Girl with a one-track mind

I didn’t expect my friend C to be the girl I would end up with, the night I went to a lesbian bar. But a few hours later, with the smell of her still on my fingers, I realised that our friendship had changed - and not for the better.

I had been very hesitant about going to a lesbian bar. Although I was bi-curious, I just didn’t feel that I would fit in there. For starters I preferred to fuck men: something which rather betrayed the ‘sisterhood’. Added to which, I neither represented, nor was attracted to, either the butch-dyke or the lipstick-lesbian stereotypes I was familiar with, so I was rather sceptical about the whole thing.

However, with my being crap at chatting up women, (I feel like a fraud – as if a woman would see straight through any approach I made and laugh at me), when C suggested an all-women bar and offered to help me try to pick up there, I jumped at the chance. Because C was bi-sexual and had been in a long-term relationship with a woman, I figured she would know the ropes and at least point me in the right direction. Given my previous history of getting as drunk as possible and smiling at a pretty girl from afar, it was clear my technique needed some assistance.

After settling down into a prime position in the bar to spot any talent, we gulped down copious amounts of wine. I wanted to scout around and catch a few girls’ eyes, but I was trying not to be rude and ignore C; after all, she was a good friend and had generously offered to assist me - the least I could do was give her eye contact.

As time went on though, I found myself getting drunker and more frustrated: why was C so intent on having a deep discussion? Surely she wanted me to be on the lookout for cute girls? She was there to help me pick up a girl, right? Wrong: this was far from the truth.

I had tried to ignore the way C’s eyes always dropped to my breasts as I talked. I put this down to the fact that, yes, they were big, and yes, it might be hard for her not to notice them. But I dislike people staring at my breasts when I am talking: and was feeling somewhat uncomfortable that C’s eyes were glued to them. She kept staring at my chest, barely giving me eye contact as her gaze continually fell to my nipple line. Fine, she likes my breasts. OK. I can deal with that. But at some point she leaned across the bar and grabbed hold of my arm, stroking it from my shoulder down to my hand and then clasped my fingers in hers, saying, “Girl, you’re so fucking sexy, god I like you so much. I want you.”

And then she pulled me to her and kissed me deeply. I was so shocked I didn’t know what to do. This was entirely out of the blue. We’d been friends for a couple of years; I had no idea she might fancy me. But at this point, analysing it was irrelevant: C had her tongue down my throat and I had to think fast.

The thing is, I just didn’t fancy her. Although C was very pretty – bouncing blond curls, deep green eyes, trim, svelte body – she just wasn’t my type. I tend to be extremely fussy when it comes to my taste in women. If they are skinny, lack an arse and don’t have at least a C-cup bra size, they do absolutely nothing for me. Shallow, I know. But give me a curvaceous woman with big tits, grabbable arse and strong thighs and it’s a different story. I like ‘em curvy (just like me).

So I’m being snogged by a girl who I didn’t find sexy and who also happened to be my friend. At this point I should have pulled away, had some strong moral words with her about us not getting involved, said goodnight and made my way home alone.

But by now, she was running her hands across my breasts, making my nipples rock hard. With her deft fingers stroking and cupping my tits, I felt my body respond to her touch and between my legs I began to ache, yearning to have something to relieve the pressure building up there. I felt my breath quicken and looked at her, this slender, petite woman and tried to think.

With a combination of alcohol and the heat between my legs, I am ashamed to say that I didn't end it right there. Ok, so her tits are non-existent. And she is skinny. And she has no arse. And she is my friend. But she is a woman. And she wants me. And my pussy is soaked and needs attention. And I am drunk. And if I close my eyes and concentrate really hard, maybe I can just pretend she is Salma Hayek.

So I pulled her to me, kissed her deeply and started caressing her breasts, teasing her nipples like she was doing to me. And when she then suggested fucking in one of the toilets, I followed her downstairs enthusiastically.

