First sex at University

Sorry for this week’s moaning. How about a warm, lovely memory instead?

My university years saw my transformation from closed adolescent to sexually confident young man, and I vividly recall the first expression of that.It was December and I’d been there about 3 months, finding my feet. I went with a friend to the students union to drink and look at women. Towards the end of the night we moved into the dance area; a very cool emptied swimming pool. We got talking to a couple of women. I remember they expressed some objectionable views about the university men, but then I gor spikey women and this probably drew me in.

We paired off, though my friend has always insisted that I abandoned him with a random rude women, while I looked after the attractive one…One on one, we talked as 18 year olds: Salinger, Trainspotting, Oasis and Blur. During this jousting I established that this was a person I wanted to sleep with. She had sparkling eyes, a beautiful Roman nose and an enticing, Rubenesque figure. The clothes she wore, trousers and a loose blouse, suggested she was less confident of her sexy body than I.To this point I had only slept with two people: A slim man and a slim woman. I had yet to experience the intense pleasure of a fuller figure. Yet to feel the weight, as well as the softness of a womans breasts.

We were enjoying each other, bathing in each others smiles, moving closer, but I made no move. I was still a bit shy. Thankfully she wasn’t! Mid-conversation, I may even have been speaking, she inched forward and pressed her lips to mine. This, the first kiss, taught me something new: It turns me on to kiss while standing up, holding my entire body against a woman. I love it when my leg, hips, stomach, chest and lips all touch hers.

If I said you have a nice body, would you hold it against me?

We could both feel my erection, so when I suggested we go back to my place and she agreed, I knew this would be a good night. All’s fair in sex and war, so I abandoned my friend (he still mentions this sometimes, I’m not forgiven) and walked back to my high-rise student heaven.In my room, she suggested I do something strange but erotic: “take all your clothes off straight away”. Sex was implied but nudity would normally comes in increments. I did as she said and was soon naked. She was fully clothed, on her knees, on the edge of my bed. She beckoned my forward. As I walked, my rigid penis bounced slightly and I could see that her eyes never left it. She was about to perform a trick I’d never before seen, and have never experienced with anyone else since.I stood by the bed with my penis near her mouth. She placed her lips so close to my glans that I could feel her breath, then moved her face around the side, as if to savour my length from the closest of quarters. Still she hadn’t touch me. I would later learn that this intensely erotic teasing was her favourite game, but for now this was all new and I quivered with excitement.She placed her lips back in front of my penis and waited. I could have moved forward, touched her face with it, but by now I knew the game. Without touching me, she opened her mouth wide and moved it over the end of my penis. It only touched her tongue and she didn’t close her mouth around it. She moved back and forth with this action a few times. I could feel the warmth of her mouth but this wasn’t a blow job, it was advanced teasing.When it felt like this minimalist approach might be enough to make me come, she pulled back and adjusted her position: raising her head and changing the angle. For the first time, she firmly grasped my penis (don’t come, don’t come, don’t come, remember I was 18), held it at the base and placed the first 2 inches or so in her mouth, this time firmly closing her lips and allowing me the full warm, wet pleasure. Next, her ultra-arousing party trick. I felt the tip against her throat, my limit, but not hers. With firm pressure, she pressed her whole head forward, and after a little resistance, and with a stifled gulping sound my entire length was down her throat. Her lips were against my pubic bone, and with little movement possible (after all, her head was impaled on my penis) she began a sort of gentle vibrating hum. My god, this was a turn on. I felt my orgasm approach and wondered if I should withdraw. My body took over though and I came in gentle convulsions, with restricted movement. She swallowed without swallowing.

Later that evening there would be advanced filthiness and squirming, and I dated this rather lovely woman for over a year, but it’s this surprising opening to our sexual history which I always remember.

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.  

Peaking Out

Something rather more light-hearted than the sex and self-flagellation in my previous post…

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.   

This is me

This is me. That’s my stomach, and the hair around it. That’s my fist. That’s me penis. And I like that you’re looking at it.

Erection

This is me and mine. I have an unusual foreskin, which doesn’t retract. Women always mention it, usually because they’re scared to force it back (not as scared as me).

The curve is quite pronounced, but it’s only pictures like this which remind me. Women never comment on this and I’ve stopped noticing. Why do you think women never mention it? Are they sparing my feelings? Are all men like this? Do they not care?

On my sofa this evening

My Friday Night Out

I met up with a lady from my squash group, and her friend. They’re both lawyers, but the boring sort who worry about property paperwork and tax loopholes. She had a spare ticket to a play in London. An email went round on Thursday. Did anyone want to go? Yes, I thought I did. I think she fancies me a bit, she prolongs eye contact for a moment too long, and seems just a little silly around me. I don’t fancy her that much, but I’m a bit attracted nonetheless – she’s intellectual and interesting and vital and French – so of course I am. Of her, I guess, much more. 

The evening was low key. After the play (which replaced narrative with pretension, and almost got away with it) we went for a couple of glasses of wine near Smithfields Market. Her friend was getting married and dominated the conversation in an Alan Bennett northern accent, but I still got the chance to talk to my friend a little. The evening was cut short because she had an early flight back to France for a funeral. I left at 11.30 to catch the last train to Richmond. 

