The scene: evening - two weeks ago
The location: somewhere in London
The characters: myself and a guy – I’ll call him ‘B’

I had just gone into hiding after learning that the Sunday Times was going to run the ‘expose’ article on me.

‘Want to meet for a pint?’ B asked, when he heard the news.

‘Fuck yes’, I replied. ‘But I don’t think I can be in a public place right now – I’m too scared - how about I jump in a cab to yours?’

He agreed; I grabbed a bottle, hailed a taxi and made my way to his flat. I hadn’t been there before; in fact, I’d never even met him. But we’d been in contact for a couple of months, via email, phone and text.

‘I really admire your gung-ho stance to dating’ he had said, after I sent him the link to my blog, explaining how I had detailed my personal life online. ‘It’s like the Thin Red Line, with spunk instead of bullets - I applaud your honesty’.

Laughing at his sardonic humour and relieved at his nonchalance, I told him about the book; he didn’t seem worried by that either, and joked when I warned him of the potential downfalls of knowing a sex diarist, ‘It’s surely just a matter of time before some thinly-veiled assault on my bedroom habits makes it into print’.

Because of his indifference, and due to our coincidentally knowing some mutual acquaintances, (‘six degrees of separation’ between us so to speak), as well as him working in a similar creative field, I didn’t feel worried about meeting him face-to-face; I knew he wouldn’t reveal any personal details about me.

When we did finally meet in the flesh that night, it was under very unusual circumstances: I was anxious that my personal life was about to be thrust into the limelight; he was in the middle of a major work tsunami. I guess it was no surprise that we both appeared a bit stressed, and that there was a little awkwardness between us.

I wasn’t expecting to shag him though. Even though we sat on his sofa, cosily chatting, drinking champagne, and eating a takeaway, I didn’t for one minute think, or even hope, that later on we would be getting naked with each other.

This might have had something to do with his spending more than an hour detailing every girlfriend of his over the last ten years, and how he was currently worrying about the level of romantic interest that another girl had, for him. Whilst I was a little bored by him going into such detail about his love-life fuck-ups, I was still enjoying his company: he’s a sharp guy, brilliantly witty, and very intelligent, so I actually found it refreshing that he was even more narcissistic and self-absorbed than me. And his private monologue was, I suppose, a momentary distraction for me, given my own, current, personal distress. To his credit, he did, at one point, display some emotional insight, remarking, ‘I guess this seems a little trivial, given your present situation’. Well yes, exactly: my entire private life was about to be thrown into disarray; forced into a furious media circus, and here was a 35-year old man fretting over whether a 24-year-old ignoring his text messages “meant anything”. And I thought I was neurotic…

Some hours passed and we both realised what the time was. He had work commitments in the morning; I needed an early start to go back into hiding. I had planned on leaving that night by cab; B suggested I stay:

‘It’s late, and I think we could both do with a snuggle’, he offered. ‘And maybe a little snog.’

He had a point. It would be nice to cuddle someone: I was stressed; he was, well, anxious in his own way. But it was odd to imagine cuddling up to him in bed; there seemed zero sexual chemistry between us: at no point in the evening did either of us touch each other in a flirtatious way, let alone kiss. Even with the champagne we had drunk, to suddenly share a bed would feel weird. Especially if snuggles led to other things…

I broached the subject best I could:

‘Snuggles would be nice’ I agreed. ‘But don’t you think it’d be a bit strange? We don’t know each other, and it’s not like we’ve been gagging to shag each other all evening; I certainly wasn’t planning on having sex with you. Not that you’re unattractive – it’s just, well, my head is all over the place, and if we were going to do it, I don’t think tonight would be the best time.’

He nodded in agreement. ‘We could have a limit on what we do’, he suggested. ‘Maybe just cuddle and kiss; no more.’

I nodded back at him.

‘And,’ he continued, ‘I’d feel a bit shit if we did shag, because I’ve been going on all night about that other girl; it’d be a bit rude if I then fucked you.’

Well, precisely. So we agreed that sex was out, but cuddles were in, and we made our way to his bedroom.

We sat on the bed, fully clothed, and I felt embarrassed. It was the weirdest thing: I don’t have an issue with my body – I’m more than happy to relax in my nakedness with a guy - but here I was, with all my clothes on, and I felt exposed.

‘This is really odd’, I said. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever been in this situation before: getting into someone’s bed to cuddle them, without, at least, having some prior minor flirtation. How should we do this? Clothed? In underwear? I’m tempted to ask you for a t-shirt for me to wear…’

‘You’re welcome to one,’ he said, ‘but I always sleep naked.’

‘So do I’ I replied, truthfully. We agreed to remove our clothes simultaneously, jumping into bed as we did so.

‘You’ve got a great body’ he remarked, as he snuggled up against me.

‘Thanks’, I replied, feeling his erection pressing against my thigh, the familiar throbbing between my legs begin, and I wondered how long it would be before our cuddling became more intimate.

