One Man's Ruin

What a Broken Heart Looks Like

2007-08-26T14:03:00.000+01:00

^^^this?

The Wild Rose

2007-08-02T17:45:00.000+01:00

Each fuck is also the sum of the misunderstandings it occasions.

As seen from a taxi window, sitting on church steps, waving a cigarette at the world. Defiance and nonchalance and insouciance and that tireless laser beam glare cutting through crowds. Skirt riding too high? She doesn't mind.
But then the light shifts and you see her biting her tremulous lips, her fidgeting fingers. She looks as if she might blow away, off the step, like a daisy petal.
If you were ever to hold hands with her (perhaps while helping her into the darker recesses of the church to make textual sense of the beauty) you'd be surprised that they're as hard as they are. Guitars and horses and enthusiastic handjobs are some of her passions, so maybe you shouldn't be so surprised.

We caught up over drinks in a nearby boozer. She was still the same. Funny. Hilarious, in fact, funny and quick and up and down and chatty and needing and pleading.
You hear of people being described as an old soul. She's a young soul; her busy brain constantly evading boredom, her mouth never saying a commonplace thing. The things she came out with! Where did get this stuff? I would play along, delightedly, trying to keep up. She would admonish me loudly, like I were her annoying brother, if I erred too long and fell too far behind her charging mind.
Obviously, it can grate, all this, but her company is never boring.

My hand just 'happened' to graze against her thigh and she slapped me, actually slapped me across the face right there in the pub, filling up with after work drinkers. It was playful slap, but hard. I looked at her as if she was fucking mad, which was about right, and she stared me down in that way of hers, before collapsing into loud hoots of laughter. "Don't!" she said, meaning, as always, okay... do.

Would she always be like this? A firework that explodes and re-explodes and bursts again into a cascade of fiery light with a crack, then silently falls in the purple sky, but still flickering bright. Then, a surprise, and all bursting anew.

Bye bye tower blocks. Overnight in a small and grimly yellowed rented room in Kentish Town, fully reacquainted over much wine and hurried shagging, then, in the bleary-eyed, mumbled morning, push on, out, to the country, to her family's cottage in the Cotswolds.
So.
And so. Broken brick and plaster and battered, boarded-up shops eventually giving way to claggy mud and the smell of livestock shit.
Then we're there. After much broken dozing our train shakes, rattles, rolls into our station stop.

Where's this going? She wants to talk and I'm as subdued as fuck; I'm fucked, my brain feels like it's been sat on by an ox. I don't know what I want anymore. What the hell am I dong here, I thought, soon as I got there. Oh well. Hell. Here I go again.
I annoy her, and that irritates me. She's willful and stupid, but more alive than anyone alive or dead. Her wordgames and questions questions questions. Hang on...
give me a minute.

I'm hopeless at this.

I flop onto a bed hard as a mortuary slab and try and sleep the ache in my head away. A quick snooze, a shower, a shave with an dull, rusty blade I found in a mug in a cupboard by the sink - I knew I'd forget something - and I'm as right as ninepence. Or near as.

She's dishing up cottage pie, in the cottage kitchen. The old cottage is cramped, and roomy. As in it's got lots of rooms, most of which are empty, apart from all the... I don't know what. Things. The kitchen gives a good indication of what the place is like: it is in chaos; a large, handsome and sturdy table sits centre, covered with newspapers and books and bottles and final demands and more of this stuff that's everywhere. Clutter creeps onto every surface and even where there is no surface. A rustic idyll encrusted with the detritus of mad living. It's not a mess, just very busy, she tells me. Doesn't matter to me, I tell her, I like it.

Her food scolds my tongue, but is fucking great and we scoff it down. Madly she opens two bottles of red at once and sploshes out two large glasses worth. It's going to be one of those nights.
I'm still only wrapped in a towel from my shower, and as I'm clearing the plates away - an accident I swear - the damn thing just drops from me. A plate in each hand and nothing to protect me from her vocal amusement, nor from the tea-towel with which she wastes no time in flicking at my bare arse. The bitch.
I feign stoicism under the attack. Later get her back with a handful of soapsuds in the face and hair. A grapple and she's pushed back onto the table. A hand under her skirt and her knickers pulled down. I try and get my end in. The table is too high, really. It's not ideal, and requires awkward positioning of the body, and a leg on a chair, but penetration of her sex is eventually achieved, ground control. We have lift off.

A fun fuck rather than anything satisfying. No climax, instead bruised knees, but it's raised the blood. By the time I went to join her in the other room she had already stripped off and had arranged herself attractively on the couch.
Naked, I came towards her, and she giggled and made fun of the way my cock danced about as I walked. The bitch.
Just for that she got a faceful of my cock and balls as I pushed her head into my crotch and rubbed it in. She squealed, "Don't! I'll bite your dick off!".
I grabbed her hair and pulled her head back, her attitude softened. "Apologise to the cock or he gets put away for the night"
She sighs, "alright, I'm sorry Mr Penis for laughing at you". She cradles the cock in her hands, fingertip strokes gently down its length. Her touch magics it into life and she watches keenly it's strange transformation. Her dark eyes flash up at mine "Shall we kiss and make up?".

Her lips soft on the blushing, tautening skin. Sweet kisses for a swelling cock. A tongue circumnavigates my balls and a swarm of tiny dragonflies flutter ecstatically in my abdomen. A female tongue maps the geography of a male sex. And into the sweltering mouth I'm taken, wetly massaged and suckled. A ticklish sensation pulses down in the centre of my sex. Those dragonflies again.

Curled like kittens, entwined on the couch. Hendrix and hip hop on the record decks. The way she danced to it, before me, for me, for herself, was sexy then funny then both; 'ironic' ho girl booty gyrations, and a send-up of dances remembered from Showgirls. She is quite the comedienne, as well as having a set of eye-catching moves in her repertoire. There is freedom in her nakedness. She has a '50s pin-up body; all hip and breast and bum. Her waist to hip ratio alone stokes the fires of a primeval, biological urge deep inside me, calling me to go jungle ape crazy on her dizzying softness. Her wild dance; a full and carefree display. Alive. I'm thinking I join her in jumping around the room like a loon in the nude, but something stops me.
I also decide to suppress the more animalistic urges welling up within those crazy loins of mine. For now, at least.

So here's to a old-fashioned kiss and a cuddle. We break and I look into her to eyes and try and find what I'm looking for. There's a coldness, a sadness and something unknown. That unblinking stare, where swirls a golden-green galaxy of mad little lights, phoenix feathers and something that looks like cocaine, all sluicing around a yawning black hole.

Am I a novelty that is wearing off, again? Is she the little girl still riding on the carousel of her own outrageousness, and on each pass the face you catch a glimpse of, each tellin a different story, from exhilaration to fear to the face of a girl just lost in the whirl.
Is that where this is going, around and around to nowhere, but the end more unsteady than the start?

"See?" she says, and I feel her fingers back on my sex, and her eyes still trying to stare down mine, "I worship your penis".
A line aimed to disarm. She has many such in her arsenal, and a canny knack of knowing just when to deploy them.

"But", she continues, those eyes now hooded and cruel and mischievous, "you have to admit, it looks completely ridiculous flapping about between your legs as it, swinging like the neck of a dead turkey".
The bitch.

I shove her over and push and pull her body into a position where she's on her knees and leaning forward over the back of the couch. I take my place, take her hips, she cranes her head round to look at me. Silently. I give her what she asks for.

And it goes from there.

Some other time and place, back to where we first...

Seated sunnily outside a Clerkenwell pub with her friends. The male ones, all of ruddy, public school complexion and tall, lean, and talking with loud, confident tones. Highly amused and impressed with themselves and each other. The females all similar to her, but perhaps more self-possessed, and glossy-haired and golden and shrill. But they didn't share her overcast face or away looks to wayward.

She had been something of a wild child, a runaway who fled the cosy certainties expensively mapped out before her, to a Brixton squat. The usual nice girl turns rebel, dances with the devil story. Precocious and promiscuous, she swan-dived into the depths of South London's dark pleasures and came out smiling. But not entirely unscarred.

Now, and naked, she steps out onto her lawn. At first hesitant, a kitten's first experience of snow.
"Come on, this was your idea" I say.

Go wild in the country. The lawn swept down to a thick hedgerow, more fields and a wood lay beyond, lining the horizon. Flowers in full bloom in the garden near the house, and to a patch of grass there she ran, whooping and twirling and skipping, and then attempted a cartwheel - not entirely successfully - before collapsing onto the ground in a star shape. Her breasts rising and falling in heavy breaths.

I pounced on her, and we rolled about for a short while, giggling and tickling and biting each others bodies.

A hot sun hung high in a largely cloudless sky. The heat prickled our skin and up she jumped and fled to the house, only to re-emerge, now donning sunglasses and a tatty straw cowboy hat she had bought back from - where else - Marrakesh. A cigarette was now wedged between her pouty lips. This, otherwise completely naked, vision stood before me, hand on hip and waving a bottle of sun cream at me.
"What happened to the go-natural idea?"
"Too bright. Here's a job you'll like - rub this into me please"
A minute later:
"I think my tits have quite enough cream on them now, thank you; can you do the rest of me please, before I frazzle?"

Dutifully I let my fingers trace over the plains of her body and limbs; carefully negotiating the swells and swoops, massaging her soft, pink skin as she lay supine and placid before me.

All is calm in the garden. Only the hum of a wasp darting about the nearby rose bushes is enough to send a tiny frisson of worry through the mind of a naked man.
I looked over at her, lying quiet on the grass, her fingers idly pulling at a patch of clover. I let my gaze wander her body another time. Those breasts pooled out, and still glistening from the generous application of sun cream; the sunlight picking out the line of otherwise near invisible downy hair on her belly, and down to the dark hair there, which was neatly contained to a small patch on her pubis, but, unusually for a young woman, not cut back but left tufty. As if her own bush was left to match her garden's rose bushes: a little wild and overgrowing.

I stroke the hair softly with the backs of my fingers and her stomach involuntarily twitches.

She owns a pair of horses. I remember being impressed with myself for bedding a girl how owns horses. That's posh, was that.
And here they stand: fat and dopey in a paddock. She got me to clamber on top of one of the fuckers and cling on whilst it clumped about. She - now in jeans and t-shirt, gentle reader worried by undercarriage chafing - relished another opportunity to best me, riding her nag around and around, pretending to lasso me, or chiding me to "giddyup!". But the joke was on her, my trusty steed and me were of a like mind: the beastie wasn't to be perturbed by being lapped and mocked, instead was only interested in taking it easy, lazily walking over to the hedge and chewing on some weeds there. Not only that but, as she rode past each time, I was afforded the attractive view of her hair and her arse bobbing nicely as she went.

Later, we sat in a muggy country pub, at a small sticky table. I idly turn my pint glass on it's coaster as she stares into space. I'm trying to read her mood, but, as usual, am at a loss. There's an edge to the silence, but I think that might be just me - she is miles away. She orders a burger from the menu and when it comes it is huge: a crusty bread toadstool of a bap and a thick, darkly overcooked, meat patty. She says it's too big for her and offers me half. I tell her it's got cheese on it therefore can't eat it.
"Just scrape it off then" she huffs.

We get there finally. She chats away absently about small things then drops the payload. "So anyway... um, yeah... oh yeah, I'm pregnant by the way... "

Not by me - some club DJ she hooked up with from her Brixton days. Big on the underground 'grime' hip hop scene, but since disappeared off the scene where she was concerned.
I saw photos of him, and her together, when he was deliberating over wether to delete the photos of them together from her MySpace page. I don't know, he was just some kid; an 18 year old black boy with an incredibly striking face, the kind photographers would love, pinched into a look of studied bravado. Absurd, trendy clothes hung from him baggily, and she also hanging from him, flushed, happy face shining towards the camera lens, but not able to see through the screen to now.

I felt tricked by all this, why I was invited here and all the rest of it, of course, but I couldn't feel angry. Only sorry. We had the talk. The future, the now, the in between. Her sad smile and small shrugs, the understated oh wells.
And I was left with What To Say For The Best. What can you say? I didn't have much in the way of helpful advice - nothing that she hadn't thought of - except for one small thing:
"Stop smoking".

Her mother didn't like me much, thought I might steal the furniture. Or, I don't know. Anyway, she now looked down at me from framed photographs as I had sex with her daughter on her squishy white bed, as I made her daughter orgasm loudly, or, as now as we sixty-nined. Her stuffed up pillows supporting my head as it snuffled between her daughter's legs. Mummy's bedroom echoed to the sound of her daughter noisily sucking on my sex, in between her whimpers and cries as I licked at her sex. In the middle of it I had the realisation I was licking the sex of a pregnant woman, which took me out of it, really. I couldn't get back into the mood, but it didn't stop me. If anything I intensified my tongue action, furiously thrashing my tongue inside her. Eventually her body tensed, then jolted a couple of times, then tensed again, then juddered in climax.

Curiously this got me my mojo back, and we continued to have sex, and for the last time. It was surprisingly energetic sex, too; raw and frantic and hard. Tenderness only came after, when, after lying there next to her, in a sheen of sweat and gaining my breath back. She lay on her side, facing away from me. She was quiet for a good while, then sniffed. The snot that comes with tears.
Placing a hand on her shoulder, "I'm alright" she said. Softly, I kissed her neck.

I didn't linger the next morning. I had fruit juice and toast as she phoned for a taxi to take me to the nearest train station. An strained mood fell over the cottage, neither one of us wanting to speak anything but ridiculous small talk. She washed and I dried the dishes as I waited for the end. Looking out into the unruly garden, and to the sky above. "Where's the sun gone then?" I asked, gazing at the cloudless morning sky of blank white-grey. She didn't answer.

The taxi man bibbed his horn outside. I hugged her and she clung tightly for a second before letting go. I picked up my bag and opened the door, then turned back to her. This was it. She stood in the hallway, her mouth pushed into a smile, her arms arms now wrapped around her stomach, hugging herself.
"I'll see you around" I said and closed the door.

As we drove away I looked back at the cottage. I could see the hedgerow that bordered the garden, then the paddock with my 1, 2, 3, 4 legged friend gazing balefully back at me as I went past. I even gave a little wave to the dumb creature. I don't think the driver caught me though.

We pulled further away and I looked out at the fields beyond the cottage, and to the trees, and above them I watched a small flock of birds wheel in the empty sky.

2007-05-10T19:50:00.000+01:00

"I like to pretend my tongue's a police detective, and her clit is the guy who killed my partner"

20 Reasons Why

2007-03-02T16:13:00.000Z

A new job; a new horizon.
Scrambled egg on toast, and a dash of Worcester sauce.
Blue sky’d an clear; it’s only Springtime.
The way she licks the cream from her fingertips.
Comical and chest a-puff, the male pigeon struts his stuff. I love watching that horny little guy, even though he's getting nowhere. I can relate.
Scripting by musket and sextant; get into the movie life.
Initials and an arrow-pierced heart scratched into oak
A gallon of wine.
Exchanging glances, stolen kisses.
A //H3roes marathon.
Pillow fights.
The sun and the moon in the morning sky.
Walking on an empty beach, the stretch of the soft, flat sand, picking up strange shells and stones as we go, the bracing wind whipping up off the Atlantic, blowing sand onto our shared bag of chips.
A //H0t /F/uzz Sunday matinee and a pub lunch amongst friends.
The swish of her hair as she dances on air.
The word, and the meaning of, “clandestine”.
Apple blossom in the trees
A good song on the radio
Making future plans.
Oh, rainbows over speedboat spray and things.

St Valentine's Day massacred?

2007-02-14T18:25:00.000Z

Today’s chew: a predictable and familiar one - who killed the fun in St Valentine’s Day?

It used to be a day for leaving an anonymous card to your secret crush (and maybe even receiving one. Or so I‘ve heard).
The mystery of it provoked excited speculation from the recipient, and a giddy rush for the giver, for having ’confessed’ their love to the object of their desire (albeit safely from behind the “From… ?” at the foot of the card). A bit of innocent lark, all told.

