Gutted

I hadn’t realised how exposed I was. I’m absolutely gutted about being rejected in a relationship which was 3 dates old. Art Girl is intelligent, interesting, sexy and gorgeous, and despite spending Tuesday night in my bed, won’t be coming back.

Strangely, considering my recent bout of casual sex with ladies I’ve hardly met, I’m really not cut-out for casual sex at all. An emblematic realisation: Art girl is some sort of blow-job genius. She gave me the best blow-job I’ve had, with firm, loose movements, enthusiasm, both-hands, deep, wet. Really, the best. The shy girl disappears, replaced by an insatiable giver of pleasure. When I have a memorable sexual experience, and her blow-jobs were certainly that, it often fuels my wanking fantasies for weeks afterwards - I bask in the hornyness of it. Because she’s rejected me, because it won’t happen again, it brings me no pleasure – I can barely bring myself to even think about it.  

Dumped

Oh I had it coming, I really did. Art Girl just dumped me over the phone.

After the night described below, we didn’t meet up for a week. Both too busy was the consensus, but now the recently dumped me can see that she could have cancelled something to see me – and didn’t. We met up last night, late because she only fitted me in after her life drawing class. It was actually a lovely evening, which ended with warm naked sex and me making her come with my hand as she slid slowly off my bed, but now I can see the warning signs. She complained about how far Richmond is from the centre of town, she was vague about meeting up at the weekend. I feel weirdly used. Used for sex I guess. A macho corner of my brain likes the idea of being used for sex, but my soft centre is hurt. I only have sex for the intimacy afterwards, and therefore it’s this she’s rejecting.

Her reasons for ending it are valid and excruciating. She’d not have time to see me, she doesn’t want to feel weighed down, we’re in different life stages. All true, but of course another truth is that she’s just not that into me. 

I only met up with her 3 times but I let myself get just a little carried away, so I’m sad now.  

She’s very good looking, and this opens up interesting and strong emotions for me. Everyone wants a gorgeous partner, but with me there’s something more. I’m not a particularly handsome man, OK looks, but I’m desperate to be thought of as attractive, and to be with attractive women. I often punch above my weight in terms of attractivess. My ex-wife was (is) very attractive in a quirky way. My recent ex is just absurdly pretty, to the point that men would throw themselves at her, and I’d often be asked to justify the attractiveness disparity by pissed-up bastards after the pub. Even though the relationship had long gone sour, it took me ages to end that relationship, partly because I knew I had hold of an empirically attractive individual. Silly, I know. Art Girl is similarly gorgeous, much better looking than me, and the paranoid (or realistic) me wonders if I’ve been dumped because she could see this fundamental truth.

Fleshbot

Greetings to my deluge of new readers! My hugely downbeat Harvester of Hearts post below made the FleshBot Sex Blog Roundup. It’s interesting that this has brought in more than 1000 new readers, but not a single one has left a comment.

I like the post, if not the events it describes. It’s the best thing I’ve written so far I think, and proves the cathartic, clarifying effect of wrtten expression. I’m proud of it.

Sex on Sunday… is a disappointment

I’ve broken my sex fast. 

I’m calling her Finance Girl. I met up with her on Sunday night. We had a romantic meal in a smart Italian restaurant in Mayfair. She looked very pretty and was warm company. We chatted for ages, over champagne I couldn’t really afford. I spoke about my mum too much for a second date. She sent self-consciously smouldering eyes in my direction, and rubbed my leg under the table. She has a knowing, confident sexuality, and it’s appealing.

The flirting got more explicit, until I suggested we “skip desert, find a quiet street lamp to kiss under, then go discover her apartment”. She agreed. 

We wandered the quiet Sunday streets back to her place. She lives at Picadilly Circus. Literally. To non-Londoners, no-one lives at Picadilly circus. It’s an absurdity. But she really does live there. On the whole top floor of a rather splendid grey mansion block, complete with sooty roof terrace. She did a quick tour of her apartment, excluding the bedroom – “maybe I’ll show you later”.

