by Abby Lee
It came out of the blue. I was trying on bras in the changing room, hoping to find something that would be simultaneously comfortable enough to wear to work and unbearably sexy to all who saw it. An ambitious wish, I know.
I was stripped down to my pants and doing the old lift, hook and fasten when I noticed that my nipples were erect, sticking out like bullets, even in the stifling temperature of the cubicle. I looked at my reflection and was struck by how hard they looked in the mirror. I pushed my hands into each cup of the bra and cradled my breasts, grazing my fingers against my nipples and feeling myself getting steadily more turned on.
It wasn’t my reflection that was getting me steamed up; it was imagining what Blog Boy would see and do to me if he saw me so aroused, and that was making me wet.
I began to picture him standing behind me, his hands sliding up around my waist – like they’d been that night on Oxford Street – and then over my breasts, letting his fingers linger on the nipples, teasing them as he felt them growing firm under his touch. I went on cupping and squeezing my breasts in my hands as I fantasised about feeling his soft wet kisses on my bare skin. I pretended Blog Boy was behind me, pressing his body into mine, his rigid cock against me. When I pressed my fingers against my wet pants, I imagined it was his hand rubbing me, then pulling down my knickers and sliding himself into me.
I looked at myself squarely in the mirror. My pupils were dilated, my skin felt electric, my breath was heavy, and I was slippery with horniness. I began to rub harder, getting carried away, closing my eyes, faster now, then sliding a finger inside.
All of a sudden I heard ‘Miss? Do you need any help in there? Did you try them all on yet?’
I suddenly remembered where I was – the lingerie section of a department store in New York City. The sales assistant wanted to give me some more bras to try on. She didn’t know I was standing in front of the mirror with my hand between my legs. Not a good place to have a frig.
I was too far along and I had to finish what I’d started. With no other option, I threw my clothes on, grabbed my stuff and tried to find the ladies’ room, but Macy’s was huge; I ended up going up and down the escalators three times before I found a busy bathroom.
By the time I got there, I was throbbing, but I had to queue up with everyone else and wait my turn. I could have done with some sort of guest-list line for horny English girls, standing there with my pussy thrumming away like a fucking motor. At last I was in one of the stalls and set about preparing myself:
Remove iPod – check
Remove hat – check
Remove scarf – check
Remove coat – check
Remove jumpers (x2) – check
Pull down jeans – check
Pull down thermal leggings – check
Pull down pants (wet) – check
Slide hand in between legs – check
Notice the one-inch gap between the door and the wall – check
There’s a gap? For some reason, in American public toilets, either side of the door there is a gap large enough to see into. I can’t figure out if this is some government rule to prevent drug usage in public loos, or whether the people responsible for building these places were just bad at measuring up, but either way, it makes for a somewhat frustrating experience should you choose to masturbate in one of them.
So as well as having to silently frig myself into oblivion, I also had to position my body in such a way that I couldn’t be seen through the gap either. A difficult task, yes, but I am pleased to report, not impossible. With the queue tapping their heels outside, I played to my heart’s content, thinking about Blog Boy fucking me hard, and a short while later, all was well in my world.
And I managed to buy five bras after that too, so all in all, a good afternoon.
Sunday 30th January
Staying in Manhattan with Harry for the last few days has brought up a lot of old feelings. Five years older than me, I’ve known Harry since infancy. We are as close as siblings can be, without any of the rivalry you normally get between brothers and sisters. We love each other very dearly. When I was 17 our relationship changed and I fell in love with him. Although it’s more than a decade since then, seeing him now, after two years in which we’ve barely spoken has reminded me how much I love and miss him.
Our closeness was always immediate, no matter how much time or geographical distance came between us. When I was little and he came round with his mum, we would be playing together within seconds, running off to have adventures in the park out of the grasp of our parents. Harry was the one who taught me how to roller-skate; he was this effortlessly cool older kid who I looked up to and learned from, and to him I was the sweet younger sister he never had.
So when I lived with him for some months during my seventeenth year, we shared a bed together – as we always had – and slept arm in arm, cuddling till we fell asleep. It all seemed normal, until one night altered everything.
I awoke to feel Harry’s hand stroking my back. Nothing unusual; I turned towards him and sleepily draped my arm across his chest. We held each other for a minute. Even when his hand moved down towards my waist I thought nothing of it. It wasn’t until his fingers slid under my right breast and began slowly caressing my nipple that I became aware that we were crossing a boundary. I felt Harry lift my breast gently, clasp it and then trace its outline with his index finger. I was conscious that my nipple was growing under his touch, and when he ran his thumb around it, it tingled enough to make me shiver.
We pressed closer to each other, I ran my hand across his chest. I remember hearing his breath quicken as the back of my hand touched his nipple. We looked at each other dreamily and began to kiss. It was so passionate, so gentle and so innocent. Our eyes were locked onto each other, we didn’t need to say a word. It felt like the most natural thing in the world, even when Harry shifted and I could feel his cock against my thigh. Our bodies were in sync, our feelings expressed through this sexual closeness. We were two friends, hungrily searching and exploring each other, discovering the unknown parts of the other, adding to the love we already had.
