by Abby Lee
He nodded.
‘And you can recall them clearly in your mind, every detail?’
He grinned.
‘OK, good. Now, pay attention: whenever a woman is speaking, or you are talking to her, you must look her in the eyes, just as you’re doing with me now. Do you understand?’
He nodded again, his eyes levelling with mine.
‘There are two exceptions to this rule. Number one is that you can look at her tits, but – and I cannot state how important this is – never when in conversation. Only when she is looking away. Got that?’
He nodded enthusiastically.
‘You mustn’t even slightly glance at her tits whilst either of you are talking; don’t think you can get away with a small sneaky peek – you can’t. Women always know when guys are staring at their breasts and they’ll rate you as a class A arsehole if you do it. Still with me?’
‘I think so,’ he said. ‘So I can look, but only when her head is turned, right?’
‘Yes. Like this,’ I turned to look at the dance floor. ‘You can look at my tits now, but as soon as I turn my head back, you need to give me eye contact again.’ I turned round to face him once more.
He was staring at my eyes.
‘You’re learning; excellent. You’ve got to practise this. You’ll get better, trust me.’
He looked at me excitedly. ‘Fantastic. So I can look at her tits, but as long as she doesn’t catch me looking, it’s fine?’
‘Something like that, yeah.’
‘So what’s the other exception to the rule, then?’ he asked, somewhat gleefully.
‘Ah, well, that’s simple. If you’re sitting in a darkened corner, her tongue is down your throat and her hand is on your cock, stroking it, then you can take it as a given that you can not only look at her tits, but you can cop a good feel as well,’ I answered.
He laughed, ‘You are an amazing woman. How do you know all this stuff?’
For a moment I considered telling him about my experiences so far this year and all the different men I’ve shagged. Then I decided not to: it would have been pointless, plus he wasn’t someone I wanted to add to my fuck list.
‘Let’s just say, I have a few male friends and I do my best to ensure they get laid, because many of them are hopeless with women.’ I quickly added, ‘And if you make sure you don’t stare at another woman’s tits like you have at mine tonight, I’m sure you’ll do just fine.’
‘You should be charging for this,’ he said, ‘men would pay good money for advice on how to pick up women.’
I laughed at the irony of the situation – I’m broke and there’s not much film work to be had – and I wondered whether he might be right.
Sunday 4th September
A girl can have too much of a good thing. Not sex, obviously. I can never have too much of that and I’m having a bit of a dry spell at the moment. No, I’m talking about condoms. I have far too many of them; it’s as if my bedroom has been invaded by a pharmacy – they’re everywhere.
It’s not like:
I have any need for so many condoms given that I haven’t had sex for over a month now;
I am a prostitute and can get condoms as a tax break;
I am planning any orgies where I’ll need such a huge variety of prophylactics.
No. Most of these condoms will stay tucked up in my flat, never to see the light of day, or fulfil their short-lived latex destiny of being inserted deep into a very wet me.
The variety I have managed to collect astounds me. Alongside the Durex staples of ‘Extra Safe’ and ‘Fetherlite’ (thin) that I have purchased, I also have their more interesting ‘Sensation’ (studded) and ‘Pleasuremax’ (studded and ribbed) varieties.
Then there are boxes of Trojans ‘Ultra Pleasure’(thin), ‘Her Pleasure’ (ribbed) and ‘Shared Pleasure’ (warming lubricant) that have been given to me free by some safe-sex marketing people. (Query: why don’t they make ‘His Pleasure’ Trojans?)
Added to which are the freebie NHS condoms I have been handed during gynae’ check-ups: Condomi ‘Nature’, and Pasante ‘Naturelle’, ‘Trim’, ‘Regular’, ‘Large’ and ‘Extra Strong’.
And as for flavours, how about blueberry, strawberry, orange, lemon, mint, chocolate and vanilla?
Every type, every size, every flavour: too many. Too many condoms altogether.
Now I like to think I am a progressive woman because I believe in safe sex being a 50/50 split between both partners. I always have condoms at home, and like to give a guy the choice of type, seeing as he’ll be the one wearing it.
