by Abby Lee
Diary Of A Sex Fiend:
Girl with a One Track Mind
Abby Lee
Copyright © 2007 by Abby Lee
First Skyhorse Publishing Edition Copyright © 2007
Originally published by Ebury Press, The Random House Group, Ltd.
All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to: Skyhorse Publishing, 555 Eighth Avenue, Suite 903, New York, NY 10018.
www.skyhorsepublishing.com
10 9 8 7 6 5 4
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Lee, Abby.
Diary of a sex fiend : girl with a one track mind / Abby Lee. p. cm.
Reprint, originally published as: Girl with a one track mind. London : Ebury
Publishing, 2006.
9781602390157
1. Women—Sexual behavior—Case studies. 2. Man-woman relationships—Case studies. I. Lee Abby. Girl with a one track mind. II. Title.
HQ29.L388 2007
306.7082’0942—dc22
2006039359
Printed in Canada
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Acknowledgements
Does thinking about sex all the time mean there’s something wrong with me?
1 - January
2 - February
3 - March
4 - April
5 - May
6 - June
7 - July
8 - August
9 - September
10 - October
11 - November
12 - December
Acknowledgements
There are a few people I would like to show my appreciation to, for without them, this book would not have been possible.
Thank you to Jake Lingwood, Rachel Rayner and the rest of the team at Ebury Press for their encouragement and passion for the book.
Thank you to my agent Simon Benham, who ‘got it’ from day one.
Thank you to Ian Vince, for the introduction and helpful advice.
Thank you to David Bloom, for the guidance and support.
Thank you to Alex Marsh, the writer of JonnyB’s Private Secret Diary, who has been a trusted friend as well as a brilliant sounding board.
Thank you to my parents, who have been wonderful, supportive and loving. And who I hope never read the book.
Finally, I must say a huge thanks to all the readers of my blog. Their positive feedback played a part in my writing this and I am grateful for all their support over the last two years.
Abby Lee is 32, lives in London and works in the film industry.
Her website detailing her real-life sex diaries has had over 2 million visitors and now attracts more than 100,000 readers every month. It was recently awarded Best British or Irish Blog at the 2006 Bloggies.
You can read her blog at:
www.girlwithaonetrackmind.blogspot.com
Does thinking about sex all the time mean there’s something wrong with me?
It’s a question I ask myself on an hourly basis. Surely not every woman thinks about shagging constantly? Is it common for other women to look at men’s crotches as they walk down the street? Do most women weigh up the fuckability of every man they meet?
I just don’t know – I wish I did. I’m beginning to worry that I might be some kind of freak; that because I have a one-track mind it might make me different to other women.
I know that most people don’t have a problem with talking casually about sex. My own friends appear quite happy to sit in a pub, swapping Sex and the City anecdotes and joking about rabbit vibrators. But, the thing is, if I get into more detail and mention something like, say, wanting to try out a cock ring on a guy while fingering his arse, they all suddenly become rather quiet or jump up and volunteer to buy the next round. And I’d be left sitting there staring at the bartender’s trouser bulge, worrying that yet again I had embarrassed myself with my sordid fixation.
I guess I’ve always suspected I might be a little different. Back when we were in our twenties my female friends would happily chat about dieting, make-up techniques and how to flirt with a man, but I wasn’t interested in all that. I was more focussed on becoming a successful camera assistant in the movie industry, and busily trying to figure out if anal sex would hurt and whether the missionary position would give me enough orgasms to be fully satisfied. (It did, and it definitely does.)
I thought that maybe it was just an age thing then, and that by the time we were all in our thirties my friends’ sex drives would match my own adventurous streak. But now that we’re thirty something most of my friends are either married with kids in tow, or else they want to be and are desperately trying to find a life partner by any means necessary.
So I suppose I do sometimes feel like I have to keep up a façade when I’m with my mates; it frustrates me that I have to hide what is in my head, to spare me or them from getting embarrassed. I wish I could just be myself and talk openly with them, but how can I be truthful and tell them I want to try out group sex when they only seem to care about finding that one special man to have sex with?
But even if I’m the odd one out I’m still sure there’s plenty of fun to be had besides the quest for Mr Right. Why search for a knight in shining armour when you can have a great ride with just a few vodka-based cocktails and a cheap sex toy to hand? When you’re 32, single and horny, why not have some fun?
With all these thoughts going round my head, I decided to keep a diary. It seemed like the best way to express all my anxieties, neuroses and needs without any risk to my friendships. I reckoned that writing everything down would be the only way I could be truly open about sex; I could talk about my sexuality and desires as a woman and not have to worry or care what people might think, and whether they’d judge me or not. It would be liberating.