But now though…

I don’t really want to go into the whole ‘oh it’s just a big marketing exercise’ thing here - I mean, that’s already a given anyway - but is it me or is it actually getting bigger, this whole ‘must celebrate this special day’ pressure that’s increasingly put on couples. This has only resulted in the more smug pairings increasing the volume on their “LOOK AT OUR FANTASTIC LIFE TOGETHER” shrill ostentation, as well as making other couples feel further in competition with each other for who can come up with the most ’romantic’ gesture.
I don’t know how many otherwise happy couples end the day in a blazing row or in some black mood, but I’m guessing it’s more than most other days.

And all that garish pink crap that’s everywhere! It just piles up. Who really wants all that? Even those who don’t go in for the hearts and flowers thing are still left with the ‘what are we doing about V Day?’, ‘I don’t know what do you want to do?’ (x1000) conversation.
But the forced romantic gestures don’t seem to be confined to the couples anymore; when did it become de rigueur for office/etc workers to send cards and /or a flower to their fellow workers? Where I work we had someone go round the place handing out single roses to all the female employees (okay, I felt left out), and not only that but the women gave cards to each other (okay, I really did feel left out there) and bought in fairy cakes and what-not. What the hell’s going on? What is this day even about anymore?

I find St Valentine’s to be somewhat cringeworthy and embarrassing at the best of times, but at least I could ignore it if I was single (let us not speak of how the singleton is forced yearly into that feeling of having their nose pressed against the glass to the party which they weren’t invited to). For some reason or other though, this is the time of year when the world turns insipid pink and no-one is any longer allowed to escape.

Still, happy Valentine’s Day to any none-smug, cute, loved-up couples out there, and, most of all, to anyone wanting a bit of mystery to return to this day.

From… ?

XXX

Starbound

2007-01-07T02:09:00.000Z

2am nonsense-chatter...

You shouldn’t be here.
Still you crawl quiet now. An old sky, dim with dirt, the horizon alight all with war.
Crawl here, into my arms. Whisper now, your filthy name into my ear.

Collapse onto a midnight bed, you can hardly stand. Don’t worry, sweet angel, I won’t let you fall.
Your head held in my hand that is why I’m here. Understand; I want to understand.
I can’t see you in your eyes, can you see me at all?

Oh you gorgeous slut, oh your champagne legs. The drink goes to my head.
Pale sun sets behind the gasworks as down greasy streets, into tangled sheets, we tumble.
Funny I never saw it coming.
“Love forever, love the now”, honey told me.
I curled into the seat and shook.

There is blood in the milk, and all my whispered words lost in your autumn hair. Coming up for air on a rented bed. I wanted to feel you, I didn’t mean to kill you. You’ll be the death of me. Whisper now, your pretty lies into my ear. I’m not listening anyway.

Some different days stretch ahead. Will you walk with me from here?

The true meaning of Christmas...

2006-12-25T14:32:00.000Z

Naked girl + some snow = will do for hastily constructed Christmas card for sexblog. Is that right?

Now put some clothes on, love - you'll catch your death...

Winter Warmer

2006-12-24T17:31:00.000Z

Laughing in the back seat, the lights of the city night wash over the windows of the taxi as we speed home. It must be nearly Christmas: the kindly driver allowing to carry one passenger extra, though it’s resulted in my friend’s girlfriend ending up on my lap as we all squeeze in.

I look out across the river as we cross the bridge; it looks oily and thick as it glistens darkly below us. The world seems empty; empty, cold and still. But that’s outside, inside I’m busy adopting a studied nonchalance to the girl, A, sat warmly in my lap. Considering her lover, my friend, B, is sat tightly next to me, it seems the thing to do.

So, I sit and gaze at the world of dark and light as it blurs past the window, at the street lamps that line the way which are shrouded with ghostly, and unreal, orange haloes, or at the car’s dashboard of strangely pretty, scattered illuminations.

A keeps apologising to me for being so heavy, which, of course, she isn’t. I tut and mention something about dysmorphia and such sillinesses. She looks down at me with a sweet smile, her cool eyes catching some light. They seem grey usually, but up close I can now see that they have a pale, clear blueness shimmering deep within them; like sapphires under ice.

I become more attuned to the weight and the warmth of her body. My arm circles her back with my hand holding her on the curve of her hip. The thinness of her dress. My thumb slides over by the top of her thigh. The feel of her leg under my hand.

B chuckles beside me and tells her that as I’ve ended the night with a girl in my lap I’m happy. I smile and stare out into the subdued street.
The rest of our party disperse to their homes nearby once we reach journey’s end. I don’t live nearby so I’m taking my friend’s couch.

Inside the flat we settle down in the tall room of his lounge and a bottle of fine malt whiskey is opened. A little winter warmer to chase the chill away.
The effect is quick!
Talk becomes loose and soon confessions of indiscressions tumble forth. All good fun, but I get slightly taken aback when it is confessed that the two of them recently shared a bed with a female friend - a pretty, slight eighteen year old I had briefly met earlier in the evening. Well there's a turn up!

Yes, it stunned me a little but I didn't show it - you'd have been proud of me. Still I couldn’t help the damn inevitable gnaw of envy at my mate’s luck, especially as he sat back with a tiny smile of self-congratulation playing on his lips.

Fair play.

I always feel a little irritated when the phrase “and one thing led to another” is used to quickly seal together the start and end of someone’s story of sexual conquest, as in: “so I just got chatting to this girl at my grandmother’s funeral and, well, one thing led to another and I soon had her hog-tied and swinging from the rafters back and forth onto a carefully positioned dildo” and you think, waitaminute, waitaminute… what the hell happened in-between?

Anyway.
Well, one thing led to another and soon enough A was naked on all fours with my cock in her mouth and B taking her from behind.
Okay, I was in a bit of a headswim during this time but there was some business where I was brushing my teeth in the bathroom when A rushed in unaware, presumably, that I was in there. Clutching some bed clothes to her bosom but ineffectively covered from the waist down. Of course I tried not to notice, but I did find out she was a natural strawberry blonde at least.
She didn’t seem too fazed by our encounter herself, but, hey, European girls. Then again she was too busy giggling and giving my underwear clad arse cheek a cheeky squeeze. Flirtatious talk has greater weight when you are both nearly naked and her eyes are openly travelling up and down your body.

So, soon I’m led by the hand to her bedroom. Yes, there’s some awkwardness between my friend and I, but we both go cautiously along with the moment. Bedclothes discarded, A embraces me with a kiss, hands sliding under waistband and my tight black boxers pushed down my legs.

And now I’m wondering. I’ve never seen my friend naked before, and he certainly has never seen me naked and aroused and ready to fuck his girlfriend. How will this affect our friendship, what will it alter? Things will be different form now on, but for better or worse. But, as usual, the now, the moment, carries us along and we seem unwilling or unable to resist.

I can’t help but notice his body, and compare: he’s thicker set than me, stronger but he has a paunch and flabbiness on his chest and backside. From a glance his cock seems quite fat but maybe shorter, certainly more knobbly looking and ugly compared to the elegant line of my own. What surprises me though is the shortness of his pubic hair: cut right down to little more than a designer stubble in a neatly kept halo. I now rue not having trimmed mine recently.

A seems unconcerned, naturally. She’s grinning like a girl with two dicks, as well she might. Rubbing the two of us with one hand each, lightly laughing and wiggling her bottom. “Horny boys!” she growls, with that accent, and now we laugh along.

Her thumb knuckle rubs a lucky spot and my libido is well away. But still, mentally, I’m keeping a distance, taking the lead from both of them, not wishing to traverse any no-go areas. I follow carefully.

The moonlight tan of her skin glows in the soft light. Candles line up on near surfaces, flames flicker and dance. A strange shadow theatre is cast along the walls.

A’s nipples are rosy pink buds and seem eager to be tasted as she stretches out along the bed, B already feasting on the full bloom between her legs. I’m not sure if I want to her his noises or not, I just wish the music was a little louder so it might take the edge off my awareness of such things.

I kiss A’s tits then kiss her milky throat, my hand kneading at a breast and pulling on the nipple. Softly moaning. She snakes and arm around and between my legs and does similar to my taut cock and balls. A little bit too rough with the balls, to be honest, but never mind.

I get to wonder if B isn’t zealously keeping her cunt all to himself, as no sooner as he finished licking it than he has A on her hands and knees and is quickly taking her from behind. I’m still feeling unsure and sit in front of her watching this scene. Nothing doing, I all but present my cock to her for acceptance. But she opens her mouth wide and away we jolly well go.

I feel she would appreciate it best if I synchronise with B and move my hips in time with his thrusts, albeit in greatly shorter strokes of course. She growls like a good ‘un, the vibrations of which I can feel right down my shaft.

The silky supple curve of her back, the outrageous roundness of her rear end. A girl with two cocks fucking her at once, she gorging herself on male sex. It was getting me going finally, but my friend had already gone. In fact he had come.

He gave the same kind of sudden cry he used for when Gerrard missed the penalty. That took me back out of it. With a comical ’pop’, A took me out of her mouth.

For the first time since entering the room I really caught his eye. My eyes said ’you’re fucking kidding, aren’t you?’.

A whimpered as she lay back down on the bed. She half twists round as she turns her face to me, with her legs scissoring wide apart, “lick it out of me” she suggests.

I’m not into it. I tell her I’m suddenly feeling really tired, which isn’t a lie, and I excuse myself. Slightly uncomfortably, we all say our goodnights. The flames gutter on the waning candles.

I lie awake on the couch for a long time before I notice the dawn is a-dawning.
I get my things and go out into a world of fog. The cold air is bracing. Huddled up in my coat I make my way to the train station.

Still dark, the dense fog clings to everything and chills me to the bone. Tired, so tired I board the train and flop into a seat. A smartly dressed, young-middle-aged lady is in the seat opposite padding at her immaculate hairdo.

Our metal box trundles along, through the grey. The street lights still glow, but more diffusely, weakly burning away in the silent gloom.

I drift off... Only to be shook awake by the train jolting, and I don’t know how long later and, as I can make out little from the window, I’m not sure where.
To my amusement, however, I catch the prim lady glancing at where my trousers have been pulled tight against my crotch. She quickly looks away and pats her hair once again.

I smile to myself, but my thoughts soon turn back to the events of the night before and whatever will become of it all. Meanwhile, outside the window, the Hound of the Baskerville eyes of a car’s headlights shine as it inches it’s way along a foggy country road.

Soon be Christmas, I sigh to myself, let‘s have some nuts.
`

If you're wondering...

2006-12-09T23:31:00.000Z

just what it is I'm up to, well, I've recently hooked up with this really cool chick who is into being tied up, and... y'know...

Scenes of sexual tension

2006-11-14T23:07:00.000Z

Twenty days since my last entry already?
Days come and days go, time slips by silently and quickly, like a mouse through the grass.
I don't know, I'm so busy these days. This is good and also bad. I come home late, often tired, drained of enthusiasm for tap-tap-tapping away at the computer, much less work up a desire for smutty talk. Not that there's anything to report in that area, anyway.

But don't give up on me, dear reader! The mojo will return, of that I have little doubt.
In the meantime talk amongst yourselves and I'll leave you to ponder this here picture (click to enlarge) which amuses and fascinates me strangely.
No idea who these people are, or what exactly is going on here, but, unless I'm reading it wrong, it's a scene cut through with a wonderfully awkward sexual tension. A comi-tragic one at that. What do you make of it? What do you think is going on?

Some observations to take note of:

* I think it's more than safe to say that it's his room we're looking at: a room that doesn't see too many female visitors either, at that.

*Yet here they sit, albeit stiffly, perched on the edge of the bed, with closed body language: who are those two women? What are they to him? Relatives? Daughter's of his parents' friends? They look dressed for a night out, he does not, particularly.

* But he has a wet patch on the bottom of his jeans, so he has been outside.

*Can't be arsed to shift your carcass all the way to the fridge and back for beery goodness? No problem! Just stick a box of lager on it's end in your room, tear open and help yourself!

*Is that "Lite" beer?

* Oh, look at him, the poor sod. He doesn't know what to do with himself.

* He looks mortified, in fact. Has his sense of decor let him down, perhaps?

*All those game consoles!

*Those books stacked up on the dresser - all study/text books?

* Okay, so he likes puerile, third division cartoon comedy, and I know he thought it might brighten the room up a little bit, but the Family Guy poster: ARGH!

*Okay, the bed. Dear god almighty, the bed. I mean, if you're going to get one thing right... The mix-n-don't-match, shabby bed clothes in three vile colours - it's making me feel uncomfortable so no wonder the three of them look like they want to be elsewhere.

*The next day he goes to his mate: "Know what? After this picture was taken? Those two girls? They totally lezzed up. [gulps Lite lager] Tellin' yer, man - right there on my frickin' bed, dude!"

*The poor bastard's got no chance here.

* Did I mention the Hooters t-shirt? Good, because that would just be kicking a man when he's down, really. Y'know?

I sneer, but why do I find this tableau so recognisable?

The Girl in the Purple Coat

2006-10-25T19:04:00.000+01:00

Curse you, bus driver who has been turning up early this past week. I’m growing to like the girl who has been waiting at the same stop for a fortnight now; the one wrapped up warm in her big, soft purple coat, and with the long, brown hair and pale skin, and sometimes a book to read.

Curse you, bus driver and your uncharacteristic promptness of late. Today it was raining cats and dogs as I left work and, approaching the bus stop, she was there; shoulders hunched against the rain. We exchanged glances as I got there - the ‘tsk, this weather, eh?’ look - and a small connection was made! But no sooner this done than the ruddy bus charges up, at least a minute early I’d say.
“Hey!” she said, as she hailed down the bus. “Early again?” I muttered. “Is it ever on time?”.

This is the most we’ve spoken - okay, the only things we’ve spoken - to each other. And it was ended there and then as we had to board the bus and, of course, sit in different seats.

She wears a thick purple coat, which reaches down to her shins and done all the way up, topped with a sky-blue scarf. She carries a yellow patterned shoulder bag. She stands with her feet together as she waits.
She looks as if she used to decorate her school books with little stars and moons and Cure lyrics written in curly, swirly lettering in silver pen. A yen for the ‘mystical’ side of goth, which she hasn’t quite abandoned yet. Just diluted, maybe.

What was that book she was reading? I clocked both the title and author once, but I’ve forgotten them now. Never heard of either, anyway. It looked like a tragi-romantic tale of a heroine in exotic times/climes; a sweeping epic told in purple prose. Looked like.

Now what? Damn. Should I talk to her? Yeah, right. Talking is easier said than done, you know! I’ve never been one for whom charming chit-chat in the cold light of day - or the cold light of anytime, come to that - has come easy. I’ve never known what to say to attractive girls in such situations. Come to think of it, I’ve never known what to say to anyone I have ever met in any situation, ever. I mean, what do you say to people? I have absolutely no idea.

Curse you, bus driver, if you don’t start turning up ten minutes late like you used to, I’ll never get the chance to say a word to her, whilst idling at the bus stop together. In the rain.

Let's see how it goes.

A Way Back.

2006-10-23T22:44:00.000+01:00

Gird your loins, ladies - the erotic adventurer shall soon return… !

Just as soon as this bout of the sniffles subsides...
[cough, hack, sniff. Mmm, hot lemony drink].

ew-ikipedia

2006-09-23T15:02:00.000+01:00

What a fine piece of work is Wikipedia; a veritable treasure trove of wonders and knowledge, possibly doing more for the advancement of human understanding than anything since the invention of the public library.
Not only that but, this being the interweb and what-not, it's a lot less stuffy, a lot more quirky than the Encyclopaedia Britannica. For instance the page on semen has been illustrated by a photograph of some nameless reader's jism (labelled: "Human semen. Self-made image") which he had spunked up onto the wall, then snapped it as it oozed down the rather horrible wallpaper. Nice work, fella!

Interesting to remind ourselves of the ingredients of semen, as helpfully listed on the site:

Mammalian semen is a whitish, milky fluid, very viscous, containing water and small amounts of salt, vitamin D, protein, and fructose.

Now wait a minute... fructose? As in the stuff cereal manufacturers list on ingredients when hoping to disguise the fact that their 'healthy' product is in fact 40% sugar? As well as also appearing as a key ingredient in shampoos and conditioners, in particular the L@b0r@t0ir3s G@rn1er Fr^ct1$ Fortifying Shampoo and Conditioner (a reviewer of which notes: "To look at, the conditioner is white in colour, almost a silky white in colour, and fairly thick in texture, although slightly runny (ever so slightly though!)." which, having read about the above, couldn't help but make me pause for thought).

