Diary Of A Sex Fiend

by Abby Lee

  I was quickly losing this argument. Damn my mother and her open-minded progressive outlook! I raised the stakes. I ventured the opinion that I imagined their sex life to be very ‘vanilla’ and that at some point he may wonder what else was out there for him to try.

  ‘What’s vanilla?’ my mum asked.

  I stared at her and registered what I had just said.

  ‘Is that when white people will only have sex with other white people?’ she looked confused. ‘Isn’t that rather racist?’

  Bless my mother.

  ‘Um, no.’ I replied. ‘Vanilla is the opposite of BDSM.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘What’s BDSM?’

  I dropped my head in my hands and couldn’t believe that I was going to have to describe it to her. Of all the things to talk about with your mother, kinky control play was not at the top of my list.

  I tried to explain it succinctly: ‘BDSM stands for Bondage Domination Sado-Masochism.’

  She looked blank. ‘What? Say it again.’

  I groaned quietly. ‘BDSM is Bondage Domination Sado-Masochism. Ways of exploring sex that are considered transgressive.’

  ‘Ah,” she said, ‘so vanilla must mean boring, then.’

  ‘No no, not at all. Vanilla just doesn’t include, well, props, or role-playing and stuff like that, but it’s still great. You know, missionary and things like that.’

  I realised I was trying to pitch vanilla sex to my mother, and now I know exactly what that expression about teaching your grandma to suck eggs means. In this case, replace granny with mother, and eggs with cock, get an image in your head of your parents together, and you suddenly don’t want to be having this conversation any more.

  I tried to change the subject swiftly, steering it towards the location of the ceremony. My mother looked at me studiously and then said ‘Have you ever done BDSM then?’

  If the ground had opened up and swallowed me, to be honest it wouldn’t have been enough. I did not for one moment want to explain to my mother about my recent foray into BDSM and how I’d enjoyed being handcuffed, spanked and fucked hard from behind. Nor did I wish to tell her about the time I watched a guy being whipped and then sitting on his face till I climaxed repeatedly. I especially didn’t want to share with her my desire to dominate a man with a strap-on dildo. No, I didn’t wish her to either know, or picture any of this, in any way.

  So I was economical with the truth. I told her that I knew of BDSM and was broad-minded about it, but essentially my tastes were vanilla.

  Thankfully she then dropped the subject and we returned to the wedding, but as we talked, I’m sure I noticed her glancing at me oddly. It may be my imagination, but I’m beginning to worry that she suspects I have become obsessed by sex, and if she asks me if I am, I’m not sure that I could deny it.

  Monday 22nd August

  My love life is in a dire state of affairs (so to speak) just now. It’s been more than a month since I’ve spoken with Blog Boy, who could be on the other side of the planet for all I know. It seems clear from the lack of contact that he’s not interested, even in friendship, so it’s futile trying to push things any further with him, much as I’d like to.

  I haven’t got naked since the BDSM threesome with Fiona and the man from the bar a month ago, and guess what? I’m gagging for it again.

  It would be easier for me if I was at least dating, but the usual route – meeting people through work – is no longer fruitful because the freelance work I do has all but dried up.

  I’ve also ruled out being introduced to a nice guy through my friends, who are mostly coupled-up themselves. Either all their acquaintances are married already, or – more horrifically – their taste has plummeted since they themselves got hitched.

  Men that my friends, when single, would have not wasted four minutes of breath on are now ‘lovely, friendly, and funny’ men, even though they have the social skills of a Neanderthal and the intellect of a twelve-year-old.

  I can hardly bear to mention the times I have been fixed up with men, whom I was told were ‘interesting, warm and open-minded’, only to discover that that actually meant that they owned 200 lesbian porn DVDs, had no female friends at all and were unable to look me in the eye when they spoke to me.

  I would love to erase, for her sake, the recommendation that Kathy gave me about a man whom she described as ‘really nice, caring and sweet’, when what she really meant was ‘he is unable to connect on any emotional level whatsoever and has huge hang-ups about sex’.

