Heat Me Up

I’ve had more conversations about boilers recently than anything else. Not only did mine decided to go on strike over the weekend but a friend might just have embarked on a illicit *thing* with the gas safety engineer who came to check hers the other week.

I did laugh as she sighed over a glass of wine that you can’t just fuck the boiler guy and thought to myself ‘I would’. It was only after she went home and I was clearing up the glasses that I remembered I had fucked the boiler guy once.

The only reason I didn’t text her to tell her that as encouragement is that while I didn’t mind her knowing my wicked ways but I did feel slightly embarrassed that my wicked ways are so debauched that I’ve got beyond forgetting the names of people I’ve fucked and into just forgetting whole people I’ve fucked. Being a slut is one thing. Being a slut with a terrible memory is a whole different game.

But when I was lying in bed that night I was pleased to note that I remembered the boiler guy extremely well when I thought back. He’d come to check gas safety certificate and do some maintenance work to allow the boiler to be signed off so was going to be there for a couple of hours.

Somehow the conversation went from flues and valves to tattoos. And it turns out this gas engineer was a tattoo obsessive with full sleeves and coordinating chest and back pieces of botanically accurate Japanese cherry blossom which I have to say I wasn’t expecting in deepest south London.

His face lit up in that way that happens when you give people permission to talk about the thing they love and that was the moment I realised the boiler guy was extremely good looking. I have always been an absolute slut for men who lose their self consciousness and just enjoy their interests even if they are silly or geeky or unfashionable.

And this guy loved Japanese sakura. I mentally skipped over the bit where he mentioned travelling to Japan to see the blossom in person on his honeymoon and listened to him describe how beautiful it was. I was trying to picture how that might look tattooed on his body when I realised he was asking me did I want to see the artwork?

I must have said yes but next thing I knew his shirt had come off and his tattoos were right there along with his nicely muscled torso. He turned and paraded for me so I could take in the detail of each black and white blossom and flower. And the only other thing I am a bigger slut for than lack of self consciousness is really really good tattoos on men.

And these were some of the most beautiful tattoos I have ever seen. Clearly designed as one whole piece and with an artist who wanted to use and enhance the shape of this guy’s body with light and shade, it literally flowed and cascaded down his back and arms and showed off both his skin and the sheer movement of his body with each little ripple or flex of a muscle or tendon.

It was incredibly hot. The kind of hotness where the room seems to grow thick with anticipation and time seems to slip and slide slowly but inevitably to the moment you start fucking. He lifted my hands onto his arms and let them move across this carpet of flowers and start sliding down onto the smooth but unmarked skin of his stomach.

I’m not sure if my hands moved themselves almost without control or he guided them but I was undoing his trousers and he was completely naked in my hallway, his body contrasted between the black and white of the top and the bare flesh of the bottom drawing my eye right to the middle and his hard cock.

He was still in the hall where anyone could see through my front door when I went down on my knees to suck his cock. I could feel his muscles tense and although I wasn’t able to see it from that angle I could just picture how good his back looked flexing like that. I loved that I was fully dressed and he was completely naked.

Something caused a noise outside and we both realised what we were doing and he stepped into my living room and closed the door to give slightly more privacy and possibility to fuck. I used the break to go and find some condoms in my bedroom and when I came back was greeted by another favourite sight that goes straight to my cunt.

He was standing cock in hand with that same lack of self consciousness as earlier and exactly how I imagine he makes himself come when he’s alone. I love that familiarity men have with their own bodies and it always makes me horny to watch. He just kept pulsing and clenching his hand on his cock so smoothly I hardly noticed he’d slipped the condom on while I’d got undressed.

He pulled me down on top of him on the carpet and we fucked. I had a fantastic view of his arms and chest and those tattoos almost til the last second when he pulled me down hard onto his torso and came into me. I remember grabbing his arms and pulling him against me until I came and then lying back for one last glance of that beautiful blossom.