The trouble with Kathryn

2006-09-18T21:18:00.000+01:00

At some point in my life I'm going to wake up one morning and realise that sleeping with capricious, flighty, self-dramatising Euro indie girls is just a coital chest x-ray. Literally, its impossible to have sex with a female boho chick without it turning into some massive drama that saps three or four weeks out of your life.

So anyway, my latest bout of Woman Trouble involves a chance re-encounter with an old flame who I caught on the re-bound from her last relationship disaster. Oh, and she's French. Worse than that, a Parisian. Alarm bells rang but, as usual, I shut them out.

The reason is, Kathryn's a girl I find myself irresistibly drawn towards. She's the personification of the dark, gamine, doe-eyed 'free-spirit' girl from the French films, who, when someone says they love her she looks sullenly into the middle distance and mutters "We do not need to know each other to love. Perhaps... perhaps we do not have to love." Before walking out and skipping along the side of a canal.
You just know that, magnetic as she appears, as a lover she would be a total nightmare. Naturally I fell in love with her.

The first conversation we ever had saw her talk for around ten minutes about her love for various earnest female singer-songwriters, and the moment in life you get a gold star on your work is when you realise that kinda stuff doesn't actually matter when you're falling for someone. We even had sex for the first time whilst listening to Joan Baez singing protest songs. Nevertheless, I made sure I had a say in what was and wasn't played during love-making from then on.

Our first goodbye was on a winter's dawn on the south coast. I stood looking out into the thick fog lying over the English Channel, freezing my knackers off while Kathryn was sorting out her ticket for the ferry. She refused to fly and 'morally objected' to the Channel Tunnel, so it was to be a seven hour journey, or whatever it is, in a giant, floating motorway service station for her, and an awkward farewell for me.
Her studies over here had come to an end, and our increasing amount of arguments had helped her make up her mind that she would heed the call of her father - who, disconcertingly enough, was someone very high up in the Paris police force - and return home.

There was nothing ethereal or romantic about that foggy morning; it was leaden, chest-clogging thick and grey, grey everywhere. Breakfast in the caff was a bitter, tar-juice black coffee for me and a cigarette for her. Even here was drained of all colour, except...
All except, I found myself noticing, Kathryn's tongue, seen in glimpses, stirring in the bed of her mouth, as she rattled on about god-knows-what. My eyes were drawn to its girlish pinkness as I watched her speak - not listen. Wet and candy-pink, petal pink, the same pink as her private parts and, surely, tasting of sugar and spice.

I could write an epic poem about her tongue. I should write an epic poem about her tongue, instead I'll just type some unreadable shit onto the internet. It's just the way I roll, baby. But just let me say that receiving fellatio from Kathryn was like being benedicted by angels. The pleasure focus, the room-spinning gentleness, the planet-colliding insistence... and that tongue wandered over me everywhere; in my mouth, in my ears, everywhere. Up my bum, in between my toes, in my navel, everywhere.

And, yeah, she was - is - a great fuck. Even though things between us had gone as sour as my coffee, I still, at this too fucking late a stage, found my fondness towards her resurfacing. Never mind the tongue thing, I remembered how much I loved her soft, charmingly small hands, and the curl of hair behind her ear that had escaped from her hair clips, which probably annoyed her, and how her eyebrows were like two quick dashes from an artist's brush.

But we just couldn't stand each other anymore, so we said goodbye.

Now we lie curled in a familiar pose: me nuzzling the back of her neck, my hands holding her breasts something like a human bra, and I'm nestled comfortably in-between her buttocks. Now what, I wonder?

It's not about carrying torches or an inability to move on or anything, but I tend not to fall out of love with women. There just doesn't seem to be an 'off' switch. It never feels as absolute as all that. When relationships eventually come to an end, then the scales have tipped in negative favour. There is anger and hurt and what-have-you, but they all subside over time and all past relationships are left as symbols of my own failures or 'treasured moments' that can never be recaptured.

Even as I hold her body to me, I know I'm - we're - making another silly mistake. I breathe in the smell of her hair and she stares at the wall.

`

Dear [random person]... I Love You! #37

2006-09-13T10:58:00.000+01:00

ERGENCY POST ///// EMERGENCY POST ///// EMERGENCY
HRRNK!

Calamity! I was reaching the end of writing a long, fresh, new post when the computer suddenly had a seizure; it flashed, flickered and spazzed and the whole page just disappeared into some computer netherworld and all was lost! I mean, wtf? I’ve heard of it happening to ’other people’, but who knew it really happened? I can’t tell you how dispiriting it is; oh the agony of having to write the whole lot again from scratch…! Can’t face that right now, so I’m just going to dash off some old rubbish. Don’t worry, you won’t notice the difference.

CY POST ///// EMERGENCY POST ///// EMERGENCY POST

Dear nice looking brunette girl in the trashy city centre club last Saturday night, you tried to make a pass at my mate while but were so in the throes of THE DRINK that what you said was unintelligible, and then your sensible, more sober friend pulled you away. I love you.

Dear teenage, freakishly beautiful blondielocks walking around the supermarket with your mum, why did you have to keep gazing at me whenever we passed in the aisles? I’m too old for you, you know that? Plus, you are taller than me!! You must be about 6ft 2 or something! Ever thought of being a model, because with your height, slim build and angular cat-face you could so easily be one. But you’re too young, too tall and too beautiful to love me, and yet, and yet… I love you.

Dear identikit pony-tailed, blonde Stockholm women jogging around Djurgården, I wanted to bounce 10kr coins off your firm buttocks as you ran past where I sat. There’s so many of you, and you’re all so super-toned and healthy! As well as a bit fierce looking. I was happy just watching all your blonde pony tails bobbing about as you jogged by. You’re scary but I love you.

Dear the two student girls who get on my bus to work each morning, I love it when one of you brushes and then plaits the other’s hair. The care with which it is done makes me ever-so-slightly aroused each time. Thank you for not getting up early enough to do it at home, I love you.

Dear my [other] friend’s new girlfriend, I love you. No, not in that way, just that you are one of the kindest, sweetest people I’ve met and, naturally, have made my friend very happy. Plus you saved me from being killed to death by a tram while I was in the throes of THE DRINK, and was understanding when I was acting stupid. I’d like to find someone as nice as you plus u r cuet oh wellz. But your girl friends are also all gorgeous so yay!
:)

postcard

2006-08-30T11:34:00.000+01:00

I drunken slept for like three hours and then awoke. Something then hit he in the face - it was an arm. It felt dead. A second later I discovered it was my own, and it was completely devoid of feeling after lying on it. But I had a nice evening talking shit and acting noisy with sweet Scandi girls of the radiant cool eyes, and me mates innit.
Carelessly wasted a few dew kissed days, looking neither forward nor back, choosing instead to lovingly know each day platonically and lay down with every dusk and know it carnally. S'what it's all about.
Now I am back home from holidaying, staring at the sunlight reflecting off the tower blocks and wishing I could sleep forever *sigh*

Why are you up so early, silly? Be like me - the enemy of effort.

Sundae

2006-08-22T12:38:00.000+01:00

I had rowed this bloody great rowing boat across a breezy lake to a nice, quiet island. No expert at this sort of thing, I had struggled to get the mouldy old stick of wood that was our vessel to go in anything like a straight line. I zigged when I wanted to zag and I don’t know what. Still, soon enough I stuffed the pointy end into a convenient, narrow shore and leapt out onto dry land.

I gave Lady a hand in disembarking and, cooing, she skipped away into the flora nice as you like, leaving me to haul her picnic basket from the belly of the beast.
Shielded by the lake breezes by a nest of trees, a sunlit glade was ours. Lady found a place in the long grass to unfurl a blanket and settle down. The sweat from my exertions was making my collar itch against my neck, so as soon I had dragged the dead weight of Lady’s basket - which I was now convinced was filled with cannon balls and lead - I divested my self of my shirt. Of course Lady’s eyes widened in mock-surprise. ‘What, you don’t think we came here for a picnic, did you?’ I said. She smiled saucily, but still made a show of being shocked and la-la’d when I began undressing her as well. I told her we needed to cool down by going for a dip in the lake.

Naked to the world she crept through the trees and peered out, scanning the distant mainland shoreline for prying eyes. To hell with her modesty, I thought, and gave her arse a good slap which sent her on her way.
The water was bracingly cold and slick with some weed or other. We didn’t loiter, staying just enough for the waters to refresh us before padding out onto the flat, thick sand. Both nude, dripping wet and barefoot, we gingerly made our way back through the trees like Adam and Eve. Did Adam get the same charge watching the graceful roll of Eve’s glorious round arse as she walked before him, I wondered? I put my hand to feel Lady’s peaches-and-cream cheeks. Playfully she brushed my hand aside and danced out of reach. That did it, I lunged for her again, and again she darted away like a fish out of a closing hand. She giggled like a child as I gave chase, and though the ground underneath the trees was mostly just dust, the soft soles of her feet didn’t like the twigs, so her escape plan failed and I was soon upon her.
I pinned her against one of the trees, and still she writhed in my embrace, still giggling, still refusing to let my mouth on hers. Time to put a stop to her game, I thought. A fallen tree made a good enough place for me to sit and I threw Lady across my knee. She shrieked and struggled, of course, but I held firm. I paused to drink in the sight of her bottom raised, wide and wriggling in the air. Dappled sunlight playing across her smooth pale skin... It quite gives a chap a caution, I tell you!
I quickly regained my composure and, before she knew it, my hand came down with a satisfying slap onto her arse. I gave her a damn good spanking before I was done, and she didn’t quarrel no more.
To soothe her blushing cheeks I did let my fingers glide circles across them ever-so lightly. Then I scooped her up and carried her back to our blanket in the sun.

Basket unpacked and we nibbled at this and that for a while, but our blood was up and our carnal hunger was what was in need of feeding. I told her I hadn’t yet finished giving her pretty behind my attention, and she dutifully - if not eagerly! - rolled over onto her knees and presented me her soft cheeks. Phew!
Being a resourceful sort of fellow, I took the pot of clotted cream and scooped out the contents before applying it to Lady’s button. It made her gasp a little, but she knew it would help matters along. So. In the hum of that summer field, carefully, but vigorously, I took her up the bottom.
She may have occasionally grunted like some low animal, but I knew this was her favourite. And, to tidy the deal, I slipped a hand between her legs and squirreled about there to her contentment.

After I had finished myself inside her, and we had cleaned up all the cream and muck, she lay back languorously as I got out a punnet of strawberries from the picnic basket.
It was then I realised, damn, I had used up the cream! What a dreadful oversight, I said, I can’t have my strawbs without the cream. Then I caught a glinting from behind the chestnut curls between Lady’s lags, and I had an idea.
Five nice size strawberries fitted neatly inside her, I found. I bowed my head between Lady’s wide open legs and snuffled about her private quarters. It was an interesting combination of tastes and textures as I probed about with my tongue, trying to scoop out each fruit, some getting a bit squashed along the way, their sweet juices mingling with Lady’s own brand, as it were. I scoffed down the first four, which were retrieved relatively easily, but the final one proved more elusive, resisting all attempts of my tongue trying to snare it, rolling away each time and me having to dig ever deeper into the wet little hole with my tongue. Needless to say this was all driving Lady quite potty. “I can’t stand it!” she whimpered, and now writhing her pelvis around, which wasn’t exactly helping me with my task.
Eventually though I managed to fish out the blighter - it was a little worse for wear, but then, by this point, so was Lady. But at least I managed to have my strawberries and cream.

_________________________________________________

This has been hanging around my hard drive for months, but it was only now that I’ve been desperate enough to publish it. I’ll be going away tomorrow, for a short break, and so this will have to tide the blog over ‘till I return. Back in a week.
D.

Reader Meet Author

2006-08-06T21:19:00.000+01:00

I read the news today… oh boy!
A few weeks ago The S^nd@y T1m3s Style section published an extract from “Summer’s sauciest memoir”, Girl With a One-Track Mind by Abby Lee. Today, with a tabloid callousness, they stuck the knife in.

You, gentle reader, should already be familiar with the blog on which the big-seller (No.7 on Amazon) is based. GWa1TM - shall we call it - was the first sexblog I regularly started reading, back in 2004. I had already come across - shall we not say - the Belle de Jour blog, but, for whatever reason, it didn’t get me hooked. TheGirl - as the writer of GWa1TM blog calls herself - did. Her writing was immediate, humorous, human and insightful. Publishers Ebury Press clearly thought so too, and decided to turn her cyber words into olde-worlde books - remember books?? Me neither. But anyway…

I mean, well, to have secured a book deal must give fellow sexbloggers food for thought (though not me. There’s more chance of me travelling to the moons of Jupiter in a clapped-out Vauxhall Viva on half a tank of petrol, with the re-animated corpse of Vladimir Lenin as navigator, then there is of this being turned into print form) (that’s not to say it won’t ever happen - the moons of Jupiter thing, that is, not the book). And also, perhaps naturally, has drawn the attention of envious eyes.

“Revealed: identity of erotic diarist behind summer’s hottest book”, thunders the headline. “The anonymous author… has been unmasked”, crows Ann@ M1khailova - the person behind this sorry piece of shit - on page three of the broadsheet. “The author says she is “paranoid” that her identity will be exposed, possibly by an embittered former lover” well, she can put those fears to bed now, can’t she? Seeing as “the woman behind it was revealed as [X]” .

“Was revealed”, as if they had nothing to do with it! Other than revealing Abby Lee’s real name, the piece doesn’t have much else to say; it attempts to stir something up by crowbar-ing in a reference to Female Chauvinist Pigs, Ariel Levy’s book about the kind of women who get drunk and perform impromptu pole/lap dances to strange men in bars and the like, which has little to no relevance to the content of Abby Lee’s diary about her love life. Otherwise, M1khailova just treats the whole thing like something she’s holding at arm’s length in a pair of tongs, “with such a shameless interest in sex it is no surprise X has gone to great lengths to conceal her identity”. Yes, I know dear, disgraceful isn’t it?

The journalist delightedly reports on how they doorstepped Abby, and even had a photographer, hiding in some bushes, to get a shot of her signing for some flowers that the newspaper sent, saying they were from her publishers.

Quite what is gained from all this isn’t clear. It can’t be much news for the majority of the readership to find out that someone they’ve never heard of is, in fact, someone else they’ve never heard of. Even to a reader of her blog, like me, it tells me her real name, which has no more relevance to me then her pseudonym. I mean, what if my name wasn’t really Dielo? Talk about thinking the unthinkable, but what if it was Fred Smith, what would that change? If you don’t know me anyway, nothing. If you did know me, however, it might make things a little awkward for me.

Aye, there’s the rub. This silly little page-filler - which is what it amounts to - only succeeds in humiliating Abby, forcing her to “come out” to her friends and family, most of whom would, I’m sure, rather not know about her innermost sexual musings, and desires. On top of that, she has to face her work colleagues and everything. And all this for what? It’s so fucking small

What is a renowned newspaper - a journal of record - doing splashing about in these gutter press shallows? Silly season, is it? Nothing going on anywhere in the world, is there, middle east, anywhere… no, nothing? Oh well, tum-te-tum.

Christ, what an embarrassing fucking wank of an article.