  Let’s not even delve into those ‘I’ve heard he’s good in bed’ cases to which Fiona gave her stamp of authority: the supposed tiger she nominated for the shag of the century turned out to be the only wet pussy in my bed that night.

  So, work and friends are out. Where else can I meet a man?

  Well, there’s the fallback option of pubs and bars I suppose, but though there might be the occasional choice bit of man totty on display, the amount of quality men in my local pubs is pretty non-existent.

  I have considered – and tested – other means of meeting men too. I have attempted to approach the handsome man in my local supermarket; I have smiled at the geeky-looking guy in the gallery; I have given my phone number to a friendly man who sold me a t-shirt on a market stall – none of these paid off (gay, married, had girlfriend).

  So I have decided to be proactive and try something else. I’m debating joining a proper internet dating service after my chat room experience a few months ago. There may be freaks, weirdos and psychos signed up too, but I bet they don’t outnumber the ones I’ve met ‘in real life’.

  With a good dating site I would get to vet their appearance, learn about their interests and hobbies, and perhaps even find out their political viewpoints too. Though I have fucked a couple of Tories in the past, I don’t plan on indulging any more.

  Not that offensive politics make someone bad in bed – far from it – if anything, the arguments can make a good shag even more passionate. But the thing is I’m beginning to think that sexual ability is less important than a man’s political beliefs: after all, you can always work on your bedroom technique, but your deeply-held political philosophy? I don’t think so.

  So, political matters aside, how do I work out how to write a profile for the dating site that will attract the right kind of man?

  Stating that I think I have become a sex fiend might get me lots of dates, but would any of the men I met be interested in finding out a bit more about me, other than what I was like in bed? Likewise, writing ‘multi-orgasmic’ in the ‘skills’ box may get me a lot of offers to test out my abilities, but perhaps wouldn’t enable me to show that I also have a brain and have occasionally been known to make people laugh too.

  It seems that in order to write an eye-catching profile, one has to be a skilled marketeer, presenting oneself as a product with a distinct customer base. I’m crap at this sort of stuff: where do I fit in? What’s my target audience? Apart from seemingly having a high sex drive, what on earth do I have to offer?

  Somehow, I don’t think including the facts that I am ‘neurotic, insecure and perpetually self-analytical, due to being intermittently emotionally fragile’ would be very good selling points.

  Nor stating that I am ‘highly opinionated, judgmental, and a smart-arse know-it-all’ would win me any offers of a second date, I’m sure.

  So what the hell do I write?

  I have been wondering about using ‘Sarcastic socialist seductress seeks similar soulmate’ as a tag-line; it needs work, obviously, but it gets the point across, and surely I will impress many fine men with my clever and ingenious use of alliteration.

  The discussions about possibly wanting kids at some point and dabbling in threesomes together can wait, I think.

  At least until the third round of drinks, anyway.

  Saturday 27th August

  ‘She’s just like you,’ Tim said, as he took a big gulp of his beer.

  ‘How so?’ />
  ‘She’ll never say “no” to a shag.’

  ‘You have a tactful way of insulting me, you know.’

  ‘Sorry. What I meant, was that like you she’s always up for sex.’

  ‘Ah, I see,’ I winked at him. ‘Always horny, then?’

  ‘Always wet, you mean.’

  I laughed, ‘Definitely like me then.’

  We paid for another pint and moaned about the portionsize of the food, wondering if we had ordered enough for our beer-induced drunken hunger.

  ‘So, will you be needing Viagra, then?’ I asked sarcastically.

  He laughed. ‘Not yet, though I did wonder if I’d ever shag again the other night.’

  ‘She rode you hard? A woman after my own heart, obviously.’

  ‘Well, she’d already made me come three times, and to be honest I was a bit knackered at that point. When she asked if we could have one last go before we went to sleep, I wanted to say no.’

