Monthly Archives: March 2011
I haven’t really had time to blog this weekend. As many of you might have read on twitter, @Flirty1980 and I set out for a bike ride on Saturday to collect socks. We needed socks because, between sex sessions, I had ejaculated into so many of our socks that we didn’t know which ones were virgins and which had been… soiled. By the time we returned, I had bought socks, entirely new wardrobes of clothes, a stack of DVDs taller than me (and I’m pretty tall) and an inexcusably expensive digital camera.
To apologise for the lack of blogging this weekend, please enjoy the fruits of my new camera. After this post, prepare for a fucking barrage of HD videos and reviews and photos and all that spaff.
Hey look, a bandwagon! ’Scuse me while I jump the fuck on it…
…right, there we go, I’m on it. I feel a bit bad ripping on Rebecca Black for her silly song Friday – the worst thing to come out of Canada since, oh I dunno, swine flu – not least because she’s too young to read my blog so she won’t be able to leave a comment for five years or so. You see, earlier in the week when she first started trending and her Youtube video still only had a million views (only), I may have accidentally implied that she was Justin Bieber in a wig.
Then, I might have inadvertently told all my colleagues, friends and family that her song was such a supermassive blackhole of incomprehensible pointlessness that it threatened to suck the entire music industry into it – a bit like when I put my dick in my own ass.
Then, I might have stopped strangers on the streets of London and played Friday to them on my phone – just so I could have the consolation of their company in my despair – and they wept tears of maniacal misery at the needlessness of the song. “Why does this exist?” they moaned through hysterical sobs. “There’s just no reason for it to be.”
But, the more I played it, the more I began to understand that there was more to the disgraceful pap than the sheer, spiralling, dollar sign-driven exploitation on the part of Ark Music Factory. I had misunderstood the song’s purpose. And then, I had a eureka moment.
I stopped an attractive young couple on a Camden street, frantic for them to share the burden of my misery caused by Rebecca Black’s Friday. “Listen to this, I beg you!” I insisted. I played it to them, my entire body heaving under the oppression of the infuriatingly ridiculous song. But the couple didn’t break down into tears. The female of the couple, a skinny brunette with a beautifully angular face, even began to nod along, and the male’s lips started to move slightly to the words. I was stunned.
When the song had ended, they smiled at each other, and then at me. “Dziekuje” said the man, as the couple moved off. They were Polish, and they liked the song. And then I understood. It all made sense. This was my eureka moment:
Rebecca Black’s Friday is not a song at all, but an English learning aid for foreign language speakers. It is, in short, an introduction to English for immigrants.
As a trained linguist, not to mention a student of other languages as a non-native speaker, here’s my reasoning:
Rebecca Black uses incredibly basic lexis to communicate simple principles in English such as the affirmative minor sentence: “yeah,” indispensable for life in England. Perhaps more importantly, she introduces the foreigner to the names of the more important English days (leaving out, of course, the totally unnecessary Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday, which no one really cares about and should be dropped from the English Lexicon). She also introduces the concept of abstract nouns, in the repetition of ‘fun, fun, fun.’
The constant repetition of words, while so inane and so deafeningly putrid to English-speakers, is a valuable learning technique for foreigners.
Rebecca Black breaks the foreign language speaker gently into English’s complicated syntactic rules, while deftly demonstrating that spoken English can include minor sentences and grammatically incorrect phrases – and yet still make sense. For instance, the first line “7am, waking up in the morning…” contains no subject, and yet we understand that the subject is Rebecca Black herself. She teaches foreigners that there are fundamental rules of English, but the language is versatile enough to tolerate some corner-cutting. Genius.
Furthermore, Rebecca Black illustrates the construction of English question: “which seat can I take?” You see, you might be tempted to think something like: “this might be the stupidest fucking line of any fucking song ever in the fucking history of stupidity.” But you’d be wrong. She’s asking a question in the first person, perfectly equipping the foreign listener with the linguistic tools they should need if they find themselves in a situation which requires they take a seat, but it’s unclear which seat is to be taken. And how many times a day does that happen to you? At least none. But that’s at least.