"There is little doubt that by this summer Abigail...will be a media obsession " says The Observer on the book’s blurb.
Hmm, quite. It’s all bound to boost the sales of Abby’s book as well though, so hey…

A Short Post About Fucking

2006-08-01T15:47:00.000+01:00

Last night my mouth was on her breast. I lay cradled between her open legs, guided, driven by shadows, the deep red darkness in me. Taking as much of her breast into my mouth as I could. Sucking and fucking. A clawing, hissing, grappling hot, wet skin fucking.
My mouth leaves her pink breast as demons chase me towards the final stretch, the final fucking furlong, the last gasp. Hands slide behind her head to grab fistfuls of hair, gripped, have to get this. I can feel the inside of her, myself inside her. Reaching the core… nearly there… journey to the centre of a girl…Gliding, grinding out a sweet, steady, heady rhythm. A velvet jackhammer, building to a blinding tumult, a brutality so fragile it hurts.
We were fucking, me and this girl. No candlelight, no soft music, and no rug in front of a crackling open fire. We weren’t bathed in no shimmering moonlight as we completed out beautiful union neither. Wouldn’t have noticed if we were. Wrapped in our twin epicurean desire to consume, to taste, to gorge ourselves on hedonism’s bounty. To swallow and be swallowed whole. All peripheral vision blurred, focus simply beaded dead onto the purity and eternal goodness of filthy (but very mutual) fucking.
Can’t let myself come before her, can’t let her win, or me lose. Hurtling towards that giddy cliff… a desperate scramble to the crashing, swirling, startling blue-white brief oblivion.
La petite mort, the French call it. The little death. Show’s what they know. Death wouldn’t dare interrupt us now. N’est-ce pas?. Our bodies clatter, shaken by forces.
A screaming end. The climax. Soaring into the impossible blue.
Fin.

fucking, sex, orgasm, la petite mort, hedonism

A Heart Melting

2006-07-18T01:24:00.000+01:00

I saw Her from the window of the train, standing on the platform as she waited for the doors to open.
She could’ve walked right by but She plops herself down on the seat facing mine and now She’s going to be all I can think about.

In this summer sunshine, I’ve never known a place so warm.

Sat still, trapped in this humming heat. Gaze through the window at the chequered fields as they roll by.
The window which intensifies the slow, heavy warmth, and I’m like an ant under the magnifying glass.

Or like a wasp drowsy and drunk on mushy-ripe apple as the steady movement of the train rocks me into a dream-like state.

Glancing. Glances. Glancing. I keep my face toward the window, but my eyes, like a tempted child, always creep slowly back to where She’s sat.
Dressed for the weather in a low-cut top that flashes a lissom midriff, and a short, white skirt from which achingly glossy legs extend.

All too inevitably her eyes flick up to catch mine peeping, before they guiltily shift about in their sockets.

I know She knows. She knows I know She knows. She knows I see Her see me see Her.

What to do? Can’t help doing what not to do.
Not when I’ve seen Her tongue tip glide wetly across her bottom lip. Or notice stray hairs sticking to Her perspiring temple. Or how the light makes Her honey-glazed skin shimmer with a sultry radiance. To not look? To not want another glance? Can’t do it.
Just can’t do it.

And her cleavage… look, don’t get me started on her cleavage.
She unfolds a newspaper. A supplement falls to the floor between our feet. And when she leans forward to rescue it… I have to close my eyes ‘till the dizziness wanes and the world slots back into place.

Sticky. Sticky skin sticking to sticky skin. A bead of sweat runs down my spine like it’s the Cresta Run, and I can hear the drumbeat of my heart in my ears. My squishy, sloppy heart. Gooey heart. Insides like a Dali painting: my melting heart draped over a rib.
Can She hear my heart beating?
Being beaten.

Oh this heat! But not even that can stop a rousing in my groin when She crosses Her legs, thigh against thigh and her short white skirt… and, elsewhere, in it’s lair, a slimy, slithy worm does stir…
As to what else lurks there, the phrase boil-in-the-bag has a new home.
Did I mention the heat?

An expanse of thigh, warm skin and parted lips.
The train slows and outside I see, in a sun-baked muddy paddock, tied to a lightning tree, a weather-worn donkey stands and moans.
It’s almost like seeing my reflection.

Onward chunters our oven-train as, outside, the English countryside is soaked in a violent light, blasted by a hammering sun.
And, though I try an ignore it for a while, a nerve behind my eye pulls it again
to Her side.

---------------------------
in other news.
Minds infinitely superior to ours have now classified this here post as - appropriately enough - a "Hott Read!".

The Erotic Mrs Pacwoman Button makes it OFFICIAL.

Update: don't look for Menage a Trios - it's not there anymore.

sex, erotica, cleavage, exchanging glances, sultry, short skirt, thighs

Can We Start Again?

2006-07-13T16:52:00.000+01:00

Where was I?

Fælled Park, in Copenhagen, in the sunshine, is where I let the time glide by. Long, calm, warm days stretched before me. The wide, grassy slopes, surrounded by lakes, and lime groves, where the locals come to play or soak up the rays and where golden, long-striding sylphs have sneaked from offices to sunbathe topless during their lunch hour.

You wouldn’t think I would want to come back, but, still, I came back.

Out of the blue I got a text from Anna. Not saying much just a how-you-do. It must mean she wants us to get back together because she wants us to meet up in our old local back home, the Swan, the next night.

Dawn the next day and I’m on a train that is typically Scandinavian: pristine, spacious - and empty. The train crosses on the impressive Øresund bridge over the great stretch of water that divides Denmark and Sweden. The view is amazing. The sun creeping over the water’s distant horizon colours the sky in vivid orange, yellow and red, all bleeding together. So vibrant if you saw it on a painting it would look kind overdone and not at all realistic. I stare at the painted, prehistoric sky in wonder for some time, watching the colours slowly pale as the gradually ascending sun heats up, and the train speeds on to Malmö.
Technically I’m travelling further away, but I’m on my way home.

Back in my old city. Back to thick summer air, and on a slim promise. Fit to drop but I only stop to shower and change and eat and catch up on the tennis. Lack of sleep and the heat has left me drowsy, but I force myself to make a move. No confirmation about tonight has been received but we live in hope.

So, I’m in the Swan. First time in a long time. Used to be not bad in a spit ‘n’ sawdust kinda way, but now crooked beams seeped in whiskey and beer and smoke, and the irregular regulars propped up in slant corners has given way to polished wood and post-work, braying office drones perched on chrome stools.
I grab a drink from the seven-foot tall eighteen year old at the bar and look around for Anna. I miss her at first, but then realise she’s at a crowded table with what I presume are her work-mates. Oh great. So anyway, I go over and say hello and she gets up and we hug and it’s all very nice and how’ve you been and everything and blah blah blah. And then I’m like; well, here I am! Who’re these lot? Just wondering what’s going on, like.
Oh sorry, she says, and introduces me to her work colleagues, as if that’s what I was waiting for. Going round the table, she points out each person saying this is so-and-so and I smile and nod and instantly forget all their names, and then she goes, and this is Marcus, my new boyfriend.

Oh, right.

They’re all pretty tightly crowded around the table but two of them shift their chairs a little so I can sort of squeeze in, but even so, I’m a fair distance to the table and have to lean right forward to put my glass down. It’s all very awkward for me, not least because I‘m wondering just what I‘m doing here. Anna holds court and all the talk is either work-related or about house prices, and I’m sat on the outside, bored, embarrassed and a bit angry.

I eventually pull myself away and order another gin from the cocky streak of piss behind the bar. Stood next to me is a girl from Anna’s gang, I don’t recognise her at first but once we get talking I realise she’s Kate, an old girlfriend of someone I sort of knew. I remember flirting outrageously with her once, really trying it on and getting nowhere. She seems more amenable this time. She’s ordered a big, livid red cocktail, probably not her first either as she’s a little tipsy and eyes me with a flirty smile. We have a nice chat about whatsisname who she used to go out with, she rolls her eyes in a what-was-I-thinking way and we laugh.

I finally get a few words with Anna. Anna is stunning looking, but she has a strong personality and sharp wit to match. It’s a devastating combination which she uses to her advantage. Everyone gets caught up in her slipstream, which is giddy fun when you’re riding it, but soon you’re sent tumbling to the ground as she forever races away from you.
I tell her I feel a bit of a fifth wheel here but she ignores this and introduces me again to the new man on her arm. Despite being a shortarse, Marcus, it turns out, is a rugby playing fireman, and he’s very keen on climbing the property ladder. I can’t stand the man one bit but I make an effort to be civil for Anna and politeness’ sake.

Shouldn’t have bothered.

I’ve finally had enough of Anna’s self-centred short span of attention, and decide he can fucking keep that fickle tart.

Later they all decide to move on into town, maybe go clubbing. That’s my cue to slope off home, I think. But Kate, now even more giggly and flirty, snakes an arm around my waist and tells me to come with them. I say no but she insists and says in her flirty way ‘will you be my boyfriend tonight?’.

Somewhere round the back of the pub, against a wall out of view from the road, Kate kneels and unzips my fly. She puts her face against the open hole around my crotch and licks with a determined, probing tongue. My cock hasn’t even awoken yet but is quickly taken into her mouth to be sucked and licked into life. As it steadily grows Kate slides her lips rhythmically up and down it’s shaft. I push my fingers into her hair and guide her bobbing head. Then she stops what she is doing to lick the full length of the flat of her tongue against the very tip of my cock. It is startling. I can feel every taste bud. It sends my mind to the moon on a hovercraft.

The others are leaving and she goes with them, but not before she takes my address. Which is where I head.

I have a late night and sleep in late the next day. Apart from a quick trip down to the co-op to buy some bottles of wine, I don’t do anything all day, just lounge around. Dark clouds begin to creep across the sky as I watch M@r1a Sh@rap0va lose the semi-final to that bitch Am3l1e M@ur3smo. I’m so pissed off at this I feel like smashing something.

Kate turns up wearing a mischievous smile and a strange and fetching sixties-style egg-shell blue summer dress with buttons down the front.

For some time we sit on the couch kissing and lightly fondling through clothes. Eventually, I turn my attentions to that dress of hers. With great deliberation I slowly undo one button at a time. Starting with the top one and moving down. One… after the other. She watches me, and fiery dragons swim in her eyes. I watch her watching me, her breast falling and rising to her slow, deep breathing. The lower my hand goes, the slower I take it. Her body begins to shift now with burgeoning desire. Buttons undone, job done. I leave the dress hanging just slightly open. I kiss her deeply again and calm her. The trail some fingertips just under the dress opening, gliding, grazing over her breast, her ribs, her belly… pausing… then back up. I want her body to beg for me, I want her hips to ache for my weight on them.
I slip my shirt off and undo my jeans. She helps me off with them, then I finish undressing her. I stand her up and scoop the dress from her shoulders and let it fall. She is naked underneath, her body at the peak of desire. I lay her down on the couch and arrange her body and limbs to my liking.
Then I give her one.

Summer rains falls on the hot city. The sky breaks with thunder as the huge mass of grey cloud rolls overhead. Naked and entwined on the couch, we sit and watch the storm build outside the window. There’s a terrific crack of lightning. Electricity is in the air and we realise our fragile place in the universe. Our small bodies ready to be ripped open by the elements.

I remain seated and watch as Kate wanders the room, checking out all the books and CDs and DVDs and things on the shelves. My eyes wander over her body. The furrow of her spine, her shoulder blades moving under her skin, the spellbinding curvature of her buttocks, the entrancing roll of her hips as she moves. My cock stands in salute.
There’s something about a naked woman pulling a cork from a bottle. Most of it to do with the fact that she’s naked, I suppose, but it’s a sight to savour. I sit with my legs open and my cock standing tall; rigid and proud as you like. Kate takes notice of this and gives me a look. There’s no disguising male arousal and I don’t want to. I want her to see, I want her to know. I want her to feel my gaze on her body. She pours the wine with a sly smile.

Kate gently massages the same pair of balls she so recently emptied. They’ve been milked dry but my excitable cock has a mind of it’s own. I’ve not that long come and it aches a little to be fully erect so soon, but the attentions of Kate’s mouth on it are irresistible. She carefully pours a tiny bit of her wine onto the tip and then quickly runs after it with her tongue, slurping it up as it runs down the shaft. And so it goes.

By the time of the second glass Kate is stretched out on the couch and I’ve got her naked breasts in my hands. Everything’s certainly all right with the world when a woman lets you touch her tits. Kissing her mouth deeply, I let my hand wander down her body. My fingers graze in her tidy little patch of pubic hair. I stroke her there, softly with the backs of my fingers. Her legs open and she allows them to now explore and then touch her tender skin hidden in the crease of her mound. My kisses are now on her white throat as two fingers work quickly in and out of her vagina.

The rain in the summer storm has become torrential, and as I have her bending over the couch with my hands all over her glorious arse, the sultry air prickles with a pure, ancient, animalistic carnal desire. Kate’s insatiable pussy hangs drooling with hunger, and so I fuck her as wildly as the rain hammering against the windows.
There is nothing but this.

The next day I have voicemail. It’s from Anna, sounding down. She’s dumped thingy and wonders if I want to come over and see her. She wants for us to ‘give it another go, maybe’. And then things get complicated…

flirt, unzips fly, undressing, kissing, naked, cock sucking, naked breasts, fucking, carnal desire, insatiable pussy

Teatime

2006-04-07T01:07:00.000+01:00

In the hollow of the afternoon with the cool springtime sun filtered through the thin curtains, she shows me into her living room with a little sweep of her hand.
There is tea and cake, and giggles and snuggles watching Julie Christie in Darling on the TV. A large clock with a gold rim on the wall, above a mantelpiece crowded with knick-knacks and photos of past summer days and relatives, ticks away the slow minutes of the day.

Later she is masturbating on the settee, her bottom on the very edge of the seat as she lounges back amongst the cushions. The two middle fingers on her right hand play in tight circles on her clit, the two remaining fingers held daintily aloft.
I sit on the floor in-between her open legs, watching. Watching her hand, watching her face as it stiffens in concentration, frowning every so slightly. Her skirt is bunched up high round her waist. I lay my head against one of her soft, pale, warm thighs. My face is very close to her dark pink pussy as it is stirred by her flurrying fingers, which I can view in detail.
I stroke her other thigh with my fingertips. I marvel at it’s velvety smoothness. Her strumming hand quickens when I start kissing her other leg. A line of kisses up along the delicate white skin of her inner thigh until I reach the top where when I suck on the taut tendon that is there; taking it in my mouth, licking it, tasting her as her hand continues to furiously flutter right beside my face.
Her cheeks are now rosy. Breathy whimpers escape her mouth as she reaches climax.

The room is warm and the air still. The sounds of children’s chatter and laughter as they walk home from school can be heard as they pass by outside. We are on the floor beside the coffee table; I’m on my back with my face nuzzling in her sultry minge whilst she is face down on top of me, gobbling away hungrily on my cock. She mewls, holding me in her mouth as the rhythmic motion of my hard tongue pushes her to a second orgasm. After that I push her off and do her from behind for a while. She keeps her face against the carpet - a shag pile I notice, half-amused. As I’m giving her one the TV catches my eye - some antiques programme: a white-haired pensioner turns a ceramic donkey around in his bony hand, points to a manufacturers stamp on it’s belly.
I don’t think I’m going to cum. A fatigue is setting in. I’m too hot; my back prickles with perspiration and I’m feeling headachy. I bet she’s got the central heating on as well.

We try a new tack: she’s keeling in front of me, I’m pulling her hair back behind her head as I wank myself right in front of her face, my balls dipping in and out of her mouth. I can feel her breath against them. It pays off and pretty soon I shoot a silky ribbon of jism into the air. Like some spider’s silk it extends quite beautifully, catching the light of the afternoon sun as it seems to hang suspended in the air for a moment before it sails gracefully downward. Further, lesser spurts of cum end up laced across her face like snail trails.
After I have gently wiped her face clean we hold each other, kissing necks and shoulders as we kneel there, naked together on her living room floor. Then there is more tea and the bakewell tart to finish. The filigree pattern on the icing reminds me of how my cum looked across her face.

two girls, at swim

2006-04-03T11:17:00.000+01:00

the man was travelling with a heavy heart.
How long he had been walking, he did not know, only that he had yet miles to go before he could rest. The forest was filled with all the sun’s heat, and his sweat and his sorrow flowed from his brow. It was middle of the day, the air was close and his feet were heavy, his mouth a desert. It was then, and to his good fortune, he thought, he came upon a babbling river, the ripples sparkling like diamonds and fresh and inviting.
But I cannot afford to stop, thought he, and yet how tempting it is to rest my feet awhile in the cooling waters, and to dampen my boiling head.
No, he decided, I must press on. I have yet miles to go before I can rest.
Then he heard the laughter that came, girlish and carefree, from the river. And much splashing. Curious, he stepped toward the edge of the path and peered through the trees to the river that passed just below.
There, in the shimmering waters he spied two swimming girls. Like playful otters they turned and frolicked in the silvery brook, their bodies pink and lithe below the wavering surface. It was a sight that had him mesmerised, he could not tear his eyes away. He felt a yearning to fall into the glassy waters and join them burgeoning in his chest.
This is lust taking a hold in my heart, he thought and forced himself to press on with his lonely journey.