I can’t remember how we disentangled ourselves but it wasn’t awkward. None of that ‘what the fuck just happened?’ wash of shame or regret. Almost that feeling of it just being how things are sometimes. I’m fairly sure in a stroke of pure Irish sluttery I made us tea while he got dressed again and went back to being a gas engineer without this ink superpower under his shirt.

After he left I thought many times about his tattoos and the effect body modification can have. In fact the impact lasted so long and so vividly in my mind’s eye that’s why I’d forgotten about the boiler connection til now. I think I could probably still draw his tattoos but I couldn’t tell you what his face looked like.

I’d only know it was him come to fix my boiler again in the future if he recognised me or happened to have stripped his shirt off before he got here. I won’t lie. The latter would have made a midnight boiler call out last night much more fun…

Heat Me Up

Go Faster Stripes

I’m not sure it was entirely down to shaving my legs but I’ve definitely come back to life a bit recently. Smooth skin definitely got my brain going if not my cunt and I felt the urge to start texting smut chat to Sir again.

There was definite excitement on Saturday when I arranged my first proper trip out of the house since New Year to go Master and Princess’s house. Lying in bed during the day resting a tiny bit of me felt like I should be sensible and make sure I didn’t over do it too soon. The rest of me was absolutely adamant that even if it landed me back in bed for the foreseeable I was going to fuck them when I was there.

The only thing of any warmth and interest I’ve touched in weeks has been my electric blanket and it’s a very poor substitute for the feel of my two favourite people pressed against me. I told Sir I was hoping to get naked again after getting dressed to come to theirs and wore my favourite fuck me boots to be sure I had made my point when I arrived.

Honestly I’d have been quite content to walk in their front door shedding clothes with each step and straight into their bed but Sir hasn’t lost his love of making me wait. He poured drinks and cooked an excellent dinner and left me to squirm on the sofa the whole time. I was so close to discovering my inner brat and actually begging him to fuck me when Princess let her brat flag fly and started sucking his cock while he laughed at how eager we both were.

She and I took turns to suck his cock and it was the oddest thing. I felt completely out of practice. His cock tasted and felt familiar but instead of that muscle memory of knowing a long term lover’s body I felt like I was starting all over again like I’d never sucked a cock before. And not just with him but I couldn’t get my position or rhythm with Princess’s cunt either. It was like I was a beginner again.

I always love when my Master takes charge and I needed it even more than usual as he ordered me how to kneel and what to do and pulled me onto his chest to kiss me so I couldn’t have moved away even if I wanted to. Which I didn’t. Him kissing me so hard he almost bit my lips brought me back into the pace of playing with both of them as I rediscovered the feel of them both.

I love that state. Sort of blissed out on sex and submission and open to anything Sir tells me. So when he led me over the kitchen table and bent me over it I didn’t care how much I needed to contort myself to take his cock. Or how hard he was fucking me against the edge of the table. Nor how high in the air I had to hold my legs up when he put me on the table under Princess’s cunt and kept his cock deep inside me.

I was drunk on dick and her taste barely registering what they were doing just drinking in the feeling of it all. Sir brought me right back by coming on my cunt so it dripped down onto the table while Princess licked my clit on her hands and knees with her naked ass and cunt right up against the kitchen window for all the street to see.

It felt amazing. And even better next day when I had stripes of bruising on my upper thighs where Sir had fucked me so hard against the table it had left marks. I love those markers of sex. I love the smell of someone on me next day, the feeling that my legs were pushed apart, the sensation that my cunt was fucked raw the night before.

I felt it in the ache of my muscles afterwards and the bruises that kept developing and the sheer sense that as well as being sated with orgasms, touching and fucking and playing with my Master and Princess somehow feels like being back to myself after feeling distant while the only warm touch in my life had been with my electric blanket.

Each little ache and mark reminded me that it’s like coming home to sex after a long vacation…

Go Faster Stripes

Trade

I’m in the middle of trying to get a bit of work done to my flat. It’s one of those very practical things that feels very adult indeed. I’ve been comparing quotations and checking people’s insurance and credentials. And laughing at how much I’ve grown up in the last few years because the last time I hired anyone to work on my flat, the fact he was incredibly fuckable was just as much a concern as how well he could lay my floor.

