'Guess who's here?' the unexpected email greeted me. 'Long time no see! You busy? I'm in town for a couple of days, be great to see you - feel like some fun?!'

I recalled the last time I saw him, over a year ago. He had demanded I sat on his face most of the night. It was rather delightful. Then I thought about what his cock would feel like in my mouth again and with wet pants, I emailed him straight back.

'Hey, what a nice surprise. I actually have some free time for once - let's meet.'

Figuring that his time in London would be brief, I also included my mobile number in the message: if we were going to hook up, it would have to be done quickly.

Three days later, he still hadn't contacted me back, either by email or by phone, by which point I knew that he had already left London and returned home.

I also knew I wouldn't hear from him again for a long time. And when I did, he wouldn't recall his lack of response to my email reply and would think nothing of the fact that he was the one who initiated meeting, only to not take up the possibility when it was presented to him.

I'm not particularly annoyed by this; we've been fuckbuddies for long enough for us each to deal with plans that don't happen and meetings that fall through. I know not to expect anything from him, so I am not that disappointed by his lack of courtesy in not replying.

But what I am pissed off about, is that I was this close to getting eaten out all night and being fucked rampantly, and to then have that offer removed, is not just rude on his part but very frustrating on mine.

If there's one thing that gets me in a bad mood, it's a pussy tease: it's no way to leave a woman like me, frustration is not something I deal with well.

Unless of course, it was done within the context of my being tied up in bed, licked all over without being allowed to climax, and then finally given some release after hours of build-up - which is a different thing altogether.

The last two days I have been going out of my mind. Frustrated beyond belief. I have been totally desperate.

It is quite clear that I have been displaying the classic symptoms of irrational horniness:

1. I have been thinking about sex all the time
2. I have downloaded porn to watch every time I’ve been at the computer
3. I have gone through three sets of watch batteries from usage of my vibrator
4. I have got repetitive strain injury in my wrist from wanking constantly
5. I have gone through my address book and considered calling old fuck buddies for a shag, even though I promised myself I wouldn’t see them again because
a) they weren’t that good in bed
b) they bore me intellectually which made the sex mundane
c) they have girlfriends now and I dislike men that cheat
6. I have considered contacting men I have recently dated and asking them to fuck me
7. I have perused Craigslist and debated contacting some random stranger for a quick no-strings-attached shag in a hotel
8. I have wondered about going to a swingers’ sauna and propositioning some bloke to eat me out in the steam room
9. I have been tempted to sit legs apart on a train whilst wearing a skirt and no knickers and hope that a cute guy will notice and then make a move on me
10. And I have considered calling a platonic male friend who I am not even attracted to and asking him to ‘do the honours’

It seems obvious that I have not been thinking straight; very worrying.

That is, until this evening, when I suddenly realised why I also had an agonising stabbing pain in my belly and my breasts were swollen and sore: I’ve just got my period.

Thank fuck for that, is all I can say. Not that I was worried about being pregnant (far from it, especially with my using condoms when I do get action), but I had feared something was wrong with me, because of my current randiness.

So it’s quite a relief to know that it’s all down to my hormones and that I will be thinking rationally again as soon as it’s all over in a few days. That’s not to say I won’t still be horny, but just that I won’t resort to any irrational or desperate behaviour to satisfy my urges.

I'll just be resorting to normal means instead, which with my high-sex-drive, is something to be thankful for.

Now that I have some free time once again, I have quite a bit of preening/self-care to catch up on; it's been many months since I've been able to do so. Here are the things I need/want to do:

List One

1. Get my hair cut. Frizzy and me don't go.
2. Get my hair highlighted. It's Summer! Yes, it is, OK?
3. Get my legs waxed. Furry and me don't go.
4. Get my bikini line waxed after I have had four vodkas, so that I don't shout at the beautician that she is a 'fucking sadist' and 'what are you doing? trying to kill me???'
5. Buy some new bras that
a) fit properly and compliment the shape of my boobs
b) actually make my nipples sit horizontally and defy gravity entirely. They do exist, don't they?
6. Buy a couple of hip-hugging, arse-shaping, pencil-line skirts that are made for curvaceous woman and not skeletal models. Easier said than done.
7. Buy some new jeans that don't advertise what underwear I am wearing to the world. Again, easier said than done.
8. Find a couple of tops whose buttons don't pop open at breast level, because they are designed solely for flat-chested women. A week-long chore, believe me.
9. Find some open-toe heeled sandals that
a) fit my big feet
b) are comfortable
c) accentuate my calf muscles so I look as good as Jodie Foster in Inside Man (her legs are enough to make a girl switch sides)
10. Run at least three times a week so that I can trim up asap (and also then pluck up the courage to talk to the fit blonde bloke at my gym)

