Girl with a one-track mind

I have an oral fixation.

Not because I spend all day staring in awe at other people’s mouths. (Just some of the day). I do however spend an inordinate amount of time focussed on my own mouth, constantly desiring to put something in it; my oral hunger, ravenous.

For most people, eating a sweet, some chewing gum or some food would most likely sate their oral appetite; mine however takes much more.

A cock to be exact; the sensation of having my mouth filled with something so delicious, is up there in my mind as some kind of oral heaven. But, with it not being possible to give a blow-job as the mood takes me (unless I had a partner of course, in which case some spontaneous oral activity would (hopefully) occur on a regular basis), there is an ever present yearning to fill my mouth with something else.

Years ago I used to smoke; the lip and tongue stimulation it provided a wonderful way to assist my need to suck on something. But being a dirty, nasty, unhealthy habit, I quit. You’d never know now that I used to be a heavy smoker, what with my annoying habit of fanning smokers’ exhalations back at them, or loudly complaining that my newly washed hair reeks of tobacco. But back then, I was rarely seen without a stink-stick hanging out of my gob, so it was a huge challenge to give up my addiction.

One of the hardest things for me when I did quit smoking was that I was left without something in my mouth: I had spent years sucking away and didn’t know what to do with myself when left with an empty gob (besides incessant talking that is).

At the time, I took to chewing gum, sucking on sweets and nibbling on pens to plug the gap. Sadly, I almost gave myself a stomach ulcer from the gum; I developed cavities in my teeth from the sugared sweets; and I got ink (of varying colours) all over my tongue after sucking on pens enthusiastically a few too many times.

Clearly I had a problem, but I was dammed if I was going to smoke again; I was determined to kick the habit forever. But I was also desperate to have something to sate my oral need.

So I went and got my tongue pierced. A personal challenge to myself (cowardly squeamish about medical stuff at the best of times) and one in which I was very pleased with the result: not only did it look nice, but it felt nice. All those nerve endings that had been fired up so wonderfully by smoking were now being similarly stimulated. It was delicious.

With a barbell in my tongue it gave me something to occupy my mouth; I was free to suck on it all day. And I did, playing with it constantly and enjoying every minute; each roll of the metal exciting my tongue like a lovers’ kiss. It was wonderful.

This new-found delight had other consequences though: the constant sucking action in my mouth created a level of wetness I had not expected. And I’m not only talking about saliva. Whilst I rolled my tongue piercing around, I found myself getting horny – unbearably so – and was at a loss to know what to do with myself.

Besides the obvious.

I recall many frustrating days and nights brought on as a result of my barbell-sucking. Left to my own devices I got through enough batteries to power a small village. Frustrating, to say the least.

Being single at the time, I wasn’t aware that having a tongue piercing might be enjoyable for someone else too: when guys used to ask me, ‘Is it any good for you know what?’ and wink at me, I could only respond with a sigh and explain that mouth jewellery wasn’t necessarily for oral sex.

Some years later, I learned different though. For every moment of enjoyment I might have got from playing with my tongue piercing, you can multiply that by a hundred when I finally sucked someone’s cock with it: it was the perfect way to combine and sate my oral appetite with giving a guy simultaneous pleasure; whilst I was getting a mouth-job, he would get a blow-job with a difference.

So now, when asked why I got my tongue pierced, I usually just say, ‘To give a guy a great blow job’ and wink at the bloke asking me, whilst knowing full well that the pleasure really is all mine.

“So, you up for a beer then?”

“Sure, give us a bell next time you’re in town; be nice to catch up with you.” Can’t believe how many years it has been since we last saw each other.

“And maybe have some fun, ‘eh?!”

“Let’s see, shall we?” I’m not that eager to jump into bed with you again after last time.

“Don't you feel like being naughty?!”

“I thought you had a girlfriend?” I bet you're bored again and looking for another no-strings shag.

“I do.”

“Well you can definitely rule out any playing then.” Typical: wants to play away from home – what a wanker.

“What’s the problem?”

“I have to spell it out?” What the fuck do you think I am? Some little bit on the side? Fuck that.

“Well I seem to recall a few years ago, you were up for it even though I wasn’t single at the time.”

