Groupie

Princess and I are basically opposites in every way except one crucial one. Both being sluts, we were obsessed with the groupie lifestyle when we were teenagers. I suspect this was a bit of a chicken and egg situation. I don’t know if being a born slut made me seek this stuff out or if coming across it made me a slut but unlike chicken and eggs, you can combine both to enhance your enjoyment.

Sadly neither Princess or I grew up anywhere with access to being a proper groupie (although my first ever email address did have a reference to wanting to as I drunkenly allowed a friend to pick it for me and she clearly knew me well.)

Princess stuck to reading Pamela des Barres’ book along with listening to the music of those who had the pick of those notorious groupies. And clearly she had better taste in sexual fantasies than my teenage interests in tight trousered, big haired LA cock rockers because she neither regrets her early email addresses or her sexual awakenings.

These days I’d probably decline my chances with some of the men I dreamed of back then (debauchery means most haven’t aged well) but my original fantasy has never got old. I’d still get down on my knees in front of a line of horny men with hard cocks and suck their cocks in turn as they watched each other.

So when Princess and Sir went to see the Rolling Stones recently and she revelled in reliving her teenage feelings about Mick Jagger it made me wonder who my band line up would be now if I was creating my own supergroup of cocks to suck. Being indecisive I didn’t make any firm choices but there was one person I’d never say no to and would take any chance to let my inner groupie out to play with.

I have never been a fan of Led Zeppelin’s music but from an early age Robert Plant in leather trousers made me feel all kinds of things I didn’t completely understand. The infamous mud shark story left me with a guilty sense that I should be more disgusted than I was but definitely should have alerted me to my kinky interests sooner.

I think I’ve made my feelings about men feeling the need to speak to women in public clear before. So when years ago when standing perusing a selection of biscuits in a posh deli in central London I whipped my head round ready to use the equivalent of Choco-Liebniz as a weapon when I heard a man striking up conversation about cookies with me.

I could literally feel my mouth fall open as time stuttered into freeze frames and the biscuits hung in my hands like I had T-rex arms as I realised that man was in fact Robert Plant. Large as life and right in front of me discussing biscuits as my mind immediately ricocheted between blank incomprehension, disbelief, filthy thoughts and guilt over my (literally) naked objectification of him over decades. I may even have blushed.

Unlike many hell raisers, he wore living well extremely well and there was definitely that sense of sexual confidence I’d always imagined. I stuttered something back about the biscuits my mouth as dry as my knickers were suddenly wet and I almost willed him to leave me alone before I was so star struck I embarrassed myself.

I must be able to bullshit brilliantly about biscuits because he started asking me questions and advice on cake too. My mouth kept answering calmly and logically about marzipan while my mind screamed at me to just abandon all my life rules about consent and hang ups about initiating sex and just throw myself at him in public right now.

Each time I opened my mouth to reply to his conversation I had to double check I hadn’t just said ‘fuck me now’. I didn’t have the background of Continental foods in mind when I’d fantasised about sucking his cock, but sluts are nothing if not adaptable. I could fuck a long term obsession up against a freezer if it was my only chance and not care about the criminal record for public indecency to fulfil a lifetime ambition.

Being a slow learner and prone to overthinking I started to think as the conversation went on that actually he’d mistaken my taste for dressing all in black for being the shop staff instead of anything raunchier. And then I heard him say ‘shall I get us a coffee then?’ I don’t drink coffee but as I say, sluts will be flexible the situation calls for it.

Before I could accidentally sabotage myself, he ushered me to a table, paid for the cake and biscuits we’d been conversing about and ordered drinks. I attempted to look nonchalant, pretending as such things were everyday occurrences to me. I wondered if I should Google the nearest hotel where he could take me and fuck me senseless or if international rock stars with a reputation knew these things without my help. I did think fast enough to text the friend I was meeting to ask could we cancel, knowing fine rightly I’d fake my own death if that was the only way to excuse myself.

A cup of coffee and some cake appeared on the table and he sat down waiting for the waitress to bring the rest. I normally love flirting. Flirting is foreplay usually. But twenty plus years of fantasising is also foreplay and I needed little else. He started eating the cake and asking me about myself rather than prolonging any more chat about baked goods.

