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

Home Sweet Home

These days the housing crisis in London is such that landlords can abuse it by putting adverts for a free room and board if you fuck them and some women are so desperate for somewhere to live that they feel they have no choice. These men are predators and I hope the women involved at least sew prawns into the curtains when they leave.

They also make me feel a tiny bit guilty about the time I fucked my landlady’s husband when I was first living in London. Not because I was under any pressure about housing but because he was actually quite attractive and I could basically which formed a lot of my sexual decision making when I was 24.

His wife had been given our rented house as an ‘investment portfolio’ by her mum who owned a lot of property in the area and she wasn’t especially overjoyed to discover the work that came with being a landlady so while she stayed out in the suburbs being a stay at home mum, she sent her husband who worked in the city round to deal with us.

It started innocently enough that he’ call round to collect a rent cheque or look at a problem and join all of us in the house for a glass of wine before catching his train home. Then one night around Christmas he crashed on our sofa too pissed after the works do to go home and we sort of didn’t mind him occasionally using the place as a crash pad as it got our rent cashed quicker.

I tended to be round the house more as I worked much more irregular hours than my flatmates and I was the one who could deal with practical stuff like boilers and taps so we talked more. And then the talking expanded on his part into the classic ‘my wife doesn’t understand me’ stuff. How he hated commuting, didn’t know his kids, felt his wife was only interested in his salary.

I forgot I wasn’t his friend nor was I still actually a sex worker and that I didn’t have to listen to this stuff for free but I liked him and I could see he had genuine worries that a friendly ear would help with. We ended up having dinner a couple of times and then I think he panicked that it looked like an affair and kept his distance for a few months.

Then one night he was there when I came home on the invitation of another one of my flatmates. I happened to know that everyone else in my house was out for the night because I’d just left them in the pub after just enough early evening wine to make me impulsive.

I poured him a glass of wine while he fixed the kitchen tap or whatever he had come to do and we chatted slightly awkwardly. Our kitchen was tiny and you could barely stand without touching anyway and the proximity and wine and discussing why he’d been avoiding me all came together and the next thing I knew he was lifting me up and kissing me while carrying me toward the kitchen table.

He laid me down on the table and was on top of me kissing me and it was hot. He was one of those men in his early forties who was ageing well and worked the silver fox look and I could feel a surprisingly good body from him being on top of me. I wanted to fuck him. He wanted to fuck me.

But first I wanted to suck his cock because if there’s one thing married men whose wives don’t understand them always want, it’s their cock sucked. I started pulling his trousers off and was delighted to see that he had a beautiful cock. Long, just the right side of thick and incredibly hard, it was just the kind of cock I wanted in my mouth.

I wriggled round on the kitchen table so my head was hanging over the edge slightly and looking up at him on my back so he could stand and dip his cock into my mouth. This is a good way to take someone’s cock for deep throat but I didn’t take him in that far. Firstly I’m not a fan and secondly, I think if I had he’d have come instantly.

Instead I opened my mouth wide and licked his cock lazily before sucking on his balls to tug at them before slipping his cock in and out of my my mouth so that I could really tighten my lips up and down him to make him moan and gasp. He was so close to coming and each time he seemed to lose control I’d loosen my mouth and flick my tongue round and lick him lazily again.

I hadn’t decided if I’d fuck him or let him come in my mouth this way since I was in my kitchen with no condoms to hand and was mentally running through my head where the closest ones were before I decided. Then I remembered I had some in my bag lying in the hall outside the kitchen.

I pushed myself off the table by taking his cock as deep as I could and then using my tongue to push him out of my mouth so he stepped backwards and jumped off the table explaining why. When I turned back round into the room holding the condoms, he had his cock in his hand and seeing him horny, hard and clearly making bad decisions went to my cunt so much.

He pushed me back on the table as I pulled my jeans off as he rolled the condom on and slid straight into my soaking wet cunt like he hadn’t fucked in a lifetime. The table was the perfect height for one of my my favourite ways to fuck so I had my legs wrapped round his neck pushing him deeper into me and fucking me so hard the table was banging off the wall.

I was surprised that he lasted as long as he did considering how ridiculously horny we both were and how close to coming in my mouth he had been. He came into me so hard the table lurched and he literally howled as he orgasmed. The only thing better for me that being fucked that hard is the feeling of a man coming into me and it always tips me into coming too.