But this can be difficult: I want a guy to know I am a liberated, modern woman who comes prepared for any eventuality, but when I pull open the bedside drawer to reveal 100-odd foil-wrapped condoms ready for use, he might think me a little strange at best, or a sex maniac at worst.
This could make for awkward dialogue in the heat of the moment:
Me: ‘So, do you like ribbed? Or maybe silicone-lubricated? Or perhaps flavoured?’
Him: ‘Anything is fine, just hurry up!’
Me: ‘You’re not XL are you? It’s just that I’ve run out of those …’
Even with all this variety, when the ‘condom moment’ arrives I have learned that it’s far less about ‘What type is it?’ and much more about ‘Just roll it on quickly, I want to fuck you now.’
Not that I am against enjoying condoms as part of foreplay – not since I discovered that I can put them on using my mouth, at any rate – but breaking off to ask a guy what variety he’d prefer, kind of kills the mood, I think.
Ninety-nine per cent of the shags I’ve had, have proved that one size really does fit all, so I guess it doesn’t matter what you use, as long as you use something.
I’m having a bit of a clear-out in my flat just now, so this is on my mind. What should I do with all these excess condoms? I don’t think I need the huge selection? I can’t bear to throw them away unused, though; that kind of waste offends me. I’m not getting enough action to use them all up just now. I wonder if my local charity shop would accept a donation?
Anyway, when I next have some rampant sex chez moi – and please God let it be soon – I think I might just ask the guy if he has brought any of his own instead. That way I can get to find out what he likes and make sure I am well stocked up with that brand for next time.
Though, obviously, one box will do just fine. A 12-pack, naturally.
Wednesday 7th September
I have met someone. Well, when I say met, I mean talked to. And when I say talked to, I mean we’ve exchanged loads of emails over the last few days. The profile I put up on the internet dating site seems to have finally paid off: a lovely guy has contacted me. Maybe it’s time that I forgot about Blog Boy.
Like me, Jamie reads the Guardian and is left wing. He has a great sense of humour too – perfect. Thinking he might be too good to be true, I asked for photos. I was fully prepared to get some mug shots of a fat, ugly, middle-aged guy, but the shots he sent showed a good-looking guy in his early thirties. Another tick to the list.
When he suggested meeting today, I jumped at the chance. Things look hopeful, I thought, as I made my way to Café Nero in Soho.
Jamie turned out not only to be devilishly handsome and with wonderful green eyes, but he also had a dynamic personality. He was captivating company – even better in real life than in his emails. He was totally blasé about sex too, and talked about it frequently and openly. My kind of man indeed.
His jokes had me in fits of laughter, and as I noticed the lines around his eyes crinkling with warmth, I found myself fancying the pants off him. My body responded warmly to him as we sat spinning out our lattes, and aside from wanting to fuck him senseless, I couldn’t help wondering if he wasn’t Potential Boyfriend Material as well. It felt good to be meeting someone new and exciting and I didn’t want to rush it, but enjoy it at my leisure.
So I only flirted with him lightly and gently teased him about the way he
glanced at my cleavage, and when he put his hand on my waist to kiss me goodbye, I leaned in and squeezed his hip gently – little touches that said a lot. We agreed to meet up for drinks in a couple of weeks. By the time we parted in Soho I was wearing damp pants and a huge grin and I hope he had a decent hard-on too.
When I got home, there was an email from him waiting for me, saying how great it had been to meet. I replied straight away, saying how much I’d enjoyed meeting him too.
I know I shouldn’t be crossing my fingers about this, or raising my hopes when it’s early days, but it is looking good so far, I reckon.
Especially since my pants are still wet from thinking about him.
Friday 9th September
Dear Man on the Street,
We need to talk. There are some things you should know and I hope I can shed some light on them for you.
When I walk along my road, it does not, as you may presume, give me pleasure to be shouted at just because you have spotted my breasts and approve of them.