Introductory Verb Morphology
Rebecca Black demonstrates that the future tense in English is not a true tense at all (unlike past and present) but is, in point of fact, a modal construction. See how she transitions from a present tense to a future modal tense:
“We so excited,
We’re going to have a ball tonight”
I wish she would teach me more about English. Chomsky can only drool at her linguistic ability (but that’s partly because he’s 112 now). She even drops the “are” from “we are so excited.” You might think that’s a pointless and irritating omission if you speak English, but it demonstrates to a foreigner that by dropping the copula ‘are’ and keeping the morpheme ‘-ed’ on ‘excited,’ you can wildly confuse tenses and still not look a complete fucking idiot.
Other evidence includes the use of colloquialisms… to… which… Oh bollocks to this post, who the fuck am I kidding? Rebecca Black, the poor girl, is now the proud owner of the most hideously criminal ejaculation of pop music sputum in history.
But still it wasn’t enough. I sought higher highs and more exhilarating thrills. I was creative, even at that age, and I fucked everything that seemed remotely fuckable. There were virtually no holes, gaps or tubes of any kind in my house that remained virgin. But nothing felt new to me anymore; once I had fucked it a single time, I didn’t really want to do it again (an inclination that I’ve only been able to shed recently).
This particular day, I went in search of something to masturbate with. Anything that I hadn’t used before would be fine, anything at all that could accommodate my adolescent erection. I scurried and flitted around the house like a hummingbird, opening draws and rifling through cupboards. I came to the cupboard under the stairs and opened the door urgently. I needed to have sex with something immediately. In the cupboard, partially concealed behind some coats, was a ropey, old, dusty upright Hoover.
I removed the vacuum cleaner from the cupboard, plugged it in and dragged it round to the sofa, in front of the 30 year old German teenager who was now being pummelled inexplicably – but satisfyingly graphically – by several middle-aged German men who had come out of nowhere and who all seemed jolly angry with her, judging by the way they shouted and grunted at her. (The men were hideous, but at least her vagina was no longer the hairiest thing on the screen.)
I spat into my palm and slathered my erection, then took the extension hose off the hoover and held it. A decision now faced me: Do I insert my penis first, and then turn it on? Or do I turn it on and then slid it onto my penis? I decided to turn it on first. I thought it was only fair to let it warm up a bit: a kind of respectful, mechanical foreplay I guess. I flicked the switch on and the Hoover roared into life with all the subtlety of a jet engine. Then, with no hesitation and blinded to my own stupidity by my desperate need to satisfy my lust, I jammed the nozzle over the end of my dick.
And then everything, sort of, went into warp speed.
The nozzle was drawn almost magnetically to my skin, and the vacuum motor suddenly started to rev faster and faster and noisier and noisier as the nozzle was completely filled with my stupid teenage body parts. I felt things stretching. Things that weren’t supposed to stretch suddenly felt like I was bungee jumping and using them as my chord, and the hideous wet slurping sound was obscene. The experience wasn’t at all how I’d imagined it. In my horny mind, the Hoover would give me a gentle, sloppy blowjob, like the 30 year old German teenager had given to several of those German bears.
But it wasn’t like that. It was like my testicles were being sucked out through my urethra. I thought my dick was simply going to burst inside out. I managed to rip the nozzle off my now worryingly purple dick and I clambered away, shivering, as the 30 year old teenager got her face painted with cum.
That was my first experience of inserting my penis into a vacuum, so you can understand why penis pumps have never appealed much to me. And why, when Pipedreams sent me one to test, I was a little hesitant. But, when it comes to putting my poor, mistreated penis in things, I’m nothing if not persistent. I overcame my nervousness – for you, I might add, and here are my findings.
The pump I’m reviewing is the Pipedreams Vibrating Penis Pump. It’s a nice, solid, uncomplicated name: no condescending “TITAN” or “GIGANTOR” or “The MAXIMIZOR” or “XXX SCIENTIFIC HUGE-IFICATION” here. I respect that. There’s no implication that you should only buy this product if you have a small penis – it’s perfectly reasonable to buy it for pleasure too. We’ll come to that in due course.
It’s not a new pump, by any means. It’s been around for ages, and that makes it the perfect candidate for review. Because if it can be old and good, then more modern pumps can only be better.