I also realised that if I had a record of everything that happened and how I’d felt about it, I’d be able to look back over all the sordid/tragic/glorious aspects of my sex life and laugh or cry about it later. I could be objective about it, and maybe I’d finally be able to work out why I was so preoccupied with sex. Perhaps I could even do something about it as a result.
So for the past year I have faithfully kept this diary. In order to write with complete truth and openness, I’ve done it anonymously: I haven’t told my friends, family or anyone at work about it. I have written it free from the judgment or the opinions of others, but I really hope that nobody I know ever reads it. I’m not ashamed about any of the things I have done, but I don’t really want my nearest and dearest to know how obsessed I am about sex, let alone the people I have to work with in a professional capacity.
To protect my anonymity and others’ right to privacy I have refrained from divulging too much personal information and have changed minor details like names, locations and dates, but all the characters, their dialogue and the events that occurred are real. These have been recounted as accurately as possible (give or take one or two Martinis).
1
January
Saturday 1st January
Quite frankly I need a shag.
The last person I slept with was my ex, Steven, and that was months ago. Now I’m gagging for some more action.
Last night I thought I’d struck it lucky. The whole of London was partying. It seemed like I was surrounded by possibilities; everywhere I looked, there were men with potential. So when I encountered not one, not two, but three promising blokes, I figured something would happen with one of them, right?
With some friends from work egging me on, and the
help of a few beers, I plucked up the courage to approach one of the guys. I’ll call him Party Boy.
As we chatted he seemed funny, sweet and kind. I felt confident enough to flirt a little and even blurted out that he had a nice arse, but he said he didn’t want to ‘take things any further’ and left me standing there on my own by the bar. Result: confused.
Round two: Brainy Bloke.
Shy, but witty and clever. We got into a deep conversation about ID cards. I thought I was in there with a chance, but midway through my polemic on the Labour Party’s authoritarianism, he walked off to chat to a pretty blonde girl instead. Result: annoyed.
Round three: Tall Man.
Smart, and handsome in a cute way. After leaving the club, we drunkenly kissed in the street, then suddenly he said he had to go home to get some sleep and left me there waiting for a night bus. Result: gutted.
I can’t understand what went so wrong. I think I’m not a bad looker (if you’re into curvy brunettes who go for a run three times a week); I reckon I’m reasonably intelligent, perhaps even funny. I know I’m clumsy and have big feet, but surely having big boobs balances out the negatives?
Something must be really unappealing about me or my approach; I thought at least one of these blokes would result in some action. I was wrong – on three counts. To misread all three situations so badly must surely mean I’ve lost my mojo? If so, how do I get it back?
And why is this happening now, when I’m in my sexual prime?
I suppose doing a Bridget Jones and sitting in on a Saturday night wondering where all the good men are, doesn’t help matters. But after three rejections, I’m not quite sure if I can pluck up my courage and try a new approach just yet. I need a little time to recover.
I’m going to have to do something soon though, because my vibrators are getting a hell of a bashing.
Monday 3rd January
Combine horniness with a new broadband connection and you get a girl who is spending far, far too long on-line.
It’s all getting too much for me; the fast downloading speed has meant I keep looking at porn, and then I end up yet again with my hands in my nether regions. What a timewaster I am.
It’s not just the porn-surfing either. I’ve discovered weblogs too, and find them totally compelling. I love finding out what goes on in other people’s lives, especially the ones who have more, and more interesting, sex than me. I’m starting to get addicted to some of them and check them every day for new posts.
Not all of my favourites are erotic – well, obviously erotic. Some of them are very funny, and if there’s one thing I like – other than good sex – it’s someone with a killer sense of humour. If they can make me laugh there’s nothing like that endorphin rush; it’s a fantastic release of energy, just like a good orgasm. And I certainly like those.
That’s probably why a man with a good sense of humour has always made more of an impression on me than someone with a handsome face or who is skilled in bed. It’s a very sexy quality for a man to have; when he makes me laugh, I loosen up and then I begin to feel at ease, and then it starts to turn me on.
So I can’t read the weblogs which make me giggle the most without wondering about the men who write them. They make me feel so good that I find myself wanting to know what they’re like in real life, and if they know what pleasure they give me when they write. And that they turn me on. I doubt it.
There’s one which stands out. This guy – I’ll call him Blog Boy – has me in fits of laughter with every post. I love his style – it’s not just that it’s hilarious, it’s also very honest, and that makes me curious about just how warm and genuine he might be in real life. And yes, he makes my pants wet when I read him, even though I have no idea what he looks like or if he’s single.
That sense of humour alone was enough to make me take the plunge and email him to see if he fancied a beer. It’s probably stupid – he could be a weird internet psycho for all I know, but I still have to know what might happen if we meet up. If he’s anything like his on-line persona it could be very interesting. You never know what might be on the cards. If I get my wicked way with him, that is.
