Wednesday, September 28, 2005
Quiz
Except perhaps being sandwiched in between two men, getting fucked hard from behind, whilst sucking the other´s cock.
Or even, riding a guy hard and squeezing and sucking the breasts of a girl whilst she sits on his face.
Guess which I have done over the last 24 hours?
A clue: my body was flushed with endorphins and I got very wet.
Sunday, September 25, 2005
NY
“So Girl, what did you get up to in
Oh you know, had two business meetings; four brunches; five lunches; eight dinners; and various amounts of cocktails in nine different bars.
Apart from eating and drinking? Well, I visited a fun nightclub where I got to watch women in underwear slide their fingers between each others’ legs and rub their tits together.
For free.
Then I went to a sexy museum where I looked at pictures of men’s cocks and watched hours of hardcore porn.
For free.
I also spent a day sunbathing at the beach watching big breasted
Also for free.
Plus I had the added bonus of observing my friend trying not to get an erection.
But what about the people? Well, I met three marathon runners who impressed me with their beautifully sculpted bodies; had seven dates with three different men (one with his sexy girlfriend); almost gave my number to two others who flirted with me whilst I was shopping; but only smiled at the five who whistled at me on the street.
And I ate whipped cream with a famous comedienne.
Yes, yes, but what else? Well, I spent a good afternoon in Paragon buying two pairs of running shoes, a rain jacket, cold-weather leggings and marathon-distance socks, in advance of me running outside in the cold British months ahead. Clearly I am a dedicated runner and people will have to take me seriously now that I have all the proper attire.
Sports stuff is all very well, but, more importantly, what sexy stuff did you get? I did end up buying two pairs of ‘Fuck me’ 5-inch heels; and one bright pink ‘I want to fuck you’ baby-doll dress (with matching thong). I was tempted to buy a black ‘You’d better fuck me now, or I am leaving’ basque with red lace, but feared I would duplicate what I already own.
What about parties, surely you wanted to play a little? Well I bought The Bible and had hoped to eat some cake with the correct implement, but just didn’t find the time. I hope to get my legs in shape for my next visit though.
And amongst all that, I was very English and actually ate a cream tea.
As well as frigged on a regular basis.
“Oh, you know, just a bit of shopping”
Thursday, September 22, 2005
Premium Economy
“You’re my favourite lady” she breathed, as she leant in towards me.
“Really?” I said, catching a whiff of her delicate perfume and getting another glimpse of her ample cleavage plunging through her tight white shirt.
“Yes, you’re the nicest one here – so polite. I’ve been calling you ‘Nice Lady’ to the others”
I smiled shyly, and tried not to stare at her large, perfectly round bosoms, being thrust in my face.
“Well, um, thanks. You’ve really been so helpful”
“Oh, it’s my pleasure”, she said, as she handed me my drink, “it’s always lovely to have someone like you on board”
Her finger lingered on mine for a second as I took the small plastic cup from her. It was a tiny gesture - and very ambiguous - but outside of this environment it would have been far clearer in its meaning.
“Is that ok?” she asked, gesturing toward my drink, “I opened a new bottle for you, but I wasn’t sure how much soda to add”
She waited for me to sip it. I suddenly felt very self-conscious. There were two hundred other people on board and she was waiting on me – as if it were just her and I. My hand shook a little and I wondered whether there was turbulence. There was certainly fluttering going on between my legs.
“I can get you another one if you don’t like it” she said, still waiting for my response.
I quickly sipped the drink. It was perfect – the best ratio of scotch to soda water that the best bartender could have mixed – but that wasn’t the point: she needed my appreciation.
“My god, that is delicious” I remarked, as I took another gulp, “fantastic. Thank you so much, it’s lovely. I really appreciate your doing this for me”
She breathed a sigh of relief, and I tried not to look at her heaving bosom stretching the thin material of her shirt. I also tried not to look at her erect nipples poking through.
“I’m glad you like it. If you want another one – or anything else – you just call for me; my name is Katrina”. She grinned at me.
“Thank you, I will” I responded, and noticed how pretty her green eyes were and how soft and kissable her mouth looked. “You’ve been very kind”.
“And you’re very nice” she replied, “just call if you need me”. She smiled again and wandered off to the galley.