  ‘Ha ha ha. Sounds familiar. Did you tell her to have a wank instead?’

  ‘Hell, no. A beautiful woman in bed with me, dripping wet; are you kidding me? It didn’t take me much to get hard again, I can tell you.’

  ‘Good for you. Glad to see you appreciate what is obviously a quality woman. Was it worth it?’

  ‘Definitely. She came as soon as I slid my cock into her. I love that. Took me fucking ages to come, but it was a good pay-off at the end, even though I was fucking shattered.’

  ‘Nice. You lucky bastard; it sounds lovely. That’s what I need: a man who’ll go the extra mile because they enjoy taking advantage of my sex drive.’

  ‘What about Blog Boy? What’s happening with him? Your little public display on Holloway Road sounded hot.’

  ‘It was … but I’m not planning on being on display like that again in a hurry. I’m a good girl, don’t you know.’

  ‘Yeah, of course, I forgot. But you are far more daring than me. The closest I got to doing something in the public eye, was eating her pussy as she was standing at the kitchen sink with the curtains open.’

  ‘Doing your washing-up, no doubt, you lazy bastard.’

  ‘Well, she was very wet, but not from having her hands in the water.’

  ‘She sounds like your type of woman, alright. So are you still looking to play then – got any couples lined up?’

  Tim looked down. ‘Um, no, I’ve stopped that for the moment. But if she wanted to dabble, I wouldn’t say no; though I think we need to let things settle before we involve others.’

  ‘Oh my. Here’s a woman with a great sex drive, you enjoy her company, find her funny and sweet and don’t want to fuck anyone else right now. Should I be buying a hat and fixing a speech?’

  Tim laughed. ‘Not just yet, but watch this space. I really like her.’

  ‘I’m so happy for you. You deserve it. That really is great news.’

  ‘What about you, then – what exactly happened with Blog Boy?’

  I sighed. ‘I don’t know. He said he didn’t want to get involved, he didn’t call after we last had sex and now he’s away on holiday, so I guess that’s it. I should have known better really. Anyhow, I’m trying to stay positive. Something will happen at the right time, just maybe not with him. Until then, whatever happens, happens. I have an open mind.’

  ‘I was going to say “and an open pussy too”, but figured you might hit me if I did.’

  ‘Cheeky bastard!’

  We both roared and then Tim’s expression became more serious.

  ‘I want you to meet her, at some point; I hope you’ll like her.’

  I smiled at him, ‘I’m sure I will. But don’t be getting any ideas about the three of us in your bed.’

  ‘I won’t, don’t worry. You’re safe with me.’

  ‘It’s not you I’m worried about: if she’s hot, I’ll be wanting to bed her too!’

  He smiled again, ‘Abby, whatever man you do eventually end up with, he is going to be one lucky – and very happy – bloke. Just remember that.’

  ‘Cheers, my dear. I’ll drink to that.’

  The Girl’s Guide Are You a Sex Fiend?

  1 Do you regularly have your hand between your legs when you watch TV, talk on the phone, sit on the computer, etc?

  2 Do you need to climax to relieve tension, stress and anger as well as for sexual pleasure?

  3 Do you always wake up horny and need to have a good frig to start the day off properly?

  4 Do you like to masturbate to send you off to sleep?

  5 Do you find that you need to play during the day as well, and desperately sneak off into the toilets at work for a quickie?

  6 Do you look at porn to get you off?

  7 Do you get aroused by looking at somebody on the street?

  8 Do you get aroused by pretty much anything?

  9 Can you climax in three minutes flat?

  10 Do you think about sex all the time?

  If you answer ‘yes’ to five or more questions, then you are a sex fiend like me and there is no hope for you.

  9

  September

  Thursday 1st September

  ‘Would you please stop looking at my tits!’ I pleaded with Kathy’s friend as he attempted to dance in front of me.

