Buzzing Easter Bunnies
Every story needs a decent climax...
There are plenty of things Christina Barclay would like to do before she hits thirty at Easter. Having an orgasm with somebody else in the room is most definitely one of them.
Up to now, her love life has been sorely lacking in the toe-curling department - but luckily for Christina, she's just started dating Matthew Adrian Bunion, a man whose bedroom inexperience is more than made up for by his never-ending enthusiasm. Mr Bunion will not rest until his new girlfriend is satisfied - no matter what the cost in rechargeable batteries, physical injury or public embarrassment.
From the best-selling author of BLUE CHRISTMAS BALLS, FAT CHANCE and LOVE... FROM BOTH SIDES, this is the story of one woman and one man on an epic quest to come together, and celebrate an Easter birthday in style.
By Nick Spalding:
Fat Chance
Love... From Both Sides
Love... And Sleepless Nights
Love... Under Different Skies
Love... Among The Stars
Life… With No Breaks
Life… On A High
Blue Christmas Balls
Buzzing Easter Bunnies
The Cornerstone
Wordsmith: The Cornerstone Book 2
Spalding's Scary Shorts
Click link to buy Nick's books at Amazon UK
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Copyright © Nick Spalding 2014
First published in 2014
This Kindle edition published 2014 by Notting Hill Press
The rights of Nick Spalding to be identified as the author of this work have been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.
Buzzing Easter Bunnies
Nick Spalding
CHRISTINA
I will have an orgasm this year.
As God is my witness, I bloody well will.
...with a man, I mean. I will have an orgasm with an actual live man for the first time in my life, or my name isn't Christina Hayley Enid Barclay.
I've been climaxing successfully on my own since the age of fourteen of course, but then I know what I'm doing down there, don't I?
The same cannot be said for the men I have been involved with my whole life.
Sadly, every time I have set alight to all of my nerve endings, it's been because I have fast, dextrous fingers, and the ability to imagine all sorts of interesting scenarios involving me, Gerard Butler, some flimsy clothing, and a super king sized bed.
Not once has it happened with a real, live penis in the room.
It is a sorry, sorry state of affairs, I'm sure you'll agree (not that I don't enjoy fantasising about Mr Butler, you understand).
Luckily, I think I've finally met a man who can help me with my problem, even if he is going to need a bit of, er, training.
I've never dated a virgin before, but I think I may have struck gold with young Matt Bunion anyway. He is kind, thoughtful, funny - and most importantly - eager to please.
It never occurred to me that an inexperienced man could be my best bet for sexual gratification, to tell the truth. Until now I've spent my life looking for Mr Right among men who have - by and large - been there, done that and sold the t-shirt on eBay for a fiver.
And that's where I've been going wrong. Experienced men - in my experience - always turn out to be complete arseholes, for one reason or another. They tend to think they're God's gift to humanity, despite all evidence to the contrary.
It seems that once the owner of a penis has sown his wild oats a few times, he becomes convinced that he is an expert at relationships; as if having sex with half a dozen women means you gain complete insight into the minds of the other three billion walking the planet.
Each and every time I think I'm on to a winner, I end up being disappointed. Disappointment is not an emotional state conducive to soaring orgasms, I think you'll agree - hence my problem.
While I've always been concerned about my inability to achieve a satisfying climax when there is a penis involved, it's only been in the past few months that the issue has really started to play on my mind. My thirtieth birthday is rapidly approaching on Easter Sunday, and not reaching a proper climax with a man before the end of your twenties just isn't normal. Even if a majority of the men I've dated have been disappointing, at least one of them should have been able to do the deed, surely? To supply me with the correct instruments and expertise, so to speak?
This train of thought leads me to a rather disturbing conclusion. It might not be them. It might be me.
Even if Gerard Butler did knock on my door dressed as a half naked Spartan warrior, offering me a night of sexual congress with his washboard stomach and glistening muscles, there's a disturbing possibility that I wouldn't be able to have an orgasm, no matter what he did with his tongue, fingers, and Gerard Butler Junior.
This is a worrying concept. A very worrying concept, indeed.
So, this is the quandary I find myself in. On the one hand, I have had a series of unsatisfying relationships with men I should have avoided like the plague, but on the other, there's every chance I have a clitoris more temperamental than the twenty quid hair straighteners I bought at the market last year.
Here's an idea: let me describe a few of my previous sexual experiences, and you can decide for me.
I don't think there's much point in dwelling on what happened with Pete Cavendish though. The poor chap was obviously in complete denial of his rampant homosexuality at the time, and you don't really want to read several paragraphs detailing his attempts to insert his flaccid member into me. Just picture pushing a strand of cooked spaghetti through a tea strainer and you'll get the general idea.