Robert Plant was quite definitely flirting with me and I have no idea what I told him. In my mind he was giving me orders to strip for him, not asking about my interests and hobbies. What do you say to this? Well, I enjoy going out and staying in and picturing your cock going in and out of my mouth until my eyeliner runs and I beg you to fuck me?

I was almost relieved when the waitress came over to give me a moment to breathe. I needed a moment to regroup my slutty superpowers. I waited for the second coffee to be set on the table so I could flirt properly. And waited. The pause was momentarily longer than expected and I looked around to hear him say ‘oh did we arrange to meet here?’

It was me guilty of mistaking someone for the shop staff this time as the well dressed young woman in front of use was clearly his girlfriend and if looks could kill, it wouldn’t be my awkward flirting that finished me off after all.

I introduced myself as politely as you can when you were shamelessly about to fuck someone’s partner as he started the kind of innocent explanation as to why we were having coffee that only ever sounds extremely incriminating. I’ve rarely felt as frustrated in my life sitting there as she whisked him away briskly making damned sure I didn’t have the chance to pass him my number and cursed that he of all people didn’t have an open relationship.

His girlfriend then insisted on ordering drinks to take out so they were standing just enough in my line of sight as to be both awkward and tantalising in equal measure. Plus I had to sit and drink the coffee I hate in order to cover my less than innocent intentions while kissing goodbye to the chance to turn my adolescent fantasies into very adult actions.

I watched them walk out just as my extremely prudish friend walked in. She hadn’t got my text and she certainly hadn’t got the interest in slutty men I did so I couldn’t even share my moment of almost groupie glory with her.

Instead I sat and nodded occasionally as she talked as I used my brush with reality to really enhance my fantasies for when I got home. I think the orgasm was definitely increased by the delayed gratification but also the seal of approval of my sluttiness by one who knows best…

Groupie

Gatecrashing

One of the hot topics on Twitter this week came from the chat started by this article by Exhibit A on inviting exes and people you have slept with to your wedding. Lots of people seemed to be of the opinion you should never have anyone you’ve had sex with at your wedding which surprised me considering how many people stay friends with exes.

Then I remembered that I’ve used that social pressure to avoid attending weddings on more than one occasion. I’m not a massive fan of weddings (although I did enjoy the one I met my Master at) and the only thing more awkward than wearing the same dress as someone at one is having fucked the same person as the bride has.

Well that’s what I thought until I accidentally ended up at a wedding where I’d fucked the best man and the groom at the same time and took awkwardness into a whole dimension. As I’ve said before I’d encountered quite a few guys who had hired me for a threesome when I was an escort but it had always turned more into tag teaming.

These two stood out because they didn’t display any of the toxic masculinity many men have around anything that might  make them seem ‘gay’. They didn’t look awkward about seeing each other naked or brushing against each other even thought they weren’t being sexual with each other.

And unusually and memorably while both of them went for the sharing style of a tag team fuck by ending with their cocks aimed over me, there was a last minute surprise when one of them came over his friend’s cock, leaning so close the tips practically brushed together and the second guy came hard over my tits having had his cock well and truly lubricated with fresh come right at the crucial moment.

It was one of the few erotic experiences I ever took home from ‘work’ that genuinely turned me on. That kind of team work went right to my cunt in its casual filthiness and I thought it about enough times over the next few years that I’d sort of turned a reality into a fantasy and forgotten the people behind it.

So a few years later I’d moved from my seaside uni town to the big smoke and had a job that often involved doing make up and styling at weddings. I’d spent a warm Sunday morning in August lugging a heavy kit to one of those postcodes that sounds central but in the arse end of suburban London and I was frazzled after doing four women’s make up by the time I arrived at the church to tuck myself away unobtrusively until the photos.

One of the bridesmaids spotted my wheely kit and called me over to her and the groom who was standing with his back to me. Because the day was warmer than expected he was sweating in his suit and she wondered if I could help. Her exact words were ‘could you touch the groom here up a bit?’ just as he turned and we both recognised each other.

I’d last seen him pumping his come lubricated cock over my tits and it seemed the occasion was as memorable for him as me. I froze and he appeared to melt inside his suit. A few beads of sweat turned to a torrent and I genuinely thought for a second he would faint. He looked like his entire life had just flashed before his eyes.