In the meantime, let’s talk about what the Vibrating Penis Pump consists of. It comes all in one piece, but in its constituent parts you’ll get:
1x 10” plastic cup
1x stretchy fabric band with two little sleeves
1x vibrating bullet
1x vibrating control pad
1x squeezy bulb thing
1x rubber seal thing that smells like an innertube
What You’ll Need To Work It:
2x AA batteries (not included)
1x penis (or equivalent)
Lots x lube
Let’s Get Shit Straight
I’ve never, ever worried about the size of my penis. It’s a good size, and I like it a great deal. I’ve never considered using any technique or product to make it larger (apart from perhaps the process of ‘jelqing,’ but only because it sounds kind of kinky. But that’s another blog…). In fact, I always thought the idea of a pump was a bit… I don’t know… lonely, and I never believed they could possibly have any genuine effect.
Who’s It For?
As it turns out, it’s not only for people lacking in the underwear department (although they will like it). It’s also great for people like me, who like to experiment with different sensations and like feel new things. Strangely, despite a life of increasing kinkiness, vacuum pumping was not something with which I’d experimented. Therefore, regardless of penis size, this penis pump is for any experimental pleasure-seeker.
Using the Pump
Here’s where things get a little… contradictory. After saying that this pump is for every experimental guy, it actually becomes apparent that there’s at least some consideration for smaller guys. Let me explain. Graphically.
I pulled it out of the box when @Flirty1980 wasn’t home. It was something new, and that immediately made my cock twitch a little. So, with some porn (that was significantly and subconsciously similar to my dad’s bootlegged German porn video, half my lifetime ago) in the background, I applied some lube to my penis (not spit these days; I’ve all sophisticated now, innit), and some to the rubber seal thing that smells like an inner tube. Then, i tried to force my cock into the pump.
I couldn’t. To my eternal pride, I was too big to squeeze through the rubber seal. In fact, this entire blog post is born out of that fact: my cock was too big for the pump. I’m literally glowing with pride as I type. Literally. Glowing. With pride.
However, if there’s one thing I’ve learned in my years working with sex toys – and there is – it’s that sex toys aren’t as fragile as you might think, and they can be adapted. So I grabbed some scissors and made some… modifications.
And then, it worked.
Unfortunately, I didn’t. It had taken so long to doctor the pump that my erection had packed its bags and wandered off, and it took some SERIOUS negotiation to make it come back. Eventually it did, but only just. So excuse the rather unimpressive erection you see in these photos. As soon as I get a proper camera, I’ll re-shoot it all. Promise.
Cock Pump Video
Here’s a video. Jesus I can’t believe I’m posting this.
[EDIT: HAVING MAJOR FUCKING PROBLEMS WITH THIS VIDEO. I'LL UPLOAD IT AND TWEET AGAIN WHEN IT'S READY. IN THE MEANTIME, HERE'S MY PENIS]
DELETED. SORRY.Does It Work?
So, we come to the crux of the issue. Does the cock pump work? Well, simply, yes. It works. Whether you want it to make your cock bigger, or you simply enjoy the sensation of a vaccum, it works very well. So far I only mentioned in passing the vibrating bullet that you strap to the case (removed from photos and videos so you can judge my penis). Well, once you’ve slapped some batteries into it, it becomes a surprisingly valuable tool. Let me explain a little bit.
When I first tried the Classix Vibrating Power Pump, I just slipped the vibrator off and discarded it, thinking it would be useless. And then I got curious, so I slipped it back on. And then I put my dick into the pump, sucked all the air out, watched my penis expand to an obscene size, and then I switched the vibrator. And then, I came.
I came like the cum was being sucked right out of me – which it was. I experienced the same thrilling panic I’d felt when I was 13, the first time I’d felt that vacuum sensation. Only this time, it was more controlled, completely under my control and utterly pleasurable. Normally my dick is around 7 inches when fully erect, but it was being stretched to well over 8 inches when I came inside the pump.
And I came hard. I came like I was painting a 30 year old German teenager’s face with it. I slowly slumped back into my chair and watched the cum slide down the inside of the pump.
And then the best – and most unexpected – bit happened. As my erection dropped inside the pump, I hit the valve that releases the pressure, and it brought on a secondary orgasm that produced yet more cum.