But don’t worry, even my formerly slutty self didn’t let him lay me as well. I just spent two long days flirting outrageously with him and respecting the fact that temptation wasn’t going to make him cheat on his clearly adored girlfriend. In a world where so many men will fuck you if they think they can get away with it, his honesty and conscience even when his cock was whispering in his ear made him even hotter.

That wasn’t where I learned to flirt with workmen. I think I developed that skill in my teens when I started working in service industry jobs and learned that male manual workers are often the only men who understand the use of emotional labour and platonic flirting as social interaction.

There’s probably some class dynamics in there about being the ‘hired help’ around middle class women who are paying their bill, but either way I have always loved flirting with workmen. Partly I can’t help playing up that stereotype that girly girls like me know nothing about practical things like paint or shelving because it often allows me to flirt my way to discounts or use the element of surprise that I actually know much more than I’m letting on if needed.

But mainly a lot of manual workers are hot. There’s something about the physique of a man’s body that comes from the simple act of using for hard physical work in the course of a day that always appeals to me in a way a gym honed body has never done. I love that hint of muscle and promise of strength in a body that moves and builds things for a living.

And watching people do something they are skilled at is one of my greatest turn ons. It doesn’t particularly matter what the skill is but seeing someone do something they are so confident and skilled at that they make it look easy gives me that pinch in my stomach of attraction as well as stirring in my cunt. Doesn’t matter if it’s cooking a meal, re-roofing a house or tiling a floor really. The attraction is in the expertise.

So when a friend asked me if I would stay at their flat for a couple of days while they were having some work done to the windows I agreed readily. Rather than them take time off work to let the guy in and out all day, I was happy to supervise and hope I hadn’t set myself up to stare at builder’s bum and make tea all day for a man with dubious political views which is the flip side to spending time round men who work with their hands.

But the slutty gods were smiling on me because he was young, handsome and Hungarian. I’m usually not a fan of Aryan looking men but his wholesome ashy blonde hair and blue eyes were complimented by an underlying air of filth that made me much more interested in making him tea and discussing Central European politics than I’d usually be.

He really did work on those windows the first day although there was much more flirtation on the second day. But by the third when the work had moved indoors, things stepped up a notch. I thoroughly enjoyed seeing him leaning over the sills with his ass right in my line of view all morning.

This time he took his lunch break and as we moved round the fairly small kitchen he brushed against me a few times that way that could be accidental if the response wasn’t favourable. I brushed back as he insisted on helping me wash up the mugs and plates used before he went back to work.

I spent the afternoon very aware of that sensation of where he’d grazed against my ass with his crotch feeling the tingle linger in my cunt and distract me. He’d stayed out of my sight line since then and I wondered if he was feeling awkward. I decided bringing him a beer when he finished work was the way to go.

He thanked me and finished clearing up. I slunk back into the kitchen feeling foolish and horny for mistaking porn for real life and started putting the washing up away. Clattering plates I didn’t hear him come up behind me until he set the beer bottle on the counter and slid his hands round my hips pressing me against him.

I went soft against how hard he was and he brushed his hands increasingly firmly across my tits and hips before pulling the zip of my jeans down, letting his fingers explore my clit and then inside my cunt as I leaned back into him. He had strong hands to hold me but with fingers used to small skilful movements and he made me squirm as I came.

Only then did we end up facing each other and we kissed before it was my turn to run my hands over him, slipping the straps of his painters overalls down to reveal that he wasn’t wearing any underwear and his cock was right there for me to play with.

I pulled the overalls right down and slipped his cock into my mouth. I was right that he was the right kind of filthy. He was shaved smooth and scented with just enough hard work and sweat to make me really want to suck on his balls too. I alternated between cock and balls with my mouth until he pushed his dick further into my mouth.