“Actually I recall you didn’t tell me you were attached until after you had stuck your cock in me; if you had told me before, there’s no way I would have fucked you.” I really liked you too, and after our getting close, it hurt me that you would lie to me like that, just so you could fuck me. Took me a while to forget all that and I'm in no hurry to repeat the incident.

“Since when did you start being so moral? Come on, it’s only a bit of fun…”

“Tell that to your girlfriend; I’m sure she’ll understand.” And perhaps dump you, which is clearly what you deserve, you duplicitous arsehole.

“Shall I take that as a ‘no’ then?”

“That is correct. Beers are fine, but you’ll have to keep your hands to yourself.” Although I’m really not so keen on even having beers with you now.

“I’ll buzz you when I’m next up town. Maybe we can get C and T to come along too.”

“Good idea. Speak soon.” At least then if I am tempted to hit you, C and T can intervene and prevent me from causing you any long lasting damage to your genitals. Probably for the best. I think.

Holloway Man grabbed me by the waist, pulled me close, kissed me and slid his hands slowly down my skirt until they came to rest on my arse. He squeezed it tightly and I got wet at the prospect of what lay ahead.

I had hoped to behave in a dignified manner seeing as we were in public and trying to maintain our ‘let’s just be friends’ stance. But with his tongue dancing seductively in my mouth and his cock hard against my thigh, I couldn’t prevent the throbbing between my legs increasing; as a result, I gripped his arse too, pulling him tight against me.

We began to move against each other, the instinctive need to push and grind making us oblivious to our surroundings. As his hips matched mine, his hands moved upward and gently cupped my breasts through my top, whilst my fingers explored beneath his shirt, discovering his hard nipples amongst his delicious chest hair.

Then a vehicle pulled up alongside, interrupting us rudely as it beeped its horn.

“Need a taxi?” the driver called out.

We did need some privacy, it was true. I looked at the man leaning out of the window of the estate car, eyeing him suspiciously. “How much to Clapham then?”

“Twenty five.”

I laughed. “Do I look like a tourist mate? No way. Pull the other one.”

“You won’t get any other cabs out here at this time of night” the cabbie replied.

He was right. No other vehicles had passed us in the time we had been standing on the street – let alone cabs. But twenty five pounds for the journey made him a fucking rip-off merchant.

I pulled myself out of HM’s seductive grip and turned around to face the driver, pointing at his empty windscreen. “Mate, you don’t even have a licence; what you’re doing here - picking us up on the street - is illegal.”

The cabbie looked embarrassed and said, somewhat defensively, “No, no, I am legal, but I just…um, don’t have the paperwork yet.” He looked at me hopefully and then added, “ok, how about twenty then?”

“Twenty? Are you serious? It’s a tenner to Clapham, twelve max.”

The cabbie looked at me shocked. “Clapham is South London. This is West London. Twenty quid. You won’t get it for any less than that.”

HM leaned over and whispered into my ear. “He’s right you know. Maybe we should just get it.” He rubbed my arse tantalisingly and I wondered what his fingers would feel like in between my legs.

I collected myself and got my business head back on. “Nonsense” I exclaimed, “it’s a rip off.” I turned back to the driver. “We’ll do it for twelve, no more.”

“I can’t do it for that” he said. “It’s too far from here.”

“Fine” I retorted. “Goodnight then.” I flung my arms back around HM and replaced my lips against his. His hands immediately found their way to my arse again and the cab driver took the hint, speeding off into the distance.

“You know, we may not get another cab for hours” HM said, his fingers now slowly circling my nipples through my top. “And I think we need to go somewhere quickly, don’t you?” He pressed his hard cock against me, emphasising the point.

He was right. We had been standing on the street the better part of an hour; as much as I wanted to just unzip him there and then and slide my hands around his cock whilst he discovered my wetness, I knew it would have to wait – at least for a little while.

“Ok” I said, as my fingers rubbed him gently through his jeans. “We’ll get the next ride that comes.”

He nodded and twirled his fingers around my nipples, kissing me hard and we resumed our heated entwinement.

Moments later, there was another beep of a car horn.

The taxi was back.

“Ok love,” the cabbie called, “twelve quid it is then. Get in.”