In no particular order then:
1. Darren Malloy.
I met Darren clubbing one night back when that kind of thing appealed to me. No stranger to Lacoste polo shirts and espadrilles, Darren was the kind of man your mother would probably have warned you about, if he wasn't so slippery. My relationship with Darren lasted five months, most of which were spent watching him get ready in front of the mirror, and listening to his boring anecdotes about the work he'd done on his Vauxhall Nova that week. If the boy had spent as much time on my clitoris as he did on his exhaust, my problems would have been over before they'd begun. As it was, Darren was pretty good in bed, but in the twenty or thirty times we had sex, I never once came close to climaxing. He had a decent sized penis and knew what to do with it after a fashion, but I think I was permanently put off by the gold necklace he insisted on wearing twenty four-seven. It would invariably smack me on the bridge of the nose every time he was on top and thrusting his way to ejaculation. And that bugger was heavy, let me tell you (the necklace, not Darren). Some women complain that after rough sex they suffer from bruised thighs. I should've been so lucky. You could tell how much of a good time Darren had had with me, just by the amount of foundation I had to apply the next day to cover up the swelling between my eyes.
2. Doctor Adil Hannan.
When you're a freshly minted nurse in your first three months on the wards, there's nothing sexier than a young, fit and handsome doctor smiling warmly at you as he passes by in the corridor outside the x-ray department. Adil was a gorgeous Indian, with a set of the most striking brown eyes I've ever...
well, laid eyes on. He was intelligent, softly spoken with a light Indian lilt, and unfailingly pleasant to be around. Unfortunately Adil also had a worrying tendency to talk dirty during sex. This was surprising and a bit disconcerting in and of itself, given that in company, Adil would never swear, hardly ever raise his voice, and was the most even tempered person I've ever come across. Hearing filth spew from his lips during intercourse made it feel like you were having sex with Mumbai's answer to Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde. However, I'm not averse to a bit of dirty talk. In the right circumstances, and delivered in the correct manner, it can be breathlessly exciting. Adil didn't really get it though. I don't know if it was because he was a doctor or not, but his idea of dirty talk was extremely clinical.
'Oh Christina,' he would whisper into my ear. 'I'm going to insert my penis so deep into your engorged vagina that your nerve endings will be on fire.' Wow. How can a girl not get excited hearing those words? 'Oh Christina,' he would continue. 'Would you slide the middle digit of your hand into my rectum, find my prostate and massage it for me please?'
I'm fairly sure those exact same words can be found in the last medical text book I read about conducting prostate exams in men over the age of fifty.
My relationship with Adil lasted just three months. I can't say it was one that uplifted my soul in any way, but it did improve my knowledge of sexual biology no end. It was an area I hadn't paid enough attention to in college, so I was glad of the refresher.
Needless to say, Adil's scientific approach to bedtime shenanigans did nothing to increase my chances of having an orgasm. Or, as Adil liked to put it: 'the sudden discharge of accumulated sexual tension, resulting in rhythmic muscular contractions caused by sexual pleasure.'
How are you supposed to cum your brains out when the man you're with uses the word discharge in relation to it?
4. Simon Addison
Simon Addison remains the nicest man I've ever had a relationship with.
My God he was nice.
He had nice features, nice manners, a nice voice, a nice car, a nice flat, and a nice penis.
We'd do nice things together, like go for long walks in nice places, eat in nice restaurants, and see nice movies at the cinema.
We also had nice sex.
Nice, nice, nice, nice, nice.
I was more likely to have an orgasm watching my underwear going round in the tumble dryer than I was in bed with Simon Addison.
The relationship with him lasted six months... somehow. Then one morning he produced a packet of Nice biscuits to dunk in our tea and I lost my mind.
About a year after I broke up with him, a friend of a friend told me that Simon had just been arrested for drug trafficking. I wasn't surprised in the slightest. No-one can be that bloody nice without hiding something.
4. 'Big Rob' Pottinger
Ah, you can picture him already, can't you? Any man with a name like 'Big Rob' has to look a certain way, doesn't he? Over six feet tall, shoulders like a bull, able to drink his own bodyweight in lager without passing out...
All these things were true of Big Rob Pottinger. Being in a relationship with him was rather like owning an extremely large dog. Fun to be around, but you're never entirely sure that you're completely safe. One minute you could be having a whale of a time, the next you could be flat on your back, having been accidentally knocked over by the big lumbering sod.
This was the kind of man who could attend a wedding wearing a kilt (even though he was about as Scottish as spaghetti bolognaise) and pull it off with absolutely no trouble at all. That's how big and looming he was. There were times I considered buying crampons and a thick rope just so I could get up there to give him a proper kiss.
Big Rob was big in every department. Enormous, in fact. Worryingly large. The first time I saw it I nearly had a heart attack. My cervix started to ache just at the prospect of it.
