The Friend and the Affair

Guess what? I’ve gone and done something completely ridiculous.

If you read this blog with any regularity (I don’t write with regularity, but maybe you like to remind yourselves about my sporadic sex life) you will no doubt remember Luke. In case you don’t remember Luke, we went on a few dates back at the end of last year and then he told me he didn’t fancy me. Fine. Fine.

Since I last wrote, the unbelievable has happened – Luke and I have become friends. And not just fair-weather facebook friends; I’m talking Sunday-lunch-and-Scrabble-in-the-pub friends. That mutual local which looked like it was going to be so uncomfortable? Yeah! We hang out there all the time.

So now to the ridiculousness.

I’ve started having sex with Luke’s housemate. ThereI’vesaidit. Life is NEVER boring. “What’s that? You don’t fancy me? Oh, well, if you don’t mind, I’ll just fuck your best friend who you live with. Loudly.” Except, obviously it’s not like that…

It actually all began on New Year’s Eve when he (the housemate), Luke and I ended up at a bar, post-midnight and very pissed. Luke eventually got too tired and grumpy to deal with the crowds of wasted Hoxtonistas, and left me and James (that’s him) together. One bit of outrageous flirting led to another and we ended up back at mine. For the record we didn’t sleep together… Not that it makes a huge difference; I’ve already given the game away about how this tale ends.

In the couple of weeks immediately after NYE, I think I did go a little bit mad. I decided to give up drinking as my resolution for 2011. That lasted all of 6 days – I always ignore myself anyway, I have noresolvewhatsoever. But it seems that, encouraged only partly by James himself, I decided that the way to combat alcohol-free boredom was to bombard the boy with texts. He seemed to enjoy it, but it did prompt a slight morality meltdown over Luke, who he seemed to think would be bothered by his housemate shagging a girl that he didn’t fancy. Sounds sort of ideal if you ask me. I mean - this was hardly some kind of sordid affair. So whilst James was torn between enjoying it and being wracked with guilt, I was torn between the attention and the drama; I just don’t know which bit I loved more.

After a while, and several failed attempts on my behalf to persuade James to come and have sex with me, I reached a fork in the metaphorical road of my behaviour. Should I give up the chase for lack of any actual resulting thrill? Or should I up the ante?

Here’s what I did: I sent him a series of pictures of myself in my underwear.

So… Not giving up the chase then. That’s OK, right? That’s… Normal? There’s NO WAY that would make him view me as some kind of mentally-unhinged-morally-reprehensible-slut-who-fires-off-semi-naked-photos-without-so-much-as-a-thought-for-the-consequences, right? *Phew* That’s a relief.

All the while this was going on, Luke, James and I were still hanging out together, like the fucking Three Musketeers. In fact, since James was in my bed on New Years Eve, I’d not actually seen him on his own. So one minute I’m texting grainy pictures of myself taken on my shitty mobile, the next I’m popping round to their flat for dinner à trois and trying to maintain a veneer of normality whilst we sit around the Scrabble board. I’m thinking: “Can I get away with putting down the word ‘throb’ without blushing?” I warned you that this tale was ridiculous.

[By the way, to make things TOTALLY ridiculous - It might be worth mentioning that both Luke and James know about the blog. In the spirit of being friendly and clearing the air with Luke, I confided that I’d written a blog about him and he pestered me to read it. So. Um… Hey guys. Awkward.]

Anyway. Fast-forward through a bit more of this bizarre courtship, and the inevitable happened. The famous BeDJ charm-by-bombardment technique worked its magic and James and I FINALLY had sex. Good job too, because I was just plain tired of playing hard to get. *AHEM*

The first night we slept together, James had been at the football all day and drinking Guinness since about 9am, as far as I could work out. He drank about another 5 pints after he met me at 9pm, and by the time the evening was drawing to a close, he was well and truly shit-faced. I started to walk him home. The only trouble was that my house was virtually en route… It would have taken a stronger woman than me to resist a soberer man than James, and he ended up back in my bed. Although not in quite the triumphant circumstances I’d hoped for. I was thinking: “Does Guinness count as a date rape drug?” I hope not. Just to be on the safe side, I let him go to sleep. *yawn*. I know that’s the safer route in terms of possibly perpetrating sexual assault, but I mean seriously. I was pretty frustrated.

But fear not! Next the bit you’ve all been waiting for (I know I had): The next morning James and I woke up early and spent the whole day having quite a lot of excellent sex. At bloody last! I knew the sexting had been a good idea. The grainy picture of my tits in a corset had done its job - who needs 5 megapixels?

So that was nearly 2 months ago now (yikes) and I’m pleased to say the sex has continued. And after deliberating about it for the entirety of those two months, I’ve finally plucked up the courage to write something that – for the first time ever – is definitely going to be read by the person it’s about. Is there any actual way that can not backfire massively?

James, if you’re reading this… More sex, please. And you know all that stuff we discussed…? Yeah, I’m totally up for it. I’ll keep you posted.

BeDJ

The Divine Chemistry

I know what you're thinking: It must be fun being a sex blogger... Right? I mean, sure, I don’t tell anyone that I sleep with that I do it, but there’s a certain shallwesay confidence that comes with knowing I’m going to write about their penises and dissect their performance. With that confidence, or “arrogance” as some would call it, I know that I can turn on the charm (in some way/shape/form/level of inebriation) and at least claim a moderate level of success.

But that illusion has now been smashed, cruelly, by the events of last night. Even a journalistically hard-nosed professional blogger such as myself would have to admit that events did not go as planned. I’m getting ahead of myself; let me set the scene...

Luke and I have been dating for a couple of weeks now. I would like to stress that we were kicking it old school on this front; in fact we were being positively Austenian in terms of self-restraint. Which is why, on date number four, we hadn’t so much as put hands up thick-knit jumpers. I think I was approaching a new record.

We met up for drinks as our (mutual) local – take note of that for later as you picture future awkward encounters – and were having a lovely time. He is funny and intelligent and interested in the world, and at least for the time being I was managing to persuade him that I was too. Despite being the preamble to the most awkward/embarrassing events of my life, it was extremely good fun.

After the pub we went back to his, on his suggestion I hasten to add; I was still being chaste and trying to pretend I didn’t mind either way. It’s still well below freezing in London, and his flat was like the arctic tundra. So we got under a blanket on the sofa and snuggled up. It was actually kind of romantic...

