Diary Of A Sex Fiend

by Abby Lee

  ‘Because. Because I said I would never be one of those women who mix up sex and love and I think I have become one.’

  Harry looked confused. ‘I don’t understand, Abby. What happened?’

  I sighed deeply. ‘I don’t know. I don’t get it. When I got back from New York, we seemed to be getting along fine. Then he said he just wanted to be friends.’

  ‘Friends?’ Harry said, suspiciously. ‘After hitching your skirt up and everything?’

  ‘Yup; he was going travelling and didn’t want to get involved,’ I explained. ‘So we became friends, hung out and stuff; it all seemed fine. And you know, I continued dating and having fun; lots of fun. But then a few months ago, we slept together.’

  ‘Ah,’ Harry said, ‘I see,’ and he nodded in understanding.

  ‘Three times,’ I added.

  ‘Right,’ he replied.

  ‘Which,’ I continued, ‘I know means nothing, but after getting to know him over six months, it didn’t feel like they were just one-night stands – you know?’

  Harry nodded.

  ‘So then he went away and we didn’t speak. But now he has been emailing me again and we’re going to meet when I get back to London. And I guess I’m hoping that we might get into something. I’d like to – I think.’

  ‘So tell him what you want,’ Harry said. ‘Just tell him.’

  I shook my head. ‘I can’t. I just can’t.’

  ‘Do you mean to tell me, you can have sex with a complete stranger, but you are unable to tell Blog Boy what’s on your mind?’

  ‘Yes, stupid, I know.’

  ‘Abby, I know you. You are an honest and upfront woman – in fact you’re the most straightforward person I know. Why can’t you tell him what’s on your mind?’

  I shrugged. ‘Harry, it’s not that simple; we’re not “in” something – how can I say I think I want more from him? And do I really – I mean, I am having a good time right now, so do I really want to be with him?’

  ‘The question you need to be asking yourself is how long can you not say anything? It’s obvious to me that you want more – and if you’re not getting it, something has to change,’ Harry said firmly.

  I stayed silent. Harry continued.

  ‘If you want to give things a try with him, then do. When he gets back from his vacation, talk to him and see what happens. And if you don’t, then at least try to make sure you have some more good shags lined up.’

  I looked up and saw Harry grinning at me. I smiled back. He was right. Especially about the shags.

  Wednesday 9th November

  I watched the contortionist wrap his legs behind his ears and rest his chin on top of his crotch. One thought immediately came to mind, and I whispered it to the person next to me.

  It was such an instant, instinctive thought that its implications didn’t dawn on me until I’d already made my little witticism. It was the mental image of the contortionist sucking his own cock.

  And what I had whispered was, ‘I bet he can auto-fellate.’

  And the person I had leaned over and said this to happened to be my mother – also on holiday in New York.

  As the realisation of what I had just done began to hit me, the dreaded – most feared – words came out of my mother’s mouth. I watched her lips purse together, and in slow-motion movie-style, say, ‘What’s auto-fellate?’

  I sat there silently for a moment and thought of my options.

  ⋆ Lying is not something I am good at, and I tend to avoid because it is inevitably followed by sleepless nights in which I rack my conscience.

  ⋆ Pleading ignorance wouldn’t work either: my mother knows me too well. The only reason I would use a technical term for something is if I actually knew what it meant.

  ⋆ And the truth? Well, I’ve been in a similar situation with her before and it didn’t turn out all bad. Surely the best choice.

  So I said, softly, to my own mother, ‘It’s when a guy has the ability to suck his own cock.’

  My mother looked at me, and blushed. ‘What?’ she said, ‘I didn’t hear you properly. Tell me again.’

  I groaned inwardly. If there was a God now would be a good time to strike me down. ‘Auto-fellatio is when a guy has the ability to suck his own cock,’ I repeated, adding, ‘supposedly two men out of every hundred are able to do it,’ as if that statistic would somehow make it all alright.