List Two

1. Try out some new sex toys
2. Go to a fetish night
3. Be a voyeur at an orgy
4. Have sex with two men
5. Fuck a bloke outdoors
6. Shag a total stranger
7. Experience anal sex again
8. Get handcuffed and spanked hard
9. Be the plaything for a hetrosexual couple
10. Have an orgasm in a public place (again)



I don't know about other women, but for me, I'm bored shitless by shopping. When it comes to how I'd prefer to spend my free time, I think having a good shag will always beat finding a sexy skirt to wear. And as for 'beauty' regimes, when you get the chance to have a cock in your mouth, who really gives a shit what your make-up looks like? Not me. I'd rather look like I've been dragged through a hedge because I'd just had a hard fuck, than worry about the state of my hair. (No wonder it's always a mess).

So I suppose that the things on the first list are just chores for me to get done; and on the second, the reward for doing them. Here's hoping I churn through them all quickly.

Though really I'd prefer number seven on the second list to be done as slowly as possible. Unless it's part of number four on the same list, in which case I'd be so excited, I'd probably forget about the pain it might cause.

Wish the same could be said for waxing.

‘When you get a ‘no’ get happy’, someone said to me years ago, when I worked in sales. The idea being, that every rejection you experience brings you closer to acceptance; for every person that turns you down, you’ll get nearer to the one that says ‘yes’ to you.

The same can be applied to chatting someone up I think.

For years I have worked with this philosophy, since when it comes to dating or sex, it’s usually me who puts myself on the line, doing the equivalent of the cold-call. Men almost never approach me - I rarely get chatted up; to make advances in my love/sex life, I've had to rely almost wholly on my plucking up the courage to go and talk to a bloke.

I occasionally question why men don’t approach me instead; though I’m no supermodel, I reckon I’m OK in the beauty stakes, so surely some men find me attractive enough to want to take the initiative with me? Or perhaps it's not only about looks.

I questioned my friend JN about this a while ago, on one of our evenings spent moaning about our sex lives. ‘I want you to watch me as I go to buy us more drinks’ I told him. ‘Tell me what you notice; I'd like to know if any men check me out’.

He agreed and I sauntered to the long bar, ordered our drinks and tried to look relaxed amongst the thirty-something dressed-up crowd. A few minutes later, cocktails in hand, I made my way back to our seats.

‘Well?’ I asked, ‘anything?’

JN nodded. ‘Yup. About five blokes checked you out.’

I was stunned that so many might have shown interest. But I didn’t believe him till he pointed each one out to me. ‘Why didn’t any of them approach me? Is my hair a mess? Am I showing too much or too little cleavage?’

JN shook his head. ‘You look great; it’s not about that. The problem is how you carry yourself. You look too confident.’

Not the first time I have heard this, I sat there in silence and waited for JN to continue.

‘You see, that makes you unapproachable: most guys are intimidated by women who look so at ease as you do. Even the way you walked to the bar, you seemed like you owned the place. It's scary for a bloke to deal with that - far easier to talk to the timid-looking girl sitting by the door.’

‘But I wasn’t confident’ I pleaded. ‘Actually I felt very self-conscious and couldn’t wait to get back to my seat.’

‘You carry off your insecurity well then: you looked like you literally oozed self-assuredness.’

‘What am I supposed to do?’ I asked him, exasperated. ‘Pretend to be all meek and shy? Will that make guys approach me?’

JN shook his head again. ‘Nah, you’d just come over like a twit: that's just not you. Be yourself and do what you do; eventually you’ll meet a bloke who sees through all that.’

I looked down at the table. ‘And if I don’t?’

JN took a gulp of his cocktail. ‘And if you don’t, then just continue to chat guys up; with your personality and prettiness you’ll always pull.’

And of course, he had a point: of all the boyfriends/dates/shags I have had over the years, I’d say a good 95% of them were instigated by me. Clearly something about me, or something I do, works: so to coin another cliché, ‘if it ain’t broke, why fix it?’

