutes more of my day is wasted, since any horny thoughts inevitably lead to compulsive playing on my part. Which is all very well for being able to tick number 1) off the list, but by doing it, it prevents me from doing 2) and 3) which is a bad thing.

Plus, doing 1) is only temporary: it's not like one frig lasts all day and stops me from being horny again. Sadly all it does is just take the 'edge' off, leaving me at some point having to do it again later on. Stopping me from doing 2) and 3) again.

A vicious cycle, see.

And not one that can currently be broken.

Though I am thinking about perhaps abstaining from indulging myself in my desires for a little while so that I might be able to concentrate better on being creative and sorting out my working situation. That way, I figure, my playing won't contribute to my being a queen procrastinator, and I will acheive my current objectives, goals and dreams.

Well, I am thinking about it anyway.

Whether or not I'll be able to achieve it is another matter, since I am an addict of hand-to-pussy action and not sure that cold-turkey is the best remedy for someone like me.

Still, I have a good mind to try it. Perhaps I should do a countdown type thing on the blog, showing how long I have managed not to play so far?

For starters then: 7 hours and counting...

I am normally quite a rational woman.

No really, I am.

But for a few days each month, I transform into someone I hardly recognise.

I become irrational, cannot think straight and interact with the world in an entirely strange way.

Men try to understand what it is like to be a woman experiencing menstruation, they attempt to be sympathetic and supportive and unjudgmental (and I love them for trying).

But they do not truly understand why or how the transformation that happens in the woman they know, or love, takes place.

Let me try to explain what it is like.

7 days before my period: I become crazily horny. Not just your normal, "ooh I really fancy a hard cock inside me fucking me hard" kind of horny. No. Nothing like that at all. You know when you are so craven for sex that you look through your phone book, see the name of an ex you haven't spoken to for 5 years, who wasn't even that good in bed, and you consider calling them to ask for a quick shag for 'old times sake'? Well times that by 100.

I'm talking so fucking horny that you do call them. And try to go over there to get some sex. And if/when you do get a shag, you are so craven that you leave marks on their body.
I'm talking so fucking horny that when you've just finished climaxing from one frig, your clit starts throbbing and you're already halfway into the next frig.
I'm talking so fucking horny that you run out of AA batteries. Three times.
I'm talking so fucking horny that your vibrator breaks from too frequent use.
I'm talking so fucking horny that there's no point wearing underwear, since it ends up permanently wet.
I'm talking so fucking horny that everything you do, think or say has a connection to sex: chopping up a courgette for dinner warrants a quick wank; listening to a good song on your ipod warrants a nifty frig; seeing a cute man walk down the street warrants a speedy fiddle. Everything seems connected to sex.

4 days before my period I become emotional: I get upset at the smallest things and find myself weeping uncontrollably.

I get upset about an advert featuring cute animals on tv. I have been known to cry at Andrex commercials - the very same ones that I switch off in disgust at any other time, feeling that my intelligence has been insulted by the patheticness and cheesiness that they portray.
I get upset because I have to wait in line too long at the supermarket.
I get upset about all the injustice in the world.
I get upset by people that bump into me on the street.
I get upset that I have not 'made it' in life yet.
I get upset that I am single and lonely and obviously unlovable and will end up being a spinster.

3 days before my period I become angry: I experience fury at the smallest things and find myself swearing out loud and wanting to fight anyone who approaches me.

I get angry that the bus driver pulls off without waiting for the elderly person to find a seat.
I get angry that the line at the supermarket is too long.
I get angry that the tube gets stuck in a tunnel for half an hour and the driver doesn't tell us why. And there is no air conditioning. And the man next to me smells of BO. And my ipod batteries are flat.
I get angry that I voted Labour in 1997 to get the Tories out, knowing that Blair and his cohorts would betray their promises, but hoping that they might still invoke some change.
I get angry by people who bump into me in the street and don't say "sorry".
I get angry with myself for being such a fucking procrastinator and not getting my head down to make the changes in my life I need to make to be happier.
I get angry with myself for always resorting to masturbation as a way of avoiding getting my head down.

2 days before my period I get back pain. Like how you feel when you've been standing for hours; your lower back aches and feels tender. My breasts swell. They no longer fit into my bras. They are heavy, painful and tender to touch. They ache when I walk. My skin breaks out. I look like a teenager with hormonal spots. They are painful and unappealing to look at. My hair becomes greasy. Where once I had lush locks, it then turns stringy, shiny and lank. My abdomen swells. No amount of 'sucking it in' makes it lie flat. I look 3 months pregnant. I don't recognise my body - it doesn't feel like 'me'. I get crazy food cravings:

Protein: cheese, red meat (as rare as possible), spinach, nuts.
Chocolate: 70% cocoa dark chocolate
Alcohol: red wine.

1 day before my period I feel sick. Vomiting seems moments away. Nausea strikes randomly and often. I feel faint. Passing out seems too close for comfort. I grab hold of things to stop myself falling over. My stomach hurts. It feels tender and swollen and throbs with a dull, deep pain.

Day 0: the pain begins, steadily. It feels like someone has a knife in my abdomen and is tugging away at my insides. I feel dizzy from its intensity. My pussy feels like it has been kicked. Hard. The pain, though it is ever present, comes in waves, contractions, cramps. Everything clenches up into a tight knot, twisting, turning, tugging, burning. It makes me retch and gag. I pull myself out of bed to put something in my stomach so that I may then take some painkillers: 3 Ibruprofen, 2 paracetamol, 1 tab of codeine (I know the daily and combined limits of each). They take over an hour to kick in, an hour of agony lying still and waiting. And when they do, the pain is still present, but the edge has been taken off it. In comparison it is bliss: I feel human again. But the downside of the painkillers is the drowsiness: yes, they mean I can stand up (and work if I have to), but they slow my brain down, make me want to lie down and sleep, not conducive to a day on a film set.

Day 0: the bleeding starts. It makes me feel weak, nauseated, fragile. It always looks more and worse than it is, I'm sure. But every month, I look down at the tampon or pad, and think, "jesus that's a lot of blood coming out of me". I know this is what makes me a woman, but I resent the incapacity of this, the amount of bloodloss, the needing to visit the toilet frequently. In the man's world of movies I work in, having to change a tampon every hour or so, doesn't quite fit in with the need to be on set all the time, and fighting off the comments I get as a result of this angers me.

Day 0: I lose my sex drive. I know, surprising. Me, the Girl with the one-track mind and all. But with agonising pain in my belly and back, tender breasts, and heavy bleeding, it would take a lot for me to be in the mood. That isn't to say I can't be convinced (and I have), but the thought of sex is far from my mind. Instead I am counting down the minutes and hours till my next intake of painkillers: a true addict to the drugs.

Day +1: I get my sex drive back. Having a quick frig whilst increasing the blood flow (post orgasm), actually ends up lessening the pain. There is a direct correlation between the amount of orgasms I have and the amount of pain I am in: more climaxes = fewer cramps. So I end up fiddling as much as possible. The bloodloss is now manageable, the pain is slightly less, and I feel more rational. I can think straight, am not beating myself up for things I haven't yet achieved, and feel positively happy about still being single.

Day +2: I feel distinctly sexy. Womanly. Vivacious. My confidence reappears, my body seems more familiar to me, my sex drive seems normal again. I have regained myself and feel happy once more. Life can continue as normal.

And after 4 or so more days, I return to just being The Girl and the monthly cycle begins once more.