It wasn’t long before we were stood in front of each other naked, her slender body appearing tiny next to mine: my strength represented by my physical size; her fragility by hers. It suddenly struck me why I dislike skinniness in my sexual partners: I need them to have a strong physical presence like me, or else I feel like I am the dominant one. And because I like to switch roles – being both submissive and dominant - in order to achieve this balance of ‘equality’ in bed, I think that similar body shape and size are necessary. Or in other words, I don't want to feel like a huge gallumphing cow in bed with a flimsy flower - doesn't quite do it for me, you see.

But I was trying to ignore all that. After all, I was horny as hell, a pretty girl was naked in front of me and I was finally about to get some pussy. So I concentrated instead on the task at hand. We moved closer to each other and she pressed her tits against mine. Finally porn gets it right. This is as great as it looks. I rubbed my nipples against hers feeling the throbbing between my legs increase as I did so.

She slid her thigh in between mine and we ground our hips against each other. It felt good, (albeit a little frustrating since I kept wishing she had a cock and that she would slip that in between my legs, rather than just her slim thigh).

Still, moments later she slipped her fingers between my legs and I did the same with her. It was a miniscule celebratory moment for me: the first time I ever felt the inside of another woman’s vagina and I was struck by the wetness, heat and tightness – it’s just not the same when you do it to yourself.

With her fingers rubbing me frantically and me feeling my orgasm approach, I leaned in to kiss her and that was when she whispered the magic words in my ear, “Girl, I’m so in love with you. I want you. I’ll leave Tom – I just want to be with you. Come back with me, I want to make love to you all night.”

Which of course made my climax disappear spontaneously. There was I, selfishly enjoying having drunken sexual liaisons with a woman I didn’t fancy and she had the audacity to be in love with me. Great. I couldn’t have hoped for a better lesbian encounter. Certainly wasn’t like that in the porno.

I pulled out my fingers from deep inside her and tried to explain that I just wanted to be friends. (Which was a bit contradictory, given that my fingers were still soaked with her juices). But she deserved honesty and although she was devastated with my abrupt ending of our dalliance, I know it was better to have nipped things in the bud, than to let anything develop any further. It’s one thing to have drunken sex with a mate; it’s another thing entirely when they are in love with you.

So we went our separate ways and for many weeks I had to deal with her feeling used and hurt by what I had done: our friendship was rocky for quite a while. But I’m glad to say we’re fine now – even though she still stares at my tits when we get together.

Such was my discomfort with this experience I was put off sexually exploring with women again for quite some time. Until that is, I discovered just how much fun it could be, when there are three people involved instead of just two.

Although being banned from having the guy’s cock inside me, due to his girlfriend’s jealousy, kind of dampened the evening a little, it has to be said.

It seems a little storm has brewed up regarding my last post.

Whilst it was not my intention to create a war on words, I am glad for the debate. I think it positive that we can reflect, understand and examine the semantics that we use; dialogue is important.

I shan't enter into further dispute about the term to which I objected; I still find it offensive, whether or not it referred to my gender or my sexuality. My competitor in the Urbs has offered an apology for the use of it on his blog and I do appreciate this.

Rather than get caught up in any more linguistic argument, I would like to offer an olive branch to my competitor's readers who may be visiting here - and my own too - because at the end of the day, it would be fucking great to have a gay man win the award, much as it would be great to have a woman win it too.

So please, have a read of Alex's blog and vote for him if you like his writing; vote for me if you prefer mine. Either way we should both be happy that we're leading the final together.

On a more personal note, I want to wish all my readers happy and peaceful holidays. Thank you for reading me over the past two years: you've made this girl a very happy one indeed.

You can vote for me or Alex here (voting closes 26 December).

I’ve been described in a few ways by people reading this blog:

That I am neurotic; that I am a nymphomaniac; and that I am self-obsessed (all true, clearly).

I have also been called a cunt, a whore, a ‘narrow-minded bitch’ and ‘such a slut, I bet you want to suck my cock now’ (no, but thank you).

Occasionally I am insulted or offended by these remarks, but generally I ignore them: people can judge me all they want but if they haven’t met me and gotten to know me, their opinions mean nothing.

However, upon reading my close competitor in the Urbs refer to me on his blog as a ‘breeder’ because I am female and heterosexual, got me vexed.