We started kissing, and I twisted myself round to face him. He put his arms around me and... Stopped. I was confused. But not to worry, I was confident that there was more kissing to come.

I will now quote word for word the most mortifying sentence I have ever heard.

Luke: “Is it just me or is there no chemistry between you and me?”

Me: “!?!”

Ohmotherfuckingholygod. Did that just happen? Did that actually just happen?! But I’m a sex blogger! It’s, like, my god-given ability to make people think they have chemistry with me. That’s how I manage to write this bloody blog in the first place! I cannot physically believe that he said that. Especially when he could have just shagged me and THEN told me! Not fair. Not fair at all.

[Also, it renders this entire post completely pointless. Apart from for the sake of allowing you all to share in my cringing embarrassment, which I suppose has some value. *Sigh*]

So there we were. I hadn’t really registered it until then, but I think I’d been mentally putting rather a lot of eggs into the Luke basket. And now they lay smashed underfoot like so many little Humpty Dumptys under the hooves of all the King’s horses. And amongst those shattered eggs were the fragments of my pride and self-confidence. How had I misread this so badly?! No chemistry? No fucking chemistry?!

I realised that in the 17 silent seconds since Luke asked that fateful rhetorical question, I had shifted all the way to the far end of the sofa, and crossed my arms. I didn’t even notice I was doing it, but I’m pretty sure there’s got to be something to that whole “defensive body language” thing. I may have been – for the first time ever – rendered utterly speechless, but my angry little arms were speaking volumes.

Eventually he said “Does it make it worse if I say I’d really like us to be friends?”

Yes. Yes it fucking does.

I should actually say at this point that despite my furious tone, and despite the wonderful mileage anecdotally, I didn’t actually feel that pissed off. For someone with such a propensity for blind rage and high drama, I just felt... Disappointed.

... A revelation which leads me to believe that Luke was right all along. Maybe we didn’t have the necessary spark after all? I mean, he didn’t rip my clothes off, but I wasn’t ripping his off either. I know I was attempting to be chaste, but I’ve never managed it before so what was it about Luke that meant I could?! Yes, I’d apparently hoped for quite a lot after our first few dates, but was I just making do because on paper we’re so well suited?

Luke walked me home and gave me a kiss on the cheek (ouch). I got into my bed and screwed my face up to see if I could have a little cry. But there was nothing. I think, in all honesty, despite this being the most humiliating moment of my life to date, I’m actually not heartbroken over the loss of Luke. And lest we forget, he and I are going to be friends after all...

I wonder how that one will pan out? I’ll keep you posted.

BeDJ

The Temptress

So there really is such a thing as the power of suggestion. This is what we have learnt from Friday night’s shenanigans.

I’ve been dying to have sex with Matt for months now, but he is notoriously rubbish with women and therefore impervious to my more subtle (what? I can be subtle) advances. But on Friday night I cracked it. It appears the key to it all along was simply to talk about us having sex so much that eventually he was just... numb to the idea. His resolve was shattered. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is when I made my move. I know what you’re thinking – Impressive stuff. My siren-like techniques have to be seen to be believed. I'm a real life temptress.

We’d been at a fancy dinner that night, ostensibly raising money for charity, but really just drinking rather a lot of toxically bad wine. The entire venue was crawling with men I was dying to have sex with, but in the end it was Matt who wound up getting a taxi with a few of us back to my flat. Time for Seduction 101, prepare to take notes.

It was in the taxi that I first started “pretending” I wanted to have sex with him. I think my twisted logic was that if I went totally and completely over the top he would either a) Get the point that I wanted to fuck him, or b) Miss the point and think I was taking the piss. So... I repeatedly made reference to Matt and I being an item, and to Matt and I sleeping together, and every time the poor boy opened his mouth I accused him of flirting with me. It was utterly ridiculous, and very entertaining. Matt was taking the whole thing very well, laughing along and everything. But I can genuinely say that even after our epic cross-town taxi ride, I was no nearer to working out whether he was getting the point or not. Having said that, despite the possibility of aforementioned option a), I don’t think there was any point in the journey at which I really thought this childish tactic would lead to sex.

We arrived home. When everyone was safely ensconced in my sitting room, I decided to hit the hay. My parting shot as I left the room was simply “Matt, it’s time for bed”. I’m nothing if not thorough in my adoption of a technique; seduction by suggestion was now ingrained into my psyche. It was said with the same faux-flirtatiousness as every other comment I’d made so far, and I thought nothing of it.

Imagine my surprise then when I was joined by Matt about 3 minutes later. Hmmm... Maybe the elusive option a) was actually making an appearance. Literally no-one would have predicted that. Oh my god! I am a genius!

He stripped down to his boxers and slid under the duvet. Unfortunately Matt’s infamous inability to take the reins with women continued way past the point of him getting into my bed. I snuggled up to him, I nuzzled his neck, I made it horrifically plain that I wasn’t just in it for a Bert and Ernie style sleepover. Still Matt was failing to pounce on me and rip all my clothes off. There was a lot of shallow breathing and a lot of squeezing me close to him, but not so much of the pouncing and the ripping. After what felt like hours, he finally got his act together and we kissed (actually, I’m pretty sure I actually just rested my mouth on his mouth or something equally ridiculous. Anyway! Never mind that. Or rather, do mind that – this is Seduction 101 and you’re all learning something terribly valuable)...

Triumph! An evening’s worth of pissing about had paid off. Time for some thoroughly un-Sesame Street sexy fun... Except... Ummm... Really?! This was a little bit more like hard work than I was hoping for. Hadn't I done enough?! Matt was still making me do all the leg-work, when what I really wanted was a manly man to take control. The last time I’d spend this long grinding someone with all my clothes on was probably pre-GCSEs. Weirdly though, the wiggling around withallourclotheson was actually kind of great. I’m normally all guns blazing for getting straight down to it (why waste valuable time?!), but you forget how much of a turn on it can be to really hold back... By the time we actually did get naked, I was literally trembling all over with anticipation. So maybe Matt does know what he’s doing? Double triumph and hooray for building up to it!

The sex – when it eventually happened – was excellent. Having walked like John Wayne for about a week after my encounter with Adam, I was seriously glad of some more gentle treatment. It’s true; Matt was not your average throw-you-round-the-bed, chest-beating, alpha male. But what he lacked in animal ferocity he made up for in some of the most tantalisingly slow, incredibly arousing sex I have had for ages.