I balanced myself by cupping my hand under his balls as I sucked his cock and he reached down and cupped my fingers further back pressing against his asshole. I paused and he widened his stance so I knew he wanted my finger inside him. I put my fingers on top his cock and drew them down it as I sucked them slick and then slipped one into his ass.

He stiffened against and then opened up so my finger was able to slide in and out in time to my mouth on his cock, literally sucking and fucking him at the same time staring up at his face from my knees. His eyes were closed and he was only moving in synch with my actions almost like he was in trance.

Suddenly he startled forward grabbing my shoulders so my finger pressed inside his ass and he came so hard into my mouth I couldn’t swallow it all running down my chin and making his cock slip out of my mouth as he was still coming. It was dripping off his cock and my face and onto the floor as he was still gripping my shoulders.

He let go and I stood up to kiss him still covered in his come. I pulled my jeans up and he stepped back, pulling his overalls off completely so he was naked from the waist down and taking a cloth he got down on his hands and knees, back to me with his just fucked arsehole visible and slowly and deliberately mopped up his own come as I watched.

Still on the floor, he tossed the cloth in the sink and pulled my jeans back down and buried his tongue in my cunt with his cock in his hand. We both came again and only just had time to get dressed and composed again before my friend arrived home with more beers to thank us both with.

I have no idea what we sat and  talked about because both my mind and cunt were still completely distracted. I’m not sure I’ll ever look at a pair of painters overalls again the same way….

Trade

Waves Of Pleasure

When I started fucking my Master and Princess, I thought I was pretty sexual experienced. And I knew what orgasms felt like. What more was there to learn?

Well, self awareness for starters. I was fairly good at fucking before I met them both but I was an intermediate at best on orgasms. I’d had a few that knocked me off my feet and they still surprised occasionally (like the time I found my own G spot by accident) but actually orgasms weren’t the biggest part of of sexual activity for me.

I’d never had a multiple orgasm. I rarely got ones that reached past my immediate cunt. The idea that I’d have to lie down unable to speak after an orgasm because it left me so dazed and delighted. I never came from oral sex. I had never squirted or ejaculated. I had no idea nipple orgasms were a thing. I clearly had a lot to learn and my Master and Princess have taught me in abundance.

I’m spoiled bloody rotten these days. Multiple orgasms have become something I am very familiar with but not blasé about. I always come twice when Princess licks my cunt. I can come extravagantly with my Master’s cock inside me. I assumed I was pretty advanced level with orgasms now. And then I learned something completely new and unexpected in the shape of a cervical orgasm and have had to re-write my mental map of orgasms all over again.

The cervix is an interesting thing. Usually only thought about in time of gynaecological things such as smear tests or inducing pregnancy, it crops up in terms of sex usually when women complain their partner’s cock hits at an odd angle in a painful way. It varies in size, shape and depth depending on your menstrual cycle and I never ever think about mine normally unless a nurse is pointing it out.

But my Master had other Monday night plans this week. Clearly whatever he’s doing at work at the moment leaves him very energised at the start of the week because he had it in mind that Princess and I should fist each other while he watched. I began with her letting my fist slide and inch into her cunt as it stretched and welcomed me inside and she clearly enjoyed the orgasm given my clenched fist and her Doxy.

As is fair we switched places and while Sir played with my piercings alternating between nipples and clit, Princess let my cunt just swallow her whole hand up with ease. It felt incredible because I do love a fist in my cunt after all. But then I don’t quite know what happened and her hand found my cervix which she described as small and hard and I had an orgasm quite unlike anything else.

I have no idea if she was stroking or rubbing my cervix but it produced an orgasm that simultaneously felt like I was floating outside my body while so utterly deeply present in it. I was aware of Sir playing with my clit and pressing against me but this orgasm rolled down my arms in waves through my whole body and made me come for what felt like minutes of pure unadulterated pleasure.

Usually an orgasm of that intensity would thanks to my weird body leave me like a limp rag unable to move but this one left me almost giddy like I was slightly tipsy and euphoric. It was incredible and completely unexpected.

