Dear Man in my local pub's beer-garden,

Yes, you. The one who stared at me as I jogged past where you were seated yesterday. Please don't take it personally that I didn't stop to chat to you: I had my reasons.

Admittedly, you were very handsome; being deliciously 'ripe' in your mid-thirties and having soft hair sexily speckled with grey. As our eyes met, I immediately imagined what you might look like naked - and was very tempted by what I saw. When you then smiled, I was aware that you had shifted away from your friends to enable you to get a better look at me - most impressive.

As I slowed down momentarily and you grinned widely at me, I wondered what your delectable mouth would be like to kiss. And as you waved, I imagined how those long fingers would feel inside of me. (Quite nice, I expect).

But, you see, no matter how sexy you were, no matter how keen you seemed, no matter how much I was tempted by your evident interest, nothing was going to stop me from fulfilling my objective; once this girl's on a roll, there's no holding back. (Annoying when one is trying to have a surreptitious orgasm in a public place).

So that's why I only smiled briefly, before continuing down the street on my five-mile run. Toning my thighs and arse is more important to me right now, than the prospect of having a good chat/dinner/shag - as much as I might enjoy them too.

Plus, I couldn't have stopped to say hello anyway: I was far too busy listening to my darling Graham on my iPod, and I would never interupt him when he was off doing his thing. (Unless I was choking and needed some air, that is).

Yours apologetically,
Girl

A personalised instant doodle for me, courtesy of the brilliant Tony Husband.

Somehow I managed to drunkenly photograph it using my mobile phone: I'm amazed how clear it looks, considering how many whiskies I had ingested, and the fact that my phone is held together by gaffer tape.

I love that this is immortalised forever, on a pub wall somewhere in London.

Thanks Tony!

‘So you’re OK with us just being casual’ I said as I took a big gulp of ‘instant’ coffee. Not something I would ever drink, the cheap bitterness soured my mouth as I swallowed, and I struggled not to spit it out.

He nodded at me. ‘Yeah, it’s fine. That’s all I was looking for anyway.’

I felt like I had to drive the point home – just in case. ‘Great. But I just want to make sure we’re both on the same page here: we’re going to shag and nothing else – right?’

He nodded again. ‘Absolutely.’ Then he grinned at me. ‘Although that arse of yours will get a thorough spanking next time I see you.’

My pussy throbbing at the thought of it, I smiled back at him, but continued. ‘I look forward to it; that sounds fun. And that’s what I want right now; I’m not looking to get into anything deeper at the moment.’

I watched his face for a response, and as I did, I realised that what I had said was profound: a statement on my life; on my current wants. He smiled at me and I thought about how I had arrived at this conclusion.

Over the last year, as well as fooling around with various men, I fell for someone who didn’t want me, and was smitten by another who was unattainable. Meeting these men made me realise that I did want to be in a relationship, and have something special, and be in love, and all that malarkey. I did want to settle down and partner up: I am no longer in denial about that.

But while I processed this, my head was a bit messed up. I felt lonely and wondered if I would ever meet someone who made my heart leap, and I, his. And I spent nights alone in my bed, where even a wank didn’t make me feel better. I dwelled on my single status and self-analysed to the point of destruction, about why it was that I still hadn’t met that special man. Forget whips, my internal method of self-hatred and constant criticism was enough to flagellate myself.

I felt crap and it took some strength in resigning myself to not wallow in my own self-pity. So I began to talk myself into having hope. Believing that I would meet someone, that out there in this fucking desperate, depressing, lonely city that I live in, is a man who is meant to be with me; someone who will knock my socks off; someone who rocks my world. Who will spark my mind, nurture my soul and sate my desires. And to whom I can do the same.

And so, with recent upheaval in my life and now, new positive things on the horizon, I finally feel happy with where things are at; excited about what lies ahead. I finally like being single; I am once again enjoying the possibilities it brings me.

It may be selfish, but right now I don’t wish to have to focus on another’s needs. I want to explore, experiment, discover endless possibilities; I want to focus on my pleasure and well-being, not someone else’s. I don’t need the heartbreak from a man that doesn’t want me; I can’t deal with the head-fuck from a man I can’t have.

I have resigned myself to the belief that I will meet someone – that he is out there somewhere and that serendipity will make our paths cross. But until then, I just want to have some casual fun. So there I was, sitting opposite a nice bloke, who was funny, interesting company, sweet, reasonably intelligent and who fucked me more than substantially, but I had absolutely zero interest in developing things with him: there was just no spark.

I realised he was grinning at me and waiting for me to break the silence. Throbbing at the memory of a few hours before, I debated asking him to lick my pussy again, but I was due to meet a friend and time was short.