[By the way, when I say tantalisingly slow, I mean that we finally went to sleep well after 7 o’clock in the morning. Who needs sleep anyway?]

Although in reality there probably wouldn’t have been enough hours in the day, it would have been nice to have a bit more lovely sex when Matt and I woke up again. But the preamble alone could have lasted until well into X Factor. There was also still a room full of people who had fallen asleep all over the sitting room... These waifs and strays began demanding attention and pain-killers and phone chargers at about 11 o’clock, and after that there was no going back to bed. Which is a shame, because lovely as sex with Matt was, and much as I’d like to repeat it, I just don’t know if I could be bothered with all the pursuing on another occasion. I mean, the thrill of the chase and all that, sure. But there must be easier ways to go about getting laid than the several hours of groundwork I put in that night...?

Depends what you’re after I guess. And maybe Matt won’t be the boy I call if I’m in desperate need of a quickie... But if I’ve got time for a slowie, he’d definitely be fairly high up the list.

On the briefest of brief digressions, I would like to announce that I have returned to normality and sanity after completely losing my head over Adam. I was transported back to my teenage years by seeing him again and momentarily regressed to being 14 years old. I am now fully prepared to admit that I was in the throes of post-coital teenage ecstasy, and therefore everything I said about making him my boyfriend should be scratched from the records. Although if he were to ask me out, I just don’t know what I’d say. Still, I think that eventuality is unlikely... I’ll keep you posted.

BeDJ

Breakfast Epiphanies

*HA-LLELUJAH HALLELUJAH HALLELUJAH HA-LLELUJAH HA-LLE-LU-JAH!*

I feel like I am in a movie montage. I’m pretty sure Katrina and The Waves was playing in the background as I walked down the street just now, and there may or may not have been troupes of dancers breaking into a GAP-advert-style routine all around me as I went...

FINALLY, after almost TWO AND A HALF MONTHS, I have had some sex. GREAT sex. I’m sorry, I can’t unjam my finger from the Caps Lock... It’s just that everything is right with the world again. Life is wonderful! It is literally amazing what a good bit of sex does for morale.

Just when it got to the stage where I was so frustrated I felt like I might go into a primary school with a machine gun, along comes the man of my dreams (please excuse the very heavily rose-tinted spectacles, I am still in that post-coital phase where I am in love with the world) and sweeps me onto my back. Joy!

Adam and I have recently been reunited after several years out of contact... We met at High School, and between the ages of 11 and 16 he was the bane of my life. I loved and hated him in equal measure, and all with the passion that only a teenage girl can muster. And then I moved away to college and we just lost contact. But now, seven years later, he’s moved down to London and I’ve been showing him around the town. And by showing him around the town, I mean getting him blind drunk on black sambuca and inviting him to stay in my bed.

My housemate was awake when we got in, and I actually did a little excited jig in the kitchen with him whilst Adam went to the loo. I like to think that aforementioned housemate was incredibly impressed by the calibre of man I had bought back. Adam is devastatingly gorgeous. If I am being perfectly honest, I was incredibly impressed with myself. I was reaching breaking point, after the longest period of celibacy in... Well, years. I’d have had sex with a ginger dwarf if he’d offered. But no – here was Adam. All cheek bones and feline eyes and 6’3” of lovely broadness. There are those rose tinted specs again. But really, he is spectacular.

That of course carries its own problems... What’s the protocol when the man in your bed is so attractive you feel like you want to book out every doctor on Harley Street from now until 2012 in a futile attempt to be worthy of their attention?! Buggerbuggerbugger! Is it too much to ask that I look just a little bit more like Angelina Jolie please?! I mean, she and I share the essential genetics, but past the cellular level the similarities sadly end. Of course it doesn’t really matter... Not really really. Once you’ve got your clothes off, most men don’t care what you look like. And if you’ve mastered the blow job, well. You could be a ginger dwarf, they really wouldn’t give a flying fuck.

Having said that, so long has it been since I had sex, I had almost forgotten how it was done. “Right, so just remind me... Where does this go?” (probably best you don’t answer that). Luckily I think I managed to get back into the swing of things without too much trouble...

And wow. Wow. All I was thinking was – “Let’s never stop doing this”. I could imagine a point in the distant future where the force of my addiction to having sex with Adam meant that I wasn’t eating or sleeping, and eventually the Police would knock down the door when the smell started seeping out, and our emaciated little bodies would be found atop an enormous pile of Durex. I don’t know if this is an image I will ever share with Adam. I think perhaps not.

Sex again this morning was lovely, and a bit calmer than last night’s whirlwind. When Adam suggested we go out and get breakfast I was a) A bit panicked at the thought of letting him leave my bed, b) Thrilled at the idea of being seen having breakfast with a demigod (I know, I know. I’m being over the top), and c) Impressed. Men are so often a bit weird the morning after sex – and I know I’m not alone in having experienced this. They dart off making weird excuses, like they can hear us humming the wedding march under our breath. I realise that I have just painted a scenario where I trapped Adam into sexual assisted suicide. BUT THAT’S DIFFERENT, YEAH? That’s purely a sex thing. Surely most men would like to be shagged to death?

Although... You know... It was really great at breakfast. Maybe it’s not purely a sex thing? Crikey, that’s quite the epiphany to have over a sausage sandwich (no euphemism intended). As I sat there and thought about it, I could sort of see Adam and I, a few years down the line; taking long walks along the beach with our dogs, me crying with happiness as he slips the enormous diamond engagement ring onto my finger... WhatamIsaying?!?!?! I’ve become completely irrational. I think I might be high on sex. I need to go and have a lie down and regain my senses.

And then, once I’m feeling completely back to normal, I’ll ask Adam to be my boyfriend. No! No! *deep breaths deep breaths* Be. Sensible.

I will ask him round to dinner.

Yeah... That’s what I’ll do. That seems reasonable. Right?!

I mean, we’re very old friends... There’s nothing wrong with asking a very old friend round to dinner is there? He couldn’t possibly construe anything from that. Could he?! I’ll keep you posted.

BeDJ

All Quiet on the Eastern Front

Oh, hello! Remember me? I’m the one in London having all the sex... Except – oh no! Wait. I’ve not been having any sex at all of late, therefore rendering this whole blog an absolute farce.