It's weird to become this different person for a few days each month. I hate it: feeling even more a slave to my hormones than I normally am. Plus, it takes a good friend or lover to understand and be compassionate about the mood swings that can accompany this process.

I am not trying in this post to justify someone being a bitch, just because they might be menstruating at the time, but I am attempting to shed some light on why some women might be perceived as acting out of character occasionally, with no obvious provocation. A little understanding and compassion about this can go a long way.

As does regular orgasms. If more men realised that by giving their partner an orgasm (or 5), whilst she is menstruating, then,

a) she'd be in less pain
b) she'd be in a better mood (with them)
c) she'd then be more receptive to a good shag

I reckon they'd be happier too. It's worth a try right?

A few years ago I fell in love with a guy who was already in a relationship.

O and I met through an internet dating website. I can’t remember who saw whose profile first.

It was obvious that we had a good connection; we started exchanging twice- daily emails immediately and progressed onto instant messaging and phone calls shortly afterwards.

We had a lot in common, both in our outlooks and in the things we enjoyed doing, and the ease with which we got to know each other was startling; within weeks we felt like old friends, taking the piss out of each other and being able to be upfront and honest about our thoughts and feelings.

It was at this point, some months after we had first ‘met’ online, that O told me he had a girlfriend. In fact, the way he put it was:

“I’m not married, but I’m not quite single either”.

This threw me. I was confused as to why O would be on a dating website if he already had a partner. I questioned him. He said that he wasn’t happy with where he was at: he had used the site as an ego boost to make him feel better about himself.

Of course at this point I should have said,

“Later mate”,

and put the phone down. But I didn’t.

I mean, I knew that I was attracted to him (though I hadn’t met him face to face yet), and I also knew that he was attached. Big ‘no-no’ in my book. But I was so curious: who was this man who was able to make me laugh so hard my stomach hurt? Who was this guy who would challenge me on my sexism and point out the inaccuracies in my argument? Who was this person that made me feel intelligent and interesting and special?

There was only one way to find out, and that would be to meet him. I know, alarm bells ringing and all that. But you see, I was going in there with open eyes – the full knowledge of his taken status – no way was I going to get involved: I am worth more than being the ‘other woman’ and no way did I want to break up another relationship.

So, surely with our fantastic mental connection, we can be great friends, right? At least, this is what I told myself as we made plans to get together for a drink later that week.

He had the most beautiful blue eyes. When he smiled, his whole face lit up, and the laughter lines circling his eyes sculpted his features in such a way, that his whole soul seemed to be smiling too. He had a habit of touching my hand when he laughed and when he did, I felt some kind of energy enter my skin and penetrate right through to the bone: it was electric.

I had been so nervous meeting him, thought that maybe he would be disappointed when he finally got to see me in real life, or that perhaps we wouldn’t get on like we had, when we weren’t face to face. All my worries were dispelled when he greeted me: he grinned at me and gave me a massive hug, telling me,

“God, it’s so good to finally meet you!”

And when we sat down in the pub we had chosen to be our meet point, it was as if two old friends were getting together: we laughed and chatted with total ease, there was no awkwardness of any sort.

Of course I fancied the pants off him. Here was an intelligent, dynamic, sexy man whom I could talk to all night with total ease, and whom with I would laugh so hard I could snort out loud and not feel embarrassed about it. (He told me later he loved my ‘pig’ noises; that it made me endearing). I would be mad not to fancy him. But I knew he had a girlfriend, so he was out of bounds in my book.

It didn’t help that on my way home that night, he texted me:

“I had a wonderful time tonight Girl. You are a truly amazing and gorgeous woman. I hope we can do this again soon. xx”

And when I got that text, my heart pounded. I felt so high, it was as if I was back in 1989 and was 3 hours into a Cali trip. The little voice inside me saying,

“Stop. Hold it right there. Don’t touch him – he’s already taken”

was speaking very quietly, let me tell you. I reread his text over and over, and went to bed that night imagining I was lying in bed with him, feeling him pressed against me.

And so we carried on. We spoke daily, on the phone, IM, or email. We would meet up every few weeks, go out to eat, to the cinema, or for a quiet drink somewhere. O would sit across from me and stare at me, smiling: he later told me how much he treasured those moments, that he wished he could watch me 24 hours a day, that he loved to see me smile.

After about 6 months, I invited him over to my house. We drank some wine and sat on the couch, like two nervous teenagers. I think I made the first move, leaning in to kiss him gently on the mouth. He smiled at me and pulled me to him, stroking my hair and caressing my face.

We went into my bedroom and got on the bed. I can recall how O looked as if it were yesterday: lying next to me, his shirt slightly undone, the top of his chest hair poking out, huge grin on his face. I undid each button on that shirt as if I were unlocking a beautiful treasure. And I was. To finally feel his skin against mine, the warmth of his body pressed against me, the passion in his breath as he kissed me: that truly was something special.

We made love that night. Not fucked. Not a shagadelic one-night stand. No, we made love. It was beautiful, passionate and full of emotion. I remember crying as I climaxed: it was so intense. We lay there afterwards for hours, looking deeply into each other’s eyes, finally falling asleep in each other’s arms.

When I awoke, I freaked out.

It hit home what had just happened. He had a girlfriend. I was the ‘other woman’.

What the fuck was I doing?

I felt like I had to get out of there, get him out of there, get away from him. My heart felt like a white-hot poker had sliced through it and I fought to rid myself of the pain. The only thing I could do, I figured, was deal with O as if it had been a one-night stand: jump in the shower, have a quick coffee, goodbye, thank you very much, have a nice life. That way, I figured, I wouldn’t have to deal with him rejecting me – which let’s face it, was inevitable, given the situation – and added to that, I could put to the back of my mind, how much I hated myself for allowing what had just happened to happen.

My heart pounded with the loneliness of heart-break. My conscience began its process of self-mutilation and humiliation. My guilt started stabbing away, attacking my soul.

Quick, get him out, Get him out. The faster he goes, the less you have to think about what happened. If he goes now, then you can just pretend it didn’t happen. Quick quick.

But he didn’t want to go. O sat down with the paper and his coffee and looked relaxed.

Go. I need you to go.

He came up behind me as I was washing up the cups and put his arms around me, kissing my neck.

Please. Just go. It hurts.

He turned me around and ran his hand across my chest, letting his fingers rest on my nipples.

Stop. I don’t want to like that. It makes me want you. I don’t want to want you.

He began to kiss me deeply and his hand travelled downwards. His fingers parted my thighs and slipped between my legs.

No. Not that. I don’t want this to be pleasurable.

He moved his hand inside my pants and felt my wetness.

He knows. He knows that I want him. I can’t hide it. I want him.

I kissed him back. I held him close. I felt my body respond to his touch and I allowed myself to climax as he slid his fingers inside me, as if he owned the release of my pleasure.

We ended up going back upstairs and making passionate love again. And when he finally left, later that evening, my mind was a whirlwind of desire, happiness and confusion.

The pleasure didn’t last long. I knew what I had done, what we had done. I hated him for being intimate with me when he had a girlfriend waiting for him at home. I hated myself even more for succumbing to my desire for him.

And yet.

And yet I still saw him. I participated in this deceit for many more weeks, seeing him whenever he could ‘escape’, catching any moment he had free to speak with him, share with him. Sometimes we would just be able to meet for a drink, no sex, and we would sit, hand in hand looking at each other. He would tell me that if that’s all he could have, that is what he wanted: an image of me smiling at him so he could go to sleep at night dreaming of me.