I grinned at HM and we stumbled into the car.

Moments later, our cab was speeding off at the break-neck speed that is mandatory for unlicensed vehicles. But HM and I hardly noticed. As London zoomed past us in our race across town, we were preoccupied with something more pressing. That is to say his fingers sliding gently between my legs and my fingers wrapped around his cock.

So much for our just being friends then.

But with the backdrop of cheesy eighties music on the taxi’s radio and our mutual lust for each other, worrying about crossing the platonic line was the last thing on either of our minds. There were more important things to worry about. Like, for example, how long it would be before he pushed his fingers into me.

Not long, it turned out; I recall grabbing his hand and sliding two of his fingers inside me, such was my need for him.

“Shall I put another in?” he whispered eagerly, kissing my neck.

I nodded, and he kindly obliged.

As he slipped three fingers inside me, I felt his cock pulse in my hand and I lifted my fingers to my mouth to taste his pre-come. He smiled at me as I did so and covering my fingers in my saliva, I replaced them back around his shaft, circling the tip gently.

It was delicious. And with HM’s hand deftly working his magic on me, I was in heaven. But there was a problem: I was very close to climaxing.

Normally, this would not be an issue: I rather enjoy having orgasms and am not the sort of woman to turn one down, given the choice. But we were in a cab and the driver was sitting two feet away from us. With my climaxes being so intense, I would:

1. Find it hard to be silent.
2. Shake a lot.
3. Possibly leave a wet patch.

So I tried to hold back and not come, partly because I didn’t want the driver to hear or see me and partly because I didn’t want the first orgasm I got to have with HM being experienced within the confines of a taxi.

I used all my concentration – even removing my fingers from being wrapped around his cock – so that I could control myself and not let go. I focussed all my energy on holding it, delaying it, anything but losing control. I held on to the car seat and clenched all my muscles, trying to maintain composure.

So of course I then came like a steam train, practically crushing HM’s hand between my legs as I clasped them together during my convulsions.

I clearly have no control. But when faced with such finger-magic, it’s no surprise really.

Moments later we arrived in Clapham. As I tidied myself and before I had the chance to open my own purse, HM had pulled out some a twenty pound note and handed it to the cabbie. Before I knew it, he was leading me out of the cab and telling the driver,

“Keep the change mate.”

The cabbie grinned and then immediately sped off. I stared at HM, stunned.

“You gave him a twenty?”

He shrugged. “Look, it was worth it – it was a long way to come. He deserved a tip.”

“But what about my haggling? I gave him the hard sell – he agreed to twelve.”

HM shrugged again. “With what we got up to in there, I think a tip was needed, don’t you?”

I wasn’t so certain: surely my intense orgasm in the back of his car should have been the bonus?

But I wasn’t going to complain. Not now we had arrived and were about to rip our clothes off and devour each other.

And I suppose HM’s additional generosity helped pay for any liquid damage we might have caused on the backseat, which I guess balanced things up overall - not that I was keeping watch on the figures, but I find it does help to be able to remember maths at times like these.

Especially when the orgasm count ended up being 6-3 to me.

I found an old email from O recently. I couldn’t read it without weeping.

I am such a girl sometimes.

It made me wonder what he is up to nowadays; where he is at in his life. Whether he married the girlfriend he cheated on with me; if he finally has the kids that he so desired.

To this day I am still racked with guilt about our brief ‘affair’. It rests uneasily on my conscience – a reminder that someone will always be affected by the choices I make; that I am responsible for my actions.

I’ve never been unfaithful to a partner; I’m probably old-fashioned like that, seeing a solitary monogamous relationship as a sacred bond, rather than a bind. However, perhaps unlike some, I also feel comfortable with the thought of dabbling outside this dual-unit: alongside my partner, I would love to enjoy the excitement of having sex with another to add to the spice in our sex life.

But this wasn’t what O and his girlfriend had. Behind her back, we snuck around, had quiet calls and brief texts arranging where and how we would next meet. Our dalliance was secretive; our relationship duplicitous.

I always thought that affairs were these sordid things where you find yourself stealing brief moments to shag each others’ brains out. Not so, in this case. Perhaps the reason it messed both of us up so much, was that often we just met to talk; the physical contact limited to our eyes locking and our fingers touching. We had a connection – but it wasn’t purely sexual.