I sat there, drink in hand and watched her curvaceous figure walk away from me, her fine arse beautifully sculpted in her tight skirt. I tried to collect my thoughts. Was she flirting with me? Did her gestures mean anything? How long would I be able to wait before popping to the loo, to do something about the throbbing between my legs?
It couldn’t wait. A few minutes later I got up from my seat and made my way to the toilet. Damn, a queue. I waited in line, and noticing my own erect nipples through my top, willed them into submission. (It didn’t work).
“It’s my nice lady again”
I turned to find her behind me grinning. I smiled back, and she squeezed past me, to make her way further down the aisle.
Though the aisle was narrow, there was space for two people to pass, so I was slightly surprised – but not at all disappointed – when she pushed right up against me as she moved past.
Smelling her sweet perfume, and feeling her soft breasts squeezed against mine, was almost too much for me: I wanted to grab her arse then and there, pull her close, kiss her deeply and run my fingers across her ample bosom.
But the moment was all too brief: she moved down the aisle and I was left with a dripping wet pussy and a need to do something about it – quick.
And as soon as the toilet was free, I rushed in to sort myself out; an image of her in my mind, sitting on my lap, with her skirt hitched to her waist and her breasts in my mouth.
Moments later I was climaxing: it was fast, furious, and lots of fun – much like my trip to
Unless you count my own breasts in my mouth, which although enjoyable, isn’t quite the same thing.
Friday, September 16, 2005
Cocked
A girl like me didn't know quite what to do, being in the midst of so many thrusting phallus'; it was rather overwhelming.
Sadly none of the cocks on display were there in the flesh - much to my disappointment. But seeing so many in one place was a total joy.
And this place was the Museum of Sex, an environment where I felt totally at home. I was checking out their latest exhibit Men Without Suits - an exploration into the history of objectification of the male nude image. Given my own preoccupation with Men In Suits, I just had to see this exhibit.
It was fabulous - a fascinating study into the naked male body, even if it was a little too centred around homoeroticism for my liking (the female perspective, was - as always - missing). But some beautiful pictures and brilliant historical perspective: masturbating over the male image is - quite obviously - nothing new.
Speaking of which, the rest of the museum left me feeling rather hot and bothered: I spent two hours going through the history of Western Pornography and Stag Parties (where guys get together to watch porn), and after seeing scores of cocks thrusting in and out of pussies, in full graphic close-up, I was dying to run to the toilet and have a quick frig.
Sadly it was not to be: as liberated as my friend is, I somehow think she may have had an issue with me disappearing off for a quick wank, so frustratingly I had to wait until I got home.
But it was worth the wait, and my friend walking in on me midway through my frig didn't stop me from finally relieving the tension that had built up over the day; even though he may have been a bit suspicious when I finally exited the room with a huge grin on my face.
Still, I think I got away with it.
Thursday, September 15, 2005
Plan
She can ensure her sheets are clean, her pillows are plumped and her bedroom smells of vanilla insense.
She can wax her pudenda and shave her legs close, and make sure she has lickable sensual body cream smoothed onto all her nether regions.
She can wear a body hugging dress with a push-up bra and forget to wear any knickers, to ensure a smooth line of curvature along her body.
What she can't do, is be prepared to get her period one week early, when she has a busy week of socialising and partying to do and have it happen when sunbathing on a beach, in a bikini.
The phrase 'for fucks sake!' was used, loudly.
The gnashing of my teeth, even louder.
And the banging of my fists onto the sand drew a lot of attention to myself.
I couldn't quite believe it, you see. Not only have I never had a period a week early in my entire life, but I actually planned this trip to occur before I menstruated, so that I might be free to party without the pain, swelling, exhaustion, and obvious inconvenience that a period would cause.
Gutted is not really the word. Fucking pissed off covers it: bleeding heavily is not really conducive to feeling sexy - especially in the 30 degree heat and 80% humidity - and I have been truly struggling the last few days, dosed up to my eyeballs on painkillers.
But, period aside, my time in New York has so far has been wonderful:
- I have met some wonderful people who have welcomed me with open arms.
- I have discovered that places exist where you get to see women snog, touch and rub each other whilst dancing and it's not in a strip club.
- Within 36 hours of being in New York, I had dates lined up with three different men; one of which was a guy I met on the subway. Men just do it differently here: I like it. Very much.
- I discovered a (free) live jazz club, and got fucking smashed on the best whisky sours on the entire planet.