Thursday 6th January
When I tell people what I do for a living, they tend to get all excited and start asking me questions like:
‘Ooh! Do you meet lots of famous people, then? Who’s the most famous actor you have worked with?’
I wearily mention that being a camera assistant in the film industry often means having to be at work at 5 a.m. and then getting home after 10 p.m., and that the constant tiredness rather takes the glitz and the glamour off being surrounded by celebrities.
Because I am freelance, it means I also have to be ready to work at all times – with no preparation – because a job could come up at the last minute. The last minute being, for example, 6 a.m. this morning.
Last night I stumbled in drunk from a gig at about 2 a.m. and fell into bed, only to be woken by the phone a few hours later.
What cock-sucking-bastard-wanker is phoning me at this fucking hour? I thought, as I tried to recall whether I gave my number out last night and wished the painful pounding in my head would go away.
The call went to voicemail, and a moment later, I picked up my mobile to listen to the message, just in case.
It was an emergency plea. Film freelancers get a lot of these. Invariably they need you now because their regular person is ill/hungover/been sacked/gone onto another (better) project, and they’ve got work for you, but can you be there in an hour? That sort of thing.
I had to think it over: I felt rotten. Hardly any sleep, my head like a fucking vice, the knowledge that if I said yes I would have to be on my feet for more than 12 hours – none of this was appealing.
Then again there’s not much work just now and I have tons of bills to pay, so I ended up calling them back and saying I’d be there as soon as I could. Like a doctor grabbing their medical kit, I did a last-minute check on the work bag I always have standing by to make sure I had everything:
⋆ Comfortable boots – check. [Must be waterproof, warm and not give you blisters after wearing them for 17+ hours]
⋆ Comfortable trousers with many pockets – check. [You can never have too many pockets as a camera assistant]
⋆ ‘Coolmax’ socks – check. [To soak up the (inevitable large amounts of) sweat that your feet will produce during the day]
⋆ Non-cotton t-shirt – check [Ditto on the sweat. Plus, having an ironic slogan on your chest always brightens people’s days and prevents boredom on set]
⋆ Super-duper fleece – check. [It’s a prerequisite that all crew members wear a fleece with the insignia of the last film they worked on – preferably a major movie. That way, people know you are in demand, and not some small fry who only works in TV]
⋆ Thermal leggings + vest – check. [Just in case. You never know when you’ll be standing outside for 15 hours freezing your tits off]
⋆ Second pair of socks – check. [In case of leakage, or if your toes just get damn cold]
⋆ Waterproof trousers – check. [Nothing like working in wet jeans, yuck]
⋆ Waterproof jacket/coat – check. [Must be waterproof, not water-repellent. There IS a difference]
⋆ Scarf + gloves – check.
⋆ Warm hat – check. [If it’s waterproof too, even better]
⋆ Work belt – check. [Must be able to carry the weight of heavy-duty tools]
⋆ Work bag for the belt – check. [For all my worldly goods and the camera paraphernalia] ⋆
Radio-holster – check. [For the annoyingly heavy walkietalkies]
⋆ Covert ear-piece – check. [So we can receive/give instructions quietly on set]
⋆ Pink see-through lacy thong with a sequinned heart on the front panel – check. [OK, not a necessity, but after all the ‘manly’ heavy work-wear I have to don, I like to feel sexy and feminine underneath it all]
Aside from the last-minute bookings, there is one thi
ng, one major thing that I do dislike about working in film: being knackered all the time is not conducive to my regular frigs. When faced with four hours’ sleep or three hours 45 minutes’ sleep between work, I choose the sleep almost every time. Sometimes a girl is just too tired to have a rub.
Sunday 9th January
Blog Boy has returned my email! And, I am happy to say, is flirting back with me on-line. More importantly, he has agreed to meet me for a drink next week, and I’m overjoyed.
There is something about the way this guy writes that I find utterly captivating; I have to get to know him. I probably shouldn’t get my hopes too high but I can’t help being excited about seeing him in the flesh.
I can’t help but wonder what he looks like naked.
Tuesday 11th January
Although I got a result from contacting Blog Boy, it’s clear I still need to perfect my chat-up skills because I just missed a fantastic opportunity because I wasn’t confident enough.
There I was this evening, having a relaxed glass of wine in a pub with my old college friend Fiona, and who should walk in but my number one crush of the moment: Graham Coxon. All I could do was throw shy glances towards the guy who was the guitarist in Blur. I had no idea how to approach him though. I went through the options in my head:
⋆ The sycophantic route? ‘Hi Graham, I think you’re amazingly talented, you are a true spokesman for our time.’
⋆ The empathetic route? ‘Hi Graham, I truly feel your angst. Your lyrics have really touched me.’