But I don’t always have success from my approaches – far from it. I have had more face-to-face rejections than I can count; I have given out scores of scraps of paper with my number on and never been called back; typed tons of ignored emails; sent dozens of unanswered text messages – being turned down is something I am used to and accept as part of the course of being single. Let’s face it, if I was upset by every rejection I have ever had, (and there have been many) I would be a quivering wreck by now (and never get laid) which clearly is not the way to go.

Still, sometimes the snubs I get do affect me. I'm not as strong as I think I am and so take to heart the unreturned calls, the delays in replying to my invitations to meet, the excuses offered up by way of avoidance; I begin to question my approach to men: am I perhaps too aggressive? too forward? too honest?

Occasionally I wish that just once, some nice bloke would approach me and talk to me. Not some foot fetishist, or some arsehole wanting to tell me what great tits I have; but instead, some normal guy who thinks ‘she looks interesting, I want to go and talk to her and find out what makes her tick’.

And you know what they’d find out? That I am not as confident as I appear; that political issues and movies fire me up; and that I’m a hippie at heart, believing that ‘all we need is love’ and the world would be a better place. (Of course they’d also discover that I have a high sex drive, am interested in group sex and that given the chance to be spanked, I wouldn’t say no). (If they chatted to me for more than an hour, that is).

And right now – even though I'm sure that with the amout of ‘no’s’ I have had recently, I must be closer to that ‘yes’ I so wish for – I would love for a guy to make the move on me and initiate things.

So to all the decent men out there, if you see a thirty-something woman in a London bar and she seems to exude confidence and flirtatiousness, please understand how much she'd appreciate it if you could just look past that, swallow your shyness and find a way to talk to her.

Because it may just be me saying ‘yes’ to you.

Today, for the first time in some months, I went for a run. With my hectic schedule preventing me from being able to train until now, it was with some relief that I finally got my trainers back on and headed out in the sunshine to my local park this afternoon. I really looked forward to feeling the air on my skin, my heart beating fast and my body becoming drenched in sweat.

Forty minutes later and all I had managed to run was four miles. Ten measily minutes a mile. That’s crap. Especially so because the last time I went for a run, sixty minutes was the norm; doing eight miles was no problem.

So I was rather disappointed to discover that my stamina has, as they say, gone to shit. This is bad for two reasons:

1. I am going to have to struggle to get back to a good level of fitness again
2. If I get the opportunity to have a rampant shag, I might not be able to keep up with the guy
   

Obviously I am more worried about the latter.

The thing is, my stamina usually exceeds most men I meet. When sex is on the cards, I’m quite happy to fuck. And then fuck some more. And then fondle. And then fuck some more. Add in some more fondling and a bit more fucking and then multiply that by five and extend it over the course of a few hours and that is my level of sexual energy. Let’s just say I like to fuck. A lot.

And generally, given that I know most men do inevitably suffer tiredness at some point, I do tend to play down my willingness to constantly keep it up – as it were – in bed. Not one to want to make a bloke feel undermined or lacking, I’m more likely to cuddle up to them after a handful of climaxes, than tell them that actually, I am still throbbing between my legs and are they up for fucking me for a fifth time?

So it’s not that often that I get so shagged beyond all recognition that all I want to do is drop off to sleep after climaxing. But it is possible – even for a girl like me: I had a fling with a marathon runner for a while - damn that boy had stamina. Stamina like you wouldn’t believe. One night – eight orgasms in - I actually had to beg him to stop.

With his cock sticking out like a fucking flagpole, I told him that I couldn’t physically fuck anymore. My body was ruined: I couldn’t move. I was well and truly fucked. I needed rest. And do you know what this sadistic bastard did? Stuck his tongue between my legs, ate me out until I was on the brink of another orgasm and then fucked me hard until I had had two more, saying ‘now I have fucked you good and proper’. Bastard.

But it just goes to show that there is a correlation between fitness, stamina and endurance in training, and the ability to last all night whilst shagging. I'm not saying that being able to run 26 miles will ensure your cock stays hard when you want it to - but surely it must help.

So with the pathetic exhaustion from today’s run showing me my how crap my stamina currently is, I am left worrying how I will manage if I happen to meet another bloke who can go all night. Right now, not very well, I imagine: I’d probably collapse after just one good hard shag.

But given my normally ravenous bedroom appetite, perhaps that’s not such a bad thing.

‘So, how’s your love life?’

JN took a deep swig of his beer. ‘Alright I guess.’

I reached for my martini and took a large gulp. ‘Do tell.’

