Diary Of A Sex Fiend

by Abby Lee

  Wednesday 22nd June

  I’m still annoyed about Kathy’s boyfriend’s boob obsession. If there is one thing that pisses me off, it’s when men in relationships give me the once over in front of their girlfriend or wife. I’ve got zero tolerance for it. Now I’ve learned to scowl as spitefully as I can at the perpetrators, especially if they make eye contact, or, God save them, smile at me.

  It’s not the looking that’s a problem – like I said of Kathy, it’d be OK if she was in on the game – it’s the looking without their partners knowing that I dislike. To me, this is an act of betrayal, and where trust, loyalty and honesty are the prerequisites to a good relationship, this duplicity lies very uneasily with me.

  It’s not the same as secretly having sex with another woman – obviously that’s a far more serious misdemeanour; but to hide a fantasy is to keep a secret from one’s partner and this retriction of truth sits very uncomfortably with me.

  I was out shopping today and my local high street seemed to be full of partnered-up men looking at my body, smiling at me – furtively – as though they were indulging in their own private daydream, a momentary ego-stroke for them. Or wank fodder for later. It really annoyed me.

  Maybe I get so riled because this is what it was like for me with my ex, Steven, and I was on the receiving end.

  I always knew when he was looking at other women when we were out together. I remember being with him at a social event and he couldn’t keep his eyes off a woman with big breasts. He was staring and staring at her chest and I could see the horniness in his eyes. I recognised it.

  Seeing him turned on, turned me on. All I wanted was for him to look at me, wink and smile, and I knew that I would be part of his fantasy, that he was letting me in on his stiffening cock and his desire to fuck this other woman, that we could talk about it later when we had sex and both get off on it.

  But he didn’t look at me. He didn’t notice the fire burning in my eyes. He didn’t know that watching him, watching her, made me want him. He excluded me and continued eyeballing her, as if to get every detail of her embedded in his mind so that he could use it another time. Without me.

  This exclusion made me feel rejected, unwanted and undesirable and I became jealous – not a habitual emotion for me – of his attraction to her.

  When we got home that night, Steven pressed me against the wall and I felt his dick against me. Although my body responded as it always does (fast breath, erect nipples, wet pussy), I felt troubled. When he lifted my top up and cupped my breast with his hand, I wondered if it was her he was imagining. When he slowly sucked on my nipple, I wondered if he was thinking of her breast in his mouth. When he eagerly entered me, I felt like it was her he wanted to fuck, not me.

  Perhaps all these insecurities and reactions – rational or not – would not have happened if Steven had included me in his fantasy. If he had glanced over at me and smiled, or said ‘She’s got great tits, I’d love to suck on them and watch her suck on you; it would get me so hot’, then maybe I would have responded totally differently. The fantasy would have then been about US getting off on it together, rather than just HIM. With Steven excluding me from this it made me feel like I couldn’t really trust him. And as it turned out, I couldn’t, given that he was fucking someone else, half his age, when he was seeing me.

  Even though I’m cynical about all this, I still hope one day to meet a man who will be able to trust me and be open about his desires and kinks, and let me be open about mine. A man who’ll know that being honest with me means he can be free to express himself and not be fearful that I would judge him or want to possess him. I want a man who will squeeze my hand on the street and whisper in my ear that the gorgeous woman walking towards us is making him get hard, knowing that it will make me want him even more.

  Because a man who could do all this, is also the man who knows that he would have freer, more passionate, and wilder sex, than if he just smiled at women in the street when he was with me, and then secretly masturbated about them without me knowing. A man that knows all this is a rare breed indeed; he’s a real man – and I haven’t met one yet.

  But I’m still looking.

  Sunday 26th June

  When I met up with Blog Boy last night, I thought the idea was to behave in a dignified manner and continue trying to maintain our ‘let’s just be friends’ stance – after all, that’s what he asked for. But after a few glasses of wine in the pub, when he leaned in to kiss me, it didn’t cross my mind to fight the urge to kiss him right back. Nor did I want to; it all felt right.