  My mother looked at me, baffled. I thought it might help if I said no more, so instead I motioned with my head in a downward bobbing movement to try to show what I was talking about.

  It was probably the worst rendition of self-induced oral sex in the history of mime, but I didn’t care to show off my cock-sucking skills to my mother. She’s seen enough – she doesn’t need to know what my own personalised blow-job technique looks like.

  Thankfully, my mother stopped blushing and instead slowly nodded in recognition of my explanation/badly performed charade. But, as if possessed by some kind of truth demon, I couldn’t stop myself blurting out, ‘He is definitely able, look at him!’, and pointing to the contortionist as he crab-walked around the Sixth Avenue Manhattan theatre with his head still sitting on his crotch.

  My mother turned to look, and I tried to erase from my brain the fact that my mother was now mentally picturing the acrobat merrily slurping away on his own penis.

  This was all becoming far too psychologically complex for me, and when my dad – who was seated the other side of me – chipped in and said ‘What are you two talking about?’, I felt like I was going to die of embarrassment and self-induced neurosis.

  I waited, with a heavy knot in my stomach, for my mother to respond.

  ‘Oh, we were just saying how athletic and fit the performer must be,’ she explained to my dad. ‘He is so flexible, isn’t he?’

  She turned to look back at the contortionist and we all continued watching his amazing performance. I thought that was the end of it, and hoped I could put this episode behind me.

  A moment later though, my mother leaned over to me. ‘I think you’re right,’ she said and winked at me, before turning back to watch the rest of the show.

  I sat, mortified, and waited for it to end; the sooner I could escape back to Harry’s apartment and recount the story to him in all its awkwardness, the better.

  Thursday 10th November

  By coincidence, I notice that David Lynch’s awesome film Mulholland Drive is screening on American television tonight. Coincidence because I first watched that film with my parents, and for horror, inappropriateness and sheer, mind-numbing embarrassment, that occasion was more than the equal of last night’s circus outing.

  A few years ago, I had some preview tickets for the film and decided to take my mum and dad, since they – like me – are huge Lynch fans.

  In the first hour I developed a little crush on Rita (the actress Laura Harring). She was beautiful: a sultry brunette with a seductive voice, oozing femininity. She had the most fantastic body: curvaceous, womanly, and with wonderful, glorious breasts that I found mesmerising. If there was any woman on earth that I would like to shag, it is her. Suffice to say I had been feeling a warm throb between my legs for a while.

  So when Rita entered the bedroom wearing only a towel and Betty (Naomi Watts) suggested that she join her in the bed too, I was quite excited: some nice nudity – great.

  I wasn’t wrong. Rita immediately disposed of the towel, revealing her voluptuous torso silhouetted in the half-light, and then slid into bed with Betty.

  I sat there thinking – no, wishing – that they would get it on. And they do. It was fucking hot: two women exploring each other hungrily, passionately. It was photographed so sensually that it was difficult for me not to attempt to rub one out there and then. I shifted and squirmed in my seat, feeling the heat.

  Then I remembered. I was sitting next to my parents. They were watching the same sex scene. There I was, horny as hell, wanting a fiddle and my parents were next to me.

  Th
at’s when it struck me: the one thing you do not want to think about when you think about your parents. That is, that they might be horny too.

  Now, I don’t think I’m jumping to conclusions here. I know I was, like the majority of the audience in the cinema that night, blown away by the erotic content. It wasn’t such a huge leap to imagine (yuck) that my parents might find it a turn-on too.

  I didn’t want to think about it any further, but it was at least a great passion-killer, and I was able to watch the rest of the scene as long as I stared straight ahead and ignored any movement on either side of me.

  I thought I was doing OK too. The movie continued in its dream-like non-linear narrative and I became immersed in the way I was pulled into the story and then had tricks played with my expectations. I began to relax a little and enjoy it all once more. That was until the masturbation scene.

  David Lynch should have provided a disclaimer prior to the movie, to prepare me for the embarrassment of having to watch a woman frig herself into oblivion on screen in front of my parents. It was awful.