He could hardly move himself off me as we lay there enjoying the afterglow of our orgasms until we realised that the table as at an odd angle. Turned out we’d broken one of the legs while we were fucking. That made us move before we crashed to the floor and really had something to explain.

Luckily my flatmates came home wasted later that night after he’d left and assumed they broke the table. I was smart enough not own up but horny enough to allow my landlady’s husband to come round a few weeks later to measure up for a new one. This time we fucked on the sofa though to be safe…

Home Sweet Home

Start As You Mean To Go On

I had the kind of childhood you forget huge chunks of to get through. I don’t say this for sympathy but to explain why the oddest things stick in my mind from my formative years but others people might expect don’t.

Princess and I were talking recently about early sexual experiences and while she can remember exactly the first time she masturbated or had an orgasm, I couldn’t. Not that there’s any explicit trauma around those things for me but in blocking out the bad bits, you also shut out the good bits.

It got me thinking about the things that shaped my sexuality generally and because I have the most incredibly relaxed therapist I’ve been discussing it in sessions recently and seeing what was lurking in my brain after the time I’d forgotten I’d had my first three person relationship at the age of sixteen. And I got quite a shock with what I recalled.

Because depending what you consider your first sexual experience, mine was with a girl I went to primary school with. We didn’t fuck or even touch each other but it was the first time I ever got naked for pleasure with someone else which is a pretty notable sexual experience in itself.

We were friends at school because we were the dysfunctional ones in a school of privileged kids. My parents showed no real interest in me and her parents were divorcing at a time when such things were still incredibly rare in Ireland. And to add to our bonding, our issues were with our mothers in a society that exalts motherhood to the point of sainthood.

Her mother in fact had recently run off with a much younger man who rode a motorbike in full leathers and left her and her sister with their dad while she was clearly having some kind of mid life sexual awakening that fascinated us as we’d never really thought about parents being sexual until then.

We spent a lot of the summer between leaving primary school and starting secondary school at her house taking advantage of neither of her parents being around much but trying to make up for it by paying for MTV in the days when that had social cache. Occasionally we had to look after her younger sister and occasionally I had to skip her house to be looked after by my brother and he was the more useful of the two siblings.

Being as he was at the time a teenage boy, he and his friends spent a lot of time seeking out porn. In those days that came in the shape of magazines that had to be hidden more carefully from prying parental eyes than an internet search history does now. Unfortunately for them they weren’t smart enough to hide it from a curious little sister and I took them to my friend’s house where we thought it might enlighten us to what was making her mum act like she was.

We started out fascinated by it all, flicking through the pages seeing seemingly normal looking women get more and more scantily clad and turned on. Each page stripped off the bikinis or underwear we were used to seeing women posing in national newspapers or beer cans and we remained quite blasé until we discovered that these women’s cunts looked different to ours behind the scenes.

Both of us were at that stage of puberty where our bodies were changing but still not fully developed. I was slightly envious of her in the changing rooms because she was ready to wear a bra and I was still in camisoles but like most girls of that age getting changed for swimming or games meant not letting any part of your body below the neck be seen by anyone else for fear of social shaming.

So I’d never thought about hers or anyone else’s cunt and I’m not sure we’d ever been given the euphemistic advice to ‘get to know yourself’ with a hand mirror by then as we didn’t get the period talk until secondary school. We were goggle eyed when the pages got to the point of the women pulling their labia apart to reveal this whole new landscape behind the familiar vulva we knew we both had.

Like any kids learning about their bodies we found it hard to believe we could be like that too and I’m not sure if it was a practical decision or suggestion that we look at our own to compare with these blissed out looking women in Penthouse or Fiesta. I don’t remember if we undressed together or what stages it took but at some point we were both completely naked in her bedroom with the magazines between us.

There was definitely a childishness to this show and tell to begin with but as both of us lay against the bed with our legs apart, pulling our cunt lips open and staring at what we found on ourselves and each other, I remember the atmosphere changing. I’m not sure who turned the pages until we found the inspiration that we could slip our fingers inside these fascinating folds we found out we had.

I don’t know if she’d known you could do that before or had been doing it already but I definitely hadn’t and we both felt the effects of it as soon as we did going from casual exploration to pleasure seeking. I’m pretty sure I couldn’t have explained this as masturbation if pushed to explain but we’d definitely changed the dynamic now.