Not long, evidently: he began to rhythmically push himself against me, and as we kissed, he pulled my leg up over his, so his thigh was pressed up against my wet groin - this was no longer an ‘innocent’ cuddle. I decided to respond to his movements, and rubbed myself against his thigh; his cock sliding against my lower belly as I did so.

‘We’re not doing very well on the snuggling’ he teased, and ran his hands all over my body, ending up on my nipples, coaxing them into hard peaks.

‘That might have something to do with the fact that you’re grinding your cock against me’ I joked, as my fingers discovered his chest hair, his solid back, his curvaceous arse.

‘Mm’, he replied, and kissed me some more. We resumed our embrace and my earlier thoughts – that I wasn’t that attracted to him; that we had no particular sexual chemistry; that I didn’t really want to sleep with him – were banished from my mind, as his fingers skilfully entered me, and a moment later I climaxed hard, all over his hand.

Later, when we were both lying back in a post-orgasmic haze, he asked me if our not having intercourse could still be included as us having ‘sex’, as if by the lack of it, it wouldn’t ‘count’ in some way. I laughed, and reminded him that regardless of penile penetration, any orgasms occurring, count as sex. (Especially the three orgasms I had had…)

Soon after, he fell asleep. I however, lay awake all night, thoughts of losing my anonymity running through my head; my heart racing in panic. I began to realise that the sex with B had offered me some freedom; a momentary, but much needed, escape from my reality. Even though I had not particularly wished to fuck him, I did, because it gave me some temporary pleasure, away from all the worry I was feeling; I wanted the gratification on offer. And he too, had his own reasons for needing my company and sexual release. We were both fulfilling our desires in different ways - having binary sex; intimacy by default.

In the morning, I curled up behind him and gently caressed him all over his body. It wasn’t long before I had his firm cock throbbing in my hand, as I stroked him lightly.

‘What are you trying to do?’ he murmured sleepily, and turned to face me.

‘Wake you up’ I lied, when what I meant was: ‘Get you horny and hard, so that I can fuck you’.

We moved together for a while, stroking each other. I noticed that he was avoiding eye-contact with me; I put it down to his tiredness, but my gut feeling was that he was dissociating for a reason. I was right: suddenly, with no warning, he pushed me away and jumped out of bed.

I ignored the internal analysis in my head, and focussed on the throbbing between my legs instead:

‘Got time for a quickie?’ I said coyly, giving him my most seductive look.

‘No’ he replied bluntly. ‘I’ve got a busy day ahead’. He stood there shifting uncomfortably, still avoiding my gaze.

‘It wouldn’t take long’ I persisted, pushing the duvet away to reveal my hand sliding between my legs. ‘I am soaking wet’, I added huskily, hoping that might convince him into jumping on top of me.

‘I’m sure you are’, he said coldly, and turned away from me before exiting the room.

The one-night stand was finished; my instincts were right - I’ve had enough casual fucks to know when a guy is done. And B’s behaviour was clear: he wanted me out; he had no interest in pursuing any more intimacy.

I lay there for a moment with my thoughts; it’d been a while since I’d experienced such outright sexual rejection, and it took me a minute to comprehend my feelings about it. Bar getting neurotic about my being overly sexually demanding, (if a guy doesn’t like my sexual appetite, well, fuck him, I say), I soon realised that his snub made me feel only a little gutted. Instead, what I felt hurt by was the way he behaved, rather than the rejection itself: I’m an adult – I can take someone turning me down.

B may have been tired and had a busy day ahead; he may have not felt up to shagging; he may have been turned off by my horniness; he may have wished I was the other girl who was in his thoughts; he may even have – in the light of day – realised that he actually wasn’t attracted to me and wanted some immediate distance; but with a little tact, some politeness and, perhaps a little honesty on his part, he could have ensured that things were left between us in a respectful and amicable way. One-night stands don’t have to result in coldness between the participants, but this one did, and as a result, whatever friendship we might have had, is unlikely to develop further.

Given the circumstances of our intimacy, along with his aloof manner, it doesn’t surprise me that he hasn’t made contact with me since that night. But because he was aware of the distress I was in, due to the impending newspaper article, I had thought he might be considerate enough to drop me a line at some point over the last two weeks, to wish me well. He hasn’t; clearly he’s just not that sort of bloke. It’s a shame, because I thought we had a decent intellectual connection, and I always prefer to remain friends with people I’ve slept with: handy if you bump into them in the future…

With B’s brusque rejection ringing in my ears, I lay on his bed, a little hurt, horny as hell, and wondering what to do. Given the situation, I ended up doing, what any normal woman would: I slid my hands between my legs, had a quick, silent, wank and then a decent, but brief, orgasm.

And then I wiped my wet fingers off on his bed sheets.

Shortly afterwards, when he came back into the room with a coffee in his hand, I was already in my bra and pants and he was none the wiser.

I departed his flat a few minutes later, waving him goodbye, with not so much as a peck on the cheek from him. I’m sure he had no idea why I had a big smile on my face; it probably looked odd, with what had just happened between us and how things were left. But as any woman will vouch, if there’s one thing to put us in a pleasant mood for the day, it’s a good orgasm - even if we are forced to induce it ourselves.