So, we made love. It was amazingly intense, emotionally and physically. I truly loved him in every possible way and the time I spent with him all those years ago is something that to this day, I only recall fondly.
And now I find myself staying with him again, writing this diary entry at his very desk. A lot of years have passed since I was in love with Harry, some of them when we didn’t get on so well, some when we didn’t manage to see each other; our lives have become very separate.
But now I remember why I fell for him in the first place. Harry knows me almost better than I know myself. He’ll say to me as we walk down the street together:
‘Hey, Abby, you only tripped up once today, you’re doing well so far!’
… And then grab me, because on cue, I’ve stumbled and am only saved from falling flat on my face by him catching me with perfect timing.
Harry knows what a messy person I am, how chaotic my house is and how much wine I manage to spill down my front. He’ll point out:
‘You missed a bit.’
And indicate my bust, where another new dark red stain has materialised, or he’ll point out the accumulation of crumbs in my cleavage, and comment:
‘Catch any more in there and you could start baking a cake.’
And I’ll be laughing too hard to brush the crumbs out onto the floor. Harry knows how to make me crack up; I have actually wet myself because of something he said on more than one occasion.
Harry also knows I am a neurotic, overly analytical, slightly intense woman. He pulls me up on it all the time; tells me to calm down, stop thinking about things so hard and he tells me to:
‘Just be yourself, everyone will love you.’
And I try. I do my best to rid myself of the pretentious bollocks that make up some of my defensive façade and just present myself as I am – take it or leave it. I pray that he’s right:
I hope there is someone out there that will see through the shit and wants me for who I am: clumsy git, cleavage-crumb-catcher and all.
Now that I’m staying with Harry yet again, I am loving his company. I’m feeling close to him once more, having missed his friendship for many years.
But now of course, we’re no longer kids. He is a man. I am a woman. We have both grown up: he has a wife and a child, I have … well, a different life.
Looking at him now, I can still see how attractive he is. He has really grown into his mid-thirties self, no longer a cute boy but a handsome older man – beautiful laughter lines on his face, grey hairs on his head, podgier in his body. He is more relaxed now too, happier with himself and rid of the twenty-two-year-old’s ego that I knew.
And even though I still find myself attracted to him, I am in no rush to ruin the friendship that we have managed to rebuild. There won’t be any shagging between us. I am just enjoying being me with him, friendly, slightly flirtatious, and forever uncoordinated. I reckon that’ll do me for the time being.
All that matters is that when I go home to London he’s still my friend. Loving him and being loved in return, is more important than any sex I could have in the whole world. Almost makes me forget about Blog Boy. For a second.
Although I really do need a shag right now, it has to be said.
The Girl’s Top Ten Guide
How to respond to the sight of a single female in a sex shop if you are a male customer:
1 Do not blush or laugh at her. Certainly, do not approach her in the hardcore DVD section, point at particular titles and say, ‘Done that, and that, and that. Think I’ll get this one out again – got a real result from that.’
2 Do not stare at her wildly, amazed that women also wank and go shopping for sex material. We do.
3 mile briefly and return to what you were doing. It’s only polite and you are not there to chat her up after all.
4 Don’t walk around with a hard-on. She won’t be very impressed, even if you’ve got a large todger.
5 Try not to fill your shopping basket with a year’s supply of porn. It’ll just make you look desperate; a week’s supply is more than enough.
6 Do not approach her with the largest dildo you can possibly find and then ask, ‘What do you reckon, eh? Your type of thing?’ Instead, have a look at the boys’ toys and ask her what she thinks your girlfriend might like.
7 Stay away from the ‘orifice’ hardcore porn. Certainly spend no longer in the section than is necessary to ‘tut’ loudly and walk away shaking your head. No woman is impressed by a man who likes the sight of an anal canal held open and spread so widely that one can see right the way into it.
8 Do not laugh and joke with your mates in front of her about the porn actresses, saying, for example, ‘Look at that one’s fanny,’ or ‘What a slapper!’ It’s difficult enough for her to be in there, without being made to feel cheap, embarrassed or degraded.
9 Do not grab hold of her, demand to look through her basket and exclaim loudly in front of all your mates, ‘She’s got a huge dildo in there!’
10 Do peruse the ‘couples’ DVD section and the female sex toys, and ask the sales assistants for demonstrations to find out what gives women more stimulation.
This’ll make you appear sensitive and generous, and will give women hope that not every man in a sex shop is a sad git who couldn’t get laid if he tried. Plus, as well as giving you some idea of what women like, you might discover that you like it too …
2
February
Wednesday 2nd February
Back in London; exhausted, frustrated and horny, but happy. It was great to see my old friends in the Big Apple, especially Harry, whom I miss already.
Still, it’s nice to be home; I’m really looking forward to seeing Blog Boy again, because it’ll be our all-important third date – which should include a no-holds-barred shag if I’ve understood dating procedure correctly.