A short way down the path, however, and the trees gave way to an opening that led right down to the water’s edge, and there, still gliding carefree like some creatures from a sailor’s tale, were the two young women. They were swimming languidly on their backs, faces turned up into the bright air, basking in the cool of the water’s embrace on this hottest of days. And the man was tantalised all the more.
Quite unable to stop himself, he took a few steps toward the river bank, as if drawn somehow by the girl’s enlightening laughter.
He stopped short when one of them noticed him, but she did not cry out in horror, as the man might have expected a woman to whenever a strange fellow unexpectedly came upon her bathing. Instead, to his surprise, she smiled and raised a hand in greeting. More a beckoning than a wave, he fancied.
“Forgive me” he quickly said and started on his way before a soft, mellifluous voice called out to him from the water.
“Do not go yet, sir! Stay and join us here!”
The man stopped in his tracks. And though he sorely wished he could keep on walking, somehow, he could not. He turned himself to the river. Purple rushes swayed along the far bank. Dragonflies darted among them as Jay birds circled up above in the cloudless azure. And still the sun beat down it’s unforgiving rays. I could so easily plunge into these inviting waters, he thought to himself, and join these two young nymphs in their swim. But I must not and I know I must not, he told himself. I still have miles to go before I rest.
The first woman spoke to him once more, her naked shoulders visible above the water’s surface. “Sir, come to us and rest awhile in the soothing water. We will bathe your tired limbs, for surely you have travelled far and need to restore your form”
“Come” said the other, now, “the water is fine. Come”.
“Please, don’t tempt me further!” he cried “For I must… I cannot… ”. He willed himself to move, but remained rooted to the spot. Dumbstruck now, and still captivated by the rare beauty of the watery temptresses, he watched in awe as the first of the women emerged slowly from the river onto the bank. Sunlight shone brightly off her wet skin as she stood completely naked before him. And she was not ashamed.
The man took a step back, and another. He could not meet this Circe, for he was sure she was a seductress of a sort. He stepped back against a tree, there he could go no further and waited helplessly as she moved toward him.
The other had now come onto the grass, just as brazen in her nakedness. Soon they were upon him, the first with eyes the colour of emerald and golden hair, the second blue-eyed but icy clear like the water she stepped from, her hair red as berries. Red as blood.

“Sir, set down your burden now. Do not be afraid” the fair-headed one cooed in gentle tones. The man felt his body flag, he could but weakly mutter “what is it you want from me?”
“We have been waiting for you, travelling man” she whispered, a hand now touching his face, and her body drawing near. “Waiting for you to join with us, in the narrow waters”.
A kiss was planted on his parched lips, followed by another. Slim fingers now worked the fastenings on his shirt. The second of the enchantresses joined with the other, pressing her naked body against his, kissing his neck, undressing him.
The man closed his eyes and wished to be woken from this dream, for surely it was a dream. The sun on his head and the liquor must have caused such a carnal reverie, he decided.
But no, the torments continued and they were real. Cool lips and hands of the two mysterious women were on his body. The man was certain they were full of sin but could do nothing. He was surely in their spell.

When they had stripped him of all his clothes, and he stood as naked as they, the first one took his hand and began to gently lead him to the chattering river. A feeble protest he tried to make, but the man knew his dreams were broken. More insistent now the lady pulled her with him, toward the waiting water.
He bowed his head and in sorrow surrendered. She led on and he followed after.

The river enfolded him as the women had. He submitted to it’s embrace.
He joined the girls in their swim and did but forget all his woes.
From one mouth to another his kisses went. His hands all on long, silken bodies that slid around him. In ecstasy he joined them, their limbs tangled in his.
The red haired one put her mouth over his and kisses deep. Her mouth was filled with water.
Now the golden one with the silvery skin pulled his face to hers, snaked her arms about his neck and kissed him as if two lovers they were. They were falling beneath the surface, entwined. The swishing, green weed coaxing them to lie on their river bed.
And twisting together in the river’s undertow, in cruel happiness they forgot
that even lovers drown.

Sap Rising

2006-04-02T10:58:00.000+01:00

Enjoying the fact that Spring has sprung.
Back tonight/tomorrow/soon/other.
x¬D

Birthday Letters

2006-03-26T23:03:00.000+01:00

Ah. Back to it.
As previously mentioned, last week it was my birthday and I spent a few days with friends in snowy Sweden. And now I have a thick-headed cold to show for it.
I went to Gothenburg. The chill air, frozen canals and lingering, three week old snow did nothing to deter me from throwing myself headlong into hedonistic oblivion. It’s a funny thing: A heroic amount of alcohol and a seemingly endless supply of wolf-eyed, flaxen-haired Swedish women and you barely notice the Scandinavian winter gloom.
So after a “quiet” night at a pool hall - which was thankfully free of any “St Patrick’s Day” nonsense - on Saturday night we headed into the centre of giddy Gothenburg, with it’s wide avenues and buzzing bars and clubs.

After an extensive pub crawl we repaired to a club called - aptly enough as it turned out - Sticky Fingers, the dancefloors of which were positively groaning with violently beautiful Nordic sylphs. Luckily by this time I was free of much inhibition, driven, as I was, by the demon booze and some strange inner mania.
The ground-floor dancefloor played an indie-ish mix of tunes. I dived right onto that and wasted no time in getting friendly with the locals.

Hejsan! To the dark-haired girl from Jönköping who liked Kings of Convenience. We danced together for a bit before having a drink by the bar. You seemed quite amused by the excited, burbling nonsense I was coming out with, what a pity you had a boyfriend.

Hej! To the blonde in the glasses from “a very Swedish town, up north” the name of which I couldn’t compute, let alone had heard of. Where did you disappear to?

Hej hej! To the really really gorgeous blonde girl who I asked to translate what the singer of the live band was saying inbetween songs. You were nice about it and proceeded to sing/translate the lyrics into my ear. You also later took me by the hand into the ladies toilets where, in one of the cubicles, we got to know one another a little better. It’s been a long while since that has happened, let me tell you.
If I had a bit more about me I would’ve even taken your phone number or email address or something. But, I’m afraid, I was very, very drunk and too hyper that night to think straight. I can’t even remember what your name was or anything.

And hej to any other girls who I continued to pester, like the two blondes in the burger bar afterwards who looked a bit horrified when I asked if they were going “partying anywhere later” when it was about 3.30am and I was obviously pissed out me head. Naturally I don’t remember anyone’s name, but tack så mycket all you sweet Swedisher ladies! I’ll have to go visit you again sometime.

Things were a bit more subdued after that. On Monday we even climbed a hill that rises steeply above the north part of the city which afforded us grand views of the docks, central Gothenburg and surrounding countryside. As it was caked in crisp, icy snow, climbing up this bastard was an interesting affair. Even the winding pathway was made perilous by the compacted snow. Fun, invigorating stuff though, and amusing seeing as we often had to scrabble about, almost on all fours at times, to keep from sliding right back down on our arses.

Anyway, that was my birthday weekend. Blogging may now continue. Just to warn you.

cafe

2006-03-16T15:44:00.000Z

she sits by the window lost in her hair.

no one looks your way.

subdued, yet very much aware of my surroundings.

no one talks to her. she talks to someone on her mobile.

you do realise you've just put salt in your coffee, don't you?

so many teenage mothers stare back at me from the gaudy windows of the mcdonalds

we're all running wild or waiting to explode

nobody listens, just waits for their turn to talk

i must stop making enemies of my friends

this life, i tell you.

i appreciate this anger.

suppose the world wasn't ending

in a room at the top of some stairs i found you

ahh. i hope i locked the door.

i want to find a bed to crawl in and sleep away the rest of these days. can you help me out with that?

that was a wistful tune.

so easy to let the time just slide by

i can't do this if your heart belongs to someone else!

he sits in the sunstreaked window of the cafe waiting for his friend he wants us to think will eventually show up.

i dont even like espresso im just happy to sit here.

that girl took two minutes deciding what flavour muffin to have. in the end she didn't have the right change.

i lie in an late bed.

you turn me on.

whispers in the night

kisses that feel like christmas morning

you need to be touched
hugged
and held
you need to feel
my gaze
on your neck
my breath
on your ear
you need to
turn your head
around
you need to
hold my
hand
face
my everything
you need to sit
still with me
you need to
hold me

this isn't working

six a.m and six foot down, already up with the lark. i watch you dress and go

you should be happy that you are not a stereotype.

there just never seems time for anything.

can you forget about him?

if you didn’t want this you wouldn’t be here now

don't go

people you love die, people you despise survive

i don’t want to hear the truth

i always feel i’m in the wrong place. there‘s somewhere else i should be.

mother, i’ve disappointed you

fingers crossed for happiness

dead at 30 buried at 70.

shopping is not creating.

monsters exist.

we barely use our minds

most of what we do is a hoax

remember earth clearly.

you are your own sex.

i promise, one day sweetheart, i will buy you fifty dresses.

your quiet, gentle fingers, they somehow slipped from my hand

purchased experiences don't count.

there is no worse enemy than the one incapable of knowing why they may be wrong

i'm not a liar, i'm a hypocrite

how do you do it, how do you glide through life like you do, as if living is an easy thing

where are you, i’m on my way

some people don’t know what it means to have a real real good time.

i’m going to try

i'm not worth looking at twice today.

it seems, in the end, we settle for less

forget it, it’s nothing

“take a strand of your hair
on my fingers let it fall
across the pillow lift to my nostrils
inhale your body entire

“sleeping with you after
weeks apart how normal
yet after midnight
to turn and slide my arm
along your thigh
drawn up in sleep
what delicate amaze”
~(adrienne rich, “memorize this”)

i'm going away you'll be pleased to hear. it’s my birthday on sunday. i’ll be in sweden then. back after.

35 Things Men Shouldn't Find Sexy But Do

2006-03-13T16:56:00.000Z

Here be a filler-article list I’ve cribbed from one of those men's magazines, to use as a filler-article list on my weblog. Handy, eh?
As the title implies it’s all about those little, irregular things that, though they may not be “sexy” in any intentional or overt way, are somehow… quite distracting.
I found it quite funny but didn't agree to all points so I’ve jettisoned the ones I don’t agree with (Joan Collins? The Virgin Mary? Leopardskin?), and added some of my own on the end.
Y’know, for fun.

Here's the amended list anyway, with my own comments added.

"35 Things Men Shouldn't Find Sexy But Do"

1. Barmaids (pass them on the street and you wouldn't look twice)

I think the bit in parenthesis is key here, and the same, of course, applies to waitresses, shopgirls, etc who I, and many men, do sometimes give extra attention to (be it smiles, flirtation or, okay, leering) merely for the role they are in. And, yeah, it’s not as if they’re always so attractive that you would pay particular notice to them out on the street.

2. Female newsreaders

Oh this old chestnut. I suppose we’re supposed to be watching soberly and detached from our loins when we’re being fed current affairs and serious ishooos, but even while we may take our newsreaders seriously we can’t help but become attached to familiar faces over time. I myself find my heart sort of sinks whenever I realise that K@tie R@zzall won’t be appearing on Channel 4 News, for instance.

3. Slightly fat tummies in crop tops

By “slightly fat” I think they mean the soft convexity a woman’s belly naturally has when it hasn’t been aerobicised to the muscle. In which case, right on brother! Feels nicer too.

4. Female colleagues bending over

This is sort of obviously sexy, but I take that it’s inclusion here is that it means “you should really be concentrating on your work, not letching at your coworkers”. But, of course, what can you do?

5. Women who hate us

Ah-ha. Sounds aaaall too familiar. Sigh.

6. Unconscious women in clubs

Err… Can I add girls fainting? It’s in more of an urge to look after them rather than a “right, let’s jump on her while she can’t refuse” thing. I hope. In which case I’d also add girls crying. It’s a vulnerability thing, which is quite potent.
(A friend added ‘Girls being sick’ to this, as in you hold their hair back for them. That’s on the same lines I suppose, yeah, though the whole ‘being sick’ part of the equation moves it to a too, too far distance from seXXXiness for me. I mean, RLY?)

7. WPCs

The whole women in uniform/as authority figure kink isn’t really my cup of tea, but the I’d admit the cuter ones can be distracting. I like it when they try to look all stern.

8. Helga in Allo Allo

Arf! For those that don’t know ‘Allo ‘Allo was an ‘80s wartime sitcom set in, would you believe, Nazi occupied France. When bumbling German officers, French resistance fighters and English spies begin to convene at a small French café run by a beleaguered comedy Frenchman who only wants a quiet life, “hilarity” ensues!
There was quite a lot of sex in it, actually - of the nudge-nudge-wink-wink variety. Lots of saucy French waitresses and innuendo. I remember quite fancying the female resistance fighter go-between, with her typically overstated Fruuuurnch ax-urrnt. But Helga, IIRC, was the rather timid assistant, or whatever, to the comedy SS officer, Herr Flick.
Thinking back now though, the relationship between the mousy, eager-to-please Helga - who occasionally ended up in her black lacy underwear for whatever (no real) reason - and the bossy, sadistic, leather greatcoat wearing Herr Flick, was the most explicit, though comedic, representation of a D/s relationship mainstream TV has ever had I think! In retrospect it’s sort of the funniest thing about the show now.

9. The automated voice on the Odeon cinema ticket line

Another one that often crops up: the clear, precisely enunciated if cold primary school teacher-ish tones of female automated voices. Not “sexy” exactly, but can be pleasing. The voice on the Jubilee line is a particular favourite; it‘s just that little bit breathy, could listen to her for hours.

10. Girls fighting

Hm. To a point, I suppose, yes.

11. Libraries

Something to do with the stillness, the calmness, the muted atmosphere. Plus, chicks who dig books: rowr!

12. Sitting on the bus

This is a vibrations thing, yeah? Plus all that time you spend daydreaming. A stiffy is almost guaranteed. And then your stop comes all too soon and you have to get off holding your bag in front of your crotch, or pulling your coat right around. Gah. Always!

13. Teachers who seduce their pupils (Ropey old boilers but we're jealous of the tykes whose 'innocence' they steal!)

Well, whether it’s male teacher/female pupil or female teacher/male pupil it’s that thing of someone getting to act out a common fantasy/taboo. Wouldn’t like it to happen to our child though, would we?

14. Visible panty line

Yeah, and visible bra straps. It’s just “that’s her underwear!”.

15. Nurses taking urine samples

Huh? I‘ve never ever been in hospital myself - other than to visit - but a friend of mine was a few years ago and when he was out cold a nurse had to attach a catheter to his penis, which we all found a bit… thought provoking. I ‘spose this goes under the banner of a nurse touching, seeing or having anything to do with your penis. And then there’re the apocryphal tales of nurses “administering” blow jobs/hand jobs/vagina jobs…

16. Girls hugging each other

Haha. Right. And girls holding hands. Girl-girl signs of affection, in other words, which are sort of perplexing and lovely to the male.

17. Condom instructions

It’s been a while since I read them, but I suppose it’s tied in with sexual discovery as well as slight frisson from the incongruity of reading sexual language on an instruction leaflet. I remember being ten or eleven and reading the instructions from a box of tampons, which really opened my eyes, but still left me with more questions than answers. Like the realisation that there was a whole secret world for females that I was not party too.

18. Shoe-shop assistants tying your laces

Another one at the very low wattage end of the sexual circuit board. Reading through this list I wonder how many are hangovers from childhood, where pleasant encounters and so on are translated into dimly sexual feelings when filtered through an adult perspective. Having your laces tied though: that spins you right back to nursery school years, but now mixed with having a young woman kneeling at your feet helping you and all that goes with that. It’s a crazy mix-up for sure.