  After snogging drunkenly for ages, we left the pub arm in arm and got as far as the street corner before sinking into one another again, his tongue dancing in my mouth. Then he grabbed me by the waist, pulled me close and pushed his hands slowly down my skirt until they came to rest on my arse. He squeezed it tightly and I instantly got wet as I felt his hard dick through his jeans. I wanted to feel it in the flesh so badly …

  We began to move against each other, the instinctive need to push and grind making us oblivious to our surroundings. As his hips matched mine, his hands moved upward and gently cupped my breasts through my top, and my fingers greedily explored under his shirt, discovering his firm nipples and his delicious chest hair. I was so turned on I wanted to take his cock out there and then, and suck it.

  Then a car pulled up alongside, interrupting us rudely with a beep of its horn.

  ‘Need a taxi?’ the driver called out.

  We did need to get somewhere more private, it was true, especially if I was going to fulfil my desire to get his cock in my mouth as soon as possible.

  I looked at the man leaning out of the window of the estate car and eyed him suspiciously. ‘How much to Clapham, then?’

  ‘Twenty-five,’ he replied.

  I laughed. ‘Do I look like a tourist, mate? No way. Pull the other one!’

  ‘You won’t get any other cabs out here at this time of night,’ the cabbie said, dryly.

  He was right. No other vehicles had passed us in the time we had been standing on the street – let alone cabs. But £25 for that journey made him a rip-off merchant.

  I eased myself out of Blog Boy’s seductive grip and turned around to face the driver, pointing at his empty windscreen. ‘Mate, you don’t even have a licence displayed; what you’re doing here – picking us up on the street – is illegal.’

  The cabbie looked embarrassed and said, somewhat defensively, ‘No, no, I am legal, but I just … um, don’t have the paperwork yet.’ He looked at me hopefully and then added, ‘OK, how about twenty, then?’

  ‘Twenty? Are you serious? It’s a tenner to Clapham, twelve max.’

  The cabbie stared at me, shocked. ‘Clapham is South London. This is West London. Twenty quid. You won’t get it for any less than that.’

  Blog Boy leaned over and whispered into my ear. ‘He’s right, you know. Maybe we should just get it.’ He rubbed my bum tantalisingly and I wondered what his fingers would feel like if they slipped just a bit further round, between my legs.

  I collected myself and got my business head back on. ‘Nonsense,’ I exclaimed, ‘it’s a rip off.’ I turned back to the driver. ‘We’ll do it for twelve, no more.’

  ‘I can’t do it for that,’ he said. ‘It’s too far from here.’

  ‘Fine,’ I retorted. ‘Goodnight then.’ I flung my arms back around Blog Boy and repositioned my lips against his. His hands immediately found their way to my arse again and the cab driver took the hint, speeding off into the distance.

  ‘You know, we may not get another cab for hours,’ Blog Boy said, his fingers now slowly circling my breasts. ‘And I think we need to go somewhere quickly, don’t you?’ He pushed his cock up against me, emphasising the point.

  He was right. We had been standing on the street for the better part of an hour. As much as I wanted to unzip him and slide my hands around his penis and let him push his fingers into me, I knew it would have to wait – at least for a
little while longer.

  ‘OK,’ I said, as my fingers stroked him gently through his jeans. ‘We’ll get the next ride that comes.’

  He nodded and twirled his fingers around my nipples, kissing me hard. We resumed our heated entwinement.

  Moments later, there was another beep of a car horn.

  The taxi was back. ‘OK, love,’ the cabbie called, ‘twelve quid it is then. Get in.’

  I grinned at Blog Boy and we stumbled into the car.