‘Well there was this girl…’

‘How did you meet?’

‘She knew one of the guys at work. She seemed nice, quite pretty, a good smile, a great arse.’

I laughed. ‘Of course, and?’

‘And a few weeks ago, she gave me her number and suggested we meet for a drink.’

‘OK…’

‘And she was really keen – totally up for it.’

‘So you shagged her?’

‘No. She wanted to, but I just didn’t go for it.’

‘Why not?’

‘No chemistry; she didn’t stoke my interest at all.’

‘Sorry to hear that.’

‘It’s fine, save for her emailing me the next day and asking to see me again.’

‘Oh dear.’

‘Yeah, well I think she’s got the message now.’

‘Did she take it badly?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Well, how did she respond when you told her you weren’t interested?’

JN paused, a guilty expression on his face.

I groaned. ‘Please tell me you told her JN.’

JN looked down at his feet.

‘You didn’t tell her?’ I exclaimed. ‘What, you just thought she could read your mind?’

‘No. But she got the message that I wasn’t interested.’

I stared at him. ‘So you sent her a text then.’

JN shook his head. ‘Look, she knows that I don’t want to see her again, OK?’

‘Because you didn’t contact her at all, right?’

JN nodded.

‘For fucks’ sake JN, you’re such a typical fucking man, do you know that?!’

‘What?’ he said, grinning at me sheepishly.

‘Do you have any fucking idea how horrible it is – how insulting – to have a bloke do that to you?’

JN shrugged.

‘Look, let me tell you something about women. When you didn’t reply to her email, she didn’t get the message.’

JN looked at me confused.

‘No. For the first three days after she emailed you and had no reply, she would have been worried.’

‘Worried?’

‘Yes, worried. Worried that she had made a mistake showing interest; that she had acted too keen and should have played it cooler.’

‘Well, that’s not a big deal.’

‘Whatever. Anyway, when she didn’t hear from you for another three days, she would have been hurt; wondering why you weren’t replying to her email.’

JN looked indifferent and I felt my temperature rising.

I continued. ‘And after feeling hurt, she would begin to feel offended, wondering why it was so hard for you to just email her back. Three more days after that and she would be infuriated and resentful and have angrily deleted your email address.’

JN shrugged nonchalantly and I was tempted to slap him. ‘Look, I don’t see what the big deal is’ he said. ‘She got the message, that’s all that matters.’

‘No. What message she got is that you’re just like all the other arseholes out there; that you have so little regard for women that you don’t even have the decency to be honest with them.’

JN stayed silent.

‘Do you wonder why women end up so pissed off with men?’ I asked him. ‘Does it not cross your mind that perhaps if men treated us a little better, we would have more respect for you? Do you not realise that when women get drunk together and bitch about how fucking crap men are, it’s because of shit like this? You're thirty-five not thirteen - why can't you just be a grown-up and say what you really think?’

JN continued his silence, knowing me well enough to understand that it was best for him to do so until I had finished my rant.

‘JN’ I said, exasperated, ‘what's wrong with being honest? How difficult would it have been to quickly email her and say “thanks for last night; you were good company and I had fun. However, I am not interested in getting into anything more, but thank you anyway”?’

JN shrugged again.

‘It’s just a simple matter of honesty and respect’ I pleaded. ‘Common courtesy, that’s all. If more men were able to be truthful and stop all this rude ‘if I ignore them, they’ll go away’ bullshit, there would be a lot more trust between us and lead to better communication all round.’

‘I suppose that’s a fair point.’ JN said, still looking sheepish.

I nodded. ‘If we could all just be honest with each other, surely that would make relations between us better in the long run?’

‘I guess, yeah. Presumably, the shagging would be better too.’ he said, and we both laughed.

I reached for my martini and took a large gulp.

JN took a deep swig of his beer. ‘So, how’s your love life?’

‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

‘What I’m trying to say,’ he said slowly, ‘is that I just don’t see us going anywhere.’

I looked at him and felt tears well up in my eyes.

He continued. ‘It’s not that I’m not attracted to you, clearly I am, and you are a brilliant person and terrific company, but I just don’t feel that chemistry – I’m sorry.’ He held my hand tightly and I tried to focus on the lipstick mark I had left on my wine glass.

‘Are you ok?’ he asked, pulling me out of my silence. ‘We’re still going to be friends though, right?’