There’s Nothing Casual About Sex – Part 3 was supposed to summarise and crystallise my thoughts on casual sex. I wanted to say that casual sex was never casual; it was often nervous and awkward and uncomfortable. Sometimes it was explosively good, but it was certainly never casual. I wanted it to put the matter to bed… so to speak. It didn’t do that. Instead it was a self-indulgent meander through some of my darker sexual misadventures. And despite my protestations to the contrary, I actually find it very hard not to be proud of my sleazy history. I don’t keep any of it a secret anymore and, although I hide behind this blog to some degree and I use myriad pseudonyms and noms de guerre to protect my identity, most people who know me personally know what I’m like – a nice guy but a bit of a deviant. One of my real-life nicknames is simply ‘Sex Shop,’ for example, and I don’t really care if you find out my real name. I actually, it would probably only take a light sprinkle of intelligent Googling.
Now that my life is a little bit more settled than it was (I mean, I live in Surrey, fuchrissakes), I’ve been looking back over the last few years of my relative recklessness and wondering exactly how healthy (or unhealthy) my preoccupation with casual sex was. But I’m sorry, if you came here looking for definitive answers you’ll be definitively disappointed – because I have none. My thoughts still aren’t clear on the subject of casual sex, and I don’t know if it was healthy or not, and whether I should even try to defend my history at all. In fact, there’s no doubt in my mind that this blog post is part of the understanding process for me. I’m quite excited that you get to join me in these thoughts, and a little ashamed too. Ashamed because although the things I’ve told you about so far are unpleasant, I did worse and I’m still not brave or mature enough to tell you about those things. I cringe when I think of them. But there are a handful of things of which I’m absolutely certain:
- I love sluts.
- I’m well aware that ‘vanilla girls’ sometimes want to feel slutty.
- Wanting to feel slutty sometimes isn’t the same as being a slut.
- Casual sex can be incredibly fulfilling.
- It can also make you hate yourself.
- Those last two things are fucking hard to reconcile.
I was in a gym recently, in Covent Garden. I was in a glass-walled room that hung over the free-weights section below. I was doing what I always do in gyms: krav maga. Around half way through the class, the instructor told us to break for a minute and take on some water, and we did so. I stood staring idly out of the glass window at the gym below – I didn’t really know any of the other practitioners in the class and I wasn’t in the mood for small-talk. While there were dozens of people rowing and cycling and running and stretching, there was just one person in the free-weights section below me; a girl. She lay on her back on a flat bench with a dumbbell in each hand, pushing them both together a little unsteadily toward the ceiling, and I couldn’t help notice how the sweat on her skin added some definition to her muscular shoulders. I accidentally caught her eye, and she didn’t look away. Inexplicably, neither did I. We looked at each other for about three to four seconds – and if you’ve ever held a stranger’s gaze for three to four seconds, you’ll agree that it’s a fucking eternity.
Throughout the class, she kept catching my eye and I kept catching hers. When the lesson was over and we were filing out, sweaty, bruised and filled with adrenaline, she caught my eye from across the gym again, and then she got up and walked away, towards the women’s changing rooms. I of course disappeared into the men’s changing rooms and to be honest, I didn’t really think anything of it at all. I mean, there was nothing to think, surely?
So I left the gym after freshening up and went to unlock my bike from the railings outside. I fumbled with the keys to the lock and dropped them at my feet. I bent down and, through the gap between my armpit and my hip, I saw her again, now with a long, fashionable coat pulled over her gym clothes and a lit cigarette in her hand. She was watching me as she walked past, and she continued to look over her shoulder and glance at me the whole time she walked away from me. Her entire body begged for me to catch up with her and say something – saying anything at all would have been fine, I suspect. My girlfriend will hate to read this, but I had to work very hard to remind myself that I was not single. Because if I had have been single, there’s no doubt in my mind that I would have been climbing inside Gym Girl in no time at all.
I used to wish there was, like, a secret signal casual sex enthusiasts used, so we could spot each other on the high street and disappear into some public toilets, or park bushes, or anywhere the fuck else. I used to wish there was a secret masonic handshake that we had all agreed on and kept discrete from the mainstream. But, I think there actually might be. Let me explain.
Perhaps you think I could be misconstruing Gym Girl’s looks or, more likely, you think I’m overstating my sexual ability. You might be right, but I really don’t think so. I spoke her body language, and it told me that she was horny.