  The cab sped off at the breakneck speed that is somehow mandatory for unlicensed vehicles. There was cheesy eighties music on the radio but Blog Boy and I hardly noticed. As London zoomed past us in our race across town, we were preoccupied with something more pressing – that is to say, his fingers sliding gently into my crotch and my hand wrapping around his cock. I wasn’t thinking about the fact that we’d crossed way over the platonic line. I was wondering when he’d push his lovely long fingers right into me.

  So much for just being friends then.

  I couldn’t wait and grabbed his hand to slide two of his fingers in to the hilt.

  ‘Shall I put another in?’ he whispered, kissing my neck.

  I nodded, and he kindly obliged.

  His cock pulsed in my hand and I lifted my fingers to my mouth to taste his pre-come. He saw me and smiled, and covering my fingers in my saliva, I replaced them back around his shaft, tracing the tip gently.

  It was exquisite. With Blog Boy’s hand deftly working his magic on me, I was in heaven. But there was a problem: I was very close to climaxing.

  Normally, this would not be an issue: I rather enjoy having orgasms and, as you know by now, I am not the sort of woman to turn one down, given the choice. But we were in a cab and the driver was sitting two feet away. When I come it’s pretty intense. I would:

  Find it hard to be silent.

  Shake a lot.

  Possibly leave a wet patch.

  So I tried to hold back because I didn’t want the driver to overhear or watch it all in the rear-view mirror.

  I didn’t want the first orgasm I got to have with Blog Boy to be experienced within the confines of a taxi, either. I am a lady, after all. Or at least I’d like Blog Boy to think I am.

  So I took my hand off his cock and tried to focus every last drop of concentration on controlling myself and delaying the building orgasm, clutching the seat and clenching all my muscles.

  And, of course, I then came like a steam train, practically crushing Blog Boy’s hand between my legs as I squeezed them together convulsively.

  Clearly I have no control. But that’s no surprise when I was at the mercy of his finger magic.

  I was still in a post-orgasmic haze when we pulled up in Clapham. I was tidying myself up and hadn’t had the chance to open my own purse, when Blog Boy pulled out a £20 note and handed it to the cabbie. He helped me out of the cab, telling the driver, ‘Keep the change, mate.’

  The cabbie grinned from ear to ear and then immediately sped off. I stared at Blog Boy, stunned. ‘You gave him a twenty?’

  He shrugged. ‘Look, it was worth it – it was a long way to come. He deserved a tip.’

  ‘But what about my haggling? I gave him the hard sell – he agreed to twelve.’

  Blog Boy shrugged again. ‘With what we got up to in there, I think a tip was needed, don’t you?’

  I wasn’t so certain: surely my intense orgasm in the back of his car should have been the bonus, but I wasn’t going to complain. Not now we were at the flat and were about to get naked and devour each other at last.

  When we got upstairs though, I began to feel nervous. I felt totally unprepared to shag him: my legs and muff needed shaving and I was also mid-way through my period – wearing my most boring old pants. I was sure nothing was going to happen when I left the house that night, and now I was caught out.

  We were about to see each other naked for the first time. Should I try my hardest to turn him on and hope he’d enjoy it? Or should I be passive and let him take the lead, so that he didn’t feel undermined by my sexual confidence? Fuck, it was hard.

  Blog Boy made it all easy for me. As he removed my skirt, he kissed me deeply, slipped a finger inside me and made me climax again. His delight as I convulsed from his touch answered all my anxieties – he liked me and got pleasure from being with me and that was all that mattered.

  So I relaxed and we spent the rest of the night feasting on each other. It was fantastic; it felt natural and right, and when he kept whispering ‘You’re so beautiful,’ over and over again, I believed him.

  He had to go to work early this morning, so we left together. As we said goodbye on the train, I noticed a little awkwardness between us, a lack of conversation.

  Then Blog Boy kissed me on the cheek and said ‘Catch up with you soon,’ which I thought was odd, given how close we had seemed last night. I don’t know if I should read anything into it; maybe I’m just being neurotic – I don’t know.