This was perhaps what was so difficult about the whole episode: the ‘me’ that O got to know was not the neurotic self-absorbed woman obsessed with sex, but the thoughtful idealist who wore her heart on her sleeve. He embraced that part – romanced it – and I felt completely at ease with him; I was able to just relax and be myself and he loved me all the more for it.

And, some months later, when we finally had sex, he discovered my inner sex fiend too and made me feel like I was normal, rather than just needy. We made love with a passion and I felt connected to him on every level.

But the guilt ate both of us up – and rightly so. Even though I regret doing something I see as morally wrong, I’m also glad I experienced being with him. O helped me be the woman I could be – one that is able to connect mentally and express my emotions. He showed me that there is a man out there who is so entranced by me that he would want to meet up with me just to talk, rather than fuck my brains out. O made me see that I didn’t have to battle between love and lust – that with the right person it and I will fall naturally into place.

So I look back on this situation with mixed emotions: feeling a longing for him and the closeness we had; feeling guilt about what we did; and feeling a pang in my heart because I miss having this connection with someone.

Overall though I feel optimistic: I know I am capable of love – and being in love. And I also know that somewhere out there is someone else who will think it cute that I am clumsy; who will be enchanted by my neurotic philosophising about life; and who will adore my ‘always on’ sex drive.

He may not be round the corner, but he is out there – I am sure of it.

And he'll be single too.

I have a bone to pick with men.

It is not about the fact some (ok, most) of you stare at my tits.

Nor is it regarding your ineptitude with making plans to meet (saying ‘see you soon – I’ll call you’ and then not hearing from you for weeks, will not find you space in my diary).

And it is definitely not about my wanting a shag and being pussy-teased to such an extent by you, that I have to rush home to have a wank (if anything, it is most inconvenient – especially in rush-hour).

Rather, I must speak out about a terrible crime that I have become aware of: men shaving their chests.

Stop it.

Now.

I mean it.

‘Why did you shave?!’ I squealed at a guy some months ago, as I felt the stubbly regrowth under my fingertips as I caressed his chest.

‘I thought that’s what women wanted‘, he replied, mystified as to why I was so disappointed with his hairless chest.

No, what women want is someone to unload with at the end of a hard day; who can give us sympathy and cuddles when we have PMT; and who will offer us their hard cock to do what we like with, on demand.

But getting rid of the hair on your chest? A firm No. That is not something women want. Ever. At least a woman like me.

Hair is what makes a man, a man. Even just a few hairs there are sexy (though I definitely prefer the full forest than the barren wood).

I have now encountered a few guys who shaved or aggressively trimmed their chest hair and this worries me: why do men think their hair is so unattractive to women?

I fail to understand why you men would do this; surely one of the nicest things about you is that you have hair on your chest; I love to feel it under my fingers – the ruggedness and roughness contrasting beautifully with my own softness and smoothness. And let’s face it, if I wanted to stroke a smooth chest I’d sleep with a woman – which although nice, is nowhere near as pleasant as being with a man.*

If you blokes must shave or trim something, by all means chop off your pubic hair – it is after all, not that pleasant getting hairs stuck in one’s mouth, when one is busily sucking your cock. And the increase in sensation you will feel in the area once your hair is trimmed down or removed will be huge.

Just think: getting your balls sucked with no hair acting as a barrier; feeling a tongue dabbling around your shaft – its wetness soaking the skin where your hair would have been: it’s worth a try if you ask me. (And if us women can shave, wax and trim, so can you blokes).

So please, I beg you hairy men: leave your chests alone. Stop worrying about women not liking your hair; a real woman will like you for who you are – chest hair or not. Allow yourself to grow bushy, let your forest run free, be the man you are – be hairy. Women like me will spend hours fondling your chest and love every minute of it.

But don’t forget, we're also more likely to give you regular blow-jobs if you keep that particular forest under control (a win/win situation I think you’ll agree) so feel free to go crazy with the clippers; there'd certainly be no complaints from me when faced with a hairless/trimmed cock.

Especially since my mouth would be far too occupied to actually speak.

*With apologies to my lesbian sisters: you are most definitely missing out here.