We kissed in her kitchen, me pinning her to the wall, gently biting her bottom lip. I wore skinny jeans, and my hard penis was crushed and prominant. She looked, but didn’t touch or comment. I lied that I like rosé and we retired to the living room sofa, glasses in hand. Once sitting, we kissed deeply and passionately, and soon I was lying full length on top of her. Feeling constricted by clothes and harsh light, we moved to her bedroom. Still standing, without breaking the kiss, we undressed each other. She gave an unexpected intake of breath when she freed my penis, but didn’t grasp it, instead feathering her fingers over it, as though it were bone china. In bed we kissed and touched, but without momentum, without narrative. She was inert and I was tentative. The confident temptress schtick was revealed as an act. She was nervous and unsure, not unlike everyone else. I rescued the fraying condom from my wallet, giving that poignant totem some unexpected significance in it’s old age. Although she was reassuringly moist I asked her to ease me in – My size sometimes makes it difficult just to ’slip it in’ – I didn’t spell this point out to her. The sex, an unchanging missionary thing, felt nice, but after about 10 minutes she whispered in my ear “maybe you could come now baby”. I did.

Lying naked on her bed, she admitted she’s scared of penises, calling mine ”your giant phallus” – a ball shrinking phrase meant in jest. Later we kissed and hugged up close. i touched between her legs and she was very moist – More moist than I’ve ever known. I gently rubbed her, never reading from her signs if I was being too gentle, too rough or hitting the spot. After a minute or two she turned her head into my shoulder and tightened her body, coming in waves, before curling into me. The first and only moment of intimacy. Later still, as we dozed, she reached round to touch my penis, I got hard, but this was forensic manual examination rather than mutual pleasure and my erection soon subsided. I drifted to sleep.

The next morning a cruel buzzer woke us at 7am. We both had work. I wandered her apartment naked, enjoying the exhibitionism. She cupped my bottom each time she passed. At the undergound station she loudly complained that she’d lost her Oyster card so would have to stand in line with the tourists. I neglected to mention I don’t even have an Oyster card.

On the train to the office I thought back fondly to the intimacy I shared with my ex – The sexiest and most impossible woman on this earth. I won’t be going back, but nights like these make it tough.

A snapshot of my sexuality

You see I’m crap on my own. Maybe everyone is. I sure as hell know I am. I’m kind of lonesome at the moment. I left home at 18, and since then have lived constantly with people (friends – girlfriend – wife) apart from the searing shock of 6 months in 2005 when my marriage broke up, and I found myself alone for the first time.

At that time I launched my body, soul and intellect into a recovery program – Which looked to my close friends more like a desparate search for intimacy with random women. Some of you readers will be familiar with this because you read my blog at the time – It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. Picture a man who breaks his ankle but who screams, shouts and bounces around the room to effectively drown out the pain, and that’s a pretty close metaphor.

So anyway, back to the now. Here I am, living alone again, only this time I have no major personal disaster to frame my response. I’m just a 30 year old single man, sitting in his flat. And wow, I’m lonely. I wrote (in a pseudo-intellectual whine) last week about how I’m transferring my loneliness into shopping. But really it get’s much worse than that.

Male sexuality can be a very ugly thing. Mine too. Last night about 6 I started seriously looking for prostitutes to come to my apartment. I spent an hour or so looking at thumbnail images of women who sell sex for a living and arrived at a shortlist of 3, from 2 websites. I rang the first place, which despite having a London number rang with a foreign ring tone. The lady who answered called me “darling” and “babe” and the conversation was reminiscent of those I occasionally have with 16 year old saturday girls in shops – Where I suddenly realise I’m a grown up and seen as such.

She talked me through who was available tonight. My number one choice was an Italian lady called Rose. She could be there in 40 minutes. Within an hour I could be having sex with an attractive woman, who sells that commodity (but it’s me paying and sealing that commoditisation) and whom I have never met. The spanner in the works was that she cost £400 for 2 hours. UK ATMs only let you get out £250 per day, so that was out. I rang the second place and got a much more business-like woman on the phone. The woman I liked was available immediately, but it would need to be within the hour as she was their most popular woman and was booked until the early hours – Put another way, she’d be havings sex with several desparate men like me tonight. She would do a single hour – I could afford her services – But suddenly the reality of being one of many desparate men on a rainy night in London hit home. I told her I’d ring back, but never did. I’m looking for intimacy. Sex, which is intimacy’s brash older sibling, won’t help. Particularly if I’m paying the other party to be there.

I went back to the PC and pulled up some porn. Specifically this site. I’ve used the site several times. Women are “bitches” and ”sluts”. Being sexy is their crime, being fucked their punishment. It’s acutely depressing, and if you switch your brain off, rapidly arousing. I wanked myself off, lying on my back on the sofa. I let my sperm land on my belly and lay there watching my penis retract until the sperm got cold and a drip had snaked down towards the leather.