- Bumping into Martin Scorsese filming his latest movie on the street was fun.
- The gloriously cold air conditioning on the subway means that as well as keeping cool, I can stare at all the female passengers' erect nipples.
Plus - for some reason I have never been able to figure out - I get hit on all the time in this city, which is really nice: everyone likes to feel sexy and desirable, and in NY, I am (as one bloke put it) 'too damn hot to touch'.
At the time I thought he was referring to my long hair, frizzed up to twice its size with the oppressive humidity. But given that he was staring at my tits, and then scoped out the curve of my arse, I came to the conclusion that he was perhaps saying I had a sexy body.
And I had to agree with him, I was damn hot.
But that was because I just got off the subway and my body was drenched in sweat.
Wednesday, September 14, 2005
Fingered
Everybody seemed to be asleep; it looked safe, so I raised my legs and covered myself more fully with the blanket.
Relaxing back, I concentrated on the throbbing sensation in my pussy. It had been hours since I last played and the travelling had both tired me out and left me feeling frustratedly horny. Being stuck in one place I find difficult at the best of times; to be on a plane for the better part of eight hours, was not helping matters.
I shifted my position slightly, trying to get a better angle by pushing back against the armrest on the row of seats I had carefully bagged upon takeoff.
It was no good. Every time I got near, something would distract me: a stewardess, someone coughing, the guy in the seat adjacent to me, reading his book. I had to do something - and fast.
Zipping my jeans back up, I made my way to the toilet. It was small, as they always are, and cramped. But it offered a seat, a wall to push against, and the privacy to grimace and groan and come hard.
And I did.
It was brief, but explosive and well worth the quick visit.
And made all the more pleasureable by the US Customs & Immigration officer demanding I place that very same index finger onto the digital scanner as I entered the country.
I'm sure my fingers still smelled of me as I got them scanned; my own personal version of giving the US a proper English two-fingered salute to their racist, discriminatory, anti-human-rights immigration policies.
Not that I'll be starting any trouble whilst I am in town.
At least, not that sort.
Friday, September 09, 2005
Finger: part three
“I’m not sure I can take much more of this” I said, as my thumb circled the tip of his cock.
He moaned as his cock stiffened against my touch and looked at me, the frustration in his eyes clearly showing.
I had been a little cruel. Not intentionally, but given the rather public surroundings, and my female physiology, it was far easier for him to secretly have his fingers inside me, than it was for me to have my hand around his cock.
So, instead, for the last half an hour, I had surreptitiously hidden my hand underneath his shirt and was gently rubbing his swollen cock through his jeans with my fingers.
He groaned again, and I felt his cock stiffen against my thumb as I pressed against his cock head.
“God your cock is hard” I remarked, slightly shocked by the response I was getting from the light touch I was giving him. “This is driving me crazy; I just want to take it out now and grab it”
He responded by sliding his fingers further inside me, making me shiver and shake once more.
“Fuck, I can’t stand this” I said, as I pressed my palm down onto his throbbing cock, “I want your cock inside me now”
“I want to be inside you too” he said, grinning, before giving me a long kiss.
As his tongue danced in my mouth, I tried to think.
Ok, so I had already crossed the friendship barrier, by giving him my finger covered in my pussy juices. I had most definitely pushed professional boundaries by orgasming four times on his hand, as he rubbed me. Would having his cock inside me have any more meaning, other than giving me the pleasure I had been craving all night?
There was no turning back. I had to fuck him – and fast.
I leaned over to him and whispered “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“The lavatory?”
“Yes. We’ve both got condoms on us, after all”
He grinned.
I continued, somewhat excitedly: “You could follow me in, and have a seat on the toilet. I could just lift my dress and then sit on your cock. How does that sound?”
“I’m not going to be able to last long” he warned me, “not after all this”. He motioned to my thumb still tracing the outline of his hard cock.
“Neither am I” I said, pressing down harder, “but I need to feel your cock inside me”
He nodded. “Sounds good to me”.
He removed his hand from my pussy as I started to get up. “You do realise you are going to leave a huge wet patch on the seat, don’t you?” he joked, mocking me.
“Fuck it, its leather, no-one will notice” I responded, somewhat unconvincingly, as I worried I could see a small puddle of liquid I had left on the couch, being reflected by the ceiling lights.