  ‘I’m not,’ he retorted, his eyes still glued to my bosoms.

  ‘Yes, you are – look!’ I pointed at the direction of his gaze, which was focussed on my nipple line.

  He quickly averted his eyes. ‘See, I’m not looking,’ he said defensively, his eyes immediately reverting back to breast level.

  I stood there and raised a single eyebrow at him. Pointing at my breasts, I asked him, ‘Do I look blind? You haven’t been able to keep your eyes off them since you began talking to me.’ I shook my head in disbelief.

  ‘But they’re just … you know … there’, he pleaded, gesturing towards them, adding, ‘I can’t help it!’

  I looked down at my non-low-cut, non-revealing formal blouse and watched him try to give me direct eye contact and fail. All he could do was glance from my tits to somewhere near my eye line and then back again. He looked up at me and shrugged hopelessly. Clearly this man needed help.

  He had spent the last half an hour trying to chat me up. Trying, being the operative word, since his technique was severely lacking. Unable to remove his eyes from my chest area, he had barely been able to maintain any form of conversation and had had to ask me to repeat everything I said. I knew that if he used this technique on another woman, he was risking being ignored at best, or, and this is more likely, getting a big slap. So I decided to help him.

  ‘Look, um, what did you say your name was again?’ I asked.

  ‘Gregory,’ he replied, asking that I emphasise the latter consonants in his name. Interesting, I thought, this attention to his own personal details; and ironic that he could then overlook the necessary basic social skills when it came to women.

  ‘OK, Gregory,’ I said, rolling the other consonants off my tongue as if I were practising my favourite dabbling technique on the underside of a cock, ‘this is how it is: you are not to look at my tits from now on. Got that?’

  He grimaced and looked at my tits.

  ‘You must be able to give me eye contact – try it,’ I pleaded.

  Gregory stared at my face with all his concentration. Three seconds later he was staring at my boobs again.

  ‘Honestly,’ I groaned, ‘you’re just not trying, you’re pathetic …’

  He shrugged, and looked back at my tits once more.

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Gregory, do you really think that is the way to win women over? Is that your tried and tested pulling technique?’

  He mumbled something incoherent and tried to focus on my face. I watched his eyes slowly lower themselves to my bosoms again and I knew that I was fighting a losing battle.

  ‘OK, enough. We’re going to have to try a different tactic. I want you to look at my tits.’

  He looked up at me. ‘Really? No, I couldn�
�t possibly …’

  ‘Seriously, I want you to stare at them, really get an eyeful. Go on, look at ’em.’ I glanced down at my chest, hoping his eyes would follow.

  He stared at me, speechless.

  ‘Come on, Gregory, take a good look, do it. I know you want to,’ I said, in my most seductive, persuasive voice.

  ‘Really? Are you sure?’ he asked shyly, his face going a little red.

  ‘Yes. Go on, look. Have a really good look.’

  He still seemed unsure whether I was being serious or not and his eyes flitted between my face and my breasts awkwardly.

  ‘Do it, Gregory. Look. I want you to get a really good look, because that’s all you’re gonna get. For the next thirty seconds, you are going to look at my tits, and after that, you will not look at them again. Understand?’

  He nodded slowly.

  ‘Right. Now look at them.’ I lowered my hands to my breasts, cupped them through my blouse and gently squeezed them together.

  Unsurprisingly, he lowered his eyes to my hands and stared at my chest, his gaze fixed.

  ‘That’s good,’ I said, reassuringly. ‘Look at them. Have a really good stare. Picture them in your mind, memorise every curve, each outline.’ I removed my hands and looked at my watch. ‘Fifteen seconds left.’

  He stared – a man possessed – his expression one of awe mixed with excitement. I watched his mouth turn into a wide smile.

  ‘Five seconds.’

  He bit his lip and his eyes wandered across my chest.

  ‘Time’s up.’

  He looked up at me.

  ‘Right. You’ve had your look, yes?’