And the bridesmaid noticed too and called the best man over. I didn’t even need to look to know the man in the grey suit coming towards me was the literal third party. I could see the dawning realisation of the situation on his face like his steps seemed to stand still as he came towards us. From their terror I surmised the groom had not been single when they’d been fucking me for cash in a hotel room.

In autopilot while the bubbly bridesmaid chatted about make up I did myself best to hide the sickening shade of pale grey the groom’s face had gone clashing with his suit and his dreams of the best day of his life. Both he and the best man reacted to me touching them like I was handling live venomous snakes in their face and it was so noticeable the bridesmaid actually joked that ‘she won’t think you’re gay if you wear make up.’

I wasn’t aware three people could clench tighter than we were already doing but every day’s a school day it seems. The bridesmaid nipped off to do something else and the best man hissed at me ‘why is there a whore at the wedding?’ while his friend looked like he might vomit on his own shoes.

Considering he and his pal had much more to lose at that precise moment than me, I replied much more calmly than I felt that ‘like her husband to be, the bride had had hired me for services rendered’ and walked off before I either yelled at him or burst into tears.

Clearly a stern talking to worked on both of them because they pulled it together enough to get through the ceremony without looking like two over grown schoolboys in good suits caught with their hand in the cookie jar and do the legal bits without fucking it up and I managed to restrain myself from shouting anything out at the lawful impediment bit much as I was tempted.

I even managed to make the bride look radiant and the groom less grey before their photos so that hopefully there was no photographic evidence of his shame for them to look at on the mantelpiece for years to come. Standing back while the photographer did his job with the happy couple I took a deep breath and felt some of the tension of the day ease.

And that minute the best man appeared at my elbow and asked me was I staying for the reception. My mouth fell open at the sheer brass balls of him and he took my pause as encouragement rather than horror and followed it up with ‘I’ll make it worth your while since that’s all you care about.’

Clearly I have no moral objections to exchanging sexual acts for money but I do object to men using that to insult or undermine me and in lieu of dropping that heavy wheely kit on his very shiny shoes I turned and said ‘no thanks. Your friend was hotter. That’s why he’s married and you’re trying to pick up whores at his wedding.’

And it was true. The best man was definitely only the warm up act to the groom’s starring role which is the only reason I still find the original memory so hot…

 

Gatecrashing

Not Very Saintly

I was honestly quite pleased not to have to leave the house on Saturday. St Patrick’s Day in England is not top of my list of things to participate in. Despite it being the day worldwide that any fucker who has ever drunk a pint of Guinness claims Irishness, it’s also the biggest day of the year for people to tell me I’m not really Irish because I’m from the North.

I mean legally you’d be right because I haven’t got round to sending my Irish passport application off post Brexit. I was waiting for  the rush of suddenly green Brits to subside first but honestly don’t tell Northern Irish people what nationality you think they are. It’s literally why we had that whole conflict thing in the first place and neither side takes it well.

Seeing some Twitter beef about ‘proper’ Irish-ness after the rugby on Saturday first made me shake my head and then laugh when it reminded me of one of the finest slutty moments of my twenties in the fair city of Cork (which FYI, is quite definitely Irish by anyone’s standards even if has an English Market.)

Readers may remember me fucking a hot man who partook in extreme sports for a living. Well about six months later I happened to bump into him again in Cork over St Patrick’s weekend (and by happened to, I mean I willingly got on a bus and drove for eight hours with a bunch of hyperactive fellas with too much adrenaline and not enough sense knowing he was going to be there.) I promise it was much less stalker-ish than it sounds.

Luckily because English people don’t have a particularly good sense of geography about Ireland he didn’t look that surprised I was there not knowing it was such a trek to get round such a small island in those days and assumed I’d had not much else to do that weekend. I didn’t bother to correct him in case it scared him off.

We ended up in a pub on St Patrick’s Night in that post parade pre piss up stage of the evening along with my also Northern Irish female friend who was also on a slut hunting mission of her own that weekend hoping to impress one of the boys we’d come down with.

The craic was good when suddenly one of the local girls who had acquainted herself with the out of town men at the event earlier spoke to me. I may have had no common sense when I was twenty but being a massive slut I could always spot the other girls who were equally keen on cock but not on admitting it. We rarely ended up friends shall we say?