‘So you’re cool with us just fucking?’ I asked.

‘Of course’ he replied. ‘But I’m not really into that whole fuck-buddy thing.’

My heart sank and I waited for him to continue.

‘Just so long as when we meet up, you’re mine for the evening and you’re comfortable with going out to dinner, having some good conversation and my grabbing your arse when we walk down the street, then I’m completely cool with us both fucking other people.’

I laughed. ‘Excellent.’

‘And,’ he continued, ‘I want to be able to fuck you all night long when we do get together.’

I smiled at him. ‘That goes without saying.’

He reached over the table and grabbed my hand and stroked it. The action touched me, but felt insincere, wrong, far too intimate.

I fixed him with a steady gaze. ‘Look, I need you to know, I’m not going to be intimate with you; I’m not going to massage you all night, or stroke you softly, or lie in your arms cuddling you, sorry.’

He shrugged.

‘It’s just that I don’t need the headfuck, OK? It’s easier to be casual if there’s no emotional ties; intimacy is for a relationship – I’m not looking for that right now.’

‘So you said’ he replied, somewhat shortly.

‘And you’re OK with that, right?’ I asked. ‘Because we both have to be wanting the same thing, or someone will get hurt and I really don't want that.’

‘Come here’ he said, and stood up away from the table.

I pushed back my chair and walked over to him. He pulled me close and I felt his cock pushing against my robe.

‘Look’ he said, firmly, ‘I think you’re fucking gorgeous. I really enjoyed last night; I want to fuck you again very much.’ He pressed his erection against me to emphasise the point. ‘But I know what this is, and its fine with me; I am going to fuck other women too; let’s just have some fun and enjoy ourselves.’

Relieved, I relaxed into his arms and we kissed for a while. Reminding me about the time, he pulled away from me and gave me a light spank on my arse as I walked into the bedroom to get dressed.

‘That arse is mine’ he said as I re-emerged a moment later, adjusting my crumpled dress. ‘Next time, I’ll be leaving marks on it.’

I laughed. ‘Good. I look forward to it. And if you buy that strap-on you liked, my arse won’t be the only one that's hurting when we next meet.’

His face lit up in a wide grin, and I gave him a quick peck on the cheek as I opened the door and slipped out into the early morning fresh air.

Not that sort. (Sadly)

A short list of recent disappointments:

1. I was so ill on holiday, an emergency doctor had to be called out at 4am to stick agonising injections in my arse to help with the fever and pain. (Insert pun about being jabbed with a prick here).
2. I am still on antibiotics from said illness and feel run-down.
3. I now have a painful period, am in a shit mood and have a heap of chores lined up to do.
4. I am freezing cold and am already missing the sunshine and beach I got to enjoy (although briefly).
5. This blog has now had over 2 million visitors and I didn't get a screen-grab of it happening on the counter at the bottom of this page.

I feel very out of sync with things right now. Hopefully I'll be back to normal - and regular blogging - shortly.

Still, at least my sex drive is unchanged; a reassuring thought amongst all the above - even if it's still a little too high for my own liking.

Words excite me. They really do. Show me a man who has a way with words and you’ll find me with very wet pants. It’s the best aphrodisiac, in my opinion; forget good looks or a trim physique – find me a wordsmith any day and I’ll be a happy woman.

I don’t refer to a man’s ability to be talkative; that is something completely different. Rather, someone who knows how to be a linguist; who can use his tongue for more than just licking pussy. (Not that I have anything against a man who enjoys such things of course, but his ability to converse well, will have much more of an effect on my horniness, than any direct clitoral stimulation).

Perhaps I’m turned on by men who can do this because their being expressive shows a certain dexterity of their minds: an ability to analyse; a propensity to deconstruct; a questioning of ideology; a cogitation on ideas. Or, in other words, think far beyond their cocks.

Too often I have met and conversed with men who are unable to move past the fact that they have a stiffy in their pants; their communication seems solely limited to their being horny – and it shows. Not that there is anything wrong with expressing one’s horniness and desire to fuck the other person – I’ve been quite partial to a guy whispering in my ear that he is hard for me and can’t wait to get in my pants – but when that is the only way a guy can relate to a woman, it does get rather tiresome;.

Maybe because men that aren’t able to stimulate my mind bore me, and men that are boring turn me off, I end up having little interest in them; without a mental challenge, I make my excuses and leave, even it means forgoing an orgasm. Admittedly I have fucked a few dull, non-conversational men, but I've rarely gone back for seconds afterwards: when the only connection between two people is sexual contact – and no decent conversation occurs – the orgasms become rather mundane in my opinion, and rarely worth the effort. Faced with such a man, I might as well wank: at least I’d be done quicker. And wouldn’t have to wax my nether regions either.