“So, what do you think?”

I looked down at the package he had placed on the table and considered my response.

1. I could be honest. This would be the best result overall, but would mean he got the full wrath of my judgement
2. I could lie. This would be immoral, but also ensure his feelings did not get hurt
3. I could withhold my opinion. This would give him the opportunity to show off his purchase and receive the feedback he needed

I chose the latter.

“They’re Y-fronts” I remarked nonchalantly, wondering if he would realise through my tone of voice, how much of a mistake I thought he had made with his pant-buying.

“Yes,” he said excitedly, “nice aren’t they?”

“Well, they’re Y-fronts” I stated, thinking that perhaps if I just repeated myself, that would eliminate any possibility of my being rude to him absentmindedly.

He picked up the packet of (3 x) white pants and handed them to me. “Have a look. What do you reckon?”

I held the package in my hand and an image of him wearing Y-fronts suddenly entered my head. Given that I normally like the thought of men in pants (especially if I have the chance to rip them off), it was not without some irony that I was trying to empty my mind of this particular thought. But he was my mate and I really didn't want to think of him in that way - especially with Y-fronts on.

I wondered how I could respond in the least offensive manner. Perhaps if I came up with a question, it would deflect attention away from my negative opinion and onto his enthusiasm instead.

“So, do you actually use the hole in the front then?” I asked, prodding the pants through the plastic wrapping. “Does it make for easy access?”

I looked up at him and from his blushing, suddenly realised the inappropriateness of my question. Another image of him in pants appeared in my head.

He stammered a little. “Well, yes, of course. I mean…”

“Right” I interrupted, fully aware neither of us really wanted to be debating the merits of him being able to stick his cock through a front opening – of any sort. “So they must be comfortable I imagine?”

“Ooh yes, really comfy” he said, sounding relieved I had moved the debate on. “What size are you?”

“Me? I’m a medium. Why?”

“I reckon a man’s small would fit you” he said, adding “and I have a pack of them at home.”

“But they’re boys’ pants!” I exclaimed, still trying to get the image of him modelling the Y-fronts out of my head. “I’m a girl!” And no way would I wear anything like that.

“You could look like Sarah Jessica Parker!” he said, excitedly.

“What?”

“She wore her boyfriend’s Y-fronts in Sex and the City. You could definitely get away with it like she did. They’d look great on you. I’ll give you the spare pack I’ve got” he added.

Oh great. A bloke is reciting an episode of SATC to me. And he’s not gay. And he thinks Y-fronts look good on women too. Clearly he has no taste. Oh god how do I get out of this without totally offending him?

I pondered for a moment and then came up with the best answer I could. Leaning over to him, I gently placed my hand on his and in my most seductive Girl voice said,

“Why would a woman want to wear pants made for boys when there are the silkiest thongs, the laciest French knickers and the sheerest tie-string panties to choose from to look sexy in?”

He looked at me for a moment, thinking, and then said, somewhat triumphantly,

“Fair enough. But what about to sleep in then, ‘eh?!!”

I smiled at him. “My dear, the joy of underwear is to take it off – preferably in front of someone else. There is never a need to wear pants to bed. At least, not in my bed.”

He laughed. “Ok, yeah, you’re right, good point.”

“Save them for your next girlfriend” I said, as he hurriedly put the packet of Y-fronts away.

But we clearly have some work to do if you're determined to stick with the Y-fronts until then.

“Sssssssssssssssssssssssss.”

The rasping sound got louder.

“Sssssssssssssssssssssssss!”

Sensing where it was coming from, I continued walking.

“Oi! Sssssssssssssssssssss!!!”

Focussing on crossing the road, I maintained my path.

“Oi! Busty!”

He was nearing me now. I kept up a constant stride and carried on walking.

“Big tits! Come on!”

Only a few more feet and then our paths would cross; I couldn’t avoid him. As I turned, he shouted at me again.

“Yeah you! Big breasts. Whooah!”

With him now in front of me, I was forced to stop. I looked up at him.

“Fucking big tits!”

With a quick motion of his hands, he gestured the size of my breasts, then looked at me triumphantly and exclaimed:

“Your breasts are fucking huge!”