There’s little doubt in my mind that if we continue where we left off last time, we’ll end up jumping into bed together.
Whether we manage to eat a meal first is debatable.
Friday 4th February
My old school friend Kathy took me to a party tonight – one of her music industry do’s. Odd how she mixes with all these superficial people on a daily basis, yet she hasn’t changed since the day I met her when we were eleven. She’s still an honest and caring person, regardless of the coked-up arseholes with whom she spends her daylight working hours.
After many cocktails I decided that there was zero talent in the bar, so I told her about my mission to meet new men and have some fun. Kathy suggested that I try a singles’ night, or speed dating – a perfect opportunity to find a guy who might be up for it, she reckoned.
Problem is, Kathy has a boyfriend and I don’t know if I have the courage to go somewhere like that on my own. It’s one thing chatting up a bloke but it’s another thing altogether to have the guts to walk into a place and declare that you are free, single and gagging for a shag.
Even if it may be true.
Sunday 6th February
I am becoming aware that it doesn’t take much to get me going at the moment. Seeing a handsome man sitting with his legs splayed apart on the tube set me off yesterday; observing the breast jiggle of a buxom woman as she ran for the bus gave me the shivers today; and I got very excited watching my neighbour get a blow job as he was preparing dinner this evening.
My neighbours have no blinds, bless them, so from the comfort of my own kitchen I have a perfect view of everything they get up to – not that I was sitting there in the dark with binoculars or anything. It’s all on display to any who cares to watch, and that’s how I found myself transfixed by the sight of my neighbour having his cock sucked by his boyfriend.
It started innocently enough. I happened to be idly looking out my window, enviously eyeing up their impressive jungle of houseplants. Obviously green-fingered, I was thinking to myself, as I looked at the trailing boughs of ivy and ferns that hung all over the kitchen.
I spotted my neighbour Colin, framed by the greenery. His back was towards me and he was busy with a knife and chopping board and some vegetables. I debated whether I should ask him some gardening advice next time I saw him at the newsagent’s, because I know I can kill a plant with a single glance (I am good with animals and children though, ironically).
Then his partner Simon walked in. He looked like he was tip-toeing up on Colin, creeping slowly into the room. I felt like I was privy to some dramatic moment – I couldn’t wait to see how it turned out.
Simon edged slowly forwards. Colin continued chopping vegetables. And then, when Simon was only a foot away, he reached his arms around Colin and kissed his neck. I could see Colin laughing and he pushed his body up against Simon who held him tight.
It seemed like a nice warm embrace. I felt like I was intruding a little on their intimacy and was about to stop looking, when I suddenly saw Colin turn around and face Simon. In a split second, Simon was on his knees, had unzipped Colin’s trousers and was sucking his cock furiously.
I was mesmerised. All I could do was watch with my heart pounding.
Simon sucking Colin deeply; Colin grinding his hips in towards Simon; Simon’s hands on Colin’s arse, pulling him in closer to his mouth.
God it was so erotic. Not only to see some form of real (non DVD-based) sex unfolding before my eyes, but also to observe a couple who were relaxed and free enough to drop everything and just have sex there and then. I wanted to cheer out loud for Simon when I saw that his way of saying hello to his lover was to surprise him with a blow job while he made the dinner – he was my kind of man.
This got me thinking about the monotony of having sex in the bedroom and how the familiarity and repetitiveness of our daily lives can manifest itself in the way we have sex with our partners. Who can honestly say they never get bored with the same old sleep, work, home, dinner, bed, shag routine? Sure, having
sex outside the bedroom, or at other times of the day, helps to spice things up a little, but essentially what seems to be missing from the sexual experiences of those in long-term relationships is spontaneity. Even the sex between Steven and I – as great as it was – became somewhat routine.
So this spur of the moment blow job has made me realise: it’s not so much when you have sex that matters, as what you are doing when you do it. By treating his partner to some oral sex while he was cooking, Simon ensured that not only the sex, but also the chore at hand – dicing carrots – was made more interesting and exciting. The next time Colin chops vegetables, I bet he gets a hard-on.
Now I’m wondering how I’d incorporate this philosophy into my own sex life. I’m thinking:
⋆ A guy ironing some shirts. I walk up behind him, kiss his neck, caress his nipples, slide a hand down the front of his jeans and grip his cock.
⋆ Me washing up. A man comes up behind me, squeezes my breasts, lifts my dress, bends me over the sink and slides his dick into me.
⋆ A bloke dusting the ceiling. When he reaches up, I pull down his zipper and draw his penis into my mouth.
All these scenarios have this in common: they incorporate sex spontaneously and with regularity into a domestic routine. Both the domestic and the sexual regime get sparked up as a result.
The only drawback I can see is that chores might take slightly longer than normal to complete, given the need for a brief shagging interval. However, in the short term there’re orgasms and in the long term a healthy sex life, so the temporary shortfall in housework seems worth it.