Healthy criticism about me? Sure thing mate.

Blatant misogyny? I think not.

If there’s one thing that pisses me off, it is hatred of women, and I will oppose it when faced with it.

So although I have to say that I do actually like this guy’s blog – the humour and recounting of his sexual forays are quite fun to read – I cannot just stand by and let his sexist statement about me go unchallenged.

Therefore I now ask all of you to support me in this: if you agree with me and enjoy this blog – which embraces ALL types of sexuality and gender – then please vote for me here.

Help me show that having a female sexblogger winning this award can be a positive thing - for both women and men.

Thank you.

Tied up at the moment. Sadly not with handcuffs or a little bit of (soft-ish) rope. Just busy.

Life is hectic, but good.

Since I haven't updated for a while, I hereby invite you to make yourself at home in my archives:

• You may delve into my dalliances into exhibitionism here, here, here and er, here
• You can snicker about how my father found erotic photos of me
  
• You can laugh at my feeble attempts to explain bdsm and auto-fellatio to my mother
• You can read about how I like men in suits and especially when they have no underwear on
  
• You can enjoy my outdoor self-exploration and voyeurism
• You can learn about my thoughts on threesomes and why it's my secret joy
  

And you can indulge me by voting for me HERE right now.

If you enable me to win the best sexblog award (only six days left to vote), I will keep my promise to you and reveal all about my encounter in a lesbian bar.

One little click is a small price to pay for my sordidness, I'm sure you'll agree.

The night we first met I was incredibly nervous. You may not have known it, or even picked up on it, but I was terrified. I wanted so much for you to like me, to find me funny and interesting and attractive, that my heart was pounding in my chest, making me nauseous. I was so scared that you would think me boring, or full of myself, or ugly, that I wasn’t able to eat a thing all day. Even my normal touchstone for relaxation – self-pleasure – didn’t help: the three orgasms I had before I left the house didn’t stem my anxiety one bit.

You see, whilst you came with no expectations, I arrived with high hopes. I knew I would like you; my gut instinct led me to believe that you would be warm and funny, as well as handsome. And you were. But I so much wanted to make an impression on you; so that you would like and know me for me, the woman beyond the sex fiend, that I was filled with nervousness.

So it took me hours to get ready to meet you; trying on a variety of tops and skirts so I could find something that would appear dignified, yet still sexy and appealing to you. And when we finally did meet, I worried that my top was showing too much cleavage and ended up having to adjust it most of the evening anyway.

Because I have such a well-practised façade, you may have thought me confident and relaxed that night, (and you certainly helped to put me at ease with your gentle, friendly manner), but beneath my giggly, self-assured exterior, my mind was filled with anxiety:

‘Don’t flirt too much because he’ll think you’re only after a shag. Don’t swear all the time. Don’t talk with your mouth full or spill wine on your top. Don’t show too much cleavage or he’ll think you’re cheap. Don’t talk about yourself because he’ll cotton on how self-absorbed you are. Don’t laugh too loudly at his jokes or you’ll seem too keen. Don’t look at his lovely smile and imagine his lips on yours. Don’t stare intensely into his eyes and lose yourself. Don’t imagine his long fingers deep inside you. Don’t look at the tufts of chest hair poking out the top of his shirt and fantasise about running your hands through it. Don’t try to picture what he looks like naked. Don’t wonder what his cock would feel like inside you. Don’t imagine waking up next to him, lying in his arms.’

Whilst I know now, that all these thoughts were an overreaction, back then it had been a long time since I felt there was a connection with someone, so for me, this date felt more important, more serious, than the other casual meetings I was used to. I felt sure that if you knew what was going on in my head, you would have been disinterested in me; and I was scared that if I let my guard down, you might find out how insecure I felt.

But with every minute that passed, of the many hours we were talking, I found myself becoming more relaxed with you. And when I clumsily stumbled as we walked and you caringly steadied my arm, I suddenly felt reassured, as if your physical guidance helped me to put my mind at ease.