When Sir fucked my open gaping cunt straight afterwards, I could still feel a huge amount of sensation in my cervix that felt like just the delicious edge of pleasure/pain and savouring every thrust. No wonder when he came into me it felt like my cunt was absolutely ruined, dripping come, lube and ejaculate all over Princess when he pulled out.

I’m going to want to be fisted even more often than I usually do now I’ve discovered this. Somehow I think Princess and my Master might oblige me if even I don’t beg nicely…

Waves Of Pleasure

Making Up The Numbers

I am a woman of my word. So when I promise myself that I’ll fuck a different man every day for three months or that I’ll tell you how I managed to meet my challenge at the last minute, I always mean it.

Unsurprisingly fucking different people every single day for three months is tiring (a month is probably more manageable FYI) and to a certain extent the men and the sex started to blur together a bit.

A few stood out but I mainly remember how I met them not what happened when we fucked. So I was slowing down a little bit by the last day but at the same time determined not to have got that far to fall at the last hurdle. I wanted to literally go out with a bang.

Back in those days I was quite the club kid and London was full of small obscure nights usually under railway arches or in industrial estates at the end of bus routes. I came of age in the Nineties and eschewed glamour on nights. Give me a room above a pub or a sticky floored dive bar or a club where the sweat drips off the roof. The drinks were cheaper, the music was better and the men tended to be the rough and ready kind I like.

So after a long Saturday at work daydreaming of dick and also a day to myself after this was all over, I waited til my flatmates had gone out and went home to get ready. I had a particular club in mind in the dim and distant arches beyond London Bridge and I wanted to go alone and without attention from anyone I knew.

The fashions of the Nineties had blended seamlessly into the wide leg low slung trousers of the Noughties and in those days hipster referred more to how low you could hang them on your hips than anything else. I had a particular pair of dark denim jeans that sat just low enough to stay up without a belt but while making people wonder about underwear.

I wore them everywhere and on this occasion I I knew I didn’t need knickers, teaming them with only a bikini top and a light zip up Adidas top to keep me decent until I was in the club. The club played achingly cool British hip hop that suggests more than just the cut of my jeans was hipster after all and not many girls went there willingly, mainly accompanying their boyfriends in a slightly territorial fashion.

I knew that from the look of the guy on the door I’d have no difficulty going in or out if I said I needed some fresh air. In fact he was my back up plan, but it didn’t take long to attract the same attention at the bar being clearly by myself and barely wearing any clothes. I ordered a drink and a guy immediately squeezed in beside me to pay for it.

I thanked him by agreeing to drink it with him and just as we got chatting his two friends joined us from the dance floor. Being in a mood to flirt I was immediately intrigued to play them off against each other and make them compete for my attention. I love how often men are much more comfortable with ‘pulling’ in groups and will embrace it so that at least one of them gets laid.

And these three clearly fancied themselves some kind of Muskateers because they definitely accepted the attention I gave them and worked as a team in return, encouraging each other. I can’t remember which of them suggested the Ecstasy but I’m sure it was the tallest, cockiest one who’d bought me the drink. It worked quicker than I expected taking casual flirting into dancing close up, touching each other more and that sexual intimacy that says fucking is a certainty.

A few hours in and I was glad I’d worn so few clothes. The place was so hot and sweaty I really did need to step outside to stop myself overheating. I excused myself to the tallest guy and walked away. He followed me at a few paces and asked if I was alright going outside alone. I told him to follow me out but only once he’d told his friends where we’d be.

Railway arches provide all kinds of shadows to lean into especially in those darkened laneways and I’d barely stepped into the shade of one when the tallest guy brushed up beside me. I leaned into him and we kissed before he pushed me back against the wall and brushed his hand down my exposed stomach toward my low slung waistband until my cunt clenched in pleasure as he unbuttoned my jeans.

By the time his slightly giggling, clearly horny friends found us after searching the archways, I was bent forward against the wall, ass in the air with him inside me while his hands pinched my nipples. I don’t know if it was the drugs or flirting from earlier but there was none of the awkwardness women would have if they saw a friend fucking.

