by Abby Lee
‘God, your cock is hard,’ I remarked, slightly shocked by the response I was getting from the light touch I was giving him. ‘I don’t know how much more I can take of this; I just want to take it out now and hold it.’
He responded by sliding his fingers further inside me again, making me shiver and shake once more.
‘Fuck, I can’t bear this,’ I said, as I pressed my palm down, ‘I want your cock inside me now!’
‘I want to be inside you too.’ He gave me a long kiss, and as his tongue danced in my mouth, I tried to think.
OK, so I had already crossed the friendship barrier with Jamie. It was too late to pretend otherwise. Surely it could do no harm to go further? It would give me what I’d been craving all night. There was no turning back. I had to fuck him – and fast.
I leaned over to him and whispered, ‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’
‘The lavatory?’
‘Yes. We’ve both got condoms with us, after all.’
He grinned. I continued, somewhat excitedly: ‘You could follow me in and have a seat on the toilet. I could just lift my dress and then sit on your cock. How does that sound?’
‘I’m not going to be able to last long,’ he warned me, ‘not after all this.’ He motioned to my thumb, still busy in his lap.
‘Neither am I,’ I pressed down harder, ‘but I need to feel your cock inside me.’
He nodded, wincing, ‘Sounds good to me.’
He removed his hand from my crotch as I started to get up. ‘You do know you are going to leave a huge wet patch on the seat, don’t you?’ he joked.
‘Fuck it, it’s leather, no one will notice,’ I responded, somewhat unconvincingly, worried I’d turn to see a small puddle of liquid on the seat, glinting under the ceiling lights.
‘Your dress is fine,’ he said, as I tried to adjust it, and at the time I believed him, so I walked straight into the toilet.
He followed me in and within moments we were locked in the cubicle, his hands freeing my breasts from my dress and bra, my hands tearing down his jeans to get to his penis.
There was barely enough room in there for one person to stand, let alone for two people to fuck, but we managed it. As he entered me I heard him grunt, and I felt my orgasm build and increase in its intensity; the moment he released his, I let go, clutching at him as I came like a fucking train.
We sat there, sweaty, shaking and laughing, finally released from the pent-up horniness. But then he started to play with my nipples and set me off again, and I came hard once more.
‘Sorry about that,’ I said, ‘you started me up again. I knew there was one more waiting to come out. Six orgasms in one night – I think I owe you! Perhaps we should try this again sometime to even out the score a bit – maybe somewhere a little more spacious?’
He agreed and laughed and kissed me once more, and I felt happy and excited that he wanted to see me again. Perhaps I could finally put Blog Boy behind me now.
After a little while I stood up and we fixed our clothing and left the bar. Saying goodnight, I made my way to my night bus.
It was only when I sat down that I realised just how wrong he had been about my dress. Not only was it absolutely sopping, but when I looked at it later I discovered my come all over it too.
Not a bad thing, but it certainly explained all the stares I got from people as I made my way home.
Wednesday 12th October
One of the things that most attracts me to men is their brain. I know I wrote that I loved a tall man with big hands, but what really gets me going is a man’s ability to express himself intellectually. The biggest aphrodisiac of all is intelligence.
After meeting Blog Boy and Jamie, I am becoming aware that I find it simultaneously attractive and intimidating to be in the company of a man whom I find intellectually challenging. I love the fact that they can stimulate my mind and fire up my neurons, but I also feel nervous faced with the possibility that they’ll highlight my own intellectual weaknesses. The result of this paradox is excitement. Ergo, I feel aroused.
Thinking about this reminds me of one of my tutors at college years ago. A few years older than me, he was not a particularly attractive man. He drank and smoked far too much and obviously indulged in unhealthy eating – he was pretty out of shape. He had no dress sense and it was clear that he was quite a geek – not exactly the testosterone-fuelled Alpha Male that women are supposed to go weak at the knees for.
Yet I am sure he had pussy falling out of his pockets.
Or at least he would have had my pussy falling out of his pocket had I decided to cross the line between tutor and student.
You see, regardless of how he looked or carried himself, the man had a brain on him, and that was intolerably sexy to me. My mind would go to mush every time he talked about Postmodernism. One mention of Derrida, and I was captivated. A brief exploration of Lyotard and I was hooked. A quick attack on McLuhan and my heart started beating faster. When he told us pornography was a transgressive movement against conservatism, I was smitten.
It is fair to say that I had a massive crush on his mind.
During his lectures, I would sit there, transfixed by his arguments, his every word making my breath race and my pussy tighten. On more than one occasion, I would have to leave the lecture hall to go to the toilet to relieve myself. I even sat at the back of the room so that I could make a quick exit for my frig. For three years.
And after the lectures, we would have seminars – otherwise known as getting drunk with the tutors in the cheap student bar. We got on very well of course, and would spend hours in debate, discussion, or in blazing arguments, seeing who could down the most beers at the same time. Other students would join us, but the connection between us two was on another level. And that level was sex.