I can only apologise for my lacklustre performance over the past few weeks. I can’t really account for it. Although there is one thing... I’ve moved to Shoreditch. Could this possibly have anything to do with it?! Can my utter failure to have sex really boil down to the fact that I refuse to wear brogues (they make my ankles look fat) or have an undercut (what happens when you want to grow it out?!). If I were a little more fancy-free with my footwear and/or hairstyling, perhaps I wouldn’t be experiencing such a dearth of sexual activity. Perhaps.

Maybe men in East London are just looking for something different in a sexual partner (aside from gender inappropriate shoes and androgynous haircuts). Armed with this revelation I am going to get my hands on a fixed-gear bicycle, a Barbour jacket and some wayfarers... Then I will start a band and watch a lot of art house cinema. That should do the trick, right? Right?! Note to self: don’tforgetthevintagecarpetbag.

In the meantime, I could always revisit some of the previous blog entries. Not in a sexual sense (necessarily)... But I realise that many a story remains as an incomplete narrative. And that’s just bad reportage.

For example – Today I saw Sam. Now there’s a name you haven’t heard in a while! Sam, you will recall, played the *fanfare* starring role in the two-person marathon that was One Hundred Hours of Servitude. His medication-induced inability to ejaculate resulted in an exhausting battle with his limbic system that nearly killed me. This was followed by a period of intense textual assault - a terrifying level of demand for my company - which resulted in us not seeing each other at all for a good couple of months. His keenness was nothing if not off-putting. We’re back on much better terms again now though. In fact today we went for lunch. When I say lunch, I mean that I sat in silence and ploughed through a gourmet burger, whilst Sam listed every female conquest, compliment and comment of recent weeks... Not that I mind really. He does it in a rather sweet way that’s so totally transparent it’s hard to be offended. He’s just keeping me informed. He’s desirable, don’t cha know.

Much like last time I wrote about Sam, I have just received a text from him, as I type. “By the way, you look stunning”. Greeeeeaaaat.

Then there’s Rob. Good old Rob. Twoyearsdowntheline, supermarketsushiinthedark Rob. Rob of the Mothering Fights. Rob of the wanting what he can’t have. Where Sam and I have kissed and made up (figuratively speaking), Rob and I have fucked and fallen out. We’ve been sleeping together on and off for two years, and of late I’ve been wanting out. But I haven’t told him – Oh no! That would be far too simple. Basically I’ve been hoping to communicate my lack of interest via telepathy. Is it really too much to ask that he get the hint and let the whole sorry affair die a quiet death? “Do Not Resuscitate this relationship!” In fact, more than that. Send this sad little old relationship to a clinic in Switzerland and let it have the dignified death it deserves.

The entire situation has become even more irritating recently, if possible; the worst thing being that even he’s irritated now. His requests to meet up are becoming nothing short of abusive. I think he’s trying to bully me into sex via the medium of text. It’s not working.

Jokes about Swiss clinics aside, turns out a little trip abroad is exactly the solution that was needed... Great news has arrived this week, which has solved a world of problems. Rob has been offered a job in Manilla... He’s moving to the Phillipines! Indefinitely! Now I never have to talk to him like a grown-up, never again must I face the wrath of his mother (like a child) and the whole thing is, frankly, a weight off my mind.

Who else, of the recurring cast of MENTALS, should I mention? There’s always Jim I suppose. Dear Jim, with his performance anxiety and crippling (for me) inability to get an erection. On Impotence and Being Earnest and A Tale of Two Fitties certainly didn’t paint him in a particularly favourable light. In fact there was a point when I genuinely feared he was a heroin addict... But you know how it is when you have a few drinks and forget about a man’s impotence just for a second, and text them to see how they are and end up agreeing to see them for a drink, even though you strongly suspect the whole episode will be as entirely fruitless as every other failed attempt to get it on with the closest incarnation of Russell Brand you will ever meet in your life? No? Well I do. And I’ve done it now, so we’ll just have to wait and see.

I hope Jim will not be the only boat on the horizon (there’s a joke here about being at half mast which I can’t quite muster the energy to compose) in the near future. That would be a limp basket to place all of my eggs into. I’m hoping that my domination of Shoreditch will take on new life now that I hold the key to seducing the men of East London...

Maybe I should have faith in my ankles and buy those brogues after all...? I’ll keep you posted.

BeDJ

Sex and Sensibility

By Monday afternoon, I’d spent a fair bit of time thinking over the events of the previous night of Grime and Punishment. Aside from the somewhat disappointing discovery that I was not, as it turned out, the reformer of young men, there was also the entire Rob debacle. I hadn’t taken any of it very seriously at the time (bit busy), but the more I thought about it afterwards, the more I felt... annoyed.

What it boils down to is that Rob and I have been in a constant power struggle ever since we started sleeping together two years ago. In the beginning I had to play my best game to keep up with him. And then... I just stopped caring. Ladies, just so you know, this is undoubtedly the key to “the game”, the holy grail of dating in this day and age... If you want to behave like you don’t give a fuck, try not giving a fuck. It’s been a revelation! Honestly, I can’t recommend it enough. Unfortunately, in keeping with effective gameplay, the more successful I’ve got at ignoring Rob’s calls, never being available when he wants, and having sex only on my terms, the more keen Rob has become. I believe it’s called Wanting What You Can’t Have.

(Except of course, he could have me, and did. I just made life more difficult for him. And there’s definitely an undeniable sadistic satisfaction in that...)

Anyway, my recent aloofness probably explains his charming declarations on Sunday. To recap: He “adores me”. For someone capable of such complex thought, his behaviour is so wonderfully transparent... I just know exactly the way Rob’s mind works. Me – not interested; Rob – interested. It is genuinely as simple as that! The crying shame of the whole thing is that despite being in possession of all this intelligent insight, I was so worn down by the end of our conversation on Sunday night that I just gave in and agreed to see him the following evening. Hardly the cast iron resolve of an emancipated woman.

When he arrived at the pub the next night I had just had quite a long moan about him to my friends, and was in a vaguely unpleasant mood. I was making a little mental checklist of sexual privileges I would withhold in order to... I dunno, what? Punish him. That’s what.

Here’s a sexual privilege I should think more seriously about withholding – the sex! That has actually occurred to me, I can just hardly ever be bothered to shoo him away more than 2 or 3 times in a row. Persistence works, as it turns out. At least I wasn’t going to try and teach him a lesson, I suppose that’s something.