Men are also more comfortable being overtly sexual in front of each other and if there’s anything I love more than watching a man masturbate, it’s watching men masturbate together. With my back to the other two I couldn’t see it but I could hear it. The buzz of a zip, those tiny throaty noises, the sound of skin on skin and the subtle change in pace until all three were in unison with each other as one fucked me and the other two watched him.

These were the only sounds until the tallest one spoke to ask if I wanted more. I wasn’t sure if he meant fucking me harder but when I said yes, he told the stockier darker guy to step forward and for me to ask him to fuck me. I didn’t just ask but I gave him the condoms I’d come prepared with too.

He was much heavier and bent me over less, fucking me in a rhythmic shallow way that slapped his hips against my bare ass as he reached round and smacked my clit until I came. All the while I was completely aware of the audience behind me and it was so ridiculously filthy it made me as euphoric as the Ecstasy itself.

I asked for more, knowing that the third guy would step up. Skinny and sandy haired, he looked like a naughty schoolboy except for the impressively hard cock he had in his hand. Again we exchanged condoms before he fucked me, pulling me back against his slender cock and pressing my ass against his balls as his friends watched.

It’s hard to keep track when you’re getting the sights, sounds and feels of three cocks but it was only when the skinny guy pulled out of my soaking wet cunt and bent me further forward with his hand on the back of my neck that I realised none of the three men had come.

They needed no reminder, stepping forward and leaning over me cocks in hand, condoms long gone and all three of them came over my lower back. I had no idea whose orgasm was whose, but each sound varied from a closed mouthed gasp to almost a bark as he slapped my ass and long silent groan of breath.

Their come seemed to start together but carry on in variation so I had no idea who was doing what. I was still bent forward, a hand on the back of my neck in that place that makes me ripple with pleasure and my own hand on my clit bringing myself to orgasm as three men’s come dripped down my back, ass and the top of my thighs.

I felt them step back and the moment was over. I pulled my jeans back up aware that without my jacket the come on my back was a visible brand of my sluttery. Each of them kissed me in that oddly platonic way way polite boys do when they want to thank someone for having them and urged me to come back and dance with them and see where else the night went.

There was no awkwardness or judgement of me for fucking them all but I was suddenly exhausted and all I wanted was my bed, completely alone and not touching anyone. I declined their invitation to keep dancing and they took the opportunity to leave with me and look for food instead.

We walked back to London Bridge, telling me their names and chatting like old friends do. I was acutely aware that my silence looked like I was regretting the whole thing but I was just fucked out in ways they couldn’t imagine. I kissed them all again and hailed a black cab before they suggest anything more.

I couldn’t utter more words than my address to the cab driver and crawled straight into bed, falling asleep covered in sweat and come only to dream that all the men I’d fucked over those months were stroking their cocks for me. My subconscious is an even bigger slut than the rest of me clearly….

Making Up The Numbers

Odds On

In my spare time I have a slightly odd hobby in that I absolutely love advice columns. I subscribe to some straight to my inbox, catch some up weekly and have others I like to binge read when I’m ill in bed. I equally enjoy giving advice and reading other people’s especially on subjects I know nothing about. It’s like people watching while I’m housebound and keeps my all girls school mentality of gossip in check.

But sometimes it also reminds me just how unconventional I really am. Each time for example I read about women being upset their husbands ever masturbate, I am reminded that making my Master his own curated porn clips with his wife for his birthday is unusual. Seeing people fume and fizz with jealousy because their partner has a close opposite sex friend baffles me because I don’t understand jealousy.

And I am constantly wide eye emoji look as to how many people can’t cope with finding out their partner has a sexual past of any kind. Grown adults devastated that they aren’t the first person to touch their boyfriend’s dick or that their girlfriend once had sex with someone she hadn’t been on six dates and decided on their future dog’s name with. They genuinely seem aghast and upset that their current squeeze isn’t box fresh for them.