When he was with me, it was perfect, I felt like he adored me. And I adored him back. I was smitten, it is fair to say. I stopped thinking about ‘her’ and began to just think about me and him. And I tried to convince myself that I didn’t have feelings for him, that I was attracted to him, but that it was purely sexual, nothing more. That way, I figured, it would be easier when it all ended.

When O and I discussed his ‘situation’, he would say that he was unhappy with his relationship, but that he hadn’t been able to put his finger on why. That he was bored. That it held no spark. That he didn’t know where it was going. He said he hadn’t expected to meet someone and have such an amazing connection with them, that I had thrown him into turmoil. That he had feelings for me, but that he loved his girlfriend too. But when he was with me, he wanted to be with me, but when he was with his girlfriend, he felt guilty for betraying her.

So I fucked someone else. I did it to be on an equal par to him: he was sleeping with his girlfriend – I should have someone else too. I also did it to remind myself that I was desirable, that I could have any man if I wanted, that he wasn’t the only man in my life. But, mostly I fucked someone else to forget about him and numb myself to the pain I was feeling about being with him.

And how did it make me feel? Shit. I mean, whilst I was in bed with them, I felt great: had lots of fun, had some great sex, felt liberated. But a few days later I would remember how I felt about O, and revert back to feeling crap. Sex with other men was just a temporary distraction so that I didn’t have to think about him. But sooner or later I was going to have to deal with how I felt and act on it.

So I stopped calling him, and delayed replying to his emails, calls and texts. I made excuses about not being able to see him. And we grew further apart.

Until one day, we were no longer speaking. I busied myself with work, and with fucking a few different guys, and for a while, I managed to put O to the back of my mind.

Some months later, with distance finally between us, and my heart a little less wounded, I emailed him. I explained how I felt: about hating us both for what we had done; about my falling in love with him; about not wanting to be the ‘other woman’; about what a beautiful person I thought he was; about regretting never saying ‘goodbye’; and about how I would never be able to see or speak to him again.

He responded immediately. He too regretted the lack of ‘closure’ in our relationship. He told me he had cared for me deeply – was in love with me too, but that he also still loved his girlfriend and didn’t know what to do. He said he had never thought he would be the sort of man to cheat, but when faced with a “beautiful, intelligent, funny, sexy, wonderful woman” who was interested in him too, he had followed his heart and just “gone with it”, not knowing how it would end up, but knowing that “at least one person” would get hurt at the end of it, and not knowing whether it would be me or his girlfriend. He thanked me for calling it off, saying that he didn’t have the balls to end something that he loved so much, but that by ending it, I had ensured that any pain, would be lessened in the long term, but that he was sorry that it was me feeling it. He told me he wished he could still be friends with me, that imagining me not in his life was an awful thing, but that he understood my wishing to not see him again. And he wrote me a poem and said goodbye.

It took every ounce of strength I had not to respond back to his email. To be able to leave it there, with the proper closure it needed, and know it was in the past.

I never thought I would get involved with someone who was already in a relationship. I definitely never would have thought that I would fall in love with them. And I could never imagine that I would have the strength to be the one to break it off, before they ended it.

I did. I have no idea how, but I did. I’m not proud that I had sex with another woman’s man, and I certainly wouldn’t do it again, not in a million years.

But to know that there was a man out there with whom I had such an intense connection, that I know (regardless of him being a cheating bastard), cared for me deeply, and that I could be totally at ease with, and let him into my heart and soul, well that gives me some hope: if I can have something so beautiful with one man, why not another?

I know it’s just a matter of time. Some random act of fate, or chance meeting or strange co-incidence will throw us both together. And it’ll all fit: the right person, the right time, the right place in life. And of course, he’ll be single. That goes without saying…

Monday = 2
Tuesday = 3
Wednesday = 4
Thursday = 4
Today = 5 (and counting)

That's the current tally for this week.

No, not how many men I snogged.

Nor is it the amount of well-paid glamorous jobs I turned down.

No: it's just the number of times each day that my hand has wandered in between my legs in order to satisfy my craven desire.

Not much has changed in The Girl's world then: a lack of sex, as horny as ever, and the added challenge of hormonal neediness due to the usual monthly pre-menstrual tension.

But this month's PMT week has seemed a little more frustrating for me: not only in the amount of times that I am playing right now, but also with the content of my fantasies.

Usually I am just your 'normal' type of girl: I feel horny, someone springs to mind, I grab my favourite vibe, or utilise a couple of fingers, imagine fucking that person and then bring myself off (just the once thank you very much, I am not so greedy on my own. Actually, I am just lazy and can't be bothered to carry on).

This week however, I have felt depraved, dirty, base even.

The normal 'ooh he's sexy, god I'd like to feel his cock inside me' has been far from my mind.

Instead I have been imagining more extreme scenarios, ones where I am called a 'dirty little slut', am bent over, spanked firmly and then fucked hard from behind. Where I have no say in what happens; the guy uses his cock to fuck me in whatever way he pleases, and I just take it.

In these fantasies, there is no agreement or consent on my part about what happens, the guy just takes what he wants (unlike in real life, where a discussion should always take place about what is ok and what isn't: sex must always involve consensual agreement without coercion). But in my mind, the thought of a guy taking control, using me for his own pleasure, feeling the rawness of his passion: jesus that gets me off.

So whilst I've been lying there this week, with my hand in between my legs fantasising, the guy isn't asking me if 'it's ok' or what I 'might want'; he is instead pushing me over a couch, pulling my skirt up, ripping my pants off and shoving his cock inside me hard.Of course this is something I'd like to explore in real life (after talking through the scenario with someone of course), but I feel almost embarrassed to say to a guy, "Would you please take advantage of me and fuck me so hard with your cock, I am gasping to catch my breath?"

I mean, it doesn't quite match my feminist outlook, does it? I guess I still haven't got my head around what seems like a contradiction to me: fulfilling my desire to be dominated vs. not perpetuating the stereotype of women only being passive creatures waiting to be seduced.Plus as much as I desire the forceful dominant man to have his wicked way with me in my fantasies, I guess life would be boring if the tables were never turned and I didn't get to do the same with him: it's nice to be on top, literally.

So here's to a busy weekend, lots of playing, and thoughts of being fucked as hard as I can take it, with a dash of strap-on male arse-fucking for good measure.

[Disclaimer: anyone squeamish or who objects to extreme BDSM practises, please read no further, thanks]

The dungeon was not what I expected.

Instead of arriving at Tower of London-type castle with a moat and a drawbridge, I instead knocked on the door of an average looking block of flats in the city of London. I breathed a slight sigh of relief.

I was led into an inconspicuous duplex: the top floor consisting of a lounge, kitchen, bedrooms and study, but the many rooms in the basement were dedicated to the practice of various forms of sexual play.

The dungeon itself consisted of a room painted black, lined with mirrors, and two walls filled, floor to ceiling with every instrument of torture one could imagine: whips to paddles, rope to chains. I had never seen so many items and was a little overwhelmed by them, not knowing what half of them were used for. I soon learned: I’ll come to that later. But let me first explain how I came to be in a dungeon.

My friend F is a professional dominatrix. That is to say, men (and for her, it is always men), hire her to induce pain and suffering on them: she specialises in humiliation and degradation.

For some years I turned a blind eye to what she did for a living, not really wanting to know how it was that she earned her money. Not liking BDSM was one thing, knowing that men paid her to hurt them, was another. As far as I was concerned – out of sight was out of mind.