He read me very well. Not only because I regularly wrote theses about feminism, pornography and sexuality, but through our discussions about sex, and our ability to be totally frank with each other, I knew that he was as open-minded as me – if not more so. Not many students would know that their tutor liked to tie his partners up, and whip, spank and tease them, before fucking them hard, but I knew this – and more – about him.
Despite that, neither of us explored the sexual tension that swirled around us. Apart from the fact that student/teacher relationships were strictly forbidden, I didn’t want anything to jeopardise my studies.
I was hungry for knowledge and a proud student too. I absorbed every piece of information I could and I always strived to be the best. I would get disappointed if I got less than an A minus in any subject, and would work even harder to ensure that my grades kept up to the A pluses I expected of myself. If I had fucked my tutor it would have meant that I couldn’t trust his marking: something I couldn’t bear to have happen. I wanted to know that I had earned and deserved every mark I got and not to have to worry that he was swayed by my sexual ability.
So we didn’t shag and I’m thankful, because it meant I knew my final mark was based on my knowledge, hard work and ability to construct a killer argument – skills I have tried to maintain in my everyday adult life.
And, of course, not fucking him left me wanting more. I learned that there is nothing nicer than being on the edge of your chair with excitement in a debate with someone who you find intellectually stimulating – especially if your body is fully engaged too.
So I am very much looking forward to seeing Jamie again. I’d like to revisit the rough and ready, downright horny sex, but I hope I’ll get a little bit more than that too – a brain fuck into the bargain.
Tuesday 18th October
Yesterday I had a conversation with a work colleague called Pete about the number of sexual partners we have each enjoyed. I suspected my tally would be far higher than his, and the conversation seemed to be running along on two levels.
‘How many men have you slept with, then?’ Pete asked. I want to find out how experienced/slutty you are.
‘You know a l
ady can never divulge such things,’ I replied. ‘It’s a woman’s right to keep her exact age, her weight and the number of lovers she’s had to herself.’ Which of course is a load of fucking bollocks, and I would gladly tell you the answers to all three if I weren’t so sure that you’d judge me on the last one.
‘Oh, come on, I won’t judge you. I’m just curious. It’s no big deal, however many it might be.’ Except that it can’t possibly be more women than I have slept with, since that would leave me feeling insecure about my own sexual prowess.
‘If it’s not a big deal, then I’m not going to tell you. Some things are best kept personal.’ If you knew how many, you would stop chatting me up instantly.
‘Look, it really doesn’t matter to me. I’m just wondering. If it’s a lot, I don’t have a problem with that. It just means you’re more skilled than most, which isn’t a bad thing.’ I hope it’s not a lot.
‘Seriously, I’m not going to tell you; guys always pass judgment on women based on how many people they’ve fucked, even if they say they don’t.’ And the hypocritical double-standard about what is considered acceptable for men, as opposed to women, pisses me off.
‘I won’t. I tell you what, I’ll write down how many women I have slept with on a bit of paper and then you can tell me whether your number is higher or lower.’ And that way I can write whatever I think is a large number, so that you think I have a lot of experience.
He jotted down something onto a scrap of paper and handed it to me, ensuring his fingers lingered on mine as he dropped the note into my hand. I opened the note up and smiled. Bet he exaggerated the number to impress me. Boy, would he be shocked with my number. Fuck it, maybe I should just tell him.
‘So, what is it, then?’ Pete asked. Let’s hope it’s below that figure. Please, let it be below that figure.
I paused for a moment. ‘Let’s just say that with me, you could double that figure.’ Actually you could triple it or even quadruple it, and you’d still be quite a few off.
‘Really?’ Pete exclaimed. ‘Wow. I mean, hey – that’s great, each to their own, some people are more experienced than others, right? That’s wonderful.’ What a slut. There’s no way I could date her knowing that. Glad I found that out now.
‘Yup. Anyway, I’ve found it’s irrelevant how many lovers a person has had; for me it’s all about someone’s enthusiasm, interest and open-mindedness, not to mention there being a great mental connection – that’s what makes great sex.’ Alongside an ability not to judge, which clearly, looking at the stunned expression on your face, you are having a hard time doing right now.
‘I agree. Oops, I really should get back to the set; it’s been fun chatting.’ But I don’t think this situation will be developing any further now.
‘It’s been fun, yeah. And nice to know that there are some open-minded men out there.’ Shame you’re not one of them.
He kissed me on the cheek and wandered off, leaving me standing there clutching the piece of paper in my hand.
What a twat. I’m beginning to give up hope on men.
Wednesday 19th October
I’m still fuming from that conversation with Pete. Why judge someone’s attractiveness by the number of sexual partners that they’ve had? Why should it matter? It does, clearly. In my own experience – which is obviously too much for Pete to deal with – men have three different ways of behaving when confronted by a woman who’s had a lot of lovers:
The intimidated man. Although perhaps turned on by the woman’s sexual confidence, these men are essentially put off by her sexual history, because they find it daunting that she might have more experience – for this, read better skills – in bed than them. They might want to be the one with all the sex-tricks, not the one learning them. They worry that they won’t be able to satisfy her in bed, so they back away from exploring any intimacy with her, both physical and mental. That’s not to say they don’t frantically masturbate when thinking about her, though.