Contrary to what you may think, it does not make me happy to have your eyeballs transfixed onto my tits. Staring, ogling, drooling – none of these make me appreciate the male gender. In fact the opposite is true: when faced with a man unable to tear his eyes away from my chest area, I am more inclined to think ‘arsehole’ than ‘knight in shining armour’.
I know this may come as a shock to you. I assume you think that when you shout at me, ‘Nice tits!’ that I just love the attention, but you are wrong. Very wrong.
Let me explain:
⋆ It is not a compliment
⋆ It is not a turn-on
⋆ I do not go home and rub myself into oblivion, thinking how sexy your words made me feel
⋆ Your behaviour does not tempt me to drop my pants in front of you and say, ‘Oh please, I love it when you say that, fuck me now!’
The only time anyone has a right to remark on my breasts is when someone like Blog Boy is in bed with me, and tells me how much he likes them, and then asks me to rub them against his cock. Then and only then do I like them being talked about, stared at and fondled. Any other time is just not on – especially if you are a stranger looking at me in the street.
You might think that I have no right to say these things, considering my own preoccupation with sex, and the delight I take in looking at men’s crotches, but I beg to differ. When I look, I observe subtly, and hopefully never get caught doing it. I wouldn’t dream of staring blatantly at a man’s package or saying something out loud to him. Intimidating or offending him would be derogatory, and I would hate to make him feel objectified.
You seem to think that the reverse does not apply to you, and that your behaviour is acceptable. It seems that as a man you’re free to say what you like about women’s bodies when you like, and more often than not it’s offensive. It makes me think that maybe hardly any men have actually seen real live breasts close up, let alone felt them. Why else would you behave this way? Surely you know better than to be so rude? How do you expect me to respond?
So, I hope that this will clear up any bewilderment you may have experienced when you heard ‘Arsehole’, ‘Wanker’, and ‘Tosser’ shouted back at you today. It wasn’t personal, love, promise.
Yours truly,
Abby
Monday 12th September
‘You have the feet of an angel.’
I turned round to find a thirty-something man in a suit grinning at me.
‘Excuse me?’
‘I said, your feet, they’re angelic – so beautiful.’
I looked down at my feet. Granted, the turquoise nail polish I had on was cute, and the sparkly flip-flops quite sweet, but my size eight-and-a-half flat feet, angelic? I think not.
I looked back up to find him smiling contentedly at me. ‘You see, lovely; they really are gorgeous.’
‘I think you’re mistaken,’ I replied, adding ‘but thank you anyway for the compliment.’
He shook his head. ‘No, no, no, it is you who is mistaken, you have perfect feet – I saw them from over there,’ he gestured towards the tube station I’d just emerged from, ‘and I just had to tell you how lovely they were.’ He grinned widely at me.
I looked back at him, trying to mask my suspicion with an ironic arch of a single eyebrow, but quite probably looking like I was grimacing instead.
‘Don’t think I am weird,’ he said, cottoning on to the exact thought running through my mind, ‘it’s just that, well, you are a very foxy lady, so I wanted to talk to you anyway, but when I saw your feet, I just had to say something, because they are the most gorgeous ones I have ever seen.’
I laughed. ‘Well, thanks; I’m not quite sure I agree, but cheers.’ I shifted my feet uncomfortably, aware that his gaze kept dropping to my toes, and for the first time in my life, finding it somehow more disconcerting that a man was looking at my feet, rather than my breasts.
‘I know this may sound a bit forward, but, um, could I massage them for you sometime?’ he asked, his eyes lighting up a little.
Oh great. A foot fetishist: just my luck. If it’s not a breastfixated man, or an emotionally unstable guy, it’s a bloke who wants to worship my feet. Fabulous. I must have a sign on my forehead that says ‘Only approach this girl if you are odd, an arsehole, or just plain weird. Normal guys need not apply’.
‘No thanks,’ I replied, ‘though it’s very kind of you to offer …’
‘Is it because you have a boyfriend?’ he asked, pursuing the matter.
‘Yes,’ I lied, thinking that he would take the hint, ‘he wouldn’t really approve.’