19. Elves

Elves? Women dressed as elves with their tight leggings and false pointy ears? Or real, actual, imagined elves? I dunno, I think you’d have to be more of a Lord of the Rings fan than I am to fully appreciate the qualities a lady elf can bring you. But if I did have to choose between mythical beings to get off with - and who can honestly say it won’t come to that? - I think I’d probably go for a mermaid or something. Fairy, possibly? Bit small though. Or maybe even a wood sprite. I also have a sneaking suspicion that Medusa was a bit of a goer on the quiet.

20. Lingerie departments

I don’t think any man can ever feel totally relaxed in a lingerie shop. There’s always a nagging feeling that you’re trespassing on private territory, and that you shouldn’t be there. This feeling x100 when shopping alone w/o female company - all those suspicious glances from other patrons and the uncomfortable feeling of being surrounded by so much… frilly, lacy bits of material that barely classify as clothing. That’s not all, even after you’ve summoned up the nerve to go up to the counter and purchase something - while making loud noises about how you’re buying this for your GIRLFRIEND, you just know that as soon as you’ve gone they’re going to turn to each other and go “he’s buying that for himself”. You just know!

21. The stuff girls do when they know you're watching them (arse wiggling, "i'm not pouting" pout, hair tossing, clavicle touching, it still works)

Aren’t we men supposed to be attracted to those, unconscious or otherwise, presentations? Therefore it needs hardly be on this list. “Arse wiggling”?? Sounds a bit overt.

22. Ladies' loos (mainly because girls go in there to take their pants down. Amazing.)

No, mainly because, like #20, it’s a mysterious female only enclave, and who knows what really goes on in there? Something secretly female and unknowable to men, I’ll wager.

23. Tan lines

Fair enough.

24. Slow-dancing (must... not... get... stiffy... No, No! Noooo!)

Again, “shouldn’t find sexy”? The end-of-the-night slow-dance section in nightclubs isn’t called The Erection Section for nothing, y’know. But, okay, getting an obvious-to-everyone hard-on in a club is something you’d rather not happen, and does cause embarrassment. So, given that, fair enough.

25. The lower back

I’m especially drawn to those darling little dimples that appear above each buttock. Actually I find the naked female back to be wonderful all over.

26. Wonderbras (we really should know better)

Another one for the obvious list, but here they’re saying we’re dupes for falling for the obvious. Perhaps I should make a list of things I/we/men are supposed to find sexy, but don’t. Actually, that’d be fun, if much shorter. As I’m discovering, just about everything to do with girls is attractive.

27. Women filling cars up with petrol

I can’t honestly say I’ve given much notice to this phenomenon, but I’ve included it here for curiosity’s sake. Why would a man find this attractive, I wonder - is it because she’s penetrating something?? Good grief.

28. Girls riding horses

Mm. Nice get-up they wear too, isn’t it? The jodhpurs are especially fetching, but then there’s the boots, the little hat… very nice. Quite prim, but saucy. Do I need mention the fact that they’re also straddling and rocking up and down on a mighty stallion into the bargain? Nah.

29. Girls who actually request anal sex (Danger! Warning sign of psycho-bitch! Is it worth it? Probably.)

A glimpse into the mind of a men’s magazine writer here. Why would she be a “psycho-bitch” exactly? The implication is that we shouldn’t find taboo sex - which anal sex more-or-less still is I suppose - or those who enjoy it, very sexy; but we sort of do, tee hee! How shocking.

30. Women who smash crockery when angry

A fiery temperament suggests exciting sex, and that line about women looking beautiful when angry is sometimes true. Especially when they've spent the last thirty seconds bashing ineffectually at your chest going, 'I hate you, I hate you!’

31. Bare feet

I’ve included this one, and it’s specifically not from a foot-fetishists viewpoint. Although girls’ feet are cute, it’s not the feet themselves that I’m focusing on here, but there’s something attractive about a bare-footed woman, something that suggests a free nature perhaps.

32. Argyle socks or tights

As suggested by a friend to counter the above point. The Argyle thing might be narrowing it down to a very particular interest, but I take the general point about patterned socks, tights - primness can definitely be sexy!

33. Messy hair

I break this down into two categories:
i. Windswept hair: Recently a female coworker came into work complaining that her hair looked “shit” because the blustery weather had blown it all about. She was wrong; her hair had never looked better.

ii. Bed head: I luff long, straight hair on girls the mostest, but so often it can be very sleek and styled and just yay. That’s nice enough but it’s dead sexy to see it all tangled and ruffled, esp first thing in the morning when she comes down wearing one of your shirts, her hair all over the show. It’s endearing

34. Long skirts

Hurrah. Are short/mini skirts played? I’m tempted to say yes but of course it wouldn’t be true. We’ll always love them. But let’s hear it for the long - ankle length even - skirt. Back to the primness thing again, in a way. But to conceal can be more sexy than to reveal.

35. Women applying make-up

Yes, and checking themselves out in a mirror, especially craning their neck over a shoulder to look at the reflection of their arse when trying on a new dress. And - just so I won’t add another point therefore keeping it at a rounded 35 - women brushing their hair or, EVEN BETTER, having another woman brush it for her. On my bus to work some mornings two female college students get on, one of which obviously hasn’t had time to do her hair, so she gets her friend to brush it out and then plait it for her. I have to tell you, for some reason it never fails to arouse me (esp as it‘s in conjunction with point 12). But the particular rituals of female grooming are, on the whole, fascinating to behold.

Bushwhacked

2006-03-08T15:41:00.000Z

(Or: How We Should All Stop Worrying And Learn To Love Our Pubic Hair)

Lone voice in the wilderness time. Shay’s informative piece on shaving got me [re-]thinking about this growing epidemic of fanatical hair removal and the ceaseless, futile chase after the “perfect” body image - which appears to be that of a shop window mannequin.

I’ll cut straight to the chase. From underarm hair on women and back hair on men to now: favouring complete removal of all body and pubic hair for both women and men. This is a growing culture of revulsion at body hair and further anxiety regarding body image, about what is “acceptable” and desirable and what isn’t.

I remember an ex-girlfriend of mine trying to shave her pubic triangle into an ever smaller, neater, rigid and geometrically correct shape. Each time she would check in the mirror after shaving a tiny bit from one side and this, however, she would see it still wasn’t quite equilateral and would shave some more. Soon enough she ended up with an absurd little triangle of hair free floating in the middle of her lower stomach. Much mirth did this give me, but I wondered, and asked her, why she even bothered. After all, I was perfectly happy with the size and shape of her natural-grown bush. She told me it was sexier to have the smallest amount of hair down there as possible. Well, this was news to me, but pubic topiary is all the rage so let’s all join in shall we?

But, for women especially, it isn’t stopping at compulsively shaping and sculpting bushes into ever more narrower shapes. Now, even the not-particularly-sexy “sexy” landing-strip has been discarded in favour of the completely hairless, doll-parts look. Men aren’t too far behind now, either. Gay subcultures are typical trailblazers when it comes to male grooming and style. And emerging from it’s origins in gay porn, the Back, Sac & Crack waxing procedure is now a popular and readily available service for any/every man who wants to “look good”, even if that means a somewhat undignified and eye-watering few minutes on their hands and knees in a beauty salon having wax strips ripped off their balls.

All this anti-hair madness is chasing after porn star fashion. But while a shaved pussy affords us a clear view of what a woman’s cunt looks like when it’s being penetrated, it’s effect when it has seeped into the mainstream seems to be one where pubic hair is seen to be distasteful and is to be got rid of as much as possible. Not to mention a decidedly unpleasant cultural side-effect of where a prepubescent look is idealised in adults: shaved/hairless chest for men; smooth, hairless mons for women (that plucked-chicken skin look, as well as visable labia, is also out).

Natural body oils and pheromones be damned: everything must be plucked, shaved and over-washed and doused in chemicals. Perhaps people actively want dry skin, pubic stubble and asthma, who knows?

It’s all part of a self, and bodily, disgust which just keeps on growing and growing. It’s tendrils reach everywhere, everyone.
All those allegedly enlightened women who have short words to say about anyone who wrinkles their nose at anything gynaecological or female “extra padding”, and who don’t waste a single second of their waking day loudly proclaiming how “open minded” they are compared to everyone else, are still the same people who go “ew ew ew, he’s got a hairy bum!!”

But men might still be worse. The world is teeming with fools, of course, and the internet is the perfect place for them to wallow in their own crapulent ignorance. Recently one site posted up topless pictures of all the Best Actress Oscar nominees; cue plentiful guffawing and outrage at the apparent shortcomings of all the actresses breasts. Amid all this one commented on a still of Rachel Wiesz from the film Stealing Beauty where she is sunbathing nude with just a piece of material draped over a hip to cover her modesty, but not enough to conceal evidence of pubic hair. “Eurgh! Who is that woman with the nasty, hairy bush?” he shouted, clearly a connoisseur of the non-hairy variety of bush.

But even if you’re completely waxed free of every hair on your body, don’t think you’re safe from fretting about your ugly, ugly form. Vaginal surgery can now take away any “unsightly” bits of skin to give you that “Playboy” look (or, rather, the look of a prepubescent girl but, shh, don’t say it). And isn’t it about time all men were circumcised? Yeah, let’s just keep propagating these half-cocked myths about “cleanliness” and even aesthetics. Despite the fact that cut penises look like sausages that have burst open one end under a hot grill, circumcision butchers away the “male clitoris”, the frenulum, leaving sensitivity vastly reduced. But so what? This is what is “acceptable” now, cuz, duh, it’s what porn stars all look like, duh. And, ew, uncut cocks? Ew ew ew, they’re all dirty!

Fucking hell.

How did we get here? What has made us like this, where we are striving for the look of children? More to the point why do we so readily accept this infantilisation of our culture and collective body image?
We now snigger at shots of naked women in the 1970s with their wild’n’wooly bushes, but will future generations be aghast at how we traded soft, pheremone rich, pubic hair for tight, bristly micro-bushes and then kindergarten sex chic? Or will they have found ways to go even further with it, via god-knows-what plastic surgery and enhancements blahblahblah.

As The Smiths once sang “on the day that your mentality / catches up with your biology”, then we can talk.

Dear [Random Person], I Love You. #36

2006-03-03T20:37:00.000Z

Dear checkout girl,
Thankyou for attempting coversation with me, asking me if I live locally (“because I’ve just seen you in here a few times” you said). Sorry for my off-hand, mumbled response and for shooting off so quick, it was rude of me. It’s just that you caught me off-guard as I have a lot on my mind at the minute. I just want to say that afterwards, while walking home, I was really cheered up by it and what with your shy smile and the sudden unseasonal sunshine, for a few moments I clean forgot all my troubles. For that I love you.

Dear girl working in The Swan pub last night,
You may remember me, I was the one buying all those gin & tonics. In fact you might think I’m a right old boozer who fritters his time away drinking himself into oblivion. Not true, I want you to know I lead a fulfilling life which involves Co-Op own-brand museli, daydreaming and the internet.
I’ve noticed you several times: you’re hella cute and daft and cheery and lovely, but you’ve made it clear you’re not in the least bit interested in me. That’s okay. I still hope you live a rewarding life, and that your acting career takes off. I notice you work nights in the interim to make a bit of cash. I hope your days are filled with the light and happiness enjoyed by only the most deserving of souls. I hope you find a man (or woman) to care for you and equal you in understated wit and quiet beauty.
Don't listen too much to those nerdy, loud uni boys that congregate around the corner of the bar and keep demanding your attention. Stay free. Don't share their grating and unrelenting ironic love of bad heavy metal and ‘80s trash TV. Don't sully your soft skin and luminous eyes with their dirty piercings and cheap ink. You’re so far above them. I think you’re so funny and different, and… and I… I love you.

Dear “Moves2makeUCum2 25/F London, London, United Kingdom” who featured on the Adult Friend Finder ad that annoyingly keeps popping up, I doubt that by joining this damn thing I’ll actually get to hook up with you, in fact what are you doing with this tawdry nonsense anyway? You look so cool and gorgeous in your shades and stripy top you hardly need advertise yourself. Oh well, even if I can’t be your “Adult Friend”, I still love you.

Metal Spoon Dipped in Butter

2006-02-27T14:51:00.000Z

They’re only little tears, darling, let them spill.
And does the gentlest grazing of my fingertips traced in circles around your flushed-rouge arse cheeks now soothe the stinging?
Meek as a lamb you raise your arms and allow me to lift the dress over your head. Now let me roll off your tights, we’ll be needing those.
See? I can kiss away your tears as fast as they fall. And a kiss for your quivering lips.
My hand smoothes over your hips, up your flanks and to your tits. I cup a breast in each hand, feeling their strange weight, kneading them softly. We both watch how your breasts react to my manipulations. I roll one of your pretty pink nipples in my thumb and forefinger; rub it, flick it, tease it to harden.
You know something? Feeling up you fantastic tits like this gets me very fucking hard. And you know I like to play a little rough when I get like this, don’t you? So I can’t help but squish your breasts in my eager hands; rub them fully, up and down; squeeze them and tug hard on a nipple.

I lift your head up to mine, cradling your face in my hands. So beautiful; lightly blushing cheeks, your eyes bright and alive, your lips slightly parted, a glint of wetness beyond them an open invitation to connect my mouth to yours, for my tongue to seek out yours, to kiss you deep and long.

I like to tie you up using your own underwear. An strong, old pair of your stockings do to bind your wrists to the headboard, but, as a blindfold, your recently discarded pantihose will suite. Wrapped round and around you head and tightly knotted. Next I rescue your fallen knickers to gag you with, carefully selecting the inside gusset to go into your mouth for you to taste your own sex. This is secured in place by a thin, lacy bra.

Now, sweetness, you lie supine amid the rumpled sheets, naked and helpless before me.
Softly I murmur, directly into your ear, all the things I might have in store for you as my fingers skate lightly over your smooth, pale skin; from the hollow of the neck down, in between your breasts, along the ribcage, across the delicate, defenceless belly which twitches slightly beneath my touch.
So much skin to travel over, my lips and hands navigate their way down over every dip and rise, sometimes lingering here and there to suckle on a nipple or to tongue your navel. My kisses down your milk-white belly, along the line of downy hair, down to the tuft of hair you keep so well tended and neat, but I am still able nuzzle in it and breathe in the pheromones that lurk there to charge my receptor nerve cells. I push apart your legs so that they lay splayed wide open across the bed.

You don’t mind if I take a little time out, do you babe? You would have said something if you did.
Leaving you gagged and bound as you are I go and fix myself another drink. Put on some more music. Sit in the chair at the foot of the bed and look at you for a while, splayed out before me.
I know you’re left wondering where I’ve gone, what I’m up to, what’ll happen next.
Your body jolts as the first few droplets of water that fall from the ice cube in my hand land on your tender belly. Your shrieks are muffled as you try and twist your body round. I flatten your body back out and lick up all the wet splashes and you begin to relax.
The dripping ice cube is now circling a nipple, goose-pimples appear on your breast as the ice leaves it’s chilly trail. It glides over your skin, it makes you shiver. I like that.
That’s nothing to the way your body arches as I slide the ice into your vagina. It slips so easily into the wet furnace of your cunt, but retrieving it proves a mite more difficult. But I have it before it’s reduced to moisture.
I pop the shrunken blob of ice into my mouth and suck on it’s new flavour. I say, now you’ve whetted my appetite good and proper, I think as I roll the dissolving ice against my tongue, making it all cold.
Just the job, and now I have my cold tongue lick right up your slit and then labour at your clit, giving your pretty button the benefit of the remaining coolness of my slavering tongue. I continue to lick around, and suck on the nub, delicately coating it with my saliva.

And I know you’re not allowed to say it but your vagina smells delicious.
So I kiss every inch. Bit by bit I explore your entire cunt with my lips and tongue, carefully mapping every delicate ridge and fold, dipping my tongue in everywhere; slowly along and around the labia, dip onto the urethra, a kiss for your perineum.
Is there a single part of you I don’t want to taste, or put in contact with my mouth or fingers?
No.
No, there isn’t. I’m greedy, see. I simply must have complete knowledge of your entire body. I mean to have all of you.
I discover the geography of your genitalia, and now I tease your cunt hole with light, flickering, circling licks. Right on the entrance which I keep open with two thumbs.
No good you moaning and twitching your pelvis towards my mouth like that, I’m taking my time with you.
A while later and I sense you’re getting infuriated with my quick, darting tongue dashing in and out with no substantive contact. So I continue with this for a little longer still.
I soon have enough of my own games and crave the strange, sensual pleasures of the inside of a woman’s cunt. So I go as deep inside you as my questing tongue can reach.

