Diary Of A Sex Fiend

by Abby Lee

  ‘What about you?’ I asked. ‘You on holiday too?’

  ‘No, I live here now,’ he replied. ‘I’ve been stuck here for the last hour waiting for a friend to arrive.’ He gestured at the Arrivals board above my head.

  ‘Oh, wow. I didn’t know you’d moved.’ I was shocked that I hadn’t known something so major. It suddenly seemed like an age since our lives were synchronised, a lifetime since he lay next to me, stroking the hair away from my eyes.

  ‘So, you still doing music stuff, then?’ I asked.

  ‘Yep, bits and bobs. Mostly writing for others now.’

  I recalled how the broken-heartedness of his lyrics showed a more gentle side to his otherwise rugged, laddish exterior. The first time I watched him perform the melancholic melodies his skilful guitar-playing entranced me.

  ‘You still doing film stuff?’ he asked, and I remembered the night we celebrated my first big break in the movie industry with beers and laughter, me talking about changing the world, him asking me to be my escort to the Oscars.

  ‘Yep, still pretending to be a Hollywood bigwig, and planning the socialist overthrow of the system.’

  He laughed. ‘You haven’t changed,’ he said, and poked me gently.

  But I have, I wanted to say: I am trying to be a different woman now. I have become less fearful than I was with you. I am no longer filled with self-hatred and doubt. I have no need to sabotage situations to protect my fragile and damaged ego. I am more able to express my feelings. I am learning that it is OK to love, even if it means losing someone. I am more able to face and deal with rejection, even when it hurts. I am seeing how it is better to risk pain than have a cold heart and be lonely. I am beginning to understand that real happiness can come from sharing pleasure, love and intimacy with another, not just from multiple orgasms.

  I felt an impulse to reach out to him – touch his face – tell him how much I regretted the way things ended between us, but no words came to me.

  ‘What has it been? Seven years?’ I asked, knowing exactly how long it was.

  ‘Something like that. You look great,’ he added.

  I saw his eyes run over my body as if he was visualising me naked and I felt very self-conscious. I was haggard from the long flight and knew I looked rough. He looked me up and down and I remembered him kissing me from head to toe, following the contours of my body with his fingers, the way he loved my breasts and would spend an age caressing them, his cock rising as his hands stroked my nipples. He used to tell me I was beautiful, but I never believed him; I wondered if he still found me pretty.

  ‘You look great too,’ I responded, and meant it.

  He had filled out a lot since I last saw him, but it suited him in that burly, manly way that tall men can sexily get away with. I remembered kissing his beer belly, laughing at the way it wobbled as I blew raspberries on it. I recalled grabbing hold of his love handles and pulling him close as he slid his cock inside me. Once I wrote his name in kisses on his back and I hoped he still knew how much I cared about him.

  My ride from the airport arrived and cut the reminiscing short. We quickly exchanged numbers and swore we’d keep in touch, but I knew that we wouldn’t speak again. It seemed right somehow to have closure this way – the coincidence of bumping into each other and finally ending that particular chapter in our lives.

  As I walked away from him, I felt a distant thud in my heart. Not because I wanted him back in my life, and not out of regret for something I did in the past, but because I realised that he represented what it is that I now miss – loving someone, and being loved in return. Seeing him has made me see that I think I would like to share my life with someone special again.

  The taxi headed towards Harry’s apartment and as the city streets flashed by, I became aware of my loneliness and sadness about how things have turned out with Blog Boy. I still felt hopeful for the future: if I could meet my past in such a chance event, then surely it would just be a matter of time before serendipity crossed my path again offering my future.

  I watched the sun begin to rise over the skyscrapers, and felt like this was a metaphor for my life: it was a new dawn and I was ready to feel the warmth of the sun, even if it burnt my eyes.

