©Kipper Williams 2006


Cartoon reprinted with kind permission by the brilliant Kipper Williams. You can find more of his work here.

Enjoy the cartoons - I'll be away for a short while; in the meantime do feel free to continue leaving comments. Please be aware however, that there may be some delay before they appear on the blog: I shall endeavour to enable them when I next have internet access.

Back soon.

I remember the first time I met him as if it were yesterday. Not because there was anything particular about the day – there were no rainbows, or sunsets, or scent of jasmine as the evening fell – but because I knew within seconds of us seeing each other, that we would soon be having sex.

He greeted me with a wide smile and I returned it, aware that both our eyes immediately fell over the other’s body: a mutual recognition of attraction. He teased me when I clumsily tripped up on the door step, and straight away the ice was broken. We walked from room to room, making small talk, chatting about the long hours from filming and the resulting lack of a social life. I recall him stealing glances at my cleavage as I pretended to take in the surroundings; I remember being aware that I could see his nipples through his shirt.

He didn’t then make it any easier on me by removing his top; his excuse being that it was hot, (which it was) and because we were sitting in the garden, he wanted to tan. I felt so self-conscious with him half dressed, as if my desire to touch his unclothed body was written all over my face. Nervously I cracked a self-deprecating joke and remember him grinning at me, laughing, his eyes falling to my breasts and back up again. I felt compelled to move over to him, draw his lips into my mouth and kiss him passionately, but I just sat there, shy, and tried not to look at his crotch. As the sun beat down, the heated pauses in our conversation were like a flag raising the sexual tension between us: the frisson in the air was incredible.

It was only supposed to be a brief meeting – ironically I was on my way to a lunch date with another man – but with neither of us wanting to end the unspoken attraction, an hour passed before we knew it, and I ended up running late. I didn’t care though, because I knew what would soon lie ahead and I wanted to absorb every moment of this mental foreplay for as long as I could. And 48 hours later, I was right: we were fucking with a fury and a passion that I hadn’t felt in years.

Even now, I look back and try to understand how I knew we would end up in bed together; how my instincts were so finely attuned. It’s not like I have a reliable gut-feeling about the mutuality of sexual attraction with every man I like – far from it (sadly). So I still haven’t been able to put my finger on why, in this particular case, it was so blatantly obvious that we would end up being intimate.

It’s not like we’re both stunningly gorgeous and found the other drop-dead sexy; nor was it a mental attraction: we barely knew each other, so how could it be that within seconds of meeting, we both wanted to shag? Whilst I dispute biological determinism can explain sexual expression, sometimes the evolutionary argument has some basis. Perhaps, in this case, the mutual awareness of our attraction was based on an instant physical connection – our pheromones – and not because of a shallow, surface-level appreciation of the other’s ‘beauty’. Whatever it was, it was simple: we were instantly and intensely attracted to each other and were unable to refrain from shagging passionately, and often.

It’s been a while since I’ve seen him and I’ve moved on in my life now, but some days I do wonder what it might be like to see him again; whether we would be able to resist that inexplicable instant attraction we had; if we would be able to talk without imagining the other naked; if we would be able to refrain from the urge to rip the other’s clothes off and fuck furiously. Somehow I doubt it – even with things between us ending the way they did, and my rational, logical brain knowing that I would not want to get involved with him again.

So I’ve come to a conclusion: sometimes sex is not about what you might desire intellectually. Sometimes sex is not about what you think you might crave on a physical basis. Sometimes sex is not about emotional intimacy or love. Sometimes sex is just about your body connecting with someone else’s and you being unable to resist the combined attraction. Perhaps this is explained away by genetics or biology; I’m more inclined to put it down to instinct: sometimes you just want to fuck someone, and by god, if you do, you sure as hell are going to enjoy it.

“Hey [my real name], how’s it going? Wat u up to?”

The text was from a number I didn’t recognise. I hit reply:

“Who is this? I don’t have your number in my phone book…”

He texted straight back. “It’s ‘A’. Long time… How u bin?”

A blast from the past. I’ve been getting a lot of those recently: hearing from people I haven’t spoken with for years; people I haven’t seen since I was at school. None of them randomly contacting me; all of them know one way or another.