There is that old canard still knocking about which implies that oral sex is purely to please the partner. Yes, but why the [relative] silence regarding the gratification and corporeal pleasure the giver gets from the act?

My tongue like a thrashing dragon’s tail inside you, my face pressed into your mound. I’m submerged in a whole world of liquid and heat, a plush organic squish and pink, gleaming shine.

I have my fill and return to remove the gag and blindfold from you. I caress your flushed face as you gasp and blink in the half light. Are you okay my sweetheart?
Your ankles over my shoulders I push your legs way back and finish the proceedings by giving you a jolly good seeing to. My cock eagerly fucking your slick cunt like there’s no tomorrow. At this moment I don’t care if there is.

I'm Rubbish

2006-02-23T17:09:00.000Z

Back soon.

Look who got out of the wrong side of bed this morning...

2006-02-14T20:55:00.000Z

St. Valentine's Day then is it? In that case it's the left hand tonight. How fucking magical.

I'm in a bad mood. I've got every right to be after crawling through this miserable, cunting nightmare of a shitshow of a day. Jesus.

And as for all you red hot lovers out there with your fucking dead flowers and your nasty, acidic champagne, gurgling and cooing over each other in some over-priced restaurant you would normally run a mile from:

YOU. SMUG. FUCKS.

I'll probably delete this tommorrow.

Postscript: the day kinda ended okay, actually. One of my friends actually took my damn call and I ended up going over there and getting laughing drunk watching crap on the TV. Which was alright.

Kiss Chase

2006-02-13T16:58:00.000Z

Do children even play this anymore? There’s a largely unexplored hinterland of human sexuality and that is the sexual awakenings of pre-pubescence. Specifically the time when boys and girls begin to notice each other as The Other and become curious about the differences, and in a way that is not entirely sexual, but then not entirely ‘pure’ either. This general and anatomical curiousness is often manifests itself in play with games such as Sardines, Doctors & Nurses, Kiss Chase, and eventually of course, Show Me Yours & I’ll Show You Mine. I clearly remember partaking in all of these as well as a great deal many other instances of exploration before I reached the age of 10; some of which I might go into at later dates, if it doesn’t make me out to be a bigger twisted sicko than I look already, that is. But I can tell you that my first ever sexual stirrings concerned a girl in my primary school class called MP.
(I’ll just refer to her as initials, just in case. But it’s a shame I can’t share with you this name, as it is without any doubt the coolest of cool girl’s names that will ever exist. Trust me on this, you will not have heard, or will have, a cooler girl’s name than MP. It has such music to it, such a flow, it immediately invokes an image of the perfect ‘60s beat-girl, swish sportscar, high-kicking, crime-fighting, cool chick. Think a combination of Emma Peel, Lady Penelope, Modesty Blaise, Barberella and the quintessential Bond girl - her name would undoubtedly be MP).
Even in primary school the kids were segregating themselves into groups of social strata. MP belonged to a bunch of kids you might call The Cool Set: the brightest, the prettiest and even with the coolest names; they were the ones going places, if they weren’t there already. Needless to say I wasn’t in The Cool Set. I was very firmly, absolutely, and permanently, on the outside. Looking in, being left out (what is it? “Give me the seven-year-old and I’ll show you the man”? Something like that).
Nevertheless I began noticing MP, and noticed myself noticing her. I can’t remember now if I had any clear idea what it was or just why I was drawn to her, but she had entered my consciousness in a way that no other person had up until that time. I even had a little regular dream about her; a kind of proto-sexual fantasy where I imagined I had a hidden room underneath the school playground where I would take her. She would be the only one I would show this secret hideaway, and it would be just me and her there. I don’t think it entered my head about doing anything sexual in particular with her, but I just enjoyed the strange, and new, frisson from just this idea of sharing something, impressing her and being alone with her.

Anyway, one day during dinner-break I ended up in a game of Kiss Chase. Now, Kiss Chase was essentially a girl’s game, organised and orchestrated by girls who would, if they could, rope in any boy who happened to be at a loose end with nothing else to do. Basically it’s a girl-centred game of Tag - or Tig or whatever variation - where, usually, a team of girls would chase whatever luckless boys who were partaking and, once captured - by use of devilish and SO UNFAIR! team-work and cornering most often - would force a kiss on their squirming prey. The fun boys derived from it was an extra incentive to NOT GET CAUGHT AT ANY COST, lest you were seen to be bettered by silly, yucky gurls and then, ignominy of ignominies, have one of the soppy things kiss you - yeacch!
So there I was. I joined the game late when the team of five girls needed to augment the paltry two-member boy team who had proved no match for the Velocaraptor-esque girls during the first round. Second round was decided to be boys chasing girls. And so there I was. And there was MP. Quite how she had managed to tail-off and become separated from her in-crowd, I don’t know, but here she was. And there I was.
We had to give the girls ten seconds to scatter before we were to come after them. Of course we did suggest amongst ourselves that it would be funny if we just ran off and left them, but once the girls started taunting us that we couldn’t catch them the game was on.
They shrieked as we gave chase. It really wasn’t my intention, in fact I kind of wanted to avoid it if anything as it might expose the fact that I liked her, but MP became my quarry when I caught her trying to double-back and get behind us. I spotted her, she then spotted me, so there was nothing else for me to do but go after her. She ducked and dived and managed to wriggle free of my grasp at every turn until I had her trapped in a narrow dead-end by the kitchens. She tried to dummy past but I caught her and wrestled her against the wall. We were now around the corner from the playground, and on our own. I had her by the wrists, pinned against the wall. Out of breath we stood facing each other, MP was panting and giggling, I imagined her heartbeat to be racing at ten to the dozen like that of a tiny mammal or bird. Here she was, the one who was mysteriously invading my thoughts at night; the prettiest girl I had ever known. I didn’t know what to do.
I just kept her there for a few seconds, my hands around her tiny wrists, holding them against the wall up by her head.
(It’s funny, but even during my teenage fumblings with girls I would unconsciously repeat this move, pinning their wrists to their bed as I snogged them. I’ve never quite known why, even when it eventually developed into tying girl’s wrists together or to the headboard, why I had this minor compulsion to render them helpless, or quite what I got from doing it. Now I begin to suspect, if it isn’t mere coincidence, that this particular kink of mine was forged during this exact moment during my developing years, or maybe it was simply the first instance of it. Is the kink inbuilt or was it made? And if it was made, was it with MP against the school wall all those years ago? And ever since have I, in a sense, been trying to recreate the moment as if to ensure that I won’t let the girl escape this time like I did the first?)
For the briefest moment I had an idea to go through with the game and kiss her, but I immediately became embarrassed and self-conscious. I let go of her and, silently, we walked back into the playground together. I was shy and didn’t know what to say to her; she looked at me warily out of the corner of her eye perhaps in readiness that I might grab her again. She skipped ahead of me, looked back once and then ran off into the crowd. I didn’t follow. I don’t have any strong memories of her after that day.

But now here’s a funny thing. This weekend I was out drinking with a couple of old friends, out at a country pub about twenty or so miles from where I grew up. As we were chatting a woman suddenly came and sat down beside me. “I bet you don’t remember me, do you?” she said to me. She was right, I didn’t. “We were in the same class together at school” she explained. Although I didn’t recognise her, there was something familiar about her. She knew my full name though, which caused me to panic as I desperately flicked through my memory bank in search of her name. “Oh!” I said, stalling “It’s, er… hello, how are you?”. I looked into her pale green eyes, at her short, neat blonde hair, her quizzical smile. I know this person, I thought.

As you will have already guessed, the person was MP, after all these years! I was quite stunned when it all dawned on me. Not only to be sitting beside her for the first time in god knows, but that she even remembered my full name. I never thought she ever knew my first name when we shared the same class, but here we are.
It turns out just as she finished primary school her family left England to live in Germany, and that’s where she grew up, married her high-school sweetheart, lived and had two children. She’s now divorced and back in the UK, in the same old town. Wowzers, my mind reeled. Am I supposed to be a grown-up now or something, then? Where’s all the time gone? So we talked for a while, caught up and chatted about our fellow class-mates from back in the day, which she has kept a better tag on than I (it seems one died from a drug overdose in an Amsterdam nightclub some years back; another was killed in a motorcycle accident only last year; and my first ever best friend who I also lost touch with after primary school, now runs a large successful company and is a millionaire). And that was about it.
Her friends were moving on so we said goodbye and she left, leaving me to stew in my memories, and the fact that someone else’s impressions of shared experiences are so often very different from our own.

Before she left she gave me her phone number, so now I really don’t know what to think.

Cumming In A Girl's Mouth

2006-02-05T19:49:00.000Z

It is the city in the morning. The dawn light inches across the room to the tangled sheets of the bed: all of a mess; yanked half off the mattress and knotted from the events of the night before. Somehow we found sleep on it, but after last night’s little excitement, hardly surprising.
Now it’s coming back to me; a sense memory, the aches, the scratches, the gouges; images flash by behind my eyes: J, her eyes ablaze, teeth bared, strands of her hair caught in a filigree across her perspiring face, mad with determination in preventing me from taking her. Her whole body bucking and twisting wildly, arms hitting, fingers clawing my skin, drawing blood, her knees thrusting upwards, legs crossing and clamping together.
I finally win her when I have her turned face down, her arms in my grasp behind her back, and her body pinioned. I still have to prise her legs apart with my knees. No easy matter this, her dancer’s thighs are strong. I manage it, her legs are forced open and I am able to claim that delicate, secret part that she had so zealously guarded. I take her as swiftly and as savagely as I want, fucking the remaining fight out of her.

She is a tongue. A new day and it’s all the other way: The conqueror toppled, on my back, my strength all but depleted. My once proud battering-ram cock now quivers in her hand, at the mercy of her mouth. Eyes closed to the brightening light, focusing on the tiny cat licks I am being subjected to, each one sending a tickling ripple through my central core. Reaching behind me I grab a couple of pillows and bunch them up under my head so I can get a view of what fresh torments are being meted out on my captured prick. One long, soft, wet kiss after another - just like the one’s J planted on my many wounds to wake me from my slumber earlier - down my length ‘till she reached my balls where upon her lolling tongue lifted them into waiting lips to be sloppy-kissed. J then began nuzzling me there, and then started snuffling about in the hollow between my genitals and my thigh, breathing in musk before hungrily returning to lay her busy tongue at the base of the old chap and, with a hand behind it to firmly hold it in place, steadily ran her tongue up it’s entire length. J held my gaze as she did so, breaking out into a devilish grin when she reached it’s blushing summit. I held my arms back behind my head, gripping hold of the pillows. I had decided to play no active role in all this and just let J do whatever she wanted, completely unheeded. Which I was about to begin to sort of regret (though, of course, not really).
My foreskin was now being gradually pulled down, slid over the head and down about an inch or so to about, I suspected and felt, it’s limit. Now my cock, glistening and naked, stood before her. Momentarily fascinated she began examining it with a lightly applied middle finger, running it around the rim, feeling the texture of the glans, down the newly exposed shaft and back up to the tip where J grazed her finger back and forth along the eye. Her curiosity with the tiny slit piqued, she held the glans with two fingers and gently pulled down, opening up the eye for her to try and gaze down into. Satisfied with the examination, J returned a freshly wetted tongue to my poor beleaguered cock, eagerly circling the head several times, leaving it slickly coated in her saliva before performing great lollipop licks up the shaft. It was then that J wickedly stepped up her offensive. Once she had returned her tongue into her mouth to dip into the reservoir of liquid at the floor of her mouth, she resumed to lick cock, only this time concentrating a furious flurry of wet licks against the stretched and sensitive frenulum.
My mind and body reeled; my insides, especially in my chest, felt as if they had seized, and my cock seemed to be straining to tear itself away from it’s moorings in an attempt to escape the nigh-on unbearable outrage being committed upon it. The heels of my palms in my eyes I howled in protest.
“What?” J demanded.
“It’s too much!” I exclaimed. J was having none of it.
“Shush!” She said. “I want to do it to you”.
And so it continued only now sucking on it, then her rapacious tongue was flickering on the tip. Then gripping the penis in her fist she began pushing a hardened tongue directly down onto the eye, as if trying to burrow into me! Pulling open the slit once more, she dabbed a droplet of saliva from her tongue onto the small open hole for it to run down inside the cock. Finally she began sucking me off in earnest; sliding her lips over the glans, taking my cock into the deeper recesses of her mouth; her tongue massaging the shaft, rolling and rubbing; sluicing hot saliva all around it; the feeling of suction.
A fluttering sensation ran through my central nervous system and my breathing got deeper, my body beginning to tense. As J moved her mouth up and down my shaft in regulated strokes, she began to poke a hand around under my balls, feeling out the very root of my cock, caressing it, stimulating it, while a thumb gently stroked a testicle. Her head was now bobbing with greater speed, and sloppy squelchy noises escaped from her mouth as she sucked me. Her remaining hand was sliding the foreskin at the base of the shaft up and down in sync with her mouth.
My head just swam. My breathing now came in fits and starts, my fingers desperately clawing at the bedclothes as I tired to endure my cock being forced into submission by her mouth. She was trying to break it as she would a stallion. J gleefully watched me as she caused my body to rack to her will. Synapses popped in my head, my body, my legs, arms, all of held rigid as an eruption began to build somewhere deep in my loins. It was building, it was sending me over the edge, I let out a stream of invectives, my shouts surely carrying through the open window to the street below.
Building, building, building. My balls clenched tightly. “Fuck, I’m cumming” I warned her. She merely redoubled her efforts.
“I’m cumming” I repeated. “You’re making me cum!”
That was it. J kept her lips tightly around the head as I ejaculated into her mouth. Fuck! It felt like the head of my cock had been torn asunder and a wave of electricity zapped right up through my body before exploding into a storm of sparks in my brain, briefly sending me to another plain. I managed to refocus just as J sucked up and swallowed the second spurt. The momentary delirium was passing and J gently milked the remainder of cum into her mouth to drink before sitting back with a satisfied grin on her face, lazily still rubbing the defeated cock. I, on the other hand, felt like I had ran up ten flights of stairs and was trying to get my breath back. I groaned as J softly lapped clean the head of her prize.

“I’m going to be late for work” she said, rising. She almost bent double again, bunching her fists into the crotch of her skirt. “Ooh, but I want to cum now!” she moaned. She glanced at the clock. “I’ll have to wait ‘till I get to work, unless I can get myself off on the bus”. Hurrying about, she gathered up her coat, bag and keys before returning to plant a salty, wet kiss on my mouth. “I hope you realise I can barely walk thanks to what you did to me last night, you bastard”. And with that she trotted out the door. I flopped back down for a few moments, my cock now listing badly, punch-drunk as it was. I got up, went into the flat’s tiny kitchen and poured myself a cup of coffee from the pot J had made. I padded out to the balcony and leaned on the balustrade. Seven floors down I could see J had emerged from the building and was now walking as swiftly as she could up the busying street. I watched her until she had rounded the bend in the road and disappeared. How strange, I thought, that she is carrying me with her. That the people she will talk to: the bus driver, newspaper seller and whoever else, will be unaware that my cum will be, at that moment, working it’s way down inside her body, a residue perhaps still in the mouth she uses to speak to them with. I wondered about my cum being broken down in her stomach, any goodness extracted and used to fuel her. It’s a curious thought, that’s all.
For a few minutes I watched the waking city; the roads quickly flooding with traffic, the people milling back and forth like ants, or like blood cells, or like individual sperm in search of an egg - only to find oblivion in the centre of a girl, like we all hope to. I drained my coffee and went inside to shower.