Upon arrival, Rob announced he wanted to go for sushi (“or dim sum, at a push.”)... Brilliant. I was starving, and kept hovering plaintively at the thresholds of different eateries that we passed. Why not Mexican? Why not Italian? French? Thai?! No, he’d got it into his head; he wanted what he wanted... Only sushi (yes, alright, or dim sum) would do for the Little Prince...

We ended up eating cheap supermarket sushi on a low wall surrounding the Russian Embassy. In the dark. (Seriously, the street lights are not that great round there. Although to be fair, there was the occasional light from the security guard’s torch that swept across the tray of raw salmon in my lap... So, you know, it wasn’t that bad. *mirthless laugh*).

In a romcom, this would be painted as romantic. The hero and heroine would laugh for years to come at their fun jaunt around Kensington Palace Gardens. In actual fact, I had a cold bum from the concrete wall and bits of wasabi all over my tights. I was continually adding more things to my mental checklist... “No blow job for you, mister!”, “There goes the tit wank...” etc. It was shaping up to be a bit of a disastrous night.

I can’t deny that I enjoy having sex with Rob. It’s just everything else I can’t be bothered with. A little voice in my head (knickers) is saying: ‘Maybe I could just put all that out of my mind and carry on as before...?!’ But I must be realistic; I must start being sensible about the sex. Since when have I resented someone for wanting to sleep with me? Something’s not right.

So how do I broach this subject with Rob? It’s hard when a relationship is so... nothingmuchinparticular, to actually put a stop to it. It feels like you’re making it more significant than it is just by acknowledging you want it finished. Maybe I’ll just demand to see him a lot – If he’s so keen on getting what he can’t have, that could have the perfect reverse effect! Or, you know, my tin-pot psychology could be waaayyy off (not unheard of *cough*), and the whole plan could backfire horribly. I think I’ll have to actually talk to him like an adult. Damn. I’ll keep you posted.

BeDJ

Grime and Punishment

Last night I went to a friend’s birthday party in some hideous club in West London. Also in attendance were Rob (you will no doubt remember him from such blogs as Mothering Fights), and the best friend of the birthday boy, who after this exact event last year asked me out on a date and then never called me back.

Contrary to popular belief, I am a proud creature. Askingmeoutonadateandthennevercallingmeback wounds my sense of self *sob*... So when I realised that Ed (for this is how he shall be known) was going to be out last night, I determined to do everything in my power to teach him a lesson. “Ha! Take that you blithering idiot. That’ll teach you never call me back!” I was going to punish him by making him realise exactly what he was missing.

Several hours of careful make-up application and a new outfit later, and I was ready to roll.

I arrived at the party and carefully circulated the room, all the while trying to be gregarious and coquettish simultaneously. If it sounds contrived; it was. It was awful. Eventually I got round to Ed... I was just in the middle of being perfectly friendly andyetstillvaguelysuperior, when Rob walked in. Rob and Ed don’t know each other, but here’s the thing – Rob and I have been sleeping together on and off for the best part of 2 years. What’s the etiquette when it comes to this kind of social situation? Must I consider his feelings whilst I go about teaching Ed a valuable lesson about respect? I’m not sure, but it made life just that little bit harder... and I was already quite stressed.

Fast forward several hours and two important things had taken place. 1) Rob had taken me aside and declared that despite being “emotionally stunted”, in his “own way” he “adored me”. Never have three pairs of words done so little to attract or enthuse me. 2) Ed and I had begun flirting. A lot.

I was so excited about teaching him a lesson. Yes! I was so glad he was witnessing how witty and clever and fun I am. Not to mention devastatingly sexy. The conversation went as follows:

Ed: (dead pan) I can’t give you what you want, you know...
Me: (dead pan, yet also devastatingly sexy - obviously) What do I want? I was just hoping for a bit of casual sex to be honest, Ed.
Ed: Oh right... Out in the alleyway then is it?
Me: I was thinking the toilets, actually. See you there in five?

Now, at this point we were both still joking... I think. We continued the countdown (*checks watch* “Four minutes to go” etc). Then, after the given 5 minutes had elapsed, Ed leant over (I was dancing to Raspberry Beret) and said: “Well, that’s time up. Come on then.” He clearly didn’t think I was going to go. I gave him a withering look... “Ed. Sweetheart. This is Prince. We can go after Prince, but not a moment before.”

The final chords of Raspberry Beret saw me leading Ed off the dance floor and towards the loos. This was one hell of a lesson I was about to impart! We walked the length of the god-awful club and reached the Ladies. This was turning into the greatest game of chicken anyone has ever played. I escorted him to the last cubicle and pushed him inside it. Take that, you non-caller-backer, you! You... You silly idiot!

The next few seconds were a bit of a blur, but next thing I know my shoes were skittering out under the door, my tights were on the floor, and I was sitting on top of a semi-naked Ed. We were having sex.

Haha! HaHA! I win, I win! Boy was he learning a valuable lesson about... HANG ON A MINUTE! What the f---?! This was the worst fucking lesson ever! The lesson was basically: Never call me back and I will still sleep with you! Ignore me and I will still sleep with you, in even more compromising circumstances than I would have before! I mean... A loo cubicle in West London’s least appealing nightclub? This was certainly compromising. This was downright grimy.

Would you believe me if I told you that just as I had my epiphany about what a big idiot I am, MC Hammer starts playing? “Can’t touch this... Duh duh duh duh, du duh du duh...”. Life’s a bit surreal at times.

It was all over relatively quickly (Oh, Ed... Shame), and I dismounted and put my tights back on. I fished for my shoes under the cubicle door as gracefully as I could. I was still reeling from my internal revelation that I am not some kind of disciplinarian for serial neglecters of women... But I managed to keep my cool. “Well, it’s been nice seeing you, Ed.”... and then I sauntered out.

Back on the dance floor I ran straight into Rob. I didn’t really want to see him, let alone be pressed against a wall and kissed. My first thought was: ‘Shit! Can he taste Ed?’ (Sorry, but it’s true!). I wriggled free and gave him what I hoped was a sort of sympathetic/friendly/back-off sort of smile - These are not easy to master. There then followed what felt like half an hour of me firmly telling Rob that I didn’t want to stay at his house... Because I couldn’t be entirely frank about why I might not want to sleep with him on this particular night, not now, I just spent the whole duration of the conversation saying ‘no’. Rob does not like the word no (not in a rapist sort of way, he just likes getting what he wants), and it took quite a long time to explain to him that it was not going to happen.