With strangers (and press) calling me, my modus operandi now is to ignore a call if I don’t recognise the number on my phone, so that I can then prepare a suitable response after listening to my voicemail - I’ve been in this self-protective-mode for months... A friend recently recommended I also add the letters ‘DNA’ - ‘Do Not Answer’ - in my phonebook to the numbers of people I don’t wish to speak with: a good idea I think, though really there’s only very few that applies to (A being one of them).

This was, after all, the man who when his orgasm was achieved, would stand up, put his clothes on, and tell me he had to leave. When I pointed out that I was pre-orgasmic, and needed some relief, he responded with,

“I’m sure you can sort yourself out.”

Well yes, of course I can, multiple times over, but that’s not the fucking point, is it? I spent many a night frustrated – in every sense – when A and I were seeing each other. I have no idea why I fucked him so many times when it was always so unsatisfying; possibly because I was at a low point in my life and thus behaving somewhat masochistically - I still haven’t figured it out.

It was too late for regret. I berated myself for having deleted A’s number some time ago; I would have to reply to him now. But I paused before sending the text: Did he know? I dreaded finding out, as I have done each time an ex-lover has been in contact with me over the last three months. I waited a few minutes, deciding on an appropriate response and then texted back.

“Hi A. Long time no speak. Things are good – very busy, but all is well. How are you?”

My phone beeped instantly: he wasn’t wasting any time. “Good. What have u been busy doin?”

Besides retching from txt spk, you mean? I replied, cautiously: “Working; was on a film, then writing, it’s all good. You?”

“Wat u writing?”

Gulp. “Just stuff; this and that, nothing special.”

“We should meet 4 a drink!”

Why? It’s not like there is much we can talk about if we did meet – it wasn’t exactly an intellectual connection which brought us together. Whilst I’d be more than happy to debate the Spine all evening, I imagine he’d assume I was moaning about my back if I did. Nor could we chat about the waste of resources in the movie industry, or the repression of women’s rights, or even whether ‘celebrity’ Myleene Klass will be making a statement against forced labour in textile workshops.

No, what we have in common – the only thing – was that we both liked to fuck. And fuck we did. But it wasn’t even that good: I certainly don’t want to go back for more. And if he does know about the book, I really don’t want to be grilled about it or whether he is in it: I get that on a daily basis already…

I sent him a polite text back declining his offer and he left it at that, much to my relief. But, such is the way my brain works, almost immediately I couldn’t help but think about his beautiful cock, and I was very tempted to use that image for some quick, short-lived ‘material’. Then I remembered how selfish he was, and went off to make a cup of tea instead, knowing that I would enjoy it far more than any of the sex we ever had.

1. No
2. Yes
3. Definitely
4. Fine thanks, if a little tired
5. My shoulders
6. Actually, my arse
7. Four times
8. Three of which were at my instigation
9. Always; otherwise I wouldn’t bother
10. If you need to count, you need to relax more
11. Yes, he does
12. No, he’s fine
13. No, I won’t
14. Probably not
15. Sometimes, you just know

And the moral of this story is... don't do an interview the day after being stood up by your date.

Oops.

Don't worry all you local lads out there, there's still room for a special geezer in my life. Well, one that proves to be:

Reliable
Honest
Upfront
Intelligent
Political
Caring
Sensual
Into group sex

Like I said in the article, I remain optimistic. Unrealistic, perhaps, but optimistic all the same.

“Please tell me.”

“Really, there is nothing to tell.”

“You must know something that would help me.”

“Oh come on, I’m not some fucking sex-expert!”

“You wrote a whole book about your sex life!”

“But it wasn’t solely about sex. There was a lot of psychoanalytical and political deconstruction of events and feelings, rather than just descriptions of bodily functions. It’s not erotica…”

“Yeah, but there was lots of shagging in it…”

“True…”

N looked at me with her best puppy-dog expression. “Please. Just give me a few tips; I need them. Pretend I am a reader of your blog. You’ve written loads of stuff for them – why won’t you help me out?”

Checkmate. I took another large gulp of wine. “Ok. But don’t expect a refund if it doesn’t work; it’s just my opinion, based on my experience.”

She grinned at me excitedly. “I’m all ears.”

I swallowed nervously. “Right, well, obviously my first rule with a blow-job is that it can never be too wet.”

“Wet?”