I nodded, trying to avoid eye contact with him; knowing that if I looked into his eyes, the tears would flood out of mine.

‘I’ll be fine’ I said, somewhat unconvincingly. ‘But I need another glass of wine I think.’

He quickly grabbed the bottle and poured me another. I reached for my glass and took a deep swig; swallowing with difficulty as the now seemingly bitter taste swirled around my mouth.

I looked up at him for a moment and he smiled at me sympathetically. I realised we were still holding hands and it suddenly felt wrong to me to do so. I began to pull away, but he took my hand in his and squeezed it gently. This small gesture touched me and I relaxed for a moment.

‘Look’ I said, taking a deep breath, ‘I’m not going to lie; I know I’ve probably contradicted myself a lot, but I did want more with you. And I was hoping that you did too.’

He smiled at me again, but this time his hand was motionless against mine. I felt myself begin to blush; vulnerable, exposed.

‘But, um, you don’t – and that’s fine, it really is. I totally understand. And you know me – I don’t let stuff get me down.’ I attempted to grin at him, but looking in his eyes again threatened tears in my own. I focussed instead on the sole scarlet carnation sitting in the vase on the restaurant table; its bright colour burning into my sore eyes.

‘I think we both need another drink’ he said, emptying the wine bottle into my glass. ‘Shall we go to a pub instead?’

I agreed: I wanted to get as far away from there as possible. As far away from what had happened in there as possible.

We found somewhere close by and gulped down our drinks. A few beers later, I felt myself getting tipsy: I was glad for the alcohol – I didn’t want to deal with his rejection sober.

Somehow, like always, we ended up with our bodies touching; him with his arm around my shoulder; mine around his back. I suppose it was inevitable that we would kiss. And then slide our hands along each other’s legs. And then lift each other’s clothes to feel the skin beneath.

No longer was I hearing the quiet, sad voice inside of me of the girl who had been rejected; instead the throbbing between my legs was the only thing on my mind.

I heard myself say ‘I’d like to feel your kisses all over my body and then I’d like to slide your cock into my mouth’ as if the words coming out of my mouth, belonged to another person.

He grinned at me and then kissed me again.

My mouth continued: ‘why don’t we grab a cab and go back to yours?’

Then my uncontrollable lips found their way to his neck, to that place, to where I knew he would respond to my touch.

‘You sure?’ he asked.

‘Yes’ I heard myself say. ‘Very sure.’

We found a cab outside and hopped in it. I stared out the window and watched central London pass by.

So, this is what it means to be a sex fiend. It’s not about shagging strangers in alleyways like some kind of sex addict. It's about knowing someone doesn’t want you and yet you still offer to shag them with no strings attached. It's about being so horny that you can’t turn down sex with them. And it's about being so masochistic that you can’t stop yourself from doing something that will, at some point, hurt like hell.

We passed over Waterloo Bridge and I looked out upon the river flowing beneath it. What a tragic and yet apt metaphor for us, I thought. And how pathetically poignant too, because of the tears that kept on threatening to stream down my face. But I didn’t want to think about that; I wanted to concentrate on the warm feeling between my legs instead. I curled up to him in the cab, and with his arm around me, forgot about the knawing sensation in my heart.

When we got back to his, he immediately pushed me down onto the bed.

‘God I want to fuck you’ he said and spread my legs so that I could feel his cock up against me through his jeans.

I wanted to fuck him too. I began to pull off his top, and he mine. Within moments he was placing soft kisses all over my naked body; his lips eliciting sparks of electricity as he moved down my torso. Then he deftly pushed his fingers inside me and I gushed all over his hand as he made me come, like he always has done, with force.

He grinned at me and turned me onto my front, sliding his cock up against me and then entered me as he felt how soaked I was. He fucked me passionately from behind; we pushed back against each other with desperation and need. Finally, with an intenseness that made my head pound, we came together.

Exhausted, we lay in each other’s arms and began to drift off to sleep. Alone with my thoughts in the quietness of night, I felt numb. Not only between my legs from the rampant fuck, but inside of me too.

As his feet found mine under the duvet, I cuddled up to him and laid my head on his chest. Then I inhaled his scent deeply, knowing that this would be the last ever time I would do so. And I hoped that the next time I saw him, I would be able to find the strength to say no - to myself.

As I don't have time to post anything myself, I thought I'd offer up some alternative reading material.

Here are three things that have made my pants wet today:

Jizz
Pussy
Facials

Enjoy.