F had offered many times for me to sit in on a session so that I might see what she did and gain some insight into the fetish/bondage/sex scene that she was involved with. Many times I politely declined and was content with her sordid tales; seeing it happen was another thing altogether.

But after experimenting with K, I was more curious. Who were these men who paid women to abuse them? Why did they do it? And what was hardcore BDSM really like? I knew that I would have to accompany F to one of her sessions to find out. And so, with that, I found myself, terrified out of my brain, watching a man being tortured with his consent.

I had met the guy earlier. He was a non-descript chap in his mid-thirties, single, working in IT, a little shy. In return for letting me sit-in on his session, he had requested that I ‘looked the part too’ in order not to break with the whole fantasy. So I had agreed to accept and dress up in his gifts to me of a rubber dress and some 6-inch platform stilettos. (I did feel uncomfortable about this: I’m not the sort of woman to accept money or gifts from men I don’t know – feels like prostitution to me – I took his purchases grudgingly).

The dress was very difficult to get it on. Not only was it very tight, but the zipper ran from the chest down to the thighs, making it hard to do up. Plus, it was obviously only meant for a C cup in the bust, as my DD’s were spilling out all over the place. (But I was assured by F that this was a bonus in the S & M field). Anyway, after managing to zip it up, I then had to close the 5 buckles that ran across the zipper, from the top to the bottom of the dress. (Not that there was a ‘bottom’ to the dress: it barely covered mine – I was glad I had panties on that day).

So I’m standing there, barely able to breathe, in this amazingly tight rubber dress, which ends at the top of my thighs, and has a 4 inch gap before the tops of my stockings. I’m trying to balance in these outrageously high stilettos and I take a look at myself in the mirror.

I was amazed at what I saw.

Until this moment, I had never understood why people fetishise about rubber. As far as I was concerned, those people were just weird. I mean, getting excited about a fabric? Please. Get a life. It’s just a garment for crissake.

Wrong.

Upon looking at my reflection, I finally understood. I looked HOT. This rubber dress clung to every curve on my body. Its tightness was like a corset, holding everything in, and accentuating my figure. It highlighted my shape. It displayed my breasts in all their glory, proudly cupping them as if they were the firmest, roundest bosoms in all the world. It curved around my arse, squeezing the cheeks together like two delicious hardboiled eggs strapped up in clingfilm. It smoothed my body into an hourglass, a shiny, sleek, sexy shape. I felt like a seductress and I loved how it made me feel.

Of course I didn’t want to go next door into the dungeon. My pussy was wet: I wanted to play instead.

I was shocked by this. Wearing a rubber dress = horniness? What? There must be something wrong, surely it was just weird men who got off on that? I really couldn’t get it into my head that just by putting the dress on I had got horny; it was difficult for me to accept that perhaps I had a fetish for rubber too – and that until I actually tried it, I didn’t know. (Not much has changed since then: whenever I put a rubber dress on now (not often, sadly), I get wet immediately, like it’s an aphrodisiac).

My friend F came to find me, since I had taken my time. She loved how I looked and paraded me around the house, where all the other Dommes congratulated me and said, “you’ll be a Domme yet!” (no thanks).

Anyway, finally the session with the client began.

I was of course extremely nervous. Although I had discussed many times with F that I would not participate in any way, I was still anxious and uncomfortable about the whole thing, even if I was just observing. (To F’s credit, she made me a priority and constantly checked to see if I was ok with what was going on).

The first thing I noticed was F’s initials on the client’s naked arse cheeks. The letters were scars, having been ‘branded’ onto him with a type of heated poker. I understand this is reasonably frequent in this type of practice. I found it strange though: how would he explain this to a future partner? “Oh don’t worry dear, my last girlfriend branded me with her initials”? I don’t think so.

F strapped the client onto a type of table. His hands and feet were bound with ropes and chains. Ok, I thought, simple enough, nothing too heavy, I can cope with this.

When F started slapping the client around, I didn’t think much of it either, since it wasn’t all that different to what I had done with K.

But when F tied some rope tightly in between and around the client’s testicles and then strapped them to a pulley, which lifted them above his body, I began to have second thoughts about the whole thing.

I could see he was in obvious pain: his body was pinned down, his balls being pulled up. They started to go purple. I felt sick. And so did he, since he grimaced and moaned.

But instead of releasing his balls, F abused him verbally. I’m not going to repeat word for word what she said, but the gist was that she was trying to humiliate him. And when that didn’t have the effect she wanted, she spat into his mouth. Yes, spat. Gobbed. Big ball of saliva.

The client just smiled at her and swallowed it. F told him he was a good boy and then tapped her cigarette into his mouth, as if it were an ashtray. (She repeated this and the facial spitting numerous times that evening)

I thought about leaving at that point. Some pain I can understand, but to be abused: that I could not cope with. I found it very disturbing.

But somehow I hung in there. Probably because my curiosity about human nature got the better of me.

After a while, F undid the client (though left the rope tied around his balls) and he moved to another contraption, a type of half-table where the client lies against it as if he were bent over a couch. He was duly strapped to that, with chains this time and F proceeded to use some of the ‘toys’ I had seen lined up against the wall earlier.

I lost count of the types of tools she used. I recall various whips, paddles, canes, crops and wooden rulers. What I did notice was the amount of blood that was criss-crossing his arse. It looked so painful and I didn’t understand why someone would get pleasure from that much discomfort. I mean, I had whipped K, sure, and left red marks, but never drawn blood. That just seemed to me to be taking things to far. But at the back of my mind I was trying to convince myself, “Each to their own. Don’t judge others just because you wouldn’t do it”, and shortly after, I found even this mantra didn’t help the way I was feeling.

At some point F got out a strap-on. For those of you who don’t know what this is, it’s generally a latex (or similar) dildo, which is held in a leather (or similar) harness and then worn by woman for the purposes of penetration. I had seen this used in pornography, never before in real life.

F put the strap-on on, and proceeded to fuck the client up the arse with it.

Now, I have on occasion, thought about and hoped to do this with a partner. Surely it’s just a step further on from having a couple of fingers in there stroking his g-spot?

And watching a man being penetrated was a turn-on for me. It showed me that,

a) I like to watch sex
b) I like penetration (of any sort), either watching, doing or being done to
c) I want to fuck a man up the arse

My using a strap-on hasn’t happened yet (one can always hope) but in my fantasies, when I do it to a guy, it’s sensual, careful and sexy: a turn on for the guy, and thus me.

Not so in this case. F was violent, forceful and ignoring the client’s cries of pain. She thrust it in and out of him like she was raping him. (It was only later that I realised that this was a small manifestation of her hatred of men – a way of getting her ‘own back’). The client didn’t seem to be enjoying it; F on the other hand was having loads of fun.

And when she pulled the strap-on out of his arse and forced him to lick his arse juice off the condom, I again thought about getting out of there, I was so turned off and disgusted by what she was doing.

Luckily the session was almost at an end. But before it did, there was the small matter of his orgasm to contend with. Throughout the session, his cock had been totally flaccid, and I had wondered if the whole S & M Dominatrix thing was only a mental fantasy, especially since F swore that she never performed any ‘sexual’ acts on her clients.

But it wasn’t just a mental thing. F told the client she wanted him to cum, and he got hard immediately. She then instructed him to climax when she said her name and proceeded to spell out her entire name. And so the client grabbed his cock and in front of F and me, he wanked himself off, finally climaxing as she said her name in full, spunking a wad all over her latex-clad hand, which she then shoved into his mouth. If I wasn’t so disgusted by the whole thing, I might have been impressed. But as it was, I was pretty sick to my stomach by then.