“Your dress is fine” he said, noticing me trying to adjust it, and at the time I believed him, so just walked straight into the toilet.
He followed me in and within moments we were locked in the cubicle, his hands freeing my breasts from my dress and bra, my hands tearing down his jeans to free his cock.
There was barely enough room for one person to stand, let alone two people to fuck, but we managed it.
And as he entered me and I heard him groan, I felt my orgasm build and increase in its immensity; the moment he released his, I let go, grabbing hold of him hard as I came like a fucking train.
We sat there, sweaty, shaking and laughing, the release we had both needed, finally happening. But when he then started to play with my nipples, he set me off again, and gripping hold of him, I came hard once more
“Sorry about that” I said, “you started me up again, I knew there was one more waiting to come out. Six orgasms in one night – I think I owe you. Perhaps we should try this again sometime, without the confines of a toilet cubicle”
He agreed and laughed and kissed me once more.
After a little while, we disconnected, fixed our clothing and left the bar, and saying goodnight, I made my way to my night bus.
It was only when I sat down that I realised just how wrong he had been about my dress. Not only was it absolutely soaked, but looking at it later, I discovered my come all over it too.
Not a bad thing, but it certainly explained all the stares I got from people as I made my way home.
Right, that’s your lot. A triple-parter to get by with; and enough material in my archives to catch up on or re-read. Which is a good thing, since I am off on a short break and thus updating here shall be very sporadic for a while.
However, if you miss hearing about my adventures, you can always have a read of my friend Lex’s blog whilst I am away: no doubt I’ll be appearing there over the next few weeks, and I’m sure his description of our meeting/s will be far more accurate and up-to-date than mine.
Be good until I get back.
Wednesday, September 07, 2005
Finger: part two
“You weren’t lying” he said, as he gently stroked my arse.
“About what?”
“About not wearing any underwear” he replied, running his hand along the curve of my bum where my knickers would have been, had I chosen to wear them.
“I would never lie about something as important as that”, I said. “Anyway, I just forgot to put them on”
He laughed. “Of course, that must be it – you forgot”
I grinned at him, and felt his hand travel lower down my arse cheek.
Moving my arm to stabilise myself, I placed my hand on the couch between his legs, and noticed that if I subtly rested my forearm against him, I could feel his hardening cock pushed up against me through his jeans.
“Mmm”, he said, his cock giving a little twitch, “that feels good”.
I pushed my arm further back and could now feel his cock straining behind the denim. His hand gently tugged at my dress; his fingers exploring my bare skin beneath it.
I looked at him smiling at me, felt the throbbing between my legs increase tenfold, and tried to think clearly.
We were sitting in a public bar. Not only was it well lit, but it was busy too; there were people sitting either side of us on the couch. To indulge in any sort of play surely meant attracting attention to ourselves; though appealing, this was not really the sort of environment in which to explore exhibitionist tendencies.
Added to which, I barely knew this chap, and had been trying to maintain dignified intellectual conversation with him; I was worried that if I resorted to indulging my carnal desires, it might scupper the correspondence we had previously developed, which would be a shame on many counts.
But the main problem was that I was all too aware of the fact that my pussy was fucking soaking and I was immensely turned on and needed some release. Feeling his erection pressed up against the back of my forearm was driving me crazy: all I wanted to do was rip off his trousers and grip his cock in my hands, And, with his hand on my behind, I badly wanted his fingers to slide further down so he could discover how wet I was.
I tried desperately hard to focus – to remind myself that I was not a slave to my desires, that I could be dignified, friendly and connect on a non-sexual level. And that I could behave in public – even with a dripping wet pussy.
But with his gentle stroking of my arse, I couldn’t bear it anymore, and I raised myself so he could have better access to sliding his fingers under my dress and down between my legs.
And then I sat on his hand.
“My god you’re wet” he whispered in my ear, as he rubbed his fingers along my soaking pussy.
Jesus it felt good: too good. As he stroked me lightly, I felt myself quiver, and I couldn’t stop myself from gently grinding against him and asking him to put his fingers inside me.
Waves of pleasure washed over me as his fingers entered me; I responded the only way I could - in this very public place - by pushing my forearm back and forth in time with his throbbing cock.
It all felt divine: his fingers softly stroking my wetness, my arm pressing against his erection; I felt myself getting carried away by it all, my pleasure increasing with each stroke he gave me and each pulse of his cock against my forearm.