But Big Rob - much like his big, dumb dog equivalent - was surprisingly gentle. He was obviously aware of how prodigious his member was, and was therefore at pains to make sure I didn't feel any pain myself. It still felt like giving birth in reverse though. Rob had to conduct extensive and complicated foreplay in order to get me into a fit state to receive his sizeable contribution, and even then we had to go very, very slowly. Of course this meant that achieving an orgasm was difficult for him, and entirely impossible for me. He couldn't get past walking pace, and I was too concerned with the state of my internal workings to give any thought to reaching a climax. Most of the time I'd end up using my right hand on him, while trying to sit in as comfortable a position as possible. I seriously have no idea how the girls in porno movies do it. If I had to swap places with one of them, the movie would have to be called 'Two Seconds Of Hardcore Sex And A Trip To Casualty'.
I bumped into Big Rob and his new wife a few months ago in Asda. She seemed like a very nice girl - and certainly looked more robust than me. I swear I detected a noticeable limp as she walked away on her husband's arm though.
5. Cock Features.
His name wasn't actually Cock Features, but Steven Bradley was such a tosser of the highest order that I cannot bring myself to refer to him by his real name.
Cock Features was my first long term boyfriend. I met him when I was nineteen and he was twenty five. At the time I was deliriously happy to be dating a man that much older than myself. These days I realise that the only practical upshot of him being six years older than me, was that it had given him an extra half decade or so to really master the art of manipulating younger women.
And boy was I manipulated. Both mentally and physically.
Cock Features would feed me bullshit about love, commitment and caring - while shagging another girl at the same time. He was presumably feeding her all the same lines he fed me, and judging by the fact he kept the charade up for nearly a year, she must have been as taken in by it as I was.
It didn't help that Cock Features was almost unnaturally good looking. A combination of the lead singer from A-ha and Orlando Bloom, he had that whole 'fey' thing going on that at the time, I thought was just about the sexiest thing ever. As a young and inexperienced woman, rugged manly types terrified me, so to have the attention of an androgynous, non-threatening man like Cock Features was an apparent blessing. He was charming, interesting and attentive. He was also the most self-centered human being who has ever walked the face of the planet, so it should come as absolutely no surprise that he was awful in bed.
He didn't actually ever have sex with me. It was more like he used me as something convenient to masturbate into. The sex (such as it was) only ever lasted as long as he wanted it to. He would invariably climax as quickly as possible, before issuing a perfunctory kiss and a hoarsely whispered lie. 'Thanks baby. I love you,' he'd say, before rolling over and turning on the TV without so much as another glance in my direction.
My blood still boils when I think about the oily little prick, even a decade later.
Being nineteen, and not knowing any better, I tolerated that shit for months. You can imagine how much damage a relationship like that can do to your self esteem. Being treated like an ambulatory blow-up sex doll is a hideous experience, and one I will regret putting up with until the day I die. I also think that if I do have some kind of deep seated psychological problem that prevents a decent orgasm, it can be traced back to Cock Features and his stupid elfin good looks.
He broke up with me by email, telling me he'd met someone else. He even had the gall to admit he'd been cheating on me with her the entire time.
Bastard.
I hate him for being such a scumbag - but if anything, I hate myself more for carrying on in a relationship with him.
Bugger it, I've decided Cock Features isn't bad enough. From now on I'm going to call him 'Fuck Face'.
6. Dan Dan, The Can Can Man.
I had sex with Dan Dan, The Can Can Man on holiday in Goa. To this day I have no idea why he was called Dan Dan, The Can Can Man, nor do I have a clue what his surname was. Hell, fo
r all I know, his first name wasn't even Dan. What can I say? It was very hot out there and I drank far too much Cobra beer.
Dan Dan, The Can Can Man is the person who, up until now, has come closest to providing me with an orgasm during full intercourse, thanks to his marvellous technique and staying power. I'm fairly sure it would have happened, had the toilet in the bathroom next door not exploded. One second I'm rising on a wave of pleasure as Dan Dan thrusts into me, the next I'm screaming like a banshee as shards of porcelain came flying through the paper thin hostel bedroom wall.
I escaped unscathed, but Dan Dan got a rather nasty cut on his shoulder that would have probably become infected had I not packed a bottle of TCP in my luggage.
Much like the explanation for Dan Dan, The Can Can Man's nickname, I never found out why the toilet exploded. It was a holiday I will never, ever forget. Possibly for all the wrong reasons.
So, what's your diagnosis?
Have I just been unlucky in love? Or do I in fact have a malfunctioning sex drive?
Hard to tell, isn't it?
I've been repeatedly hit with the unlucky stick when it comes to the men in my life. The after effects of my early relationships may have had such a bad psychological impact on me (I'm thinking mainly of Fuck Face here) that my clitoris has shut up shop for the rest of my life, and will refuse to play ball no matter who I'm with.
But it surely can't be that cut and dry, can it?
Christina Hayley Enid Barclay can't be destined to never feel the thrill of her nerve endings on fire when, to put it bluntly, she's being impaled on a penis?
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