And sure enough there was no love lost at this moment. She very carefully directed it at me and my friend that we weren’t really Irish so what the fuck did we think we were doing in an Irish pub pretending we were? Knowing that was likely to kick off actual warfare at the table, I went to change the subject but she wasn’t finished and informed me that no wonder I only wanted to fuck fake Englishmen in that case.

There was that kind of total ‘oh fuck’ silence at that point when the air goes out of a room. The guy I was with was black along as was his friend who was sitting with us and the inference was clear. I wasn’t exactly au fait with racism in a country as white as bread but this was so overt it was impossible to miss.

I stood up picking up someone else’s perfectly poured pint of Murphy’s as I did. The silence remained for the split second that every single person in the pub thought I was about to chuck the stout in her face. Instead I necked it in one long swallow I’ve never managed before or since, banged the glass down on the table and left the pub with both the men she’d insulted allowing the shouting to start behind us.

We walked up the street a bit and the friend bumped into some other people he knew and left us to it. He was quiet after the scene in the pub and I was frankly pissed in both senses of the word. We ended up sitting on the bed in my hostel room drinking the remains of the bottle of gin we’d started on the night before and talking.

It felt like one of those nights you’d set the world to rights instead of anything else and tipsy on gin I assumed we wouldn’t end up fucking. But when I went to get more tonic I came back to find he’d moved the twin beds round for just that purpose. I was supposed to be sharing the room with my friend and having been watched before neither of us wanted an audience this time.

We pushed the bed against the door so it couldn’t open and then he pushed me up the bed with my legs open and started licking my cunt. I had always been ambivalent about oral sex until this point finding it pleasant enough but ultimately pointless for orgasms. Not this time. This guy had both a knack and a love for giving head that I had never encountered before.

He licked me into a literal haze of orgasms with absolutely no interest in stopping and taking any attempt from me to collect myself and my clit to push me into another orgasm with his tongue and fingers. The bed banged at one point as someone tried to open the door and he didn’t stop. Nor did the noise that told us the St Patrick’s party had arrived back at the hostel.

I remember getting to the stage of so many orgasms that my legs actually started to go numb and he flipped me over so I was face first in a pile of pillows on my hands and knees as he fucked me to yet another orgasm for me and his first of the evening. I was so spent with orgasms I barely noticed the bed bang again as I collapsed forward ass in the air as he licked his own come out of me for the final orgasm of the last few hours.

I lay in a completely fucked senseless heap, out of breath and unable to sit up and marvelling that my ears were actually ringing from it all. That bus journey seemed like the best decision I’d ever made. And then two things occurred to me at the same time as him. Neither of us could sit up because we’d broken the bed. And the ringing was actually the fire alarm going off.

He rolled over and reminded me that we were staying in the same hostel as the guys who would go on to host the show Dirty Sanchez on MTV and they pulled stunts like this on the tour all the time and that if we wanted to make sure there wasn’t a fire, we were going to have move a broken bed.

We thought no more about it and went to sleep on the other bed instead. We woke up hungover and fucked in the still standing bed before trying to hide the evidence of the broken one. We gave up repairing it and wen to meet our friends in the pub instead.

Turns out that everyone else had had to evacuate the building the night before not because there was a fire but because the hostel had called the Gardai to turn the alarm off and stop the party getting properly out of control. Everyone who was anyone in Cork seemed to have been there and so our absence had been well and truly noticed.

He and I walked into the pub to a chorus of jeers and cheers designed to make a scene with my nemesis from the night before sat with a face like soured milk on her. However there was a noise behind us and the cheers stopped as soon as they’d started falling into shocked silence. Unbeknown to us the only other person unaccounted for during the fire alarm was the friend we’d left the pub with and he had just walked in behind us making everyone assume we’d actually been having a threesome.

Enjoying rendering another pub speechless with my sluttiness, none of us corrected them and my fuck buddy and I very much appreciated his friend loudly and obviously buying us breakfast to add to this impression. I’m sure my comments over the soda bread about real Irish hospitality didn’t compound that suspicion at all…

Not Very Saintly

Drag Hag

I was talking to Princess the other day about RuPaul’s Drag Race. Bizarrely for someone who loves make up and used to work in a drag bar back in the early days of living in London, I’ve only ever seen one episode of it (actually with Sir and Princess.)

She and I were discussing how many millions of people must have discovered their sexuality (or become allies or more aware of LGBTQ+ culture) because of RuPaul and Drag Race. We were both trying to work out who are first drag queen was and despite our age gap both of us thought RuPaul had probably been our introduction to drag culture.