And watching his cock then be placed into a chastity device (see the archives here for details of a loving relationship involving chastity), so that the client would be unable to get a hard on without F’s consent, made me feel sad for this guy.

Here was an average bloke, dependent on paying someone to get his rocks off. Someone who would never love him, who would always abuse him (and not just physically or verbally, but financially too, by marching him to the bank – he was one of her ‘wage slaves’ - and demanding he gave her all his money).

He worshipped her. But she despised him. In fact F despised all her clients. Now, I am not for one minute saying that ALL dominatrixes hate their clients. But in this case, F did. And this manifested itself in her sadism: she truly got pleasure from inflicting pain on these men. And in return, she got paid. And very well too from what I could tell looking at her collection of designer shoes and clothes, expensive holidays and large cocaine habit.

None of this I could relate to. Although I knew that K had enjoyed the pain I had inflicted on him, I didn’t get off on inflicting it. It was his reaction to what I was doing that was a turn on for me - seeing him writhing around on my bed as a result of a few slaps was exciting and made me horny – doing the actual slapping did nothing for me, either mentally or physically.

But knowing how horny K had been from my Domming him and watching this S & M session made me curious: what must it be like to be on the receiving end of all this power-play?

This question was answered a few weeks later when I had my hands tied above my head, F’s fingers inside me and a guys cock stuffed into my mouth.

I shall talk about this in the next (and final) Sex Episode: ‘Domination, Dungeons and Dominatrixes’ (part 3)

I used to think that people who participated in painful or power-play practices during sex were weird.

As far as I was concerned back then, BDSM, stood for Bloody Dumb, Sexually Messed-up and Vanilla was a flavour I cooked with and a smell I wore as a perfume.

I certainly wouldn’t have called myself narrow-minded, having had a few sexual partners with varying tastes. Nor was I was against sexual experimentation - I’m a firm believer of trying new things and opening my mind to new experiences - but when you enjoy sex as much as I do, I questioned why you would include something in that sexual practice, that might cause pain or discomfort.

In other words, ‘if it ain’t broke, why fix it?’

It wasn’t until a few years ago that I discovered the pleasure of including domination and role-playing into my bedroom. Something I thought I would never experiment with, and until I met K, I found the idea not only repulsive, but scary too.

K was a lovely man, softly spoken, intelligent and gentlemanly. We were fuck-buddies for some years, having fun with each other in between our partnerships. Sex was always great: laid back, light hearted, satisfying. It was so easy because there was no emotional tie between us, shagging K was like playing a great game of tennis: it kept us both in shape, was immense fun and left us both feeling refreshed at the end of it. (FYI, the tally was a 5:1 ratio of my orgasms to his, so I reckon I won most matches).

K had this habit of always calling me ‘Ma’am’. When we walked into a restaurant, he’d hold open the door for me, and say ‘after you, Ma’am’. When we were trying to decide what movie to go and see, he’d say ‘whatever you would like, Ma’am’. And when we were in bed, and I suggested we change position, he would say, ‘yes, Ma’am’.

At first I thought it was his North American politeness and his attempt to be charming (it worked on me that’s for sure). But later, after knowing him some years, it started to bug me a bit; I think I have a nice name; I like people to call me by it. Ma’am seemed so impersonal, so deferential, so pandering to authority. I began to feel uncomfortable about it and one night I decided I had to approach the matter before it got any worse: I refused to get intimate with K, until he explained himself.

After some nudging on my part K finally admitted to me that he had a ‘thing’ for dominating women (in fact, some months later he told me he visited professional dominatrixes regularly). He was turned on by my assertiveness and boldness and by calling me Ma’am, he had hoped I might 'pick up' on his cues and take the control over him in bed.

Well, I was surprised certainly. Firstly I had never thought of myself as particularly bold; I mean, people that know me would testify to my ability to be brutally honest and open, (even if it’s uncalled for), but dominating? I don’t know about that.

And secondly, dominate him in bed? Here was I, a feminist, a believer of equality in every realm, and a man wanted me to take all the control? I wasn’t quite sure about that. Too much freedom I think. Or maybe it was just the fear of the unknown. Either way I wasn’t very enthusiastic about it.

K pleaded with me to have a little trial run – test out and explore something new with him – and that if I didn’t like it, he’d eat my pussy all night as consolation.

Let’s just say I am easily swayed: I found myself, an hour later, sitting on his face, grinding my hips against his mouth. But that turned out to be all part of the experiment…

So we’re in my bedroom, and I’m about to ‘pretend’ to be dominant.

Let me tell you, I felt pretty stupid. K says to me to tell him what to do, whatever I want, he will do it. And I figure: what the fuck, may as well give it a try.

I pushed K back towards my bed and told him to lie back on it. K said ‘yes, Ma’am!’ and did as I requested.

Hmm, maybe there’s something in this, I think, as I motion for him to remove all his clothes. K eagerly pulls the remaining items off and lies on his front on the bed.

I could hear him breathing heavily, and he was lifting his arse off the bed slightly in anticipation.

I didn’t know what to do. I mean, he was there, naked, and I didn’t know what to do. I felt so inadequate.

K made it easier for me:

“Would you please spank me?”

I was stunned. “What?”

He looked up at me. “Please. With your hand. Slap my arse”

I felt embarrassed, stupid, childish.

But I did it anyway.

I crawled up over him, and whacked him hard with my right hand. It landed squarely across his right arse cheek. K flinched and then said,

“Again. Please”

So I did, stifling a laugh that had been emanating from my throat for a while. I slapped him hard across his left cheek. K flinched again, and I thought I was going to burst out laughing from the stupidity of it all. Here I was hurting him, and he was asking me to do it. Weird. I almost got off him and walked away.

But then I noticed something. K was grinding his hips in towards the bed. He was breathing very heavily. His hands were clenching the sheets.

Oh my god.

I reached forwards and slid my hand between his thighs and felt for his cock.

He was rock hard.

Oh my god.

He was hard from two slaps on his arse.

He was enjoying it.

Wow.

This was an epiphany for me, really. Until this point I didn’t know that one could get pleasure from pain. And I never thought I would be creating the pain in someone that would enable them to get this pleasure.

And I figured: if he’s liking it, who am I to deny him that pleasure?

So I slapped him again. And again. And each time he ground his hips into the bed, rubbing his cock against my mattress, grinding faster and harder with each slap, until I knew that he was close and that a wet patch was surely imminent on my sheets.

That night I learned how K liked it:

1) Having hard slaps on his arse
2) Being told he was a bad boy and needed to be punished
3) Having his hands bound to the bed above his head
4) Getting his cock gripped hard by me in between slaps on his arse
5) Being lashed on his back and arse with my belt
6) Sitting on his face and ‘forcing’ him to fuck my pussy with his tongue

And during the next few months I learned to role-play for him even more, dressing up in a tight top, skirt and stilettos, verbally abusing him to the best of my ability, and handcuffing him and whipping him violently across his back and arse with a leather riding crop.

Being with K taught me to explore playing games in bed, using words to turn him on, and complimenting the dialogue with the occasional slap. Sex for K was all about the fantasy: in bed he wanted to be totally submissive, but out of it, he was just a normal average bloke who liked a pint and watched the football.

Fun and games. Consensual, easy and not at all the weird thing I thought it would be.

That night was a turning point for me: I learned that sex can be even better with full use of the most sexy organ of the body: the mind.