I’ve worked bloody hard to create a bubble where people don’t judge my sexual past anymore that I’ve forgotten just how shockable a lot of people are by anything that deviates from the norm to them. But I used to be surrounded by this day to day and it made me miserable. It was clearly designed to shame me out of my slutty ways and make me behave better. And it did not work.

It simply made me create a different kind of bubble where I had two lives. Nice respectable me who discussed the merits of different online dating sites as if hunting for someone to eventually move in with and utterly slutty me who once decided to set myself a challenge to see if I could fuck a different man every day for three months. No particular point to prove, just the opposite of abstaining from something for a set period of time. Slutty Season rather than Sober October I guess?

Luckily I was young and living and working in Central London and was quite the party girl with time to spare so a challenge like that made it feel like the world was at my feet more than fishing in a small pond. The trick was not being too obvious about it so that my friends and flatmates wouldn’t spot it.

It made me bolder in many ways. I went to pubs on my own and scanned the bar to see who I felt like fucking. I discovered that men are so unused to women buying them a drink that you can have all kinds of fun with them after that. Yet I also played up to all kinds of sexual stereotypes shamefully too and asked men in supermarkets to help me with things on high shelves as a good way to offer to thank them with a drink.

I had a friend who ran gallery events filled with hot young men who couldn’t decide if they were networking or peacocking and for cash in hand and the kind of cheap white wine you get at openings I offered to help run the cloakroom or man the meet and greet and hand out guides. Both were the perfect excuse to flirt and make eyes and then slip my number into their coat pocket or programme for them to discover later.

I left business cards with waiters as I tipped or I ‘forgot’ my coat on several occasions when with friends to go back into cafes and give out my number. I became much more tolerant of those charity muggers outside Tube stations, letting them give me their spiel about blind homeless donkeys in order to proposition them in return. I got round to doing small odd jobs and shopping trips that involved builders merchants and other predominantly male stores.

I took up a friend’s husband’s offer to teach me to play pool in a working men’s club in Pimlico and took full advantage of being the only woman there. I hung out in bookshops asking questions about things I’d studied at university as a way to strike up conversation with hipster booksellers who thought they’d finally found a woman who really wanted to read Murakami.

I dragged myself out to to promotional events in Shoreditch dive bars and befriended bouncers and barmen as well as allowing men to tell me all about their ‘big idea’. I used Guardian Soulmates which is those days was in print in the Saturday Guide and involved having to phone voicemail as a precursor to online dating. I talked to men on the Tube and in the street and queues. And I carried on with my normal day to day life in my local pub and encountering men at work and through people I knew.

In the process I got to really know London in a way that made it feel like home for me that most imports to the city never manage and is probably why I still live here fifteen years later. I have no idea how many phone numbers I accumulated in those three months but it was literally hundreds. I feel like I filled my Nokia 3310 address book to bursting point but that might be nostalgic hyperbole.

I soon found that for roughly every five men I engaged with I got one fuck. I had to make a special trip to go to Boots for a Meal Deal for lunch from work at least once a week to buy condoms by the twelve pack. I turned men down who wanted to date and I set more geographical limitations than sexual ones. I fucked in lot of pub toilets, alleyways and stockrooms.

And despite all that work, I almost didn’t make my target. A couple of flaky dates, a few guys who seemed like bad news and a couple of occasions I couldn’t shake friends or work off to be free to fuck left me three men short on my last day. I debated giving my Lenten exemption of Sundays not counting to extend the deadline, but that felt like cheating.

My bubble of pure London sluttery never got burst in those three months by friends or flatmates and years later I never brought that past in the present and told people that I once fucked nearly a hundred people in three months just to see if I could. I knew I’d never live that number down.

But next Thursday I will tell you how I hit my target like the over achiever I am…

 

Odds On

The Beast With Two Backs

I had fun writing about how sex and laughter go together and it felt like the perfect opportunity to describe one of the funniest sexual experiences I’ve ever had for this week’s Thursday nostalgia post.