But herein lays a big problem, a problem that I can’t reconcile. If Gym Girl gave off sex signals so readily, and she obviously saw that I was giving them off too (even if I didn’t mean too), does that mean that I give them off to everyone? I mean, I meet attractive women every day of my life. Do they all think I want to have sex with them?
Or do you have to be a casual sex addict to spot another one, a bit like Gaydar? (I call the casual sex equivalent of Gaydar ‘Laydar’). If you have an opinion, please share it. Because I’m at a loss.
So you made it past Part 1 and Part2? You should be ashamed: you’re an accessory after the fact.
Welcome to Part 3. Here, things get a little… dark. And things cross some borders. Have something to hug, you’ll need it. Because these things aren’t just disgusting, but also immoral and also possibly illegal.
A shitload had changed when I moved back to England from France. I’d been away for a while and when I returned I was no longer a nobody. Suddenly, I was a stranger with two degrees and a sense of humour and an OK body. I was new again. I was literate, charming, not too shabby to look at and I was sexually experienced. For some reason I was more popular with people who’d heard my name but didn’t really know me – in short, I was popular with people from my school who were younger than me. For a good few months, I slept with more than my share of 17 year old girls, and I loved every second of it. And I was twisted too. I did terrible things to them. Whenever I could, I would keep their underwear so I could masturbate into them later. For some reason, I was catnip to teenage girls – perhaps because they talked to each other about sex and I came over pretty well.
All the guys in my home village hated me. So, as a natural reaction, all the girls fawned over me. And for a few months, I had a very acceptable amount of sex.
But it faded, and so did I. The sex was drying up like a desert river, and as my novelty waned so did the opportunities for casual, no-strings satisfaction. For a while, I had very little sex at all.
And then one day, when I was trying to sell a snowboard on a website called Gumtree, I noticed a dating section, with a ‘Casual Relationships’ subcategory. My interest was thoroughly piqued and I inevitably clicked the link, and I discovered that Gumtree was much more than I way to flog old shit and look at other people’s old shit.
Gumtree allowed you to advertise for completely anonymous sexual partners. Not only that, it was organised and easy to use too.
I browsed the posts, breathless with excitement. Some were posted by men who apparently wanted to meet for ‘casual watersports’ or ‘NSA fun with younger guys.’ Some were obviously spam. But some of the posts seemed to be genuine: a lot of thirty-something women seeking flings. Of course, I responded to as many as I possibly could. I was happy to fling all over Hampshire.
In the early days, many of the women would request photos of my penis before we met. I happily obliged, because I like my penis – but after I’d sent a picture I would often never hear from the women again. This caused me some insecurity; maybe my penis was too small, or too big, or too ugly, or not ugly enough. But now, I believe that those women were just collectors of penis photos. Like antiques traders. Many of them probably weren’t even women. They were seedy old men, wanking their lives away in their office chairs (which was far worse than what I was, which was a seedy young man, wanking my in my office chair).
Many insisted that they come to my flat (they can’t ‘accom’), or meet me in a public place or a hotel, which led me to believe that they were in committed relationships, cheating on their boyfriends or husbands purely because they liked the feeling of cheating. It took me a long time to realise that women have the same urges and fantasies as men – for some reason, I had always assumed that women were a little less sexually motivated as men. I was wrong, and I was very happy I was wrong because I was regularly getting my cock wet.
But some encounters were better than others. Some were more satisfying. And meets would be wildly different.
Meeting Strangers For Sex
One day I had sex with two women in the same afternoon, purely because they coincidentally lived within walking distance from one another. The sex was terrible both times but I didn’t care. I slept with a woman in front of her child, and with a girl with learning difficulties. I had sex in and around Southampton Common several times. I even had sex in the playground, right next to the swings, for fuck’s sake.
A surprising number of these women fantasised about rape. In fact, I raped a student in public and then blackmailed her – all consensually and at her request. I had never had a fantasy of raping a woman or being raped myself; it seems to be a peculiarly female fantasy. But in truth, I don’t care because I enjoyed it.