I definitely remember having a card advertising the original Viva Glam lipstick back in 1994. The fifteen year old me was bewitched by the unisex glamour of MAC Cosmetics which were unobtainable in Ireland in those days and I was dazzled by RuPaul in a frock and k.d lang in a suit both gender bending for a good cause.

I stuck that card to my wall above the desk I studied for my GCSEs at and stared at it as some kind of portal to a world where anyone could wear make up and be who they wanted. And like many people before and since I found that world in the local gay bars.

My hometown only had one gay bar that advertised itself as such while one other pub had an upstairs room frequented by what we’d now call bears and tended to be too old for my friends and I to go. I got to know the gay friendly haunts well as I had several barely out gay friends and was a safe person to accompany them as they met men for fun for the first time.

It never occurred to me that some of those men were bisexual until one Monday night a female friend and I tripped along to the gay bar for Miss Penelope Pitstop’s Big Balls Bingo with our town’s possibly only drag queen mixing local banter and high camp to a mixed audience.

Since she was a minister’s daughter she got a fit of guilt about being there and left abruptly (although her parents were very welcoming when she came out as bisexual herself soon after even if she had a tendency to act like the only gay in the village after she did.)

I figured I could finish my drink safely in a bar full of men with eyes for each other and was slightly surprised when suddenly I was hugged hard and joined at my table by a guy I knew from my clubbing days. We’d always enjoyed drug fuelled conversations after big nights out crashed out on aged sofas in student houses talking earnestly while off our faces but had never really spoken sober.

I didn’t really think much of seeing him there until we were well into the bingo and drinks and he mentioned he knew Miss Penelope herself. In a stroke of almost embarrassing naivety I enquired how and he paused and batted his eyelashes at me and casually said he liked to suck her cock while she was in full make up.

I know my mouth made a perfect O in response to that. Not because as he thought for a second because I was shocked or horrified but because I was instantly turned on by the thought of it and fuelled by gin and confidences told him so. He grinned and signalled for more drinks. I knew that night wasn’t going to go home as early as my friend had.

We played several rounds of bingo, failing to make a house at any point since our attention had shifted to making eyes at each other. Having only ever discussed politics and putting the world to rights with this guy I was delighted to discover he was funny and incredibly fucking filthy.

I had no qualms when the bingo ended and he bought me a drink, kissed me on the lips and told me to entertain myself before disappearing for about fifteen minutes. I was amusing fag hag fodder to the other men in the bar who thought a wide eyed girl in a bar with a dabber had no idea what was going on.

My date reappeared and rescued me, sliding onto the seat beside me and his tongue into my mouth as he kissed me still tasting of cock and come. His hand definitely crept up my skirt and we looked very straight in a public place. That was our cue to leave together.

We fell into a cab kissing hard enough that the cab driver had to remind us we’d arrived twice. There was no pausing for drinks or polite chit chat in that way people do when they pretend they haven’t gone home together to fuck. We went straight to the bedroom.

I noticed two things that surprised me. For a man of barely twenty who appeared to live separately to his parents his room was immaculate with a properly made bed and even more unusually he was holding the first sex toy I’d ever seen.

He pushed me down on my knees and started pulling my tights down and skirt up so my panties were just low enough to sneak a peek at my cunt and for him to wedge the dildo he was holding into them so it stuck out like a cock that I had to hold tightly in place by pressing my thighs together.

I could feel my cunt soaking wet around it and making it tricky to keep in place with how slick my knickers felt. But when he knelt down, pulling his long hair off his face and started sucking the dildo like he clearly had been with Miss Penelope’s cock before we left together. I looked down watching his head bob and up and down on the dildo taking it deeper than I knew was possible.

I was so turned on and wet watching his floorshow I almost didn’t notice his final flourish as he deep throated the dildo pulling it out of my panties with his lips before putting his mouth back on my cunt and licking me with equal enjoyment and vigour.

My cunt responded in delight as I discovered my first bisexual man that night. We fucked hard that night so that my first time using a sex toy was with his mouth and ass. I did enjoy his legs eleven for me, cock in hand and getting his jackpot that way.

Maybe not the most common introduction to drag culture I’ll agree but one I’ve remembered for years since…

 

Drag Hag

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

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