I remember her lying back on the bed against her pillows with her knees open and her cunt looking different to mine but right there with her finger inside as she wriggled and moved. I remember also putting a finger inside myself but being up on my knees with the magazine in between us and definitely continuing to flick through it.

We didn’t articulate what we were doing as I doubt we had words for it but we took turns in those positions to pull ourselves open into the same poses as the women in the magazine as if copying them and pretending each other was the audience even though it wouldn’t have occurred to us that women could look at each other too.

I remember being a stickler for rules and orders even then and not deviating from the poses I saw in pages and pages of porn. But she was a rebel who used her other hand to pinch her nipples and rub her cunt as well keeping her fingers moving inside her. I don’t know if she’d acquainted herself with her clit before but she was certainly a faster learner than me with her body arching and squirming as both her hands moved at once while I watched until she went still.

I think I thought she’d gone still because she’d heard someone coming home but now I realise that she’d actually come in front of me. I know I didn’t because I was still sticking to the orders of the magazines to pose rather than perform like she had. I bet if she’d told me what to do I’d have got over my shyness instantly.

And then we did hear her grandparents coming home and luckily both were slow on the stairs giving us time to shove the magazines under the duvet and pull our clothes back on. I remember feeling so aware of my cunt when I put my shorts back on with the almost throbbing ache I now know is being incredibly turned on but not getting to come.

I also remember eating dinner with her and her grandparents and then being sent to play together afterwards but her barely looking at me or talking until I went home with my stash of magazines rescued from her bed. I do remember that one was missing when I checked though and I also remember that she and I never hung out again before going on to separate secondary schools a few weeks later.

I also remember being very keen to get that intense almost uncomfortable but can’t think about anything else feeling between my legs back again because it felt so good to me. I suspect that that was the summer I discovered masturbation. I wonder what else I’ll remember next…

Start As You Mean To Go On

The Right Note

I loved music when I was a teenager. All my spare time and cash went on getting my hands on music or going to see live music. I love the aspect of collecting it and seeking things out  and finding people you had the same musical tastes in common with. And I loved that it was a great way to meet men.

Men love women who are into things’ they think of as ‘boy’s interests’. Girls who love football or computer games or drink beer are often jokingly referred to as ‘cool girls‘ with the slight sting in the tail that no matter how  much you really love ninja movies or comics or whatever you will be accused of only doing it to impress men.

So while I loved the bands I was into, I also learned quite quickly that I could happily subvert the sexual stereotype to my own advantage and get fucked in the process. And on a couple of occasions I got my hands on an import only issue album as well as their cock. A win-win situation for me frankly.

On this occasion though it was a gig. I was about seventeen and they were a local band done good internationally coming home to an adoring crowd. It was the kind of night you know you’d talk about for years as a teenager and it would be packed. There’s a certain kind of freedom that comes with crowds.

I went with some friends and before the support band had even finished the set I’d some how lost them in the mass of people. I can’t remember if that bothered me to be on my own in a crowd of handsy men as a kid or I felt liberated by it. But I remember glancing round looking for a little space to carve out for myself and tucking into it.

Then I noticed the guy standing there too. Maybe I’d noticed them already and that was why I picked out that space, but I was completely aware of his presence. He just seemed to fill the space in a way that wasn’t at all intimidating. More in the way that made me want to lean against him.

We exchanged polite pleasantries, just enough to make it definitely consensual not not creepy. For some reason I remember that he was from Southampton which meant he was passing through and I wasn’t likely to see him again. This gave me permission to misbehave and embrace the fact he was in holiday mode when people behave the way they want not the way they should.

Luckily I was wearing a skirt. My grandmother would have described it as a belt with that tone of disapproval but that’s exactly why I loved it. It was probably the shortest skirt I’ve ever owned and looked like black leather. That skirt was my secret weapon for several years and I’ve always wanted to find one like it again.

Being December I was also wearing tights but as I slipped in front of the guy and leaned into his chest like guys do with their girlfriends at gigs to hold them in place away from thrashing arms and grabby hands, he reached down and used his thumbs to rip the crotch of my tights open. My underwear was easy to push aside so now he had perfect access.

I was pressed against him in an incredibly dark crowded space where no one could hear a single thing except the band and despite several thousands of people round us we had a surprising amount of privacy. He took advantage of that by using his fingers to make me arch my back and have to hold my myself up while he made me come in public.

He teased me that the more I squirmed and seemed to collapse against him he’d pull back and leave me on the edge making me stand up straight several times before allowing me to come and using his spare arm to hold me up as I ground down on his fingers and pressed against his incredibly hard cock.