  Thursday 3rd November

  It’s so nice to be back in New York, seeing Harry and my other old friends again. I do love to potter around this city. I’ve always felt an affinity to it, more so than London. Maybe it’s because I visited here a lot as a child, with my parents, or perhaps it’s because in this city I get chatted up constantly and I barely need to make an effort.

  I just got approached by a guy on a subway train when I was making my way to see some friends on the Upper East Side – if that’s not keen, I don’t know what is. He was very cute – a little dishevelled, a slightly mischievous look, and when he walked up to me to ask if the diverted train I was stepping onto was heading uptown, I felt a little throb between my legs.

  Neither of us could figure out the train route so we ended up chatting for over an hour as the subway went all round the houses. It was nice to have the company, especially when it was accompanied by his sexy smile.

  He seemed quite sweet and eager, asking for my number and then texting me before I’d even got out of the subway station. That’s all good. We’ve arranged to meet for a drink in a couple of days and I’m quite looking forward to it.

  Harry, however, thinks I am insane to have a date with a complete stranger:

  ‘What if he is a nutter?’ he argued, as I staggered into his apartment slightly pissed tonight.

  If he only knew what I’d done with all the other strangers I have met this year, he would have a fit.

  Saturday 5th November

  We both laughed out loud and I noticed our knees touching.

  Good sign, I thought, as I took another sip of my beer, perhaps a snog is on the cards.

  It had all been going well with the guy from the train. After a few days’ worth of flirtatious phone calls we were now relaxing in a bar which proudly displayed a flag proclaiming:

  We, the people, say NO to the Bush agenda.

  ‘Fantastic,’ I said to myself, as I bought another round of beers, ‘and impressive – obviously this guy is on the same page as me.’

  Tipping the bartender, I noticed a sign above the bar and grinned as I read the caption:

  George W. Bush couldn’t run a laundromat; someone else for President.

  Three thousand miles away from London and I felt at home. These were clearly my people.

  It wasn’t a far stretch to assume that this guy would be similarly like-minded; after all, he brought me to the place and if, like me, he’s openly a leftie in his politics, then it was likely he would be open-minded about other things too.

  I mentally checked off a wish-list of things to discuss in order to find out exactly how liberated he was:

  casual sex

  blow-job techniques

  sex in public

  spanking

  threesomes

  Then I realised that my list was entirely sex based and that I should probably try to impress him with my dazzling wit, knowledge about the movie industry and political know-how, instead of letting on that I am a sex fiend.

  That could come later.

  So I walked back to where he sat, expecting – and hoping – to have a stimulating discussion about the current political status of America and the potential fall-out for the Republican Party from Hurricane Katrina.

  I was rather surprised when instead, he began to tell me about his prayer group meetings, how religious observance is the answer to life’s ills and how the problems we see today are a result of sex before marriage.

  I could have hit myself. I knew that he was from the South – and a farm boy at that – but I had tried not jump to conclusions. It seemed, sadly, that he was just a stereotypical Southern redneck God-botherer. Goddamit.

  Here I was, a girl with a one-track mind, deep in discussion with someone who, if he kne
w the level of sordidness going on in my head, would have had to create a special prayer to God, just for me, in order to save me from all the sins I have performed (and hopefully am yet to perform) and save my soul.

  I realised that if there was any spiritual searching to be done that night it didn’t involve his lips and tongue finding the answers somewhere on my body.

  Shit. How can I get out of this date? I racked my brain. I didn’t want to offend him. He had invited me, after all, and it would be rude to leave abruptly. But I had to get away and other than mortally offending him by blaspheming and trashing his beliefs, my only get-out was to talk about sex. I reckoned that if I was graphic enough, I might embarrass him, and thus he would call an end to the night. Hallelujah.

  So I elaborated on my theory, as proven by my ex, Rupert, that if more men teased women and refused them access to their cocks, it would drive women so crazy that they would eventually beg to be fucked, resulting in more orgasms and sex all round.