And then I knew what was to come.
That is – me coming. It was inevitable; there was nothing I could do to stop it. Forget men and their ‘point of no return’: when it comes to this Girl, there are no brakes that can stop this orgasm train.
I looked around me, saw the girl seated next to me deep in conversation, and I held on to the couch as hard as I could, to try to prevent the climactic shaking on the way being noticeable.
Feeling his fingers moving faster inside me, it was all I could do to stop myself shouting,
“Oh god, fuck me, I need you to fuck me” and turning around, unzipping him and sitting reverse-cowgirl on his hard cock.
But instead, I had to hold my breath, grit my teeth, and feel my body and all my muscles become rigid as I held back the shuddering and convulsions.
I came hard, dripping onto his fingers as I did so.
“You’re so naughty” he whispered in my ear, kissing my neck.
Still shaking from the aftershocks, I said breathlessly “It’s you; you’re bringing it out of me”.
He laughed, and kept moving his fingers inside me - a dangerous thing to do.
It’s all very well my having an orgasm in public - mere inches away from other people - far from it that I should complain about such wondrous pleasure. And since the people around me didn’t seem to realise that the jerking body movements I was having were due not to my being tickled, but because I was trying to contain an explosive climax, I shouldn’t have worried really.
But when I then had three more orgasms from him fingering me in clear view of at least 70 other people, it surely should have been some cause of concern for me.
It wasn’t.
Preoccupied with his hand constantly moving between my legs, I instead focussed on the sensations in my soaked pussy; the responding throbbing of his cock pushing up against my forearm, and somehow all my worries and inhibitions disappeared.
And when a mutual acquaintance came over to our couch, to say goodbye to everyone on it, I whispered in his ear,
“What if he reaches out to shake your hand?”
He grinned at me, and rubbing me harder, replied,
“I was thinking the exact same thought”
With the fingers of his right hand deep inside me, and my thumb now circling the outline of his cock through his jeans, we politely waited to bid our farewells.
Monday, September 05, 2005
Finger: part one
“I want you to do something for me when you go to the toilet”
Trying to cover my slight confusion at his statement, I smiled. “What is it that you want me to do?”
He leant in towards me, and said softly, “I want you to put your finger inside yourself, so that I can taste you when you return”.
My pussy tingled. I thought about what he asked and took a deep breath, before replying, “I think that can be arranged”
He smiled at me, and grinning back at him shyly, I kissed him once more and then made my way to the loo.
Having been dying for a piss for the last half hour, I was eager to go before I fulfilled his request, but I found myself in some difficulty: with a wet and swollen pussy it was practically impossible to urinate.
‘So, this is what it’s like trying to pee with an erection’, I thought to myself, as I focussed on attempting to squeeze out even the smallest bit of urine; feeling as if I had a hard-on myself, my clit was so engorged.
But eventually - some minutes later - squeeze it out I did, and when done, I set to work on the task set to me.
Being the first time I have received such a request, I was wondering what the procedure should be:
- Which finger should I use?
- Should it be more than one?
- Is it right to fully insert it, or should I just rub it against my soaked vulva?
- How wet should the finger be?
- Knuckle-deep in juice?
- Or just an elegantly moist fingertip?
Questions questions.
I rubbed myself absentmindedly as I pondered these thoughts, knowing that he would shortly be tasting me, discovering how turned on I was, after my having been soaking wet for the last hour.
I was sharply snapped out of this delightful fantasy, when someone knocked on the toilet door, demanding that I hurry up. I quickly had to finish the task: I slipped my middle finger deep inside myself, soaked it in my juices, and made my way back where he was seated.
As I approached him, it suddenly struck me, that I didn’t know the proper etiquette for this interaction. Was I supposed to just hold out my finger to him, and say,
“Here you go, fresh pussy juice for you”?
Or perhaps, slide my finger under his nose, and ask,
“Like the smell?”
Or maybe, just show him my wet finger and then wipe the juice off on something?
Why wasn’t there a rule book about such things? How was a well-brought-up girl like me, supposed to offer a finger covered in her own pussy juice to a guy she barely knew? What was the acceptable and polite procedure?
I felt so English as I made my way through the crowded bar and approached him; for all my sex-fiendishness, I still felt uncomfortable, awkward and embarrassed.
But there was no need.