‘Oh, but there don’t need to be any strings attached, I just want to stroke them,’ he reasoned, thinking that this would win me over instead of causing me to bolt away down the road as fast as possible
‘Thank you, really, I’m just not interested,’ I said, adding, ‘but five gold stars for your approach; the most original I’ve ever encountered.’
He grinned. ‘Well, your boyfriend is a lucky man. You really are quite beautiful you know, and I hope he spends all night caressing your lovely feet.’
‘He does,’ I lied, thinking that if that was on my list of requirements for a partner, I would be destined to be single for the rest of my life. ‘He’s a lovely man; I’m on my way to see him now.’
He shook my hand and wished me well, and I walked off in my flip-flops, trying to appear both elegant and on-the-way to-see-a-boyfriend, and so tripped over my own feet and almost fell right over.
It didn’t seem to matter. He was still staring contentedly at my feet, a look of awe and delight on his face.
Thursday 15th September
Karl emailed me today, almost two years after we last saw each other. It’s hard to keep in touch now that he lives in America. We’re not close friends but Karl and I have, over the years, got together many times to have sex. Friendly fuck-buddies, if you will. We are very familiar with each other’s bodies and he was the first man that I gave a blow job to and enjoyed it myself.
Up until my mid-twenties, I felt as though every blow job I gave had been forced on me. Fellatio, as far as I was concerned, involved some form of coercion. Every time I put a man’s penis in my mouth, it reminded me of some nasty occasions when I had my head pushed down onto a guy’s cock so that it almost suffocated me.
Every time I did it, I felt disgusted. How could something so revolting turn a guy on?
Even when my boyfriend Danny, whom I cared for deeply, stuck his cock in my mouth, I hated it. I dreaded the moment when he would ask me to suck him.
That is, until I met Karl.
Karl is a hell of an attractive man. He has fabulous brown eyes and the sexiest laughter lines around them. He is intelligent: we used to sit up all night arguing about politics, him pro-capitalism, me pro-socialism.
We used to have bitter rows. We’d fight and fuck, and boy was the fucking good. Very passionate. Very heated. Very political.
Me (riding his cock, digg
ing my nails into his chest): ‘You surely don’t believe that the pursuit of financial wealth is the answer to America’s problems? As if by making all poor people rich, you’ll get rid of class oppression or racism?’
Him (grabbing my hips, pulling me deeper onto his cock): ‘You just want to tax everyone and stop people having the money they’ve worked for and that they deserve. Why should poor people get handouts? They should just work harder. That way they’ll have the same chance as everyone else to be happy.’
Me (pumping him hard): ‘Oh, just shut up and fuck me.’
And so he did.
Karl wasn’t just verbal, he had a few other favourite uses for his mouth too. He ADORED cunnilingus. To this day I have never met a pussy worshipper like him. He would beg me to let him put his head between my thighs and eat me all night.
Back then I was not such a fan. I mean, I would never say no to being licked and I did enjoy it, but given a choice between some labia-tonguing and a hot, hard cock thrusting in and out of me, it was always penetration that got me going every time.
Anyway, making Karl beg and plead was all part of the game, and he’d get stuck in, head down, like he hadn’t had a meal all day. Gold star for enthusiasm.
I would watch him, and I began to notice that his cock would be flaccid when he started licking me, but that within a few minutes he would be grinding himself against the bed, rock hard. When he came up for air, his cock would be stuck out like a fucking flagpole.
I would grab him immediately, and try to fuck him, but he would always ask for just a little bit longer ‘down there’. OK, whatever, I thought, as I lay back and got licked some more.
Knowing that he got a boner from eating me out turned me on, and it made me think: why did he enjoy it? I never enjoyed sucking cock. What was it that he liked about licking me? I gave it a lot of thought. Was it because I tasted nice? Or was it because he knew I was getting turned on as he did it?
Whatever it was, he got off on getting me off, and I realised that I had been being selfish. For some time I had just laid back with him working away busily and I had never given so much as a thought to sucking his cock. Karl had never even asked me to suck him, let alone pushed me down there against my will, like other guys had. Maybe because of this I wanted to explore him too and give him back some pleasure in kind.