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Sunday, June 04, 2006


He pulled me up over him and lifting my dress, discovered I wasn’t wearing any underwear. This made him beam at me and pulling me closer, he pressed his erection firmly against my groin.

Pleased at the result, I reminded myself to forget to wear knickers more frequently – I rather do like to feel a breeze in between my legs. Plus, of course, I would save a fortune in lingerie costs.

We ground our hips together and kissed, and I wondered if he would think me rude/greedy/demanding if I asked to grab a condom now, and immediately sit on his cock without any foreplay. As I pondered this – hoping that it would be soon, because I was fucking soaked and probably dripping onto him - he kissed my neck gently and ran his fingers through my hair.

‘I missed you’ he said and smiled at me.

Like a rabbit in the headlights, I was in shock, too stunned to speak.

He missed me.

He has met me on only two occasions, and fucked me just the once.

He missed me.

He doesn’t know me, we’re not friends, and we don’t even have an intellectual connection.

He missed me.

I sat with my pussy pressed up against his cock and felt my slickness dry up almost instantly. There I was, ready to fuck, and he went and dropped that on me: great.

We were both there to have sex: nothing more, nothing less. He was fully aware of the situation: we had discussed – endlessly – that our meeting was about shagging each other senseless; I had after all answered his ad looking for a no-strings casual encounter. So why drop something like that into the situation?

Sure, he hasn’t seen me for a few weeks, but missing me? Please: he doesn’t know me. If he was a mate or a long-term lover, I would feel touched by such a comment; but coming from a fuck-buddy who has shagged me once, it just wasn’t on.

He carried on kissing me and I felt annoyed; violated somehow. He had broken the rules, he had crossed the boundary: how could I relax and enjoy the sex now that he had brought feelings into the equation?

The answer to that of course, is that a few minutes later, a little bit of selfishness, combined with a good dose of concentration and a very dirty mind, resulted in my climaxing all over his hand – which seemed to please him as much as it did me.

Of course we continued to have more sex after that too: I got spanked, fucked hard from behind and had my pussy licked for half an hour. And I gave him a combined blow-job/hand-job/bum-tickle that’ll give him something to wank over for some time, given how hard he shot all over the place. But all the while, I kept thinking about how he wasn’t being truthful about what he wanted, and I thought about earlier conversations we had; I suspected then that if I agreed to see him exclusively he would want me as a girlfriend, and now I knew that this would definitely have to be the last time that I fucked him.

Shallow though it might be, casual sex can be fantastic, laid-back and lots of fun, but when one party needs more from the other person and it’s not reciprocated, someone’s feelings inevitably get hurt. I’ve been on both sides of this equation and falling for someone who doesn’t want more, can be a painful experience. This is why I am so completely honest and upfront with the men I sleep with: I don’t want them or me to feel shitty about any aspect of our relationship at any point.

But it seems that even with honesty, pretence continues: I can’t count the amount of times a bloke has told me that he really has no interest in more than just an occasional shag, but who then demands to see me four times a week and who calls me five times a day ‘just to talk’. It’s ironic that the common view in society seems to be that women are the ones that go along with casual sex in the hope of it developing into something longer and that men are the ones that just want sex; in my experience, the opposite is most definitely true – and, to be frank, it has become rather tedious.

I’m not being harsh here for the hell of it; it’s a compliment if a guy is that into me, that he wants more from me, but if the situation is purely casual and there isn’t any connection that makes me want to explore more with them, having them try to push the intimacy is not only annoying, but it makes the sex crap too: a one-sided emotional shag is never fulfilling – for either party.

This makes me sound brutal; that I don’t wish a man to fall for me: not true, of course I do. I’d love to meet a special man who finds me intelligent and funny and sexy, and who would be willing to put up with all my neuroses and bossiness and late-night demands for penetration. It would be wonderful to meet a man who sparked my mind, nurtured my soul, and set my heart racing and pussy pounding: I’m sure he’s out there. And when we do meet, I’ll probably be on my period, looking my worst, tripping up on my big feet and spilling wine down my top – but he’ll still think I’m the bees knees. Fantastic – when it happens, I am ready for it.

But this bloke? No. There’s no mental connection between us; our conversations don’t stimulate me; I don’t feel so attracted to him that I want to rip his clothes off in public and drop to my knees to suck his cock. It’s just a shag: casual sex. Nothing meaningful, nothing more.

With him expressing an emotional want – small though it was – it was enough for me to accept that I won’t be fucking him again: I don’t want to get involved with him and I have no wish to hurt him either. So as I received yet another text from him as I travelled home late last night, I decided that that would be the last time I would see him. A shame, because he’s a sweet man and eats pussy with gusto, but I’m not such a bitch as to want to fuck with someone’s emotions: I have some integrity after all.

I will admit that I did – for a brief moment, with all his keenness of me – wonder if he and I could, or should, ever be more than fuck-buddies, but I realised I could never date a man who omitted the use of capitals and punctuation in his emails and texts, and who always used smiley-face emoticons at the end of his sentences.

Call me an intellectual snob, but I have some standards, and if a man can’t even communicate intelligently, there’s a large risk I’ll find him boring in bed: never a good thing. With my sexual appetite, anyway.

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