Probably the craziest casual sex I ever had was with a girl who became a temporary fuck-buddy, and she also entertained borderline rape fantasies. I took the day off work to fulfil this particular fantasy. She was tiny actually, and I love tiny girls. She still lived near the school she had attended, and she had kept her school uniform and could still comfortably fit into it. This particular school backed onto a small wooded copse, through which I ran fun-runs as a child. At 3:15pm, the arranged time, I walked through this woods and discovered her, dressed in her school uniform and as other schoolgirls bustled past, leaning against the gate that connected the school to those woods. She was smoking. I started chatting to her, and she acted the perfect tarty schoolgirl perfectly. Soon, I talked her into the woods and I fucked her, and I pulled her hair and spat in her face while she tried to swallow my cock, and I eventually dragged my length out of her cunt and painted her face with sperm. Then I walked away, without saying a word. She never contacted me again and I never contacted her, but she had fulfilled a fantasy. I was ambivalent about the whole event.
Gumtree was a goldmine. Seriously. It was a secret of course; at the time I never bragged or boasted or talked to anyone about it. It was my dirty little habit. I would screw a stranger in the morning, and then go out with my friends like nothing ever happened. But recently, I spoke to a guy my own age and with similar interests, and discovered that he had used it too. What became clear, is the fact the we bashed our genitals against other people’s genitals until we achieved an orgasm, and then that was it. There was no emotion, no affection. It was like shaking hands, or writing a letter.
I was masturbating, but instead of my hand I used a stranger’s body.
But the crazy thing is, as terrible and depraved as the sex usually was, and as horrible and insane I felt afterwards, I can’t stop myself being attracted to it.
Much of the information I’m about to share with you will make you hate me. I’m really sorry, and I’m mortified that I did this. It’s worse than fucking a woman in front of her kid. I’m NOT proud of this, I’m not trying to brag and I’m not sharing this with you happily. It’s miles too much information. I’m doing it because I want to explain how strange an addiction to casual sex can be, and the kinds of terrible lengths you will go to in order to satisfy those urges. I’m an alright guy, I promise; if you met me, you’d have no idea the kind of deviancy my history contains. Right, deep breath, let’s go.
A couple of years back I worked for a small sex toy company. It was small enough that I handled the entire front-facing part of the company alone: I wrote everything for the company and personally dealt with all the customer service responsibilities myself, on a one-to-one basis.
One day, an email landed in my inbox. It was from a customer, concerned about whether her order – for which she had paid for next day delivery – would actually arrive the next day, as the website had promised. She was only looking for clarification. I checked her order details, and her address was familiar to me. It was in Southampton, and I cycled past it on my way home from work. Like, right past the front door.
I looked at the clock. It was 4:15pm. The cut-off time for next day delivery was 4:30pm, but a plan was formulating in my filthy, terrible, depraved mind.
I stuck the her email address in facebook. She looked hot. She was 19, tanned and a lifeguard at a local swimming pool. I thought – arrogantly and chauvinistically – that my luck was in.
I replied via email, and I lied, saying that the cut-off for next day delivery had passed and she would not receive her order until the following day, despite having paid for it. Then, after sounding all formal and professional, I mentioned that I cycled passed her address and could drop her order off for her that evening, if she was comfortable with that. I made it clear that it would be an inconvenience for me, but I was happy to do it because… you know… I cared about her happiness and all that bullshit.
She said she was comfortable with me dropping it off, and with a lump growing in my trousers I set about trying to build a rapport with her. It was easy, surprisingly easy in fact. I should have been suspicious about how easy it was, but because there was more blood in my penis than in my brain, I thought nothing of it. We flirted a bit, and in the course of the emails (which had of course switched to my personal email, away from my work email) she mentioned she had Facebooked me and liked what she saw. It was obvious that sex was going to occur, so I stayed horny for the rest of the afternoon.
I packed her order in my bag when the warehouse staff weren’t looking and set off for her address. I arrived at her door, and when she answered it three things were immediately obvious.
- She lived with her parents.
- Her parents were not in.
- She had learning difficulties.
Yeah. I hadn’t spoken to her before we met. We’d communicated via email, and her spelling, while not perfect, was OK. But when I met her face to face, there was obviously something wrong. At first, from the way she spoke, I thought she might be deaf. But it quickly became obvious that she wasn’t deaf, because she could hear me perfectly and she wasn’t lip-reading. It was clearly some kind of disability. Clearly.