Kissing Katie

2006-02-04T19:19:00.000Z

In the lull of a late summer afternoon, in a room with a window to the garden wide open, the light breeze catching in the curtains, and Katie reclining in the cushions of the antique settee. Our glasses, now emptied of wine, rest on the book about cathedrals she was reading, on a nearby occasional table. A dip in our conversation and we share a moment of just looking into each other’s eyes. Slowly I lean over to her, bringing my face closer to hers. Katie lifts her chin a little and readies her mouth to greet my lips. First contact; a soft landing. Our lips kiss and then we kiss again but with open mouths, the very tips of our tongues touch for an instant then retract like snail antennae. Now I’m kissing slowly across her top lip, my fingers slide into the hair behind her ear and eventually our open mouths interlock once more, our tongues more confident now; meshing together, tasting.

I thought it was a joke at first. Kaite dancing with me, for the first time, on that open-air dancefloor. In the sweltering heat of the evening my shirt was already beginning to stick to my back by the time I even got to the club, and though things cooled down as I sipped my gin & tonic, gazing out to sea, into the Ibizan sunset with the melting sun bleeding into the horizon, things soon warmed back up again once I had delved into the throng of people grooving to the shimmering house music. Swaying her hips, her skirt pulled taut against her bottom, arms above her head, the swish of her long honeyed-brown hair; Katie was the sexiest thing I’d seen all night. No, in a year of nights. So you can imagine I could barely believe my luck when the sexiest girl in the place, maybe the whole human race, did not draw away when I began dancing with her. A look is all it took: a glance over her shoulder and an accompanying smile. Her back to me, my hands placed on her undulating hips. Moving together now. My hands slide up to her waist and touch the bare flesh there between her skirt and top. I venture a hand round to place lightly on her soft belly and discover a jewel nestled in her navel. Her behind, her hips now determinedly rolling with me.
Look at us, for all the world we are lovers! This is a fine fiction, I thought. I wondered what if I could leave here with Katie on my arm, a walk across the midnight sand, finding some comfortable place and settling down, the waves breaking against the shore providing our private soundtrack. But I was certain this butterfly would soon flutter off into the night; smiling she would slink away and dance into the arms of some undeserving sort as so many had before. However, when, at the end of the night, she was still by me, I decided to chance my arm and tell Katie of my plans. The way she took it amazed me.

Which all led to here, in the relative cool of an English room. A Saturday afternoon spent kissing Katie. Deeper now, our tongues drunkenly roll over each other; the delicate abrasion of our taste buds rubbing together, then the slick, smooth underside of her tongue; the grazing of her teeth. Stroking the fine hair on the nape of her neck, and down, tracing a finger or two along her collarbone, and down.
The lightness of the fabric of her summer dress, and Katie’s breast held tenderly in my palm. Placing tiny kisses around her lips, and in the corner of her mouth then sliding a tongue gently along her top lip’s wet underside. Now kissing a cheek. Now leaving a trail of slow kisses down her neck. Katie’s breathing now deep and measured as she lays languorously against the cushions. It was the last time we would do this. I couldn’t share her and she made a choice.

Tenacious D

2006-01-31T19:37:00.000Z

So there’s this girl, she’s young and blonde but with that sullenness teenage girls have perfected throughout the ages. My friend has just moved into his new house and she is the daughter of his new next-door neighbours. I first see her as I’m lugging furniture from off the removals van into the house; she’s sitting on the short wall in front of her house, a small group of eager looking teenage boys cluster round her on their bikes, each vying for her attention, but she just watches my friend and me as we sally back and forth. I notice her and notice her watching me but pay no further attention.
The following night during the housewarming party the neighbours came to visit. A single mother in her mid thirties and her teenage daughter, D. There’s a few of us but soon I begin to notice that D is interested in me, singling me out in conversation, and the conversation gets a little fruity as time goes on. Her mother doesn’t seem to mind this, in fact she adds to it, giving blow-by-blow blowjob anecdotes. I’m sat on the floor and D is sat on a chair in front of me, her legs are open and I can’t help but notice her tight trousers pulled taught against her pubic mound. I wonder if, in her youth and naiveté, she’s oblivious to the signals this sends out. But when I break eye-contact with her to gaze at her open crotch for a long couple of seconds, she doesn’t act perturbed.

So anyway, it’s the following week now and I’ve been roped in to help decorate the house. My friend is away for the weekend at his mothers so I’m left to get on with stripping the walls on my own. I’m outside the front of the house taking out bags of old wallpaper bits, when D walks by on her way home from school. We say hi and talk for a bit when she asks to come in so she can admire my handiwork. I show her what I’ve done and as we’re talking she lunges forward and quickly kisses me on the lips. There’s a brief moment where we both take in what happened, then I put and hand on the small of her back and pull her toward me, lean down and kiss her fully on the mouth. No sooner has her wet tongue glided over mine than I pull away.
“We shouldn’t do this” I said. It was certainly a moral dilemma, and even as I felt a stirring in my jeans it was an uncomfortable one to deal with. Her wide, wolfish grey eyes looked up at me, her delicate, petal-pink cupid’s bow lips were parted and inviting, I held her pretty, pale young face in my hands… I kissed her again. I kissed her and kissed her. I’m so fucking weak.
Our tongues rolled together. My right hand cupped under her long hair and I gently grazed my fingers down the smoothness of the back of her neck, under her ear, then down over her blouse until my hand rode over her breast. I squeezed and stroked her there, feeling for the nipple with my thumb. We pulled apart. Smiling, she gazed back up at me. I put my hands on her buttocks and pulled her back toward me so she was completely against me, I looked straight down into her eyes. “You’re a naughty schoolgirl, aren’t you?”
She giggled, her hands now against my chest. My shirt was an old one I was wearing for decorating in, only three buttons remained and so it lay open down to the centre of my chest. Her fingers moved through the hair there, “mmm, hairy chest!” she murmured and pulled open the remaining buttons so she could stroke her fingers down over my torso, until…
She reached the waistband of my jeans. For a second her hand rested there, then, bit by bit, she worked her fingers down my belly, underneath my jeans, her hand delicately probing until…
Her cool fingers made contact with my burning cock and, with incredible gentleness, she coiled them around it. I pulled open the button fly on my jeans for her, I was commando underneath and my jeans fell about my shins. Now she had a hold of it she didn’t seem to know exactly what to do with it. She stared down at it in her grip, gave it a few tentative tugs, then looked back up at me.
“Do you want me to give it a kiss?” she asked, faux-innocently. I chuckled at the question which was as good as ’yes’ to her as she got down on her knees and, after examining it for a second, she put her mouth softly around the tip. She slid my cock a little further into her mouth and started sucking on it. She was clearly quite inexpert at fellatio. “Use your tongue” I quietly suggested. “How?”
“Lick it, move your tongue around the head”
She closed her eyes and lapped lightly at the sensitive underside and my cock twitched in her hand. Encouraged by this her tongue now made graceful, wet circles around the head before taking my penis into her mouth once more. I stood watching this teenage girl bob her head back and forth and intermittently flicker her little tongue against my hard manhood, which now glistened with girl saliva. I made sure to make plenty of appreciative noises to encourage her along when she did something that made my cock throb with pleasure. She was a quick learner but was already getting too cock-hungry so I stopped her and pulled her to her feet.

I kicked off my trainers and pulled my feet from the jeans, threw off the shirt. There was then a moment where we both seemed to take in the current situation. I’m naked and erect, she’s standing before me fully dressed in her high school uniform. Hard to tell if it was awkward or just funny. I suppose, as is often the case when you “step out” of yourself during sex and imagine how it/you would look, it was a bit of both.
Placing my hand on the small of D’s back I guide her wordlessly to the living room. I sit on the large, plush new sofa and place her standing before me, holding her hips. I reach under her skirt and quickly yank down her knickers. This makes her gasp a little but otherwise offers no resistance. I stroke a hand up an inner thigh - not too far - and back down. I take the hem of her skirt and slowly lift it, revealing more of her creamy legs to me. She giggles once more and sort of makes a play of pulling away, but nevertheless lets me hoist her skirt up until a patch of dark blonde pubic hair is revealed to me at the base of the V of her anatomy. I murmur approvingly but she shyly pushes her skirt back down. I stand back up, take her head in my hands and kiss her, deeply. We kiss passionately for a minute or so, her hands glide over my buttocks and graze over my back, while I have my hand all in her soft, golden hair.
The sofa has large, rounded armrests. I guide D to the edge of the sofa - she meekly follows and lets me then tip her, face-forward over the arm of the sofa so her backside is now raised before me. She also offers no quarrel as I lift her skirt up once again to expose her white, curved rump. True, she does shout “ow!” when I deliver a hearty smack to her arse, but starts laughing when I tell her that it was for being a naughty girl.
So then. I smooth my hands over her buttocks and let my right hand circle down, around, and finally under, beneath her legs, her pussy at my fingertips. D adjusts her stance, places her feet wider apart to allow me greater access. I cup her entire pussy mound in my hand before pulling back, stroking her with my fingers as I go, my middle finger running along, inside, the groove. Touching her. Her slit is wet, surprisingly so, as I ease a couple of fingers into her hole a rivulet of her juice runs quickly down over my hand. She pushes her pelvis back to meet my fingers as they begin to work in and out of her cunt and then feel about inside her, exploring. I kneel down. Her pussy lips are pink and pursed, slick with her wetness. I think I hear D take a short intake of breath as I gently pull open the entrance to her vagina and gaze upon the vivid pinkness inside her. She definitely makes a noise when I slip my tongue into her; a kind of ice-down-the-back gasp. I kiss and lick her labia, kiss her pussy lips side-on as if I were kissing her mouth, kissing one lip then the other, my tongue darting and flicking in and out of her. To stimulate her further I employ one finger to tenderly brush against her anus and another to circle round and tease her clitoris while I busily delve a wriggling tongue deeper into her pink, wet hole. D makes a series of high sounds and begins to buck her hips slightly.
Without warning I stand up and swiftly ram my hard cock straight into her cunt. D cries out but I waste no time in proceeding to fuck her fast and hard, no build up. The flesh of her buttocks quivers and ripples as I slap myself furiously against them. She grabs and claws at the cushions in order to brace herself against the continuous onslaught.
“Oh fucking god” she whimpers. I reach forward and take a handful of her hair at the back of her head, tighten it in my fist and pull it back. She lets out an anguished cry which turns into a continuous moan as I vigorously fuck her and pull her hair. Soon she bucks wildly and orgasms. I’m glad because I can get a breather, I’m knackered. I feel the vaginal walls spasm against my penis. I slide my engorged member out, my pubic hair is matted with her pussy juice. She is such a wet girl!
She tries to get up from the sofa, perhaps thinking it’s all over. I place a hand on her back and firmly push her back down, then I spank her a couple of times sharply and satisfyingly on her beautiful soft arse. “Don’t! I don’t like it!” she cries reaching back to try and stop my hand. Typical teenage girl: thinks she can talk to her elders like that. “You may get away with this kind of backchat with your parents and teachers but not with me” I tell her as I proceed to rain down a volley of smacks on her backside. The white skin soon blushes a rosy pink. D glowers at me like a scolded cat but gives no further protestations as I gently lift her from her position and place her sitting on the sofa. I smooth her hair back down and kiss her tenderly on the lips, wondering if she can taste herself in my mouth. I push her back and undo the buttons on her shirt. She has given all control over to me I realise happily as I undress her. I leave her skirt and shoes on as I find it quite a turn-on. I kiss her again as my hands can finally roam her body and caress her soft, apple breasts. I take one of her tiny pink nipples in my mouth and gently suckle and lap upon it. D sits back and gives out a sigh as I fondle her pussy once more, strumming her clit as my tongue continues to tease an erect nipple. I position myself between her legs, put my arms around her shoulders and push my cock back where it belongs, in her sopping wet cunt. Her legs and arms wrap around me, our mouths join as we fuck together on the sofa in the late afternoon light.
After a short while I push her arms away, position her body and lift her legs up and further apart so I can fuck her more deeply. Making sure I’ve go a good foot-hold I forcefully pump my penis in and out of her vagina. D’s mouth gapes open in a look of both wonder and horror as she is afforded a clear, uninterrupted view of her pussy being violated by my hard cock. To drive the point home I make sure I pull my tumescent rod all the way out before swiftly plunging it back into her body, I do this again and again as she whimpers helplessly. Speeding things up now, my thrusting becomes more machine-like. My position allows me to both tweak and pull on one of her nipples with one hand and reach down to rub her clit with the other, my weight balanced between an elbow and both feet. After fucking her in this way D is having to bite her lower lip in order to, I presume, control her outbursts, but when she shudders and convulses during a long orgasm she uncontrollably trills out a series of sobs like some tropical bird. Her thighs clench tight around me as the tremors rack her body. Slowly she begins to calm, though her face and chest are flushed and her lower jaw quivers with every breath. She looks so vulnerable like this, unguarded, truly naked. I wonder if I’m the first to see this way. I’m not her first, at least that was the impression I got from the conversation at the house-warming, but this might be a different experience from the fumblings she may have had with teenage boys before this. I open her thighs and begin to fuck her again, fuck myself to orgasm, her eyes watching me now, under a furrowed brow. She is soaking wet down there and has cum all over the nice new sofa. I find myself about to do the same. I don’t want to ejaculate inside her or risk making any more mess so I withdraw and wank into my hand. I let her watch the spunk spurt out of my cock and collect in a pearlescent glob in my palm. I briefly consider whether I should smear it over her tits or across her face, or maybe even force her to lap it up out of my hand; instead I take it to the kitchen sink and wash it away. I don’t want to completely traumatise the poor girl.
I get us a glass of water each and pad back into the living room. D has sat up and is pulling her skirt down demurely. “Sorry” she says hesitantly as I hand her the drink, “I’m afraid it’s all wet here”, she gestures to the wet patch still showing. I tell her not to worry about it, my fault, I say. I suggest she goes upstairs and showers before she returns next door. Eventually she agrees and as she collects her shirt and goes she glances down at my cock. After she’s gone I look down and see a string of jism hanging down from my limp knob.

So there was this girl. Cute and young and blonde, and I’m on my knees with a bowl of water trying to scrub her girl-cum off the sofa with a flannel. I did consider joining her in the shower, or even just to watch, but I let her have her privacy. In truth I was feeling pangs of regret: did I lead her on, did I take advantage? That sort of thing, plus there was the worry that she would now feel an attachment and would want to see me regularly. Well, the sex appealed but I didn’t want her hanging around me really. I couldn’t see a relationship between us being very successful or exactly popular.
When my friend returned the following day I didn’t tell him that I’d shagged the neighbour’s daughter - thanks to a good clean-up job I didn’t have to! - I just told her she’d been sniffing round and that he shouldn’t pass on my details to her if she asked. I promised myself that if I were to meet her I would explain all. At least that’s what I told myself, instead I took the coward’s way out and kept myself scarce.
Sometime later I heard from my friend that she had found a boyfriend - some spotty youth with a motorbike. I wonder how she now views our crossing paths and my place at the start of her sex-life? I’ll never know.

First Come - First Serve

2006-01-28T23:14:00.000Z

I set up this weblog back in 2004. For almost the past two years, however, it remained a gost blog with only one measly, uninformative post (complete with the worst photograph ever taken to "decorate" it) to it's name.
As you can see I have finally decided that the time is right to start writing. I wouldn't say I've been compelled, but just have felt the urge to, semi-publicly (or whatever you would call online, esp when there are a trillion, squillion blogs all whining and writing poems about their cats and what-have-you, all at fucking once) to chew over, and make explicit, certain aspects of my life. Fundamentally I am a quite a carnal person, and also someone whose self-image is tied up in areas of sexuality (and when I say tied up...). So what I hope to do on here is to perhaps lay bare my thoughts and attitudes regarding sex, my kinks, women, my attitude towards them etc, in writing in order that I may ponder and maybe finally work out if I'm just a bit of a normally randy so-and-so or a complete-and-utter, total sleaze-bag.

At the moment I'm still not all that sure which way I'm going to go with this blog; indeed it may just be [another] dead-end for me and I'll jack it in in a few weeks. But for now I'll say the stories and whatever other form I will write in, will be, either partly or completely, based on real-life.
That said, I should warn you that I have the male tendency to self-mythologise a little; to forever cast myself in the film-of-my-life, to romantisise my past and to presume it all means something.

To sum-up then: this is where I get to talk about girls and shagging and MeMeMe, which is all I'm interested in anyway. Right? Right.