And it was with this thought in mind, that I found myself some months later, clad in a rubber dress, watching a man be humiliated and tortured by a professional dominatrix in a purpose built dungeon.

I will explore this in the next episode, Domination, Dungeons & Dominatrixes (part 2)

It had got to the point of no return.

There was nothing left.

An empty fridge, a barren freezer, and amazingly (for me), getting low on supplies in my cupboards.

I had to brave it and stock up on food and groceries, crappy cough and all.

So, after almost a week of getting to know my duvet intimately, I ventured out to my local supermarket to do a quick shop and get some emergency essentials.

Even though I still feel and look under the weather, I must be getting over my flu (or else am full of pheromones), since two guys proceeded to have the following conversation about me down one of the aisles:

Male #1 after having walked past me three times whilst checking me out (to Male #2): "Well, would you?"

Male #2 looking at my arse (loud enough for me to hear): "I would"

He smiles at me and then looks at my breasts through my t-shirt. "With pleasure"

Male #1 nods affirmatively. He joins Male #2 in the dairy section, and they grin at me.

At that precise moment, my flu decides it would be the absolute perfect time to exit my body via a retching-type loud throttling hacking, that can only be described as similiar to the sound of an antelope having it's throat bitten into by a leopard and gagging for it's final breath.

Not sexy.

Especially with added sputum.

Sorry, too much information? Tough shit: I am living with this fucking flu, so you'll all have to too, especially since you wanted me to update.

Anyway, I am busy hacking a good ole' flem-filled cough (oh yes, and a sneeze too, for added sensuality) and the boys scarper.

Can't blame them really. I am not at my sexiest with a runny nose it has to be said.

Although, thinking about it, I remember shagging this guy once, and I was literally dripping onto him. And not via the usual, pussy-waterfall either. No, I was in full-on cold mode: my nose was like a tap and no amount of tissues was drying it up.

But he didn't give a shit: just pulled me down onto his cock, gripped me harder and told me,

"A good shag'll bring it out of you"

Amen to that.

I am still ill.

Still coughing.

Still whispering.

My throat hurts, my lungs ache, and my head feels groggy.

And I feel like I have neglected my blog, having not updated properly all week. Even though I am under the weather, I feel I should write something - anything - to make sure I show my blog some love.

But with a foggy head, nothing of any interest to report, and my hands being preoccupied with doing this, what can I say?

Time for the 'Emergency Blog', I reckon.

I am not one for writing in bulk, storing up entries, and doing mass editing. I tend to blog on impulse, as a thought comes to me, or write up my diary as a result of something that happened in my day to day life. I am less a writer, and more of a diarist, as some of my confessionals on this blog show.

However I do have one or two posts - emergency blogs - on my hard drive that have never made it onto my blog, probably because the 'moment' passed and they seemed irrelevant, or because something else more interesting happened that day and I decided to blog about that instead.

With that in mind - and the need to put something on this blog whilst I am ill - here is 'something I came up with earlier': stuff that happened a while ago. Hope it fills the gap till I am well enough to write again.



“I forgot how hard you come”, he said to me, as my convulsions subsided for a moment, “when you come, you COME, eh?!”

“Mmm”, I replied, as I shifted back up over him, my breasts in front of his face.

He began kissing my nipples again, and tugging them gently with his hands. I slid my legs around him and tucked my ankles behind his arse. We moved together for a while.

“God, you’re close again, I can feel you”, he breathed in my ear, as I gripped his back and held on for dear life.

“Fuck… that feels good”, I responded, as my toes curled and my pussy began to grip him like a vice.

He pulled me closer as I shook, holding my shaking hips as he slid me up and down his cock.

We paused for a second whilst I caught my breath once more.

“Right. Let’s try something else”, he said as he picked me up and turned me over so just my back was on his couch. He knelt on the floor and pulled my legs above his head so my ankles were resting on his shoulders.

He pushed himself into me hard and I trembled.

“Mmm, you’re off again!” he said as he grabbed my tits and thrust into me.

I shook, dug my hands into his arse cheeks and gripped his neck with my toes, as my body tensed up.

“Jesus. Fuck me. Harder…” I trailed off, almost unaware of his groaning, grimacing and steady pumping as I spasmed away uncontrollably.

“Fuckin ‘ell Girl, what’s with you tonight? You’re on fire!” he said as he picked me up once again and sat himself back down on the couch, making sure he was still inside me as I slid my legs around him.

“It just feels… so good… ooh…” I pushed myself onto him deeply, as I rode him again.

“Yeah, go on, yeah”, he moaned, as I dug my nails into his back, “Ouch!”

“Sorry” I murmured, as I slid my hands around his neck, holding him tightly as my convulsions started up again.

He gripped my arse and pulled me into him as the waves of pleasure filled me. “That was sudden. Where did that one come from eh?!”

(To him): “I think it was your cock rubbing against my g-spot. It felt so fucking good.”
(To myself): “I can’t quite believe it, but I think that the excitement of fucking to Reason Is Treason actually made me come. How weird is that?”

We wait for my shaking to subside for another moment. Then he pushes me off him and stands up.

“Right. There’s been something I’ve been waiting to try”.

He motions me to walk around the couch. I slowly manage to manoeuvre my still-shaking body there and stand next to the waist-high arm.

“Bend over”, he says and pushes me over the arm so that my upper body is draped downwards into the seat of the couch.

I grab hold of the large sofa cushion as he pushes himself into me.

“Mmmfghrbmmm”, I say as he begins to thrust, my mouth pressed up against the cushion.

“Uuugh”, he groans, as he holds my hips and pumps me hard from behind.

My legs begin to shake once more. They feel like jelly. I hold onto the cushion, hard.

“Uh, fuck, yeah!” he says, “Jesus I can feel you coming again! Fuck!”

I hear myself saying (through the cushion), “Harder. Harder. Fuck me. Oh god please. Harder”, as I grind my teeth, go blind, lose control of my legs and shake uncontrollably.

Our convulsions are simultaneous.

Eventually he pulls out, removes the condom, sits down.

I cannot move. All feeling in my legs is gone. The only sensation I have is of my body quivering like a jellyfish. I hold onto the sofa cushion to prevent myself falling over. I can’t stop shaking.

And all I can think to myself, is that in some miniscule way, I am paying homage to one of my favourite auteurs: I am officially The Woman Who Comes Too Much.

“Been a while has it?” he asks, laughing.


The final Sex Episodes ‘Domination, Dungeons & Dominatrixes’ (parts 1-3), will be postponed till next week when (hopefully) I will have recuperated enough to write them up.

The Girl has lost her voice.

Not her writing one (well, hopefully not yet).

No this Girl is under the weather today.

I have razor blades for a throat and cannot speak.

Where once I breathed, there is now agonising hacking emanating from my lungs.

And a fuzzy mess where my brain used to be.

Not the best I have felt: I have only played with myself once today (and that doesn't really count, does it?)

Still, in my usual positively optimistic way, I am fighting furiously to regain who I am, as against how I feel; I am adamant that my health shall win the battle against this nasty virus, and quickly.

Until then, I am dosing up on the usual (echinacea, vitamin c, pornography), and hope to be back to writerly status very soon.

xx

"He's a lovely guy"

"He sounds like it"

"It's such a shame, he's been in a state for a while now"

"So it wasn't amicable then?"

"God no. She was a complete bitch to him. They haven't spoken for months"

"Poor bloke. He's been taking it badly I imagine?"

"Well, they were together for over a decade. And now they hate each other"

"Fuck, that's horrible. I can't begin to imagine what he must be going through now"

"Well his self-esteem has taken a hit, but he's doing a bit better now"

"Good for him"

"But you know, what he really needs?"