  Then I argued that women are not as hung up about penis size as men are, and that if more guys relaxed about it, they would understand that when a woman is turned on, they don’t give a fuck what is stuck in there, as long as ‘you stick it in me now, oh God, fuck me, please fuck me’.

  However, I was respectful and decent and didn’t mention anal sex once. I am a lady, after all.

  And oh heavenly joy, it seemed to work: he started shifting in his seat and blushing and looking rather uncomfortable. He looked at his watch and started making his excuses, and then we both agreed to call it a night and I made my way home – alone.

  It did occur to me when I lay in bed, that at the same time, back in his own bedroom, he might have been praying for me and hoping that he’d saved me.

  I prefer to think he finished off the evening more productively though, and that his hands were otherwise occupied.

  Mine certainly were.

  Monday 7th November

  I love New York. I love the people. I love the atmosphere. I love their fantastic whisky sours that taste like nothing else on earth. And I love that I can get fingered by a complete stranger in a club and no one thinks anything of it.

  As luck would have it, Tim just arrived in New York, on some last-minute business for his IT company. He called me just after he landed at the airport and excitedly demanded we meet up.

  ‘Abby, I’ve read about the perfect place for us to go for a drink. It’s a club where people go to hook up.’

  ‘Another swingers, spa?’ I asked.

  ‘No, a club. Kind of swinger-lite,’ he replied. ‘The girls get it on and the men just stand back and watch. I read a review about it in Time Out.’

  ‘What about your girl. I thought you weren’t going to dabble without her?’

  Tim paused. ‘It didn’t work out. She got back with her ex a couple of weeks ago. Actually, Abby, I could really do with going out right now. Why don’t we just go and check it out, have some drinks and chat to some people? I need to have some fun.’

  It did indeed sound fun. Let’s face it, I haven’t had much of that myself recently, either. So it didn’t take a lot for Tim to talk me into it. A few hours later, clad in a black wrap dress, four-inch stilettos and no underwear – so I didn’t break up the smooth lines of my tight dress, you see – I met up with him at the club.

  The place itself was pretty standard: a long bar, some seats round the edge, a dance floor in the middle. Beautiful people in their twenties and thirties milled about smiling. It all seemed normal. Apart from the semi-naked women dancing on the podiums, that is.

  Tim spotted them straight away and grinned at me. I pointed out one of them to him.

  ‘She’s fully shaved,’ I teased, and Tim immediately groaned with desire as she bent over and we got a full view of her privates.

  This was my kind of place indeed.

  We gulped down a few drinks and got merry. The place began to get packed with people and Tim and I settled by the bar, body-watching.

  ‘What do you think of her?’ I asked, as a slim blonde woman walked past us.

  ‘Not as much as I think of her,’ Tim replied, pointing at a voluptuous Latina woman standing near us at the bar.

  ‘Ooh, lovely. Just your type with her fab arse. Don’t let me stand in your way,’ I said, moving over to the other side of him so he would have full access and start chatting her up.

  ‘Cheers, my dear,’ Tim said, winking, and he set to work flirting with her.

  I stood with my back to the bar and looked around once more. All of a sudden everyone seemed a bit less dressed – many of the girls had removed their tops. It occurred to me that perhaps I might get to see more action than just the stripping, and moments later, my suspicions were confirmed.

  A few girls began to kiss each other and, right in front of me, two girls began to grope in full view of everyone. I watched as one of them slid her fingers under the other one’s skirt, making her gasp in delight as she reached between her legs and kissed her in a frenzy. They snogged, groped and fondled each other and all the while their male partners stood by, rubbing up behind them.

  God, it was hot. I was so jealous. What I would have given to have a partner at that moment, his cock rubbing up behind me as I groped some sexy girl’s tits.

  I was watching so intently that I didn’t notice a man standing close to me until he whispered in my ear.

  ‘Hot, isn’t it?’ he asked and smiled at me softly.

  Shocked, I took a step back for a moment and looked him up and down.

  He was cute. Lovely green eyes and a dazzling smile. My mind raced with possibilities.

  ‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘Very sexy,’ I smiled at him shyly.

  ‘Lovely English accent you’ve got,’ he said and grinned again. God, that smile was infectious. I felt myself melting in front of him.

  We started chatting.

  I’m not sure how long it was before I felt his hand softly caressing my arse, but however it got there, I didn’t want him to stop: it felt delightful. And with all the alcohol, naughty goings-on around me and the slickness starting up between my legs, I wanted him to go further too.

  ‘You’re not wearing any underwear,’ he remarked and looked at me slyly as his hand slowly lifted my dress and I felt the heat of his palm against my cool skin.

  ‘Mmm,’ I replied, not caring that my bare arse was on display.

  He shifted behind me so his back was against the bar, keeping his hand on my backside the whole time. I felt him press his body against me and then I felt the delicious familiarity of an erect dick pushed up against my arse cheek. I moved against him, both his hands gripping my bum now.

  ‘God, you have a great ass,’ he exclaimed in his New York drawl. ‘Fucking sexy. It’s so damn firm.’ He gave it a tight squeeze and I felt myself throb: I was so turned on already.

  As if he read my mind, he then slowly slid his right hand between my legs.

  ‘Fuck, you’re wet!’ he remarked. ‘Jesus!’ And with that he pushed two fingers inside me.

  I suddenly became aware of what was going on: I was (yet again) getting felt up in a club, surrounded by people. How much of a sex fiend have I become? As he softly twisted his fingers inside me, I looked around at everyone, embarrassed.

  But all around me were people in various states of undress, breasts on display, fingers in crotches. Well, that was a change – I wasn’t the only one for once. Nobody was watching me. Tim was too busy snogging the Latina girl to notice my hot hand action.

  Fuck it, I thought, I need some release. And so I let go, I relaxed into the hand job I was receiving; a few moments later I was dripping onto his hand, climaxing hard.

  When I had finished shaking, he kissed me softly on the neck.

  ‘That was wonderful,’ he said. ‘You’re a sexy woman, do you know that?’

  I turned to face him. ‘Thanks,’ I replied. ‘You’ve made my holiday very special.’

  We stood watching the floorshow together until Tim’s je
tlag got too much and he dragged me off before the dawn broke.

  I kissed the cute New Yorker goodbye on my way out and he thrust his card in my hand, telling me to call him if I wanted some more fun sometime.

  I clutched his card carefully. I may just need it.

  Tuesday 8th November

  Met up with Harry for brunch in his local diner today, a bit worse for wear. I didn’t see him when I got in last night, and he was up before me this morning. He laughed when he saw me totter in – the evidence of my late night showing clearly on my exhausted face.

  He wanted to know where I’d been and teased me mercilessly until I finally caved in and told him how I got lucky last night.

  Congratulating me, Harry ordered me some strong coffee and we settled down to a hearty meal of cheese blintzes and waffles.

  Over my third cup of coffee, Harry probed me a little more.

  ‘So do you like this guy from last night, then?’

  I nodded. ‘Sure, he’s a nice guy; we had fun.’

  ‘Just a shag, then,’ Harry said, impersonating my English accent.

  ‘You got it,’ I replied laughing and took another gulp of coffee.

  Harry pondered for a moment. ‘So,’ he said, ‘whatever happened to that blogger you met; the one you let feel you up in the middle of Oxford Street?’

  I practically spat out my coffee. I had forgotten I’d told Harry about Blog Boy. How I had just met him when I came to New York in January. How I had been so excited about getting back to London for our third date. How much I had liked him. How I had hoped for something to develop.

  I suddenly felt tears well up in my eyes and I was lost for words.

  Harry looked at me and took my hand, ‘Oh, Abby, I’m sorry. Are you OK?’

  I nodded through the tears and fidgeted with my coffee cup, trying to find the words.

  ‘It’s just … it’s stupid, that’s all.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘Me. I am a twat.’

  ‘Why?’