  But as cringingly uncomfortable as I felt, I was compelled to watch the whole thing. I thought it was shot beautifully – almost worth watching just to see how realistically the portrayal of female masturbation can be filmed. Ninety per cent of the porn I’ve seen makes it look completely fake and unsexy.

  The character Diane (Naomi Watts again) is trying to pleasure herself after being dumped by Camilla (Laura Harring again). We see and hear her as she gets near to her climax, her vision keeps blurring, her face sets in a tight grimace at her frustration at not being able to orgasm. She rubs harder and harder and eventually is rewarded with her release – a literal analogy of her accepting the break-up. After she comes, her vision is clear again: beautiful.

  I watched it and thought, Yeah, I can relate to that. So fucking frustrating when it can take that long to come, and horrible when it’s a result of being so emotionally distraught, and I turned around half expecting the rest of the audience to be nodding their heads in appreciation too, and then I remembered once more that I was surrounded by my parents.

  Who have just been watching a young woman pretending to masturbate on screen. I think I physically shuddered, I was so uncomfortable. But there was nothing else to be done – if I dodged out of the auditorium how the hell would I explain myself? No, I had to stick it out to the end.

  I was rewarded with grateful thanks from my parents, who said ‘It was the best movie exploring the unconscious mind they had ever seen’ and that ‘Lynch has a wonderful imagination.’

  Thank fuck for that. Long-term Parental Cringe Avoidance Strategy not needed: my parents were unharmed and my reputation as a well-brought-up daughter was maintained – even though they never discussed the movie ever again and I am still too embarrassed to mention it to them.

  But there were some bonuses that came from seeing this film. I took my boyfriend Rupert to watch it soon after and told him to squeeze my hand any and every time he felt like he was getting an erection from anything on screen.

  He squeezed it almost continuously for 90 minutes. So as soon as the movie finished, I pushed him into a cab and then fucked his brains out when we got home.

  A happy ending if there ever was one.

  Friday 11th November

  Harry and I hugged each other tightly.

  ‘I’m going to miss you,’ I said.

  He nodded at me, the tears in his eyes reflecting the ones welling up in my own, ‘Me too.’

  I looked at him – my oldest friend in the world – and felt my heart ache. Why did he have to be three thousand miles away? And would I ever feel the way I feel about him about any other man? Would I be able to love someone as deeply?

  I felt an impulse to tell him I loved him and that he had a place in my heart that no one else has ever reached, that leaving him was almost too painful to bear.

  As if he read my mind, Harry held my hand. ‘You don’t need to say it,’ he said, ‘I know.’

  I smiled at him through my tears and we hugged once more.

  ‘Now go, Abby. I’ll see you soon.’ He grinned at me.

  I nodded and picked up my bags. As I got into the cab, Harry called out to me once more.

  ‘Good luck,’ he said and we both knew what he was talking about.

  Saturday 12th November

  ‘You’re my favourite lady,’ the stewardess on the plane back to London breathed, as she leant in towards me.

  ‘Really?’ I said, catching a whiff of her delicate perfume and getting another glimpse of her ample cleavage plunging in the neckline of her tight, white shirt.

  ‘Yes, you’re the nicest one here – so polite. I’ve been calling you “nice lady” to the others.’

  I smiled shyly, and tried not to stare at her large, perfectly round bosoms, as they were thrust in my face.

  ‘Well, um, thanks. You’ve really been so helpful.’

  ‘Oh, it’s my pleasure,’ she said as she handed me my drink, ‘it’s always lovely to have someone like you on board.’

  Her fingers lingered on mine for a second as I took the small plastic cup from her. It was a tiny gesture – and very ambiguous – and if we had been in any other environment it might have been far more meaningful.

  ‘Is that OK?’ she asked, gesturing towards my drink, ‘I opened a new bottle for you, but I wasn’t sure how much soda to add.’