"A shag I bet - lots of meaningless shags"

"Yup. He hasn't been single for a very long time - since his early 20's - got no confidence with women at all now"

"Fuck, he missed out on the mid-twenties shagging around thing then?"

"Exactly. She was the only person he slept with that whole time. And now he's got a lot of catching up to do"

"Poor bloke. I feel for him"

"He's very cute you know"

"I'm sure he is"

"You'd like him"

"He sounds like a decent chap"

"You two would get on brilliantly, he'd have you laughing all night"

"Er, where are you going with this?!"

"I think you know"

"You want me to shag him don't you?"

"Oh come on! It'd be a win/win situation!"

"Not necessarily true"

"Why not?"

"Well for starters he's just come out of a long term relationship"

"And therefore he's in need of some fun. I know you would make sure he had that"

"Well yes, but no. You underestimate where his head might be at. He's hurting right now - having a shag might just screw with his mind, rather than help him"

"Ok, true, but I also know that he's not looking for anything meaningful, so a quick shag might give him the boost he needs to feel happier about himself"

"Well, fair enough, in terms of ego boosting I suppose. But I still think it's dodgy: a one-night stand with a girl he picks up in a bar is probably a better idea"

"But he's got no confidence to do that, he's been 'out of the game' for more than a decade: what makes you think that he would be able to even chat up a girl?"

"Fair point. But the fact that he knows you and I know you, would put him in an awkward situation don't you think?"

"Not at all. The very fact that I know you both means that neither of you are some random fuckwits. He would relax with you more I think, than with some stranger"

"I disagree"

"Why? You're a nice person, relaxed, laid-back, friendly. You wouldn't take the piss out of him, or take advantage of him And you are good in bed - well you sound like you are anyway"

"All true, cheers! But you are forgetting one very important factor"

"What's that then?"

"He's only slept with one person over the last decade"

"And?"

"And, faced with another woman, he might feel unconfident..."

"I doubt it"

"Hear me out..."

"Ok, continue"

"He might worry that he won't be able to satisfy her. How can he know that the skills he has used on the same woman over the last ten years will transfer to another woman so readily?"

"Hmm"

"And even though he may be totally wrong, with that in mind, he may end up losing his erection, or coming too quickly, or, even, not at all"

"True. But knowing you and the kind of sex you like having, you'd just end up doing something else and still having fun, right?"

"Yeah, of course. It's no big deal to me, whatsoever. But for him, perhaps it may be a different story. He may feel embarrassed about it, and because we both have you as a mutual friend, it may worry him that his 'prowess' or lack of, gets 'reported' back to you"

"I see what you mean"

"What I am saying is, if he were to go soft with a stranger he picked up in a bar, he might not give a shit, because he would never have to see them again. But being with me, and knowing me, through you, is a different matter"

"I agree with what you are saying. Really. But I still think he would be up for it. He'd like you, I know it. And you two could have some fun together"

"How do you know he'd even fancy me?"

"Come on, what's there not to fancy? You're intelligent, sexy and have big tits. He's into buxom women big time"

"Well, that's a starting point I suppose. But who's to say that five minutes into a conversation with him, that I don't find him yawningly dull and he doesn't find me brain-numbingly boring?"

"Oh for fucks sake Girl. I know both of you, you'll get on like a house on fire, trust me"

"Ok ok, enough said. But honestly though, he's not looking for anything serious right now is he? Because I don't wanna go there if he is"

"No, not at all. You would be like a happy flame lighting up his life and helping him to move on"

"You make it sound like he's a charity case"

"He is. Come on, he's gorgeous, funny, sexy and broken hearted. And you need a shag. How can you say 'no'?

"I dunno about this"

"Oh come on! Think about it, ok?"

"Alright. I'll think about it..."

Jerking a guy off has to be one of the most underrated aspects of sex.

It's not as widely discussed (amongst women) as shagging or blow jobs, that's for sure.

But being able to pleasure a man, just by stroking his cock, I think is an achievement, and not one that is fully recognised.

Not that I have always been confident about using my hands.

In fact, for many years it was the thing I felt least confident about, probably as a result of a lover saying to me when I was 18 and enthusiastically tugging away at his member,

"You're not very good with your hands, are you?"

Needless to say, it made me self-conscious and nervous about touching a man's penis for quite a while.

Until I spent the night with L.

We had met at a singles night in a club. He was tall, baby faced and blue-eyed. 5 years my junior, L had a naivete and innocence about him that I found very appealing and made me smitten almost instantly. Plus his sexy Northern accent whispering sweet nothings in my ear helped.

We made our way to my place and proceeded to get stuck in to each other. For someone so young, he sure knew what to do with his hands: within minutes he had me writhing around on the bed, shaking, shuddering and grinding my teeth in ecstacy, climaxing over and over again. It was only fair that I did the same for him in return.

Now, up until that night I was still nervous about giving a guy a hand job. I was terrified that the guy would go soft as I stroked him - a clear indication of bad technique I presumed - I couldn't bear the thought that my lack of skills would turn him off that much. So, if foreplay was involved, I would always head straight for a blow job: an assured way to turn the guy on (and not proved wrong yet, but that is besides the point).

Anyway, I had been doing some research. Yes, that's right. Research. For months I had been reading up on the internet, watching Sex Tips For Girls on tv, and cutting out bits of women's magazines (that I found in offices, dentists, etc). Anything that related to having hands on male genitals I was interested in. If it was about perineum caressing I wanted it. Ball squeezing, I wanted it. Even Prostate stimulation. I wanted to know it all. I was damned if I was going to let my insecurity prevent me from being a good lover, so I made it my priority to find out as much as I could.

Now all I needed was someone to practise on.

And there was L, lying in my bed with a raging hard on.

Perfect.

I got myself ready.

That is, I got the tube of lube in my hands and squirted a large amount onto them and rubbed them together.

A few words about lube:

I will not be the first sex blog, nor the last to sing the praises of lubricant. Lube is great. We all like lube. But for a good hand-job, lube is essential. Yes, you can stroke a cock without it and it'll still be enjoyable: after all, men do this to themselves on a regular basis. But add some slick, slippery wetness by using lube, make your hands feel like a pussy gripping his cock, and he won't forget that hand job in a hurry. Well, that's what I reckon anyway.

So, I'm sitting there, astride his legs, his hard cock just in front of me, between my thighs. He's lying back, relaxing, hands behind his head, smiling.

Deep breath. Me, that is. (I was nervous, remember).

Right.

I reached down with my right hand, palm facing his cock. I was dying to try the technique involving the reversal of the 'normal' hand position, so I gave it a whirl. Basically you turn your hand so that your thumb is at the base of his shaft facing him, and your fingers are at the base facing you. Then you slowly pull your hand upwards until you reach the top. Then you twist you hand so that your palm swivels on the head and your thumb now faces you. And then you stroke downwards. Repeat a few times. Then alternate with each hand: when your palm is on the head, have your other hand ready at the base of his cock ready to come up as the other goes down.

So I am there, alternately stroking his cock with one hand, then the other, starting off really slowly, and making sure my well-lubed fingers were caressing every bump and ridge as they moved up and down his cock. He loved it. Really. I was amazed at the response. His cock was rock hard in my hands, his balls tightly tucked up underneath, and he was grinding his hips in towards me whilst groaning loudly.

It worked then. Hooray. But I wasn't finished - he may have wanted to come - but I wanted to try out all my new techniques on him. And try them out I did.