“Yes. Sucking their cock in the wettest, juiciest, sloppiest way possible. Men seem to love that – the ones I’ve been with, anyway. So you can’t have any qualms or embarrassment about saliva or drool dripping down your chin; it’s not about keeping your lipstick pristine – it’s about their cock sliding around in your slippery gob, got it?”

She nodded enthusiastically.

“If your mouth is dry, always have a glass of water handy: it’ll keep you hydrated as well as ensure your mouth is moist. Plus, it has the added bonus of changing your tongue’s temperature slightly, which then increases the sensation they feel on their cock. Win, win.”

“This is good, tell me more. Come on, I need to know!”

“Er, OK, well that was rule number one. Number two is always use an element of surprise: that never fails to work.”

“What do you mean? Creep up on them and offer them a blow-job out of the blue?”

I laughed. “Well, yes, spontaneity is always a bonus when it comes to sex, but that isn’t quite what I meant. What I’m talking about is your technique: make him try to anticipate your next move, but then surprise him with something he didn’t expect instead.”

“Like…?”

“Like when he thinks you’re about to suck him hard, don’t. Instead, tease him by just licking the tip. Or, when you’re softly nibbling his shaft, suddenly thrust him deeply into your mouth. Or, just do a variety of things and mix them up so he never knows what comes next: kissing his thighs, sucking his glans, squeezing his nipples, giving him eye contact and smiling at him, stroking his shaft, nuzzling his balls, licking his perineum, rubbing him between your tits – whatever.”

N nodded slowly. “I get it. Don’t stick with just sucking.”

“Exactly: it’s boring, for you as well as him. And that is what he’ll expect – sucking, I mean. That’s the bullshit you see in pornos – suck suck suck, head bobbing up and down like a lunatic: that’s not real; that’s not what it’s about – not for me, anyway. You can’t really go far wrong with a good suck, but if you can be more sensual, mix it up a little, and never do what he expects, you’ll have him on the brink for a long time. Plus, his whole groin area is filled with nerve endings, so by constantly changing the sensations you are giving him, you’ll be firing off so many pleasure neurons in his brain he won’t know what hit him. Or, in other words, you’ll have given him a stonking hard on.”

N giggled. “I like it. But I’m dying to know the next rule! There is another one, right?”

“Yeah. One more; in four stages. But this one is hard to describe. I’ll have to show you.”

I looked around for something cock-shaped to demonstrate with. After debating about sticking my mobile phone in my mouth, I decided on two fingers instead, given that they would be slightly more enjoyable to insert, and less likely to fill my gob with radiation.

“Ok, so, you’ve got the enthusiasm, the wet mouth, lips over teeth, suction in place etc...”

N nodded.

“Right, so the next move is to add the Tongue-Tickle©.” I licked the underside of my fingers to show her. “You want to do it around the tip, on his frenulum. The key is to vary the speed, pressure and duration of this; view it like you’re tickling him – you want the element of surprise to get the best effect.”

N copied my tongue movements on her own fingers. “I think I get it.”

“And you can lick it lightly or longingly like a lolly-pop – either way it’ll feel good.”

N grinned. “Excellent. What’s next?”

“Ok, here is where it gets a little tricky. You’ve got the sucking and the Tongue-Tickle©, right?

“Right.”

“Now you need to combine them.”

N frowned, her fingers deep in her mouth. “I can’t do it,” she said, removing them. “It’s not possible to do it together.”

“Yes it is” I reassured her. “Slide your fingers back into your mouth. Ok, now suck softly. That ok?”

N nodded.

“And now move your tongue up and down as you suck. Wiggle it around, but don’t stop the suction with the rest of your mouth.”

N’s eyes lit up and she pulled her fingers out. “I’ve got it! I’ve fucking got it! My god, I bet men love this shit. Jesus, you’re a fucking genius knowing all this stuff.”

I laughed. “Steady on, we’re not done yet. Ready for the next step?”

N nodded enthusiastically.

“Ok, once you’ve got the mouth and tongue combination, you need to add the vertical action. Like this.” I sucked on my two fingers and bobbed my head up and down, like some kind of demented pigeon trying to find a loose seed in my lap.

N successfully copied me and grinned. “This is great. What’s next?”