Neither of us were paying any attention to the band. But luckily everyone else was. After the second, maybe third orgasm, he spun me round and started walking me out of the crowd. There was a balcony of seats upstairs in the venue which a few people were using for smoking and drinking smuggled in booze, but it was dark and barely noticed.

We went upstairs and he selected the darkest corner of the seats and sat down pulling me onto his knee turning my head so we could kiss looking for all intents and purposes like many of the other young couples at any gig who use it as an excuse to snog their partner to their favourite bands.

The only difference was that he had pulled his cock out of his fly without pulling his trousers down (I do miss when low slung baggy trousers were in fashion for men. They offered excellent opportunities for access) and was slowly positioning the rip in my tights over his erection.

For a few seconds I had to hold myself up enough to pull my underwear aside and line the angles up before his cock slipped right into my cunt so I literally slid down his dick and sat down hard on his lap. Still with my head turned as we kissed, it looked entirely more innocent than it was.

To keep it that way, he used the tilt of the cinema style seats to tip his hips forward and back gently to fuck me while I had to basically sit still and push my clenched cunt down onto his cock to get as much movement and friction as possible. Sometimes it doesn’t take much to make someone come and this was one of those moments.

He came hard into me, pulling me down tighter onto his lap and pressing his face into my back I presume to hide any noise or facial expressions that might give away that we weren’t just hugging. I remember he seemed to come for what felt like forever as he thrust into me more. I don’t recall if I came but when my Master does that now the feeling of it always pushed me into another orgasm so I presume I did.

We sat for a few minutes with his cock still in my cunt, leaning back and allowing the energy to come back for both us before disentangling ourselves. He walked me back downstairs and we watched the rest of the gig in comfortable silence.

The only difference was that while an hour earlier I had been delighted with the shortness of my skirt now I was hoping I wouldn’t accidentally flash the rip in the crotch that advertised I really was a slut not just a fan of short skirts…

The Right Note

Foundations

If I counted up the amount of time I waste on Twitter, I’d probably hang my head in shame. But occasionally it comes up trumps in making me use my time well. Having seen a tweet going round this week asking about your five ‘foundational’ crushes I spent the afternoon trying to remember who any of my crushes were.

Luckily Twitter had a prompt when I saw a friend post her top five and I was reminded that I knew my type early on. I had a huge crush back in the early Nineties on the guitar player Nuno Bettencourt from the band Extreme back in the days when all men seemed to have long hair.

Over time I’d mistaken the long hair and his pretty pouty look for not being my type and rather cute and feminine as if I’d been playing it safe back then. Then my friend posted an image and not only did I very clearly remember buying the magazine it was in, but I realised that pout was in fact all about pure filthiness.

In hindsight a poster like this on my bedroom wall was pinning my colours to the mast early on. While my peers were kissing pictures of Take That goodnight and publicly discussing wanting to meet them, I was sleeping under a photo of a man I knew I wanted to be alone with and having some very private thoughts about.

Years later I was at a party with my then flatmate and feeling slightly awkward when I realised there were ten men in the room and I’d fucked them all. My flatmate chuckled when she realised it too and commented that you’d never guess what they all had in common because they all looked so different to each other so I clearly don’t have a type.

While she was right in that none of the men that night realised the extent of my slutty ways, she was also wrong in that I definitely have a type. Aesthetically I’m a sucker for good cheekbones even now even if I never find long hair attractive on men these days but my type is the sort with that filthy twinkle in their eye.

Put me in a room of twenty men with only one who’d throw you down on the bed rather ask nicely and I will sniff them out like a trained slut hound. I clearly started this game young so I’m well practised and my strike rate is so good I could count the accidental vanilla men on one hand.

I wondered if I’d had to hone this skill and after rediscovering just how dirty Senhor Bettencourt was I tried to think who my other foundational crushes had been. There was David Bowie, particularly in Labyrinth of course. More cheekbones and filthy looks. And something stirred deep inside me when I first saw The Rocky Horror Picture Show and encountered Frank n’ Furter.

I don’t know if the other men I dreamed of in those days of youth count as foundational but my thoughts were filthy all the same. I pictured myself running off to the big city and sucking the cocks of unsuitable but attractive men when I got there. It took me years to realise I actually did fulfil that aspiration in many ways but it wasn’t quite as glamorous as I expected at the time.