By the end of it all, I was feeling fairly worn down. So when Rob suggested I sleep over tomorrow night (tonight, dammit!), I buckled under the pressure. I am so weak of willpower. Tonight it is. Hooray for seeing Rob.

Will I be teaching him any of the important life lessons I imparted to Ed?! I’ll keep you posted.

BeDJ

Tequila Mocking Bird

As the week has worn on, a series of bruises have developed on my body that serve as a rather embarrassing reminder of Monday night... Or, as I will from now on refer to it: The Night I Had Sex Much Too Drunk.

Far be it from the truth to suggest that I have never had drunken sex before (Hello, University... *cough* and beyond... *cough*), this little episode was spectacular for several reasons. 1) Not only had I had a lot of wine, followed by a lot of tequila, followed by a lot of spiced rum, I had also had next to no sleep for nearly 5 days. 2) In a wholly unwise move, a group of us had just been to see a late-night showing of a film in 3D, which had done nothing to aid my sense of sobriety. 3) The guy in question, Henry (more on him later), was as drunk as I was, meaning the entire event closely resembled two people playing Twister in a tumble dryer.

This is presumably why at some point that night I emerged from a tequila haze to find I had fallen naked off the edge of my friends’ spare bed and under a table, leaving an equally-naked Henry swaying uncertainly on the duvet precipice and asking in a stage whisper if I was alright. This is one of a very select number of snapshot images I have from the evening.

In settling myself down to document this sorry tale, I realised I couldn’t remember getting back to my friend’s flat... I’m fairly sure that Henry and I were informed that we had to share a room quite early on in the evening and we both drank heavily from that point onwards. I’ve had sex with Henry before and so I suppose the whole thing had a certain inevitability about it; it’s just we just decided to cement that inevitability by adding extra alcohol.

So. We started with dinner and wine before moving on to a few bars. It was in the first bar where Henry the booze hound insisted we drink a tequila with every round that night. We had eaten dinner reasonably early and ended up beginning our mini bar crawl at about 8 o’clock. I usually only drink tequila after about 2am, but despite that (and the fact no-one else was up for it) I gamely took Henry on drink for drink. 2 hours later and I was beginning to feel a little hazy. It was suggested by some genius that the group go to the cinema... Hooray for cinema! Of course everyone loves the idea of late-night cinema! We were disproportionately thrilled at the idea of going to the cinema so very late – what a bunch of rebels we were. But wait! We became more rebellious still... How about sneaking a little wine into the film with us?! *snigger* We are, like, sooooo cool.

Only Henry the booze hound was not interested in wine. Ohnonono... Henry emerged triumphant from the supermarket brandishing spiced rum. He was pleased with himself. He had a hunter-gatherer air. I was waiting for the point at which he would begin beating his chest with his fists.

We smuggled the rum in to the screening and began dishing it out as inconspicuously as possible into a series of medium-sized cokes. I realise in retrospect that anyone with half a brain would have known instantly what we were doing. We must have looked tragic... Who do I think I am – a college freshman?! I certainly can’t have looked like one. The combination of unfocussed drunken eyes and the 3D glasses can only have made me look like someone wearing a joke shop disguise. Or possibly Jarvis Cocker on smack.

I didn’t follow the film very well... The 3D specs spent a lot of time travelling down my nose towards the floor, and the (I imagine) stunning visual effects were somewhat marred by my already-double vision. Henry was sitting next to me with his hand between my legs... He was fast asleep.

Somehow the film ended – I think happily. Somehow we returned to my friends’ flat. Somehow I brushed my teeth and put on something to sleep in. Somehow I ended up having sex with Henry.

I am genuinely unsure as to how it happened. Henry has an unbelievably loud voice, and an absolute inability to whisper. I remember repeatedly telling him to be quiet for fear that we would wake up everyone else in the flat. However, apart from my role as the sex librarian (“Shhhhhhhhh Henry! Will you be. Quiet!”), I don’t actually remember much about the sex itself.

I realise for a blog about sex, that doesn’t really cut the mustard. I am annoyed with myself. AND – as if this wasn’t irritating enough – Tuesday night ended with us both getting so drunk again that despite sharing the same spare bed for the second night running, we both actually passed out before we could even begin taking each other’s clothes off... The most frustrating thing about the whole tragic episode is that it feels like such a waste of good sex.

I let the drink get in the way of the fun! We had tequila on Tuesday night as well, this time in an actual tequila bar. I suspect that there is a lesson in all of this... Perhaps tequila is my sexual kryptonite? It certainly made a mockery of two potentially excellent nights of sex. How do Mexicans do it?!

I think from now on I will give it up entirely. The tequila I mean, not the sex. Obviously. Maybe in a new era of zero tequila I can ensure a thoroughly satisfying and easily-documentable sex life. I’ll keep you posted.

BeDJ

Mothering Fights

Last night I went to the races with an old flame of mine, Rob. I say flame – the image I am conjuring up is that of a cheap lighter... Not so much a constant warming presence as an intermittent provider of a spark. Rob and I are fuck buddies, to coin a phrase.

So yesterday, in a rather unusual way for Rob and I, we actually went to an event. Usually it’s a slightly tipsy phone call at ten to midnight and youknowtherest. But not this time! This time there was an actual event, an event that we both attended... Together. And this wasn’t just any event. This was the World famous Windsor Races. What do you mean you didn’t know Windsor had...? Never mind. We got there just in time for the race for horses which “will have been too weak and backward to run as juveniles”. So. Not exactly Ascot, but it was fun.

I lost 25 quid almost instantaneously betting on The Cute Horses With The Funny Names, or the Ones Ridden By The Most Irish-Sounding Jockey... The Ones With The Longest Odds were also high on my list (“Imagine if I won £255 just from one bet...”). I am not a natural gambler. Rob, on the other hand, is a natural gambler. His horse won every race. It was infuriating... He tried not to be smug about it, but when I suggested I could wallpaper a room with my now useless betting slips, he actually gave me a pitying smile. The bastard.