Unable to hold back my fury any longer and feeling courageous for a millisecond, I lost it and shouted back at him:

“Fuck you! Tosser! Fuck off.”

And then swiftly immersed myself into the small group of people surrounding the entrance to the late-night supermarket.

Glancing back, I saw him standing there, watching me, an angry expression appearing on his face.

I disappeared into the store, seething: How dare he speak to me like that? What the fuck did he think he was going to achieve? Did he really think that I would respond,

“Oh god, I love it when men make remarks about my body; I adore it when I am seen as nothing more than a pair of breasts. Being shouted at in a sexist and sexually condescending way by strangers in the street really turns me on: please come over here now, pull down my jeans and fuck me hard.”?

Normally, I would let something like this pass me by. I would conclude that obviously this guy was a twat, totally incapable of relating to women. I would laugh at his feeble attempt to communicate with me and how pathetic he was. I would even see seen the comedic value in the scenario and recall the whole stupid incident for humorous exploitation on this blog later.

But this was different: instead of laughing it off, I felt scared.

Scared because this man had approached me – aggressively – as I walked down the street.

Scared because he had used sexually graphic language and actions to insult and intimidate me.

Scared because it was late at night, dark, and he could see I was all alone.

And as I walked round the store, this worried me: he might still be outside; he might be angry that I had shouted back; he might hurt me.

Some that might argue that this man was most likely harmless; that he was just trying to undermine and bully me and that nothing would have happened had I bumped into him again.

But even though this may be true, I don’t think my fear was an overreaction: as many women can no doubt relate, there comes a point where we look at every man walking behind us at night with suspicion and fear; where we find ourselves wondering, if this night, will be when our worst nightmare happens; where we fear that the sexual aggression we experience will turn to sexual violence.

Although perhaps statistically unlikely to happen on the street, the fear of being attacked or raped is not that irrational: every woman I know has, at some point in their life, experienced some kind of coercion or force in relation to sex. Each of us has a story: it is a telling and somewhat depressing reality about our society today.

Added to this, is our daily endurance of sexual harassment and vitriol at work. When I complained to my (male) boss about guys grabbing my arse and tits on set, he told me I should contact a lawyer and sue, before then stating,

“But you’ll never work again in the industry. At least, not with me.”

Which put me in my place – literally: to keep my job as the only female in my department, I had to accept the sexist, hateful, bullshit I encountered and counteract it with sharp sarcasm and sexualised wit; when faced with groping hands, I had to give the arseholes a swift slap. It’s been exhausting, but I put up with it.

But away from the relative safety of a film set, and when faced with unambiguous sexual aggression toward me when alone on a quiet, dark street, late at night, I had a horrible awareness that this time, it might not be such a huge leap from hateful words to hateful action: rape is a manifestation of hatred after all.

With a mixture of fury and fear, I exited the store, worried that he might still be outside. I felt nervous, exposed and conscious of my body. For a woman who normally walks down the street with her head held high, projecting physical confidence, it was striking that in the space of minutes, I was reduced to insecurity and fear.

As I made my way back home, I found myself looking over my shoulder, worried that at any minute he might reappear; wishing I had a weapon to protect myself, desperately trying to remember those self-defence karate moves I learned years ago. Shaking with fear and anger, I made it back safely, vowing never to go last-minute food shopping late at night again.

Situations like these throw me: I like men, I enjoy their company, I respect them. Plus of course, I love to have sex with them. And yet, to be reduced to fear of them, fills me with deep unease: how can I ever truly trust a man, when I can be simultaneously fearful of what they might be capable of?

I don’t know the answer to this. But I do know that the men in my life, whether they be friends, lovers, or exes are good, solid, sound men; men who would rush to my defence if I needed it; men who respect me; men whom I trust. I am able to relax with them and be myself - not be defined by my gender.

That’s not to say we don’t occasionally fit into gender-specific roles: I have long given up fighting men’s insistence on their opening doors for me; or with their offering me a seat; or their demanding they give me a few orgasms prior to penetration etc. But overall we connect, relate and respect each other as equals, regardless of gender. This makes me feel positive about men; clearly the majority do not shout at single women on a dark street at night.