So when we stood at my bus stop and you lightly kissed me goodnight directly on my mouth, I only hesitated for a moment before I leaned in to kiss you back. Though I was shy and nervous, feeling your tongue moving against mine made me feel like all my anxieties meant nothing: that maybe you liked me too.

But with your arms around me and your soft lips against mine, I soon began to feel myself losing control. I had to fight off the throbbing sensation between my legs as you held me tightly; I tried to ignore how hard my nipples felt, pressed up against your chest; and I had to stop myself from letting my hands wander down your back to your arse so that you wouldn’t know just how much I wanted you at that moment.

Because you see, if you had known how badly I wanted to feel your hands all over my body; if you had guessed the extent to which I wanted to explore your nakedness; if you had any idea just how wet I was, thinking about your cock inside me, you surely would have assumed I wanted to fuck you – which although at that minute was absolutely true, was not all I wanted with you.

So I hid my desire. When you subtly ran one hand lightly over my arse, I tried not to respond to your touch. When you let your fingers linger for a brief moment over the edge of my breast, I tried not to let my breath quicken in excitement. And when you kissed my neck and held me close, I did my best to not press myself against you in the hope of feeling your cock on my thigh.

Whilst I badly wanted to continue our intimate moment far into the night, I also wanted you to know that you would never be a notch on my belt; that I valued you more than that. So I left you standing on the street corner and made my way home alone, happy that we had both shown some restraint, but frustrated by the sexual tension this had entailed.

I’ve never told you that when I got home that night, I stayed awake wondering if you were thinking about me. I imagined what it might have been like, had you come back with me; how your body might have felt against mine. I hoped you were touching yourself because of me, like I was about you and that you got as much pleasure as I did in doing so.

Needless to say I didn’t get much sleep, which was a little problematic, given that I had to be on set a few hours later. But the four orgasms I had fantasising about you, put a smile on my face the entire day, which more than made up for the tiredness I felt at work.

A few of us are having a discussion about booze and the law over here.

There may not be much sordidness, but it still looks quite heated from what I can see.

Come on over and join in.

How nice.

I'm a finalist in the best sexblog category in the Urban Blogging Awards.

And, what looks like one of the only blogs in the group, not written by a team of people.

Plus I am the only Brit, so that's something. (Posh London accent, anyone?)

What all of this means, dear readers, is that if you'd like me to win this delightful award, you're going to have to quickly pull your fingers out (or off, as the case may be) and vote for me here.

It's easy - just a little click between friends; I won't tell anyone, promise.

And if you help me win, I promise I'll recount the time I had sex with my best friend in a lesbian bar.

So with that in mind, I'm sure you'll want to get busy with your hands and make me a happy woman.

But please take care of those screens: I know they can be a nightmare to clean.

“They’re all cunts” said the bloke next to me, as he gestured at the teenagers ahead of us who were ignorantly unimpressed by the brilliant performance of the support act Clor.

Both his friends went red-faced and nodded in my direction. “Oh sorry,” he said apologetically. “I forgot about present company”.

I laughed. “I think you’ll find pricks just as an effective word to use. It has a bit more meaning, don’t you think?”

He looked at me and nodded. “Yeah, pricks. That is a good word. They’re pricks, the lot of ‘em! Clor are fantastic!” We both grinned and turned back to watch the band.

With the man on my right still swearing, but now using a far more appropriate masculine put-down to insult the youths in the crowd, I pondered whether life would be less sexist if it were as easy to convince men to change their behaviour as it was to get them to alter their language. It had after all been relatively simple to get him to stop using the word cunt; maybe he could be taught not to stare at women’s tits just as easily?

Not that I think by the end of this night, I managed to influence this man to challenge any sexism he might have, but I’m sure I made him see a different, female perspective – which is a good thing. I suppose it’s not that frequent for a man to be confronted by a woman telling him that she liked the shape of the lead singer of Maximo Park’s arse. I like to think the puzzled expression on his face when I told him that, showed some empathic understanding.

Though it might have just been shock; the silence that confronted me when I said I hoped Paul Smith’s tightly-fitted trousers might rip when he jumped in the air and did the splits, said a lot. Clearly the swearing bloke was unable to grasp the idea that women might sexually objectify and enjoy visual stimulation just as much as men; he might have benefited from a healthy intellectual debate about it.