The confident man. These men are not intimidated. Rather they are turned on by the knowledge. They equate this with a high sex drive and assume that they are then almost guaranteed a good fuck with her. They still feel relaxed about their own sexual expertise, too. On the down side, the fact that they are driven by their focus on shagging her, rather than connecting with her mentally, means they may not achieve any intimacy with her. Also, since their expectations of her sexual prowess might be unrealistic, they will quite possibly end up being disappointed, when the reality doesn’t match their fantasy. Again, some frantic masturbating is involved, but it usually occurs prior to the sex and rarely continues after it.
The man who wants to ‘tame’ a woman. These men are neither put off nor highly turned on by the woman’s previous sexual history. Instead, their challenge is to try to make the woman become monogamous – and monogamous with them – thus proving that their own sexual prowess was enough to make the woman ‘settle down’. Again, their expectations might be unrealistic: if a woman is in no hurry to enter a long-term relationship, then no amount of devotion to her pussy will make her give up her lifestyle. I am assuming some regular masturbating occurs for the male in question here too, but most likely involves the addition of the mental image of a white picket fence and a dog.
In my experience, most men I’ve met fall into group one when faced with a sexually confident/experienced woman. Next in line are the number two’s, and lastly the number three’s who are few in number and I’ve only bumped into them a couple of times.
I have nothing against any of the men I have described – in fact I have occasionally, wistfully wished that a few more number one’s would give me a chance, but I am still hoping that a man will one day say to me:
‘How many partners? I really don’t care actually. Let’s just get to know each other, and see if we have a connection, OK?’
Jamie seems to be the latter. I hope so, anyway.
Friday 21st October
Just got an email from Jamie. I opened it eagerly but couldn’t believe my eyes when I read what he had written.
He’s got back together with his ex. He won’t be able to meet up with me again.
I can’t say I’m not disappointed – I am. Massively gutted, actually.
Though we only met twice, given the scores of emails and text messages we sent and the fantastic sex we had, I felt like we had a great connection. It was reassuring that he was so open about sex too; finally, I thought, here’s a man who is on my level and will understand my obsession.
So it’s all over now and I suppose I just have to believe that it wasn’t meant to be. Why do I have such bad luck with blokes?
By a weird coincidence Blog Boy has emailed me too – finally. He said he was really looking forward to seeing me again when he gets back from his travels in a couple of weeks. He apologised profusely for the drop in communication before he went away, saying he was very stressed out with work and trying to sort the trip and that he hoped he hadn’t offended me by not being in touch.
I am trying not to read anything into it. He’s probably just feeling homesick right now, but I am pleased that he contacted me. And I’m glad he reiterated the fact that he still wants to be friends with me – hopefully, he means it.
Though of course I’d be lying if I said I still didn’t want more with him.
Thursday 27th October
With how things turned out with Blog Boy and now Jamie, I’ve decided to go to New York once again to have some time away from the men here in London. They’re just confusing me.
There’s not much work around and I’ve got some time on my hands. I need to do something positive and get out of town.
So I’m off in a few days, staying with Harry once more. I can’t wait to see him and tell him about all my adventures this year.
Perhaps I’ll even have some more fun when I’m in the States. Here’s hoping.
The Girl’s Guide to Qualities Sought in a Man
11
November
Wednesday 2nd November
As soon as I got through Customs I knew I would see him.
Not that there was any logic to that gut feeling, but as I turned the corner I felt his presence and sure enough there he was, standing by the far wall.
Nick had aged quite a bit since I last saw him. His dark hair is now a mass of grey curls and his face is etched with more lines than I remembered. He looked more handsome than ever; his beautiful eyes lit up when he caught sight of me and the laughter lines around them set off his wide smile.
‘Oh, my God! Abby! I don’t believe it!’ he exclaimed, and walked towards me, arms outstretched.
He embraced me tightly, making my spine tingle as he touched the bare skin under the straps of my tank top. I felt the muscles on his back flex as I wrapped my arms around him and remembered how much I used to adore his strong shoulders, how I used to trace them with my fingertips before pressing my breasts against them.
As we hugged and I rested my head on him, I caught the freshness of his smell. I had an impulse to kiss his neck gently, as I used to, but instead I inhaled deeply – as if to preserve the scent-memory of him – and squeezed him tighter.
We pulled back and did the embarrassing dance of two English people who have previously been intimate – where should we kiss each other hello? We finally settled – somewhat haphazardly – on each other’s cheek, as awkward as teenagers.
‘What are you doing here?’ he asked, looking thrilled.
‘I’m staying with some friends and also meeting up with my folks when they’re in town,’ I said. ‘Hopefully I’ll still be sane at the end of it, but I doubt it.’
He laughed and the lines around his eyes crinkled warmly. I remembered being seduced by those same eyes, that and his wit, charm and northern accent.