Next up was the Basket Weave, or Double Fister. Basically you clasp your hands together, fingers intertwined, as if you were praying (to the God of Cock - the only deity I believe in) and slide his cock between your hands. You keep the 'opening' up top where your thumbs meet, tight, so when you slide your hands up and down his shaft, the soft skin between your thumb and forefinger will feel similar to the lips on a pussy. Especially if your hands are nicely lubed up.

So, I am gripping him with both my hands, sliding up and down his cock whilst squeezing my hands together. He most certainly enjoyed that. I even got to see the whites of his eyes as he thrashed about my bed.

But I still had more techniques to try. And, if I am honest, I was enjoying teasing him: he was on the brink many times and I would keep slowing down to allow him to catch his breath before continuing again. I wanted him to come - just not yet.

Next up was the Firestarter. Not my favourite, but nice for a quick change and a different sensation in the area. It involves holding your hands horizontally adjacent to his cock, so that your thumbs face the ceiling and your little finger is parallel to his body. Basically, you're pretending his cock is a stick with which you have to 'rub' to make a fire. You roll his cock back and forth between your (very lubed up) hands. Not something to do for long, but fun all the same.

L certainly liked it: the amount of pre-cum coming out of his cock was immense.

But I digress. More techniques! (I was a very busy student that night)

And so there was 'Countdown', so called because time will most certainly run out before you've finished. This one was the cherry on the cake for L: he loved it.

You grip their cock as 'normal', but instead of the regular up/down motion, you only go UP. Each stroke is in one direction only. For 10 strokes. Then you go DOWN. For 10 strokes. Then up again. but this time for 9 strokes. Then down again, for 9 strokes. And so on. Theoretically you are counting down to the point where you get to 1 UP, 1 DOWN. (L got to around the 5 point).

There I was, with one hand I was stroking L up and then down, with the other I was first holding his balls, then tugging them gently, then stroking his perineum, and then, finally, sliding my well lubed index finger into his arsehole stroking his prostate lightly as he moved his body back and forth against my hand.

I've never seen a guy come so hard: the force, the spurting, the entire body clenching up. He even dug his nails into my wallpaper (and left scratch marks) and he gritted his teeth as he let out this animalistic groan. It was great. I had no idea that he would enjoy it so much: the new techniques had worked!

We saw each other for a few months after that, and because he would always ask me for a hand job when we met up, I was finally able to get the practise I needed and gain confidence in being able to masturbate a guy to orgasm.

I've never looked back.

But, like Superman without his suit, without some lube I feel incomplete and unprepared: I haven't quite mastered the dry hand job thing (and still resort to blow jobs in some cases to get a guy fired up).

Whenever I have sex with a guy now, I almost always ask him to masturbate in front of me. Partly because it really gets me off watching him play with himself. And partly because by watching, I'll be able to get an idea about his own personal technique - his pacing, speed, rhythm etc.

And since each guy is different, there's no end to the amount of knowledge one can learn in this field.

Ever the willing student am I...

Like many women, there was once a period in my life where I found it difficult to climax.

The opposite to now - thankfully.

But back in my early twenties, when I was seeing R, I almost never came: I was sure that it had something to do with his coming only minutes after he had penetrated me.

I was right.

R was a lovely guy. 6 years my senior, softly spoken and similarly gentle natured too, he was the light of my life for many months.

I idolised him.

Which of course made it all the more difficult for me to be open with him and let him know that I was unsatisfied sexually, without hurting his feelings or damaging his ego in the process.

Our sex life was mediocre. We would fumble some sort of foreplay, before he would enter me, thrust a few times and then he would climax. By the time he was finished, I was just getting started, but with my lack of confidence and his lack of enthusiasm, I would never get finished off afterwards. Instead I would lie there, with him snoring next to me, wondering how it was that he got all the fun and I got none.

I began to realise that our timing was out. When he was ready and eager to get inside me, I was needing more stimulation. It was no wonder that I wasn't coming: we weren't synchronised.

I thought long and hard about what to do.

It's not like I could have said:

"R, couldn't you hold back a bit longer before climaxing, so that it'll give me a chance to come?"

I mean, I could have said that, but didn't really want him to go soft as a result of anything I said, which would be pretty much guaranteed if I said something as spiteful as that.

I pondered asking him to give me a bit more foreplay - play with me a little - but ruled this out too: he wasn't that good with his hands or mouth, and given the choice, I would always chose cock over foreplay. Anytime.

Damn. What to do?

And then it struck me:

The teasing.

The holding off.

The delaying of penetration until I was gagging for it.

The answer? Make me beg for his cock. Or, at least, make him think that I wanted to beg for his cock, before he gave it to me.

It was actually a lot easier than I thought, to suggest it. Rather than come right out and demand that he teased me, I flirted with the idea one night:

Me (his cock in my hand, giving it light licks occasionally): "R, you want to know what really turns me on?"

Him (eyes semi-closed, grinding his hips in towards my mouth): "Mmm, what?"

Me: "Well, you know how much I like your cock? How I love feeling it inside me?"

Him (eyes open now, smiling at me, looking down at his cock pulsating along my lips): "Yeah, I love it too, you always feel fantastic"

Me (swirling my tongue along the shaft of his cock): "Well, because I like it so much, because it turns me on so much, I want for you not to give it to me"

Him (confused, but with his cock still bouncing along on my tongue): "You want me not to give it to you?"

Me (sliding the length into my mouth and then all the way out again, before speaking): "Yes. Don't give it to me. It'll drive me crazy"

Him (grabbing his cock and whacking it softly against the side of my face): "I'm not sure if I get you. How do you mean?"

Me (nibbling the head): "I want you to withold giving me your cock. Not let me have it. It'll drive me crazy"

Him (paying attention now): "Really?"

Me (squeezing his cock tightly in my fist): "Yes. I'll be begging for it, if you won't let me have it"

Him (glee in his eyes): "Mmm, begging, I like the sound of that"

Me (sliding my hand along the shaft of his cock): "Yes, even if I beg, you mustn't let me have it. I'll be going spare, pleading with you, but you mustn't give in to me - no matter what"

Him (getting excited by the prospect, plus he was enjoying the handjob): "Yeah. I won't give it to you, not even if you cry for it"

Me (both hands on his cock now): "Yes, but if I beg and beg and plead and cry, you'll give it to me eventually, yes?"

Him: "Hmm. I might..."


And low and behold, it worked.

When we next were in bed, instead of ramming his cock in me the first opportunity he could, or fumbling around with bad foreplay, he stayed fully clothed and refused to let me play with him at all. I honestly couldn't have hoped for better: I got to dry hump him for ages - the perfect non-direct clitoral stimulation that I needed to a) give me an orgasm, prior to penetration and b) make me wet enough for penetration when it (finally) happened.

Plus, by "denying" me his cock - ie, by getting me turned on enough to have enjoyable penetration - our levels of excitement became synchronised for the first time. So when he eventually "gave in" to my "demands", the three minutes of penetrative sex that he was capable of was more than enough to bring me off too. We came together for the first time that night. It was wonderful.

Being with R taught me that sexual skills, experience and ability to delay orgasm weren't necessarily what was important when it came to having mutually enjoyable sex. It was more about the connection, the synchronicity, the understanding of the others needs, that would enable both people to enjoy themselves equally.

Plus of course, it taught me that to get what I want in sex, I should always ask my partner when I had his cock in my mouth.

A very valuable life lesson I think. Ahem.