So it was good to be reminded I knew my tastes early on. And even better to discover my original foundational crush actually looks filthier now twenty five years later…

Foundations

Broadening My Mind

For someone who’s fucked a lot of men, I’ve actually seen comparatively few huge cocks. Obviously by the law of averages some are smaller and some are larger but ones that make you raise your eyebrows at the size are surprisingly elusive.

Before I met my Master I wouldn’t have said I was a size queen. My main criteria for a cock was whether the owner could fuck me hard with it rather than quibbling over the dimensions. If pressed I’d probably have chosen girth over length for that filled up feeling I’ve always loved but I wasn’t exactly giving marks out of ten like an Olympic judge.

So I remember my first take-my-breath-away-how-big-is-that-cock extremely well because it blew my mind. This was pre internet porn when dial up meant a bigger cock just meant any clips took longer to download. Ironically I had only heard about John Holmes in those days as the inspiration for the Dirk Diggler character in Boogie Nights and it was impossible to separate the man and the myths.

I always expected that if you had a cock you could measure in feet not inches you’d carry yourself with a certain swagger from the secret of what you were packing. You’d be the man who actually had the reason for manspreading. But when it came to it I found the biggest cock I’ve ever seen in the flesh on man who worked in middle level IT who you’d never notice at a party.

Maybe I have dick-dar or he noticed me but I met him through a friend at the pub and promptly forgot about him until months later when he moved in with my friend. His flat was central to the city where I lived at the time and a favoured haunt to start or finish a night out so I got to know him a bit better but he still didn’t stand out especially.

But for some reason I ended up in the flat with him alone one night after some drug fuelled dancing to drum n’ bass and I was horny. We ended up in bed and he seemed to have a moment where it was almost difficult to undo his trousers. I didn’t think much until he actually pulled them off and his cock seemed to fill the whole room.

I literally couldn’t notice anything else but the longest thickest cock I’d ever seen. His hand seemed dwarfed by it as he got even harder and fuller. I couldn’t decide if it terrified or thrilled me but I was in a risk taking mood thanks to the popularity of speed in the 90s. I was my knees to get my mouth round him straight away and turned on to find that my mouth couldn’t close round his monster cock.

I’d never been so utterly filled up that way, forcing my mouth open, lifting my tongue back trying to swallow as much of this huge hard cock as I could. I couldn’t close my lips round him at all and it was making my mouth and eyes water from sucking and gagging like I was absolutely gorging myself myself on dick.

It was glorious and going straight to my cunt. Each time I had to open my jaw wider and lean into him lapping at the head of his cock and not being able to do anything but concentrate on it I was imagining my cunt taking him the same way. I had no illusions about being able to fuck all him but taking the top in my tight cunt was going to give him sensations to make up for him not being to able to fuck me completely senseless.

I don’t know if it was the drugs or being practically drunk on dick but I was so focused on his cock that I wasn’t paying enough attention to the rest of him and noticing his response to me. Instead of working with my mouth he was basically standing still and barely interacting. I assumed he was holding himself back not to come in my mouth so asked him to fuck me.

I don’t know if he thought I was being incredibly literal or not but without even checking to see if I was wet or acknowledging that he had a huge cock he went simply straight to fucking. I paused him for a condom but before anything else he went for penetration and into my cunt as far as possible without pause.

My cunt went dry instantly from pure pain and I sobered up in all ways making him stop and trying to explain that you can’t just go right in and fuck when your cock is built like a baby’s arm. He pouted and started pushing himself in more gradually complaining that he was close to coming.

I sensed there was very little to be gained trying to teach him and instead for one of the only times in my life I lay back and thought of England thinking ‘what’s the worst that can happen?’ as I suspected he’d have come within ninety seconds. It felt longer but I doubt it was.

He rolled off me and straight to sleep face first in his bed while I got up, got dressed and left with little more to say to him. I went home disappointed not have got to play properly with this new toy but comforted myself with the irony that his complicated double barrelled name included the word ‘broad’ proving that nominative determinism is alive and well and would make a great anecdote.

I rarely thought of him without that little chuckle to myself but only when I met my Master did I realise that such disappointing sex with such a huge cock had given the association that bigger was simply sore and held me back from being the size queen I was destined to be sooner.

But I suppose the good news is my Master would have missed out train me up like he has and stretching me out for you all to see if my first massive cock hadn’t disappointed me so much…

Broadening My Mind