Except I missed it. At Vauxhall station I climbed the steps to the platform to see that the trains were done for the night. Behind me on the stairs, and equally irritated, was a woman in jeans and a dress, with shoulder length hair, much of it over her face. I thought she was pretty, but two days later I can’t picture her face. 

“We’ve missed it” I said 

“Oh shit” she said 

This was the point I decided I would try my best to have sex with her. “I’m trying to get to Richmond, how about you” I asked. “Oh near there, I live in Barnes” was her welcome response. I gave her my best open smile and offered to share a cab, dropping her on my way home. She smiled back, agreed and we headed off to look for a cab. On the way I learned that she was called Sally, 27 (I’m 30), works in advertising as someone’s PA, originally from South Africa, quite sexy, flirting back. All very encouraging so far. I can’t recall much about our conversation, just that I had my flirt dial switched to 11, and that she seemed to be receptive. She was interested in what I had to say, even if it was likely a tidal wave of drunken nonsense. She turned her body language in my direction. After 15 minutes we’d reached Fulham. To non-Londoners, Fulham is a smart part of town, full of trendy bars, most of which were closed at this time of night. We drove past one of the few open bars and we both looked in. A minute later she asked “Do you want to stop for a drink?” Bonus. Yes. We stopped the car and jumped out, but by now we were a long way down the road and facing quite a walk. Instead we headed in the other direction hoping to find something nearer. She was good company, laughing and chatting a lot, I think being carried away on my own hyper mood. At one point we stopped to look in a shop window, and she pulled me away by holding my hand. She held it for a moment then let go, but I took it again, and this woman I’d met 20 minutes previously and I walked, like an old married couple, hand in hand down the road. Giving up on finding a bar, we hailed another cab and gave him the uncomplicated mission to “find us a good bar”. The one he found was in Chelsea, by the football ground. We charged in, and at my insistance, ordered a tequila and glass of white wine each. Was I getting her drunk? Well yes, but it was more that I was getting us both drunk. It sounds bad either way, I know. We sat down and chatted for a while about my job and hers. I tested the water a little by touching knees. She leant in a little and carried on talking at close quarters. I noticed she smelled of cigarettes and that warm comforting feminine smell you can inhale when you lift a woman’s hair and smell the nape of her neck. Time to be bold. I leant in and whispered to her “I want to kiss your cheek”. “Go on then”. I did so slowly, first her right, then left, and as she straightened her face, she kissed my lips for a brief moment. “That’s it, no more!” I said in mock certainty. Before leaning in for an old fashioned 16 year old style snog. We kissed for 30 seconds or so, and it was nice. I especially liked feeling the small of her back, and touching her nose with my own as we kissed. I wear oversized “I Work In The Media” glasses, and she knocked them a couple of times. I hadn’t realised there was a trick to kissing a guy in big glasses. My last girlfriend’s unspoken expertise in this area became a very minor tick on her unfortunate balance sheet. 

Then she lost her nerve. The fact of sitting snogging a stranger in an unknown bar, hit home, and she asked me to take her back. Now I may only have had one thing on my mind that night, but I’m not a bastard, and was happy to take her home. I went to the toilet and on my return had to rescue her from a weird father and son team who had moved in. In our third cab of the evening we kissed some more. This time I placed my leg over hers and responding to her own powerful kissing I pressed my body on to her and gently bit her bottom lip. Aware that she was torn between abandon and risk, I was allowing her to make the running. She moved her hand to the top of my leg, stopping it on the tip of my erection, leaving it there, never quite touching the length, but leaving a tingling sensation as I wondered how far it’s reasonable to go in a black London cab. 

I have a really good flat in Richmond, ideal for bringing ladies home, but unfortunately I have a slightly surly (but nice) 18 year old brother staying on my couch at the moment. I calculated that I’d just risk it, and invite her to mine anyway. She said no. “OK, I’ll just get you home” was my deflated response. At her house, I tried my luck again. “Invite me in” I whispered. “I’m sorry I can’t” “Then come back to mine!” I brightened. “No really I can’t”. I gave up. She gave me her number, we kissed again briefly and she was gone, leaving me and the driver alone with our awkward silence for the final ten minutes. Later I rang the number she gave and it was someone else, another woman, wondering why the hell I was calling so late. I texted in drunken desparation – “Drink in Richmond ASAP. Text me.” When I woke up this morning the response came “Really, who is this?”

Richmond

That’s me, that is. 

It’s in Richmond. My new flat is in Richmond, in West London. I was a little reticent before, but what the hell, I’m an exhibitionist, and you’re welcome to know. My imminent adventures will take place across the greatest metropolis in the world, and I’ll retreat to to the comfort of sunny Richmond Upn Thames.

But all that begins next week. Right now, I’m in Brighton still, with friends and in their spare room. We went to a bar up the road tonight. A couple and me. I’m not a hugely handsome man, but I’ve always managed to punch a little above my weight, possibly because I dress well, smile a lot and flirt with the best of them. My flirting skills have gone neglected in the last two years, so tonight I dusted them off again, flirting with the waitress from the bar. She’s a sexy black-haired Australian woman, with a knowing, intellectual thing going on. What could be better. I edged my ego ever so gently onto the line, and she didn’t meet me in the middle. I retreated, only slightly embarrassed.

I’ll get better at this.

And I’ll record my adventures.