Selfish, this might sound, true. But being with a man who has a way with words, makes my heart race with excitement: I’ll be picking out what dress to wear, a week in advance of a date with him; consuming as much literature, current affairs and media as I can, to be able to converse with him in an equally intellectually stimulating way. And of course wanking furiously before meeting up with him too, so that I ensure the connection between us is cerebral, rather than clitoral.

So you see, I am weak when it comes to the opposite sex and their ability to fuck my brain, rather than my pussy. There is nothing that gets me as hot, as a man that has a sharp mind; all he’d need to do for foreplay is talk me into submission. Literally.

If only more guys realised this, they could avoid using tired chat-up lines; in my case they'd be far more likely to get into my pants if they showed off their brains, rather than their ever-hard cocks.

Although I’d also be quite partial to one of those right now, it has to be said.


[I am disappearing off for a quick holiday. Be back in a week]

Oh my god, I have just found heaven, and this is it.

If I believed in the afterlife, and knew that was what was waiting for me, I would be on my knees praying all the time.

Either that, or spending a lot of time in the confession booth.

Making good use of my tongue, of course.

‘I want you to watch me wank’ he said and motioned for me to sit astride his legs, as he grabbed his cock in one hand and began to stroke it.

Aroused by his confident directness, I shifted my weight and straddled him, ensuring that his thigh was in direct contact with my groin; knowing that it would turn me on to watch him play with himself. I find it so erotic to be privy to a man’s personal method of self-pleasure; what better way to learn new/better handjob techniques, than to watch a man giving himself some loving hand-action?

So I sat there as he grabbed, tugged and pulled away, even though I was knackered and wanted to go to sleep. But five orgasms in, I felt like the least I could do, was to assist him with his pleasure, so I leant over him, pressed my breasts together and gently slid them over his cock.

‘Fuck, your tits are fantastic’ he exclaimed, as my nipples rubbed against him. ‘Sit up; I want to look at you’.

I leaned back and he groaned loudly. ‘God you’re gorgeous; you have such a sexy body, do you know that?’

I grinned at him in silent thanks, and watched him tugging merrily away at his member. He smiled at me, and I could tell from his fast breathing that he was close. I thought he might need some help to send him over the edge, so I licked my finger and teased his arsehole a little. He groaned again and lifted his hips off the bed, thrusting into both his hand, and my finger.

It wasn’t long before he was shooting all over the place. I gripped his balls as he climaxed and watched the spunk rhythmically flying over his abdomen and chest.

‘Ouch!’ he exclaimed suddenly, and shifted his body away from my grasp; I worried that maybe I had tugged him too hard. ‘Are you OK?’ I asked, gently stroking him. ‘Did I hurt you?’

‘No, not at all’ he replied. ‘I think I just got some in my eye’. I looked up and saw him wiping away the spunk he had managed to shoot all over his face.

I have to say that although facials are definitely not my thing, the sight of him covered in his own juices was a sight to behold; it made me want to have a little play myself.

I’m all for more equality in the bedroom you see - especially if it’s the guy getting spunked on.

I am obviously angry about being plagiarised and it has tarnished my feeling towards writing on my blog, knowing that someone else is using my words and claiming them as theirs. But with all the support and solidarity I have had from other bloggers and readers over the last few days – and the fact that I still get pleasure from blogging – I guess I am not ready to stop writing, yet.

Thank you to all the people who commented or emailed me with advice about how to deal with people stealing my work. Big thanks to Jonathan from Plagiarism Today who has been immensely helpful, and whom I suggest any other bloggers in similar situations, consult: he knows his stuff.

I am in the process of taking action against the offending sites. Fingers crossed, the fuckers disappear off the map – and soon.

I'm at a friend's place on their computer, thought I'd quickly log on, check some other blogs and do my email. Whilst browsing, I read Anna's blog and in her comments, found this link on blogging plagiarism.

After a brief google search on some random text, I am now fuming. Absolutely fucking livid. And not because I am sexually frustrated.

Why am I so annoyed? Because I have just discovered not one but three websites have stolen my blog posts in their entirety - as well as all my archives - and not attributed any of my words to me. Not even given me a link or text credit.

I cannot describe how angry this makes me. I have written this blog for over two years, I put time and energy into it only to have some fucker steal my words and pretend they are their own. There was me thinking that the copyright notice at the bottom of this page would be enough; that people would respect my work and ask permission if they wanted to quote from it. I never thought that there would be arseholes who would copy it - word for word - and claim it as their own.

Maybe I was naive to believe that, but I really didn't think such people existed; to steal someone else's words is an anathema to me. I am stunned that this has happened.