As for the arsehole minority, they might even get some brownie points in the future if instead they offered to carry my shopping bags.

Though I couldn’t be blamed if I accidentally happened to hit them over the head with my melons.

“I’m not sure I can endure any more” he said, as I swivelled my index finger around inside his arse.

I stopped moving my hand. Endure? Endure???

During sex, I have had a few things said to me, in the heat of the moment:

• Like ‘I can’t take this any longer’ as I teasingly ran my thumb along the length of his cock;

• I’ve been asked to ‘slow down, I don’t want to come yet!’ whilst I eagerly sucked his glans;

• I’ve even been told ‘oh god, please, I need to come – now!’ as I gripped the base of his shaft and controlled the timing of his orgasm.

But I have never had someone use the word ‘endure’ with regard to something I was doing to them sexually.

Until now.

I removed his cock from my mouth and looked up at him. He seemed distant. The fact that he was no longer grinding his arse against my finger seemed poignant. I pulled my finger out of his arsehole, kissed his pelvis gently and asked him if he was ok.

“Yeah, I’m fine” he said, somewhat insincerely. “I just couldn’t take any more”.

I felt awful. Was my finger action really that bad? He had seemed to like it up until then; becoming rock hard when I stroked him with my lubed-up fingers around his cock and perineum. And when I licked him up and down his shaft and teased his arsehole with my fingertip, he had pushed himself onto my finger furiously; my finger not so much penetrating him, as him forcing himself down onto it.

“Was it really that bad?” I asked him worriedly, feeling that yes, it probably was.

“No, it wasn’t. Just, that, well, I couldn’t endure it any longer”.

Again, with that word. My god, my technique must be dreadful. How come the other two guys I had done it to, spurted in buckets? Fuck, maybe I was out of practise.

“If you had to endure it, it must have been awful. I’m so sorry – I wanted it to be pleasurable. Please, tell me, how can I improve?” I gave his cock a gentle stroke and smiled at him enthusiastically.

He gave his cock a little tug and then pulled it away from my hand. I noticed him begin to soften. Oh god, I must be crap in bed.

“Well”, he began, “it was just that at some point the pain overtook the pleasure. So it became uncomfortable. That’s all.”

Oh god, I am crap in bed. “I’m really sorry. I thought you were enjoying it. I wish --- you had told me you weren’t. I thought you liked me playing with your arse.”

“I did”, he said, sitting up. “But I’m not gay or anything.”

Gay? Gay??? Oh great, I’m in bed with a homophobe. Typical. Just my luck.

“What does being gay have to do with anything?” I asked, confrontationally.

He shifted awkwardly in the bed. “Well, you know --- the arse thing. It doesn’t make me gay.”

“I never said it did.”

“Well, I just wanted you to know that I’m not like that.”

“I never thought you were,” I said, all my male-on-male fantasies involving him, evaporating instantly. “Anyway, what does having a finger stuck up your bum have to do with being gay?”

“It’s gay to have had something in your arse. But I’m not like that.”

“Does that make me gay then?” I asked him, belligerently.

He looked at me confused.

“I’ve had a cock stuck up my arse, and that’s a lot bigger than a finger, so by your theory I must be very gay” I continued.

He sat there and looked at me for a moment, clearly shocked by my reasoning and shook his head. “No. It’s different. I am a guy; you’re a girl - it doesn't count.”

Oh great, I thought, I'm with a guy that is not only narrow-minded, ignorant and homophobic, but hypocritical and sexist too. How the hell did I end up in bed with him?

How sad that he must be so insecure about his sexuality that he has to question his enjoyment of anal pleasures. How awful that he felt he had to reassure himself - and me - that this act was solely heterosexual: what a head fuck that must be. And how pathetic. No wonder he went soft.

I looked at him lying there, remnants of lube and my saliva drying on his now soft cock and felt a mixture of pity and annoyance; if he had been a more open-minded man I might have bothered to enter into a philosophical argument about sexuality, the male g-spot and anal pleasure.

But when he was in such denial about his own - clearly obvious - desires in this department, it seemed pointless to debate it any further: men like him need work and time and with his being a homophobe, it made it seem like a fruitless task for me, so I decided I wasn't going to see him again.

Even though he was a superb pussy eater.