  What I do know, is that if I didn’t fancy the pants off him before, I certainly do now.

  The Girl’s Guide to Fuck-Buddies: Definitions

  1 A fuck-buddy is someone with whom you are sexually involved, but with no romantic or emotional strings attached. They are NOT a friend that you fuck; although they might be someone you like and respect, the fuck-buddy relationship is purely sexual

  2 Occasionally a productive one-night stand can lead into a series of regular one-night stands. These then develop into an occasional sexual relationship

  3 Shagging someone with no expectations of commitment or co-dependency does not have to mean a one-off: it can also be pleasurable to have multiple sexual experiences with them over a period of time

  4 There doesn’t need to be any awkwardness, guilt or hurt; it should be a simple situation, with little or no complications. It is not a problem if you only want to see someone because you are horny; you don’t need to get validation from them on an emotional or intellectual level. You can get that from your friends

  5 With a fuck-buddy, there is no real intimacy beyond nudity and mutual horniness. You might have nothing more in common with the other person than sexual attraction. It’s not like meeting up with a mate to watch a movie and talk about the plot afterwards over dinner. By definition a fuck-buddy connection happens on a physical level only

  7

  July

  Saturday 2nd July

  It’s not something I talk about often, but here goes: my friend Fiona is a professional dominatrix. That is to say, men – and for her, it is always men – hire her to inflict pain and suffering on them. Not the most conventional of hobbies, I know, but for Fiona it’s been part of her everyday life for many years.

  Though I’ve known her since college, I have always turned a blind eye to what she did; I never really wanted to know how she earned her cash. I didn’t like the sound of BDSM in the first place, but the idea that men paid her to hurt them was more disturbing. As far as I was concerned, out of sight was out of mind.

  Over the years, Fiona has offered me the chance to sit in on a session several times so that I could understand what she did and get some insight into the fetish/bondage scene that she’s involved in. I’ve politely declined her offer each time, and made do with just listening to her as she relished telling me sordid tales of her adventures instead.

  Recently, maybe because I have been exploring so much lately, and because I’ve had the diary to read back over, I’ve become more curious. Who are these men and why do they crave abuse like that? And what is BDSM really like? So I plucked up my courage to ask if I could watch her at work, and she was really chuffed. It looks like she may have a session coming up soon. I am terrified.

  Monday 4th July

  If Blog Boy and I are to get any more involved – and I am sort of hoping that we might now since things have changed somewhat – I think he is going to have to understand that there will be three of us in the relationship.

  I don’t mean that I will have a
nother boyfriend, or that he will have another girlfriend. Nor do I refer to our having a threesome with another woman/man, though obviously, I would not rule that out at some point, were he (fingers crossed) into that sort of thing.

  No, what I mean is that besides my relationship with him, I would also be having a relationship with his cock.

  It’s not that I fetishise the cock over the man: I am learning that my attraction to a guy is more about his personality, intelligence and attitude than the way his penis looks in a pair of Calvin Klein kecks. No, it’s the fact that as well as getting to know his innermost feelings and basking in his affection and love, I’ll become more intimate with him by striking up a relationship with his cock.

  I think there is something almost secretive, a private dialogue, in the process of becoming close to a man’s penis. He might not be talking with me, but when my mouth is wrapped around him, his cock is certainly communicating.

  When I was seeing Steven, I had a great conversation with his penis one morning:

  I woke up early and Steven was still asleep, snoring for Great Britain. I was randy, and debated having a quick fiddle, then decided against it. I had a better idea.

  Shifting down the bed and lifting up the duvet, I moved my face down to Steven’s cock. It lay there, spent from the previous night’s activity. ‘Ugh, I’m tired,’ it said.

  I shifted my face onto his thigh. ‘Yes, you must be exhausted,’ I said quietly. I laid my hand across the shaft. ‘Perhaps you should stretch out a little?’