Another unusual element of the night - alongside the retarded horses, and Rob and I both starting and finishing the evening in each other’s company – was the presence of Rob’s mother. I had not been expecting it, and wasn’t really in mother-meeting mode when I arrived in Windsor wearing a virtually see-through dress, with enormous sunglasses on and no knickers. I imagine she didn’t take too kindly to me... Only made worse by the fact that she is a psychoanalyst – she must have been having a field day.

As the evening wore on, I managed some semi-normal chatting (all the while hoping it wasn’t too obvious that I had no pants on) and it became apparent that Rob is the apple of his mother’s eye. At one point she referred to him as her Prince. I assume not the artist formerly known as... It was all a little bit... well, gross, to be perfectly honest. I was looking forward to going home and getting into bed (with Rob, of course), and putting my gambling debts and all mothers on Earth out of my mind. But no such luck. Rob unveiled his plans for us to stay at his mum’s in Windsor (“Oh, that’ll be lovely” *fume*) and off we all went.

Back at the house, and Rob’s mum disappeared upstairs only to reappear and announce that my room was ready. My room? Ahhh... My room. I had been placed in the spare room, a safe distance down the hall from Rob. Would I be needing a towel? Anything to clean my face (/presumably, soul)? Well then, Goodnight.

I wasn’t really sure what to do... I sort of lingered around the landing. Was this a test? I didn’t know whether to just go to Rob’s room and risk a row, or go to the spare room and risk having no sex. Luckily Rob came out of the bathroom as I was dithering at the top of the stairs and herded me firmly towards his bed.

As we started having (very quiet) sex, I could hear his mother going up and down the landing... I wondered how much longer she would be awake for? And then... “Rob?!”

I adopted a sort of rabbit-in-the-headlights frozen stance on the bed. Wassheabouttocomeintotheroom?! Oh God, please don’t let her be about to come into the room...

Rob shouted “What, mum?!”, after which point a rather frantic conversation passed between the two of them in their mother tongue (Rob’s from Iran). I didn’t know the exact translation about what was being said, but suffice it to say I think I can now guess the Iranian for spare room. Or maybe that word was ‘harlot’. Anyway, it got said a lot.

The conversation (fight) finished when Rob (rather petulantly, I thought) shouted “It’s FINE, go to BED!”... This was followed by the sound of mummy's tiny feet shuffling off up the landing. We lay in silence. “Was that about me and the spare room”... “What? ... No... No, of course not.” The liar.

I contemplated getting up and moving beds after Rob fell asleep, so nervous was I about seeing his mum in the morning at breakfast. Perhaps I could slip out of the house altogether and just run away into the dark Windsor night?! Needless to say seconds after the sex was over, I fell asleep. In Rob’s bed. *dun dun duuuuuun*... I am the worst, least subtle son-shagger in all of the history of the Earth. The final nail in the coffin of the burgeoning friendship between Rob’s mother and I came this morning when she came in to wake him up for work. Yes, that’s right. So over-mothered is Rob, aged 25, that she bought him breakfast in bed at 7am.

Imagine her suprise...

Needless to say I did not get a cup of tea. Awkward! I’ve never really had the separate room issue before (mind you, I rarely stay at people’s parent’s houses...) - I thought it was a sort of Hollywood device to pad out the scripts of films like Meet The Parents. Apparently in this case life immitates art.

I imagine Rob’s had a phone call today from his mother, with a fairly succinct psychoanalysis of myself thrown in for good measure. I am intrigued. I want to know what she made of the harlot debasing her little Prince... I intend to find out. I’ll keep you posted.

BeDJ

Far from the Wedding Crowd

Pop quiz: What is the one failsafe way to send your newlywed friends off on honeymoon in style?

Answer: Any way on Earth apart from being silhouetted in an upstairs window of the hotel having acrobatic sex whilst the happy couple are being waved off down the driveway.

Two friends had their very lovely wedding yesterday in the onlyatinybitinconsiderate location of the Scottish highlands. It took longer to travel there and back than we were there for (by a long way), it was absolutely freezing, you couldn’t see the scenery for fog, and my hat continually threatened to act as an aileron, with it catching a gust of wind and lifting me up into the air above the assembled congregation. But despite all that it really was lovely. A dashing groom, a beautiful bride... But most importantly of all: a wealth of attractive ushers and groomsmen in kilts. And everybody knows kilts are never better than on a slightly windy day.

[The rest of the outfit is a bit hit and miss... The white hockey socks set-up shouldn’t be sexy but sort of is, the knife tucked into the sock is fairly standard in South London and therefore no longer excites me, and the weird gladiator sandals brogues are a bit... well, gay. But say what you will about the knife wielding and the morris dancer-y sock shoe combo, they all looked great. Men in formal wear are just... fit. Posh peacocking, I suppose, why wouldn’t it work?]

So anyway, I was having an altogether very fun day drinking pink champagne and ogling Scotsmen. The reception began with a ceilidh – my worst nightmare. I hate organised fun, especially if it involves line dancing. So instead I drank a lot more pink champagne and talked to the waiter. He sounded exactly like the Scottish hobbit, and I spent a lot of time trying not to develop ‘sympathetic accent’, a mortifying condition where I unwittingly imitate the regional/national dialect of anyone I’m speaking to, often (always) with disastrous results.

I eventually dragged myself away from Alasdair the beautiful champagne topper-upper, and rejoined the wedding party proper. By this point most of the ceilidhing was over and we all seemed to be allowed to actually chat to each other. I was sitting near a very handsome guy called Alec, who works for General Motors. I bemoaned my Nissan Micra; he seemed impressed with how easily I bandied about the terms “high clutch” and “rubbish steering wheel”. We were getting on well. I changed gear (see, I’m Clarkson) into serious flirting mode...

It wasn’t until some time later during a particularly energetic bout of hand jiving - no euphemism... I may hate the line dance, but I love a good hand jive - that Alec leaned over and said (please picture sexy highland purr) “You look like Rizzo from Grease in that dress.” I asked if that was a good thing (of course it’s a good thing, that woman is sexy as. The dress is incredible – 50s, red with black polka dots, halter neck, corseted, lots of cleavage. I knew it was a good thing, I was being coy. You can’t go wrong.) Anyway, youlooklikeRizzofromGreaseinthatdress, isthatagoodthing... Next thing I know, before you could say “Is that a sporrin in your pocket?”, Alec was frog-marching me from the room and towards the stairs. *purr purr* “Get upstairs your filthy bitch”.