“Well, it’s a little tricky and you can’t sustain it for a long time. But it is worth trying, even just for a minute – he’ll love it.”

“Tell me!”

“Ok. Now you need to add the horizontal circular movement.”

N stared at me. “What?”

“The twist. Like this.” I sucked on my fingers, dabbled with my tongue, moved my mouth up and down, and then turned my head from side to side.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” N said, despairingly.

“No, really, you must try it. Look, just swivel your neck a little.” I grabbed her head with my hands and tried to turn it to one side. After some coaxing, she managed to twist it without my assistance, and I sat back to watch her in action, whilst rehearsing the movement myself. For a moment I wondered what someone would think if they walked into the room: two grown women with their fingers in their mouths; sucking hard, dabbling with their tongues, ducking their heads up and down, and swivelling their necks simultaneously. If only men knew what effort we put in, to look so stupid - and give good blow jobs…

“Fucking hell,” N said, coming up for air. “This is great; you’ve thought of everything – I have got to try this out… Where the hell did you learn this technique?”

“Let’s just say I’ve spent some quality time experimenting.”

Incident number 958 in a recent series:

Having a conversation with my mother that began with her saying,

“Please, explain BDSM to me,”

and ended, with her concluding,

“Well, I guess if it’s all consensual and there are mutual orgasms for both people, then that’s fine.”

I’m not sure who’s more shocked by our discussion, me, or her.

Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again.

Actually, I didn’t, but I did dream I was lying on top of Russell Brand, my naked body against his; the hardness of his cock pressing against my damp crotch; our lips entwined in a passionate kiss as we began to grind our hips together and fucked each other with intensity. It was a nice dream, and ended as all good ones should: with my fingers between my legs, and a smile on my face.

“Russell Brand: yes or no?” a friend asked me over some beers the other night.

“Yes; definitely.”

He looked incredulous at my response. “Why?! Please don’t tell me you like him for what he does on telly?”

I shook my head. “Nope. His Big Brother stuff irritated the hell out of me – though he is a very talented stand-up comic; you should check him out.”

“But he’s a knob! He looks like a prat.”

I shrugged. “Well, admittedly he’s not my type: scrawny and lanky doesn’t really do it for me; I much prefer a man with some meat on him. Plus he seriously needs to brush his fucking hair… But it’s not his looks that make me want to shag him.”

“If not that, then what? Please, enlighten me…”

I took a sip of my drink. “There’s one reason, and one reason only, that I would fuck Russell Brand.”

“Because he’s got a big cock?”

“Oh please, cock size is so fucking irrelevant. As long as it was visible, and worked, I really couldn’t give a shit what a penis looked like, or how big it was.”

“OK then; he’s supposed to be great in bed, right? Is that why you’d shag him?”

I shook my head again. “No. Whilst I don’t doubt he’s probably a great lay, that’s not the sole reason I would fuck him.”

“Why then? Come on, I want to hear this…”

“Because, my dear, Russell is not threatened by other men’s sexuality. He is confident enough to be able to flirt with men, as well as women, and knows that by doing so, it doesn’t undermine his masculinity – regardless of his sexual orientation. So by being relaxed about it, he’s saying he’s OK with other men and their desires, as well as his own. That’s a very attractive trait to have: a man that is not a bigot, or a homophobe, or who worries what people might think of him if he flirts with blokes. A man like that is going to be open-minded, and, almost by definition, will then be interesting in bed. Ergo, I want to shag him.”

“Hmm. I’ve never heard it put quite that way: that’s a very interesting argument. So you’re basically saying, he’s got a David Walliams factor to him: ie. could possibly swing both ways…?”

“I guess, though I don’t think Russell does, but it’s the fact that he doesn’t give a fuck that people might pigeonhole him as gay when he flirts with guys, that makes him so sexy, in my opinion. Him knowing – and playing upon – the fluidity of his sexuality with others, makes him shaggable. So yeah, I would. And I bet many other women would too – for those exact same reasons.”

“I can see your point now, yeah...”

We sipped our drinks and I decided to keep quiet about the fact that besides fucking him myself, I’d also love to see Russell doing another guy up the arse: there’s a time and place for exploring my threesome-with-two-men fantasy, and it certainly wasn’t then.

Though last night was pretty timely, if I do say so myself - even if it was just a dream.