Bar physically hurting someone to vent my anger, I'm not sure there is anything I can do about this plagiarism. It's frustrating, but my hands are tied - and sadly not in the way I would like.

It's enough to make me want to stop blogging.

Seriously.

Being temporarily without internet access right now, is causing me some frustration. Besides not being able to partake in my favourite online pasttimes - blogging, political reading, porn downloading - it also means I cannot post my thoughts at whim.

I am currently between providers and even though I have tried to scrounge from another wireless network whilst I wait to be connected, all my neighbours have password protected theirs. Bastards. Which leaves me visiting internet cafes. Given the subject matter of my blog I'm not going to partake in that: I am far more of a prude than people realise.

This means that during this brief electronic visit (of which I have but a moment to write something), I shall not be talking about:

1. How I got fingered in a pub recently
2. The importance of orgasms for better female sanity
3. My update on celebrities - and why I have no interest in fucking one

When I'm back on - and have some more time - I'll write more.

Until then, my hands will be rather busy doing something else.

If everyone does this tomorrow, I'll be a happy woman.

Happy because I'll know that someone has got fucked - even though it's not me.

Well, there are other things to use my fingers for, you know.

I do so love a man with green fingers.

I am not referring to his having stained or dirty digits. If there’s one thing that turns me off, it’s a man with dirty hands. No such man is going to get to explore the inside of me, no matter how horny I might be; if a guy can’t even ensure that his nails and fingers are clean, it doesn’t really bode well for the state of his cock-hygiene. Presentation is everything you see: stinky fingers equal a smelly cock, and us ladies do so love a man who keeps his head clean.

I digress. Green fingers: I love a man who can look after plants (otherwise known as the things with leaves that grow in soil); it makes me go all quivery inside when faced with a man that knows the difference between a Dracena and a Cordyline, rather than just the Labia Minora and Perineum.

I think it all started some years ago when I had a fling with a guy who loved plants. The first time we went back to my flat, I deposited him in my lounge while I went to fix drinks, and returned to find him caressing my Schefflera.

‘Ohh’ he said, stroking the leaves gently, ‘that’s a fine looking plant there, how old is it?’

‘About five years I think’ I replied, watching him fingering its fronds.

‘It’s done well’ he said. ‘You’ve clearly taken care of it for it to have grown so big’.

I felt a surge of pride and a throb between my legs as I watched him touch the leaves of my plant as if he were caressing me. His fingers seemed so light and so careful; it made me think they would feel just as gentle inside of me. And later, when I got him into my bed, I discovered I wasn’t wrong.

But it wasn’t just how he touched the plants that stirred my depths. When we went back to his place a week later, I saw that it was completely filled with plants; each one brimming with life and good health and it made me realise that a man who could look after plants so well would have to be a caring, sensitive person. To take so much care and attention over a living thing showed an ability to think outside of his own needs. Ergo, he wasn’t selfish. Thus he would be good in bed (and possibly be Potential Boyfriend Material too).

He was lovely - my green fingered, good-at-fingering man - but it didn’t work out. However, discovering his love of plants helped make me view them - and men - very differently: I came to understand that to be able to nurture something so carefully was a skill to be constantly learned and improved on, and developed over time, and that humans, like plants, need the tender touch.

So when I first visited my ex SP’s house a couple of years ago, I was very excited to find he had a whole garden of beautifully maintained plants, each one lovingly placed in the ground by him. My theory about being him being caring and sensitive because of his plant-love was spot-on. Especially when it came to giving me orgasms with those same deft green fingers.

But it also didn’t work out. Ironically, I suspected things were going badly after I bought him a new house plant. When I next visited, a couple of weeks after giving it to him, it was completely dead: he hadn’t looked after it at all.

At the time, I remember feeling sorry for the plant, that his neglect had made it suffer. It was only some months later – when my eyes were sore from continually crying about our break-up – that I realised how meaningful it was that he had left it to die, and that it was an apt analogy for the state of our relationship.

So I don’t necessarily think that having green fingers means a guaranteed ability to be good in bed or to have a meaningful relationship, but I would bet that it is a good measure to judge the former by. In my mind, a man that is able to enjoy the process of something (other than his cock) growing, is also likely to be the sort of man who appreciates the sexual journey, rather than just the destination; a man who gets off on pleasuring a woman regardless of his achieving orgasm.

And given the amount of men I have fucked, who are - quite clearly - only interested in their own climax (the female orgasm seemingly being an obstacle preventing them reaching it as fast as they would like), I would suggest that taking some time to be a bit more sensual and learning to enjoy the process, rather than just the result it brings, would be beneficial to all.

So to those who worry about their skills in bed, my advice would be to go and fondle a houseplant - it might just make you a better lover.