I wasn’t sure what to do, but I was sure that I was horny, and so was she. I slung my bag off my shoulder and unzipped it to give her the toys she had paid for. Suddenly, she was nervous. She didn’t want the neighbours to see us. She stepped back from the door and frantically waved her hand, telling me to come in, off the doorstep. It was in this moment, with this gesture, that I knew I was about to do the most terrible thing in my entire life – and in a life filled with terrible things, it needs to be special to stand out.
Have you ever quit cigarettes? I have. Nicotine makes you do bizarre things when you try to leave it. You try to justify smoking in all sorts of crazy ways: “everybody else is doing it,” “I quit easily last weekend, so this weekend I may as well smoke and then quit again on Monday,” “I’ll smoke three a day, and that’s the same as only smoking one day a week and that’s acceptable.” And so on.
The same thing happens with a casual sex addiction. I told myself that, just because she had a learning difficulty, didn’t she deserve to get laid every now and then? Like everyone else? She has needs, doesn’t she?
And in the event, it was pretty good. She wasn’t afraid to ask for what she wanted, and where she wanted it. We were both well over the legal age of consent, the sex was mutually satisfying and safe, and we talked afterwards for a while about all sorts of stuff. It was normal, grown up sex and we both wanted it and both enjoyed it.
So why do I have this really strong feeling that I exploited her (and not to mention exploited my position at that job) to fulfil my horniness?
I stared up at the tower block with a knot in my stomach. It was colossal. It seemed to lean over me like my father, with his fists on his hips and a stern, disapproving look on his face.
It was grim, blank and judgemental. It had a reputation too, as being one of the roughest, most unfriendly tower blocks in Hampshire. (The image above are the actual flats.) Up there, on the twenty second floor of this swooping concrete lump, there was a vagina. The vagina that had summoned me.
That was almost the totality of my knowledge: a vagina, an address. I had a few poorly written emails from the vagina (written with a single hand I assumed, or possibly by two hands separated by masturbatory gaps) that told me the likes and dislikes of the vagina I would meet at the top of this tower, along with a few nebulous fantasies, and the fact that this vagina had recently ejected a children.
I was so horny; I was only 22 and only recently back in England after a spell in France. I didn’t really know anyone and because I was teetotal, I never met women in clubs or anything like that. Casual internet sex was my release.
I walked into the foyer of the tower block, and saw a handwritten note on the lift doors that read simply in ugly, scrawled, serial killer handwriting:
LIFT OUT OF ORDER, TAKE STAIRS
So, I took the stairs. They smelled of piss and it scratched my throat. The stench of drying ammonia tickled my oesophagus and I choked as I looked up at the sixteen floors above me. Maybe I should hire a Sherpa to lead the way. The sex better be worth it.
It stank, and every now and then I would pass the same bearded human on different levels who would blindly accuse me of some imagined crime, or tried to offer me incomprehensible advice, or ask me for money, or simply smell of alcohol. I passed him on one floor and he was asleep, covered in pages of the Daily Sport, and for a disturbing second I let the images arouse me, to prepare me for the casual sexual encounter ahead of me.
I made it to the 22nd floor. I walked to the door and I smelled the cigarette smoke through the hinges as I raised my hand to knock. The doorbell was obviously broken: a wire hung out of the doorframe daring me to touch it. I nearly walked away, I should have walked away, because what followed was something terrible. But I’d walked up 22 floors, and I’d already paid for the condoms…
I blew on my knuckles and, with a fucking great big knot in my stomach, I hit the door.
It opened immediately and stood there, in what was the doorway before she stuffed it with her huge body, was a vagina.
This particular vagina was roughly 20 stone, and greasy, and smelled like she’d been for a run. But judging by the family of armadillos growing in the front of her Kappa jogging bottoms, she’d never run anywhere in her life. She seemed to be an expert in sucking calories in and sweating them out; while farming skin diseases. Her fingers were only out-yellowed by her teeth, and her flat seemed to be some kind of shrine to laziness. But you know what? I fucked her anyway. And it gets worse.
I fucked her in her one bedroom flat, which stank of microwave meals and nicotine and unemployment, while her baby daughter slept in a cot at the end of the bed – in the same room.
Casual sex made me do some very vile things. You think that’s bad? The next part is worse.