  She waited for me to sip it. I suddenly felt very self-conscious. There were 200 other people on board the aircraft and she was waiting on me as if it were just the two of us. My hand shook a little and I wondered whether there was turbulence. There was certainly fluttering going on between my legs.

  ‘I can get you another one if you don’t like it,’ she said, still waiting for my response.

  I quickly tasted the drink. It was perfect – the best ratio of Scotch to soda water that a top bartender could have mixed – but that wasn’t the point. She needed my appreciation.

  ‘My God, that is delicious,’ I remarked, as I took another gulp, ‘fantastic. Thank you so much, it’s lovely. I really appreciate your doing this for me.’

  She breathed a sigh of relief, and I tried not to look at her heaving bosom stretching the thin material of her uniform. I also tried not to look at her erect nipples poking through.

  ‘I’m glad you like it. If you want another one – or anything else – you just call for me; my name is Kelly.’ She beamed at me.

  ‘Thank you, I will,’ I responded, and noticed how pretty her green eyes were and how soft and kissable her mouth looked. ‘You’ve been very kind.’

  ‘And you’re very nice,’ she replied, ‘just call if you need me.’ She smiled again and wandered off to the galley.

  I sat there, drink in hand and watched her elegant legs walk away from me, her fine arse beautifully sculpted in her tight skirt. I tried to collect my thoughts. Was she flirting with me? Did her gestures mean anything? How long would I be able to wait before popping to the loo to do something with the mental image that whole train of thought had given me?

  It couldn’t wait. A few minutes later I got up from my seat and made my way to the toilet. Damn, a queue. I waited in line, and noticing my own erect nipples through my top, willing them into submission. It didn’t work.

  ‘It’s my nice lady again.’

  I turned to find her behind me. I smiled, and she squeezed past me to make her way down the aisle.

  Though the space was narrow, there was room for two people to pass, so I was slightly surprised – but not at all disappointed – when she pushed right up against me as she moved by.

  Smelling her sweet perfume, and feeling her soft breasts squeezed against mine, was almost too much for me. I wanted to grab her bum then and there, pull her close, kiss her deeply and run my fingers across her ample bosom.

  But the moment was all too brief. She was gone and I was left dripping wet with a need to do something about it – quick.

  As soon as the toilet wa
s free, I rushed in to sort myself out, picturing her sitting on my lap with her skirt hitched to her waist and her breasts in my mouth.

  Moments later I was climaxing. It was fast, furious and lots of fun – much like my trip to New York.

  Monday 14th November

  I feel refreshed once more. New York has lifted me; I feel ready for new challenges in my life. And that includes Blog Boy. If our shagging did mean more than just sex to him, then maybe I should give things a try, now that we’re both back in town.

  But I don’t think I should sleep with him unless I know he does feel the same way. It would just confuse things.

  It’s going to be hard for me to achieve though. I am gagging for another shag right now.

  Saturday 19th November

  Ironic that after meeting the Southern farm boy in New York, I then come back to London and spend all of last night once again in the company of a group of religious fanatics.

  That’s right, me. Girl with a one-track mind – the sexobsessed atheist, in a party full of God-botherers. It was like torture, and not the enjoyable mild BDSM-type either.

  It wasn’t my usual Saturday night’s entertainment, it has to be said. I went to my elderly relative’s party with an open mind, figuring that if my great-uncle wanted to celebrate with a few hymns and stuff, I would understand.

  I wasn’t prepared for a full-on Billy Graham revival, complete with prayers, speeches by religious leaders and choral singing to the accompaniment of a band:

  ‘Jesus … must be obeyed;

  There is … no other way.’

  Christ. What the hell had I got myself into?

  There I was, sitting in a room filled with people praising the Lord every other minute and I felt like a traitor, an outsider. Their belief system and mine were diametrically opposed.

  As they sang God’s praises and clapped their hands in glee, I knew I was out of place. I had nothing in common with these folk – apart from the fact that we were sipping the same wine – how the hell could I have a decent conversation with anyone, when I believed them all to be completely deluded?