But I was busy watching the guitarist passionately playing his instrument and imagining how well his digital dexterity would translate in bed, so I didn’t attempt to debate the merits of the portrayal of men’s sexuality via women’s fantasy with him.

Occasionally you see, politics does have to take a back seat to more important things in life. Like, for example, my making a mental note to make sure I ask whether a man has the ability to play an instrument next time I am on a date; a new factor on my must-have list and one that needs to be given priority.

Even if its just because it would give me a nice visual image of him using those same hands to play with himself: a bonus in my opinion.

I have one rule in life regarding sex and my job.

(Actually I have more than one, but they are minor rules, eg. limiting heavy sex sessions to the weekend to prevent exhaustion on set the next day; being more sexually graphic than my male colleagues so they know I won’t take any shit from them; and never getting caught wanking in the toilets).

The main rule I abide by though, is this: never fuck actors. Simple.

But why not fuck actors? Surely given the opportunity, one would jump at the chance to shag someone talented/famous/handsome, right? Not me: they are nothing but trouble.

Over the years whilst I’ve been on set, I have been approached by various actors trying to get in my knickers. From Hollywood A-list to no-name extras, they’ve all tried the come-on; from grabbing my arse to handing me their phone number. And to each and every one, I’ve smiled sweetly and declined.

I have absolutely no interest in shagging someone as superficial as an actor; regardless of how talented they might be on screen, they will undoubtedly also be shallow, narcissistic and full of self-loathing – not qualities I admire. I know this, not just because I have met so many actors over the years, but also because for a brief period I trained as one myself, so I can speak from (introspective) experience.

To get up on a stage or film set and be able to switch off the world, whilst also project realistic emotion and thought, requires skill and deftness in being artificial; an ability to convince others of sincerity is, after all, what makes an actor’s performance believable. But it is all superficial and every actor I have met carries this falsity in the interactions they have off-screen as well as on.

It’s not surprising they relate like this; aside from exposing themselves - quite literally - in their performances, they are also surrounded by unreal adoration from people who think they are special and different to the rest of us, making the actor lose touch with reality in the process. I am always mystified why people seem to find those that are famous, interesting: people lap up the magazines and newspapers that have cover stories about some celebrity and which latest lover/diet/tragedy is occupying their life. It just bores me.

It seems that these days, people are celebrated for just being famous, rather than for having a particular skill. I can understand being acknowledged because of what you do for a living: it fits that Nelson Mandela is known across the world – and rightly so. But being famous for being an actor, I do not understand; talented though they may be, invariably they are all arseholes – and often more so than the rest of us.

I can’t count the number of times that an actor has had a strop on set - demanding that everything be done their way, or else they’ll leave - but it is many. Even the best – most skilled – actors pull rank like this; it’s very tiresome and dull.

If I hear that an actor has been handed a cup of tea and not even given eye contact to the person bringing it to them, let alone said ‘thank you’, it makes me angry: when people can’t even project (fake) common courtesy to those around them, it turns me off. Respect and decency are not optional and should be mandatory if you’re bringing home a million-pound pay-packet and have a chauffer-driven car; others are barely covering their rent, working 18 hours a day and scared they’ll crash their car on the way home because they are so tired.

So when one of these shallow people chat me up, I don’t swoon at their feet; I don’t feel complimented that they might be interested in me; and I’m not impressed by who they are, even if they are drop-dead gorgeous. Instead I am aware of the abuse of their position: they can make an advance on any female on set with no consequence to them; the risk to the female crew-member however, is the loss of their job when the actor tires of them, such is the power of their status. I have seen this happen and don’t plan on losing my job any time soon.

With the knowledge that getting involved with an actor could cost me my career, I am able to put things into perspective: at work I may be desperately horny and attracted to an actor’s handsome physique, but with one small slip up – a moment of weakness resulting in their cock inside me – I can wave goodbye to my future. Not worth the risk I think.

Though it can be a little frustrating when I can’t find time to fiddle at work, it has to be said.