He smiled at me as I got near and began to kiss me as I sat down next to him. And as our kiss got deeper and more passionate, I lifted my hand to his face, and slowly wiped my wet finger across his lips; finding the tip of it with his tongue, he then pulled it into his mouth and began to suck hard on it.
Feeling his hot mouth devouring my juices made me want him even more and with my finger sliding between our mouths, I kissed him deeply, tasting myself on his lips as I did so.
It turned me on so much. And when he whispered in my ear,
“You taste delicious”,
I wanted to rip off his trousers, pull down his pants, and after sliding his cock into my mouth, repeat this statement back to him.
But we were in a well-lit crowded bar, and I very much doubt that displaying genitalia or participating in public sex acts would have been considered acceptable behaviour there.
Although, later on, we discovered that there were some fun things we could do without anyone noticing, even though people were sitting just inches away from us.
It certainly helped that I wasn't wearing any underwear at the time.
Sunday, September 04, 2005
Run
When my friends ask me what I think about, when I go for a run for an hour, I am often tempted to say,
“Cock”,
though of course, I don’t.
Whilst it is the truth, I doubt very much that they would be able to cope with my honesty, since they have, when I have responded similarly in the past, retorted,
“Oh my god Girl, you are obsessed!”,
and then quickly changed the subject, whilst shifting uncomfortably in their seats.
So, instead of telling them what is really going through my mind, whilst I run, I instead say that I focus on,
a) the end objective - how good I will feel when I have finished running the distance
b) pushing myself to ‘go just five more minutes’, then ‘another five minutes’, and then ‘c’mon Girl, what’s another twenty minutes on top of that?’
c) getting myself into a zone, where I feel peaceful, calm and focussed on my breathing
d) recalling how a particular bloke might have pissed me off, and remembering what a wanker he was, makes me grit my teeth as I run even faster
e) recalling how a particular bloke might have pissed me off, and how gutted he would be, to see me now, as I tone my thighs and arse even more
f) listening to The Killers and knowing that I can beat the timing of a particular guitar riff, now that I have overcome that bastard hill
g) looking at the park/street/road I am running on, and acknowledging that
h) feeling the endorphins flowing through my body as I sprint for the last five minutes of the hour
So, not technically lying, just not the complete truth either.
But what if I were to answer my friends honestly, about what is really going through my mind? What could I possibly say?
a) that when I ran past that handsome blond man, I knew he was looking at my erect nipples, and as I imagined his hands ripping off my top to free my breasts from beneath, it helped me run faster?
b) as I got to the brow of the hill, I saw two guys walking toward me; the vision I had of me between them, one cock in each hand, sucking them alternately, made me sprint to the top and race down the other side?
c) when I saw a woman wearing a body hugging wrap-dress and no knickers, I wanted to lift her skirt up and slide my hands between her legs, and this thought made me sprint past her, and race alongside the traffic on the road?
d) if I concentrate on recalling in detail, the sex I last had, before I know it, ten minutes have passed and I am nearer my end objective?
e) if I think about a person with whom I want to have sex with, and concentrate on what it would feel like to have their cock in my mouth; their fingers between my legs; and their cock pummelling me, a good twenty minutes pass, and I get closer to my end objective?
f) when I listen to The Killers, and it gets to a particular guitar riff, I think about how nice it would be to listen to the song whilst on my hands and knees, getting fucked hard from behind; with this thought, overcoming hills is no obstacle?
g) if I see a couple making out together in the park, I wonder whether the girl would be circling the outline of her lover’s cock with her thumb like I would, and the tingle this thought gives me, spurs me on even faster?
h) with a constant throbbing and wetness between my legs whilst I run, the pulse of my clit feels like an extra heartbeat pushing the blood into my body and energises me, forcing me to work harder?
The reality is, is that no matter how many times I might play before a run, I always become turned on when training, so instead of being preoccupied with the things normal runners think about (targets, breathing, muscle cramp), I am instead thinking about what is happening between my legs.
And this makes me want to play.
So I figure the harder I run, the quicker I can finish, and finally reward my throbbing pussy.
Sadly, my friends could never deal with my admitting this to them: it's one thing being an anonymous sex fiend; it’s quite another to have all your mates thinking that you are always gagging for a shag.
Even if it is true.
[My latest entry at Rentboy Diaries elaborates some more on where my head is currently at]