There’s a trope with online dating that all men lie about their height and say they are 6 foot. Despite being a fairly early adopter of online dating, I’d never had it happen to me and so secretly wondered if it was really true.

I am fairly ambivalent about men’s heights and I rarely looked too much at them in the descriptions on online profiles so didn’t really notice that the guy I’d arranged to meet for drinks was exactly 6 foot tall. Plus I was distracted by the fact I was running late for our date because I was stuck behind Hare Krishnas on Oxford Street on a day that was unexpectedly too warm for the boots I was wearing.

I arrived fifteen minutes late, incredibly flustered and slightly sweaty to find him sitting as cool as cucumber in the dark basement bar I’d picked out and he stood up from the stool and I realised I’d met my first fake six footer in the flesh. Except this guy just kept going as he stood up. He’d lied to make himself seem smaller than his full 6 foot 6 inches.

Turns out women can be a bit Goldilocks when it comes to height and like their men not too small, not too tall but just right. I on the other hand just like them funny and quite filthy so we hit it off immediately and spent the rest of the afternoon getting quite drunk before deciding to go back to mine to fuck.

We tumbled tipsily through my front door in broad daylight and started getting frisky on the sofa quite quickly. I’d just had a glimpse of his well muscled and heavily tattooed lower legs and felt his very well sized erection against my thigh when we realised we had no condoms.  He very chivalrously put his jeans back on and went out to the shop to buy some.

While he was doing so I realised I was less co ordinated through booze than I’d thought and having difficulty getting my boots off. Not wanting to end up flustered and sweaty in front of him for the second time that day, I used the doorstep to pull them off and slipped out of my skinny jeans too so that when he arrived back he only had to pull my knickers down and put the condom on so we could fuck.

I might not be a height queen per se but I do love the weight of a man on top of me. Something about it makes me want to sink into the bed, wrap my legs round his back to pull him deeper inside me to maximise the weight and make sure he fucks me all the harder.

And with a guy this tall and well built, I was in my element. That delicious weight going straight to my cunt. I had my legs almost round his neck and my eyes closed enjoying that filled up being fucked senseless feeling when something felt odd enough to make me open my eyes. And just as I did I saw a fairly well sized slug drop from my curled in pleasure toes onto his bare back.

I tried to manoeuvre my foot down a little bit as if changing position to see if I could brush the slug off onto the bed but it turns out slugs are less malleable than you might think for a strip of muscle. My cover up attempt just managed to push the slug onto his arse cheeks.

I don’t know if he felt it on him or because the thought of it all began to give me the giggles in that way that makes it hard to breathe without laughing more, but he opened his eyes too at this point and saw my foot still trying to flick the slug away and asked if everything was ok.

It’s hard not to be compulsively honest with someone when you’re quite drunk and they’ve got their dick inside you and between sobs of laughter I managed to tell him there was a rogue slug on his bare arse. I think I even managed to explain that it must have come from the doorstep when I had taken my boots off.

He took it better than I expected, alternately reaching his hand behind him and trying to seek out the slug and leaning his weight back on it so he could keep fucking me. It was quite something watching such a big burly man battle his horniness and his disgust. But despite twisting and turning and slug hunting, he kept fucking me in a deep steady rhythm that actually managed to make me less hysterical and make me come.

A combination of calming me down and feeling me come round his cock made him come hard and collapse on top of me rather than hold himself up anymore. For a few moments I wasn’t sure if he was still coming or laughing and then I realised when he flapped his hand behind him again that he was in fact laughing almost as hard as I had been earlier.

This set me off again and we lay like this for several minutes before he managed to pick himself up and we found the offending slug cosied up in the duvet. I brought a tissue for the condom and one for the slug and both went in the bin while he showered any snail trails off him.

I expected him to shower and make his excuses to get away from crazy slug lady but not only did he come back to bed we met up again four or five times again as fuck buddies. He never let me live it down though making me go on top and keep my feet where he could see them next time…

The Beast With Two Backs