I filled the dishwasher, cooked some food (an extravagant steak for one), channel surfed, vacuumed and invented a new game I’ll call ‘kick a hacky sack over my armchair and into the fruit bowl’. The gentle, knawing unease, my persistant friend for the last couple of months, continued.

Later I tried a new tack. I joined a website for casual sexual encounters. I placed a classified ad in which I tried to balance a certain sexual knowingness, a light-heart and confidence. All three were evasions. The underlying message was “please come and have sex with me, then let’s hug in bed”. Now I think of it, I would probably have been better served by using that exact line. I posted an intimate picture and got two immediate responses mocking my penis. I posted another ad, this time a gay one (I’m basically straight, but did once have a gay thing, maybe I could have fun trying this again). Did any man want to come and corrupt a straight man? Many did. Six responses in an hour, and many more this morning. All written in a brisk and intimidating gay language with which I’m not familiar, and which turned me off – “7.5 uncut hairy”, etc. The pictures (there were many) were enough to underline that while I like hard penises, I really don’t find the rest of a man attractive.

Meanwhile the straight ad yielded it’s only serious response. A woman who ”can hold a conversation but we don’t need to talk too much”. She asked for my number, which I sent, but I don’t expect to hear back.

By this time I was checking and re-checking ads, checking emails, looking at pictures of prostitutes and so on, in a sort of depressing heavy rotation. In the background a documentary competed for my attention – About male Japanese ‘hosts’ who make lonely Japanese women fall in love and bankrupt themselves on champagne and false declarations of love.

At 1am, defeated and pathetic,  I shuffled off to bed.   

I went shopping today

I went shopping today, in Kingston Upon Thames, which is on the South West tip of London. I quite like Kingston, it has perfectly adequate shops, winking their neon in a drab suburban kind of way. I went in existential mood, feeling a little lonely. 

Before I go on I should say that I’m a deeply conflicted man – I know material acquisition won’t make me happy, because it never has, and I know that fashion, technology toys, magazines and so on, are all selling an unattainable myth – Some ersatz material nirvana. I know all this, yet I’m the most grasping material fucker I know. I’m legendary amongst my friends for my prodigious accumulation of expensive stuff. I earn quite a lot of money, and with no children, mortgage or fear for the future to reign me in, I piss it all away, month after month, year after year.  

But back to today, I walked through the main shopping centre doing some of my best people watching. Attractive couples walked arm in arm, gently crushing one another with colossal expectations, while the credit card companies smirk. However my eyes were drawn to the singles, the lone-shoppers, those crushed souls of my age or older, self-medicating with plastic money. They didn’t look well, and neither am I. What was I doing there? As I steadily checked out the pretty ladies, occasionally holding momentary eye contact, I realised that my shopping is nothing more than a sublimation of my sexuality. Not my sex life, but my sexuality. I’m feeling lonesome at the moment. I need a warm someone in my life and in my bed. I miss intimacy and I miss the ex who I myself dumped 2 months ago. I miss flirting, I miss exhibitionism, I miss morning sex, I miss knowing someone who knows me, I miss the smell of female skin. My sexuality is confined to a small masturbatory box and it’s breaking free in unusual ways. I was dragging thrills from the sexiest stuff, gleaming like Amsterdam’s finest, in well lit windows displays. 

I wandered into the Apple shop, a sexual retail experience which puts Ann Summers to shame. Brash teenagers shamelessly caressed the sleek toys. Through a crowded room my eyes fixed on a beautiful model – The Mac Mini. I held back, waiting to be approached. Apple do foreplay. You don’t pick up a box, take it to the counter, pay and leave. Instead a woman, looking not unlike my ex-wife with tired eyes but a certain appeal, appeared to show me the ropes. I made slow and tactile acquaintance with my new special friend. Vaguely aroused, I reached for my wallet and sealed the deal. I felt wonderful for ten minutes. A ‘pick-me-up’ smoothie took care of a further twenty.   

Women

I’m single right now. I’ve slept alone for 62 nights and felt every last one. I have no significant other, I touch no-one and no-one touches me (apart from the woman I met at Vauxhall Station in last Friday’s strange episode – check it out below).

Despite this, women still warm my days. I feel a visceral pleasure when I meet an attractive woman. I feel it when watching TV. I’ve been transfixed by Billie Piper as Belle Du Jour. I look at her gorgeous exaggerated features and absurdly sexy body and just luxuriate in this virtual and vicarious pleasure. I’m like a cat squirming in a shaft of sunlight and for a moment, I’m blissfully happy.