And yes – I hadn’t thought it possible, but it turns out you can purr the word bitch.

Now, as a brief sidetrack, I should probably explain how I feel about being sworn at. Normally – notsogood. In a sexual, getupstairsyoufilthybitch context, it never fails. I don’t know what it is. I think it probably has something to do with making you feel naughtier; it’s like “fuck”. If someone says they want to fuck you, it’s unlikely they’re going to gently lay you down amongst the rose petals.

Alec and I found a room in the lodge above the reception and got down to it. It must be all that striding up and down mountains that they do in the highlands (I must continually remind myself that Alec works in the motor industry, and does not, in fact, live like the Monarch of the Glen), but the sex was certainly fast-paced. As I alluded to earlier, it was pretty athletic... There were points when I thought Alec might have a checklist of positions to get through before the night was out. But the sex was good, he repeatedly swore at me, and I was having fun.

After a particularly loud outburst from myself, I realised the music from downstairs that I had been relying on to mask our noisemaking had stopped. How odd... It was still relatively early, I thought, surely they wouldn’t have finished the party already...? Half an hour or so later and Alec and I re-emerged downstairs. I had managed to make myself look more or less respectable, as had he, and we snuck stealthily into the room where the music was now playing again.

I was immediately dragged to one side by a friend... “You missed the bride and groom leaving”. “Did I? I was upstairs...” and then the spine-chilling retort: “We know, we saw you having sex through the window.” The dirty little voyeurs! Oh. Dear. Apparently I had been unmistakeable thanks to the fact that I had kept the dress on. That bloody dress! Cheers, Rizzo. You’ve really done me this time!

Without drawing the conversation out for too much longer *blush blush blush* I managed to ascertain that – thankfully – not everyone had seen the rather too public display we had been putting on upstairs. The bride and groom remained blissfully unaware, as did remaining elderly relatives. Alec was completely unfazed by the entire event. Maybe he knew all along that as Mr and Mrs pulled out of the drive, he was coming into... No, that sentence doesn’t even bear thinking about, let alone finishing. Shame on me.

Still. What better way to celebrate the union of two so thoroughly in love as my newly married friends than by furiously shagging a man due to move to America in a matter of weeks, who I will therefore almost certainly never see again?! I love weddings – so romantic.

In the last week I have received two more wedding invites for later on this year. I wonder if they’ll all end in such an exhibitionist manner. I’ll keep you posted.

BeDJ

A Tale of Two Fitties

This time last week (I can only apologise for my lateness in blogging) I was just returning from Hyde Park, having watched the utterly wonderful Kings of Leon play two hours of allmyfavouritesongs. When I say returning, I do not mean to my home (how silly of you to assume), but in fact to a pre-booked hotel – a Premier Inn to be precise; an unnaturally hot, cupboard-y sort of establishment which was to play host to my first ever threesome.

This threesome was a New Year’s resolution of mine, and it has taken 6 sorry months to come into fruition. To be fair, I’m never that good at keeping resolutions... 5pm on January 2nd usually sees me sitting guiltily atop a mountain of forbidden fruits, falling-down-drunk on whatever it was I eschewed forever just 41 hours earlier. But I thought the threesome would be a little easier to come by than it has been. Initially I was only interested in a me-and-two-men scenario (selfish, greedy, jealous; check, check, check), but when I found myself at the gig last week with a very sexy female friend and the keys to a hotel room with a double bed I thought – “Why not?!”

So it came about that Sarah – a friend from Uni – and I spent some rather valuable KOL time scouting the crowd for a leading man for our Premier Inncest. None were forthcoming. The situation was beginning to look a little desperate (as, I suspect, were we)... ‘How could there not be even one eligible shagger in the whole of Hyde Park?!’ ‘Why can’t we just take one of the Followills?!’ ‘Why is life conspiring against my lovely New Year’s resolution?!?!’ In the end I decided we couldn’t just leave things to chance *humourless laugh* (you’ll see why)... And so I called none other than Jim, of anorexia-riddled-Russell-Brand fame, and explained the situation. He arrived 20 minutes later.

[I still hadn’t seen Jim since that rather disastrous first date by the way – our every attempt to meet up had been thwarted. Which means that our second date was a booty call threesome. The man should be worshipping the ground I walk upon.]

We met Jim at the station and I sized the pair of them up. Not bad, not bad at all. I’d basically bagged myself a pair of fitties. *Smug smile*. I wonder if people in the street know we're going back for an elicit sexual encounter... "Look at you all with your boring lives! I'm off for a flipping threesome over here!" When we got to the hotel, I went for a shower... I was hot and dusty from the park, and I wanted to give Sarah and Jim a chance to get to know each other a bit. When I emerged from the shower I was cool and clean, and Sarah and Jim were making out on the bed. Mission accomplished. I wondered if it might be awkward to get the thing started. I straddled Jim and kissed him, then I kissed Sarah. And then – suddenly - it's begun.

There is something extremely exhilarating about going down on a girl. It’s unfamiliar and yet totally familiar. I had never been with a girl before, but my point is this – you already know what you're doing. That in itself is a huge turn on. Plus knowing someone else is there watching everything you’re doing – even more of a turn on. And I can honestly say there are few things as sexy as hearing another woman moaning your name...

So I think it's fair to say that Sarah and I were both pretty into it. And as for Jim... Oh, Jim. Jim Jim Jim. It's a blessed relief Sarah was there to be honest, because once again Jim failed to rise to the occasion. I’m thinking: ‘There is actually something wrong with this man’. It's impossible to be annoyed, the poor thing was distraught. We tried everything... "Would you like to just watch us make out for a while?" I could virtually sense erections springing up all over London in subconscious response to the speaking-out-loud of that magical sentence. But not Jim's... I think we picked the wrong provider of penis. I’m thinking: ‘No, really. There is actually something wrong with this man’... If the feeble stirrings of his cock weren’t enough of an indicator, he was POURING with sweat (I am not exaggerating when I describe his torso as a deluge... I suspected that at any minute I would slip off him to the floor). AND he’s emaciated. Christ, perhaps he’s a heroin addict.

It may be that following previous disappointing displays by Jim, I was just resigned to the no-cock situation. Or maybe I was just tired, drunk and lazy (not unheard of). Either way, I gave up on the hope of an erection joining the Premier party sometime around 2am. As soon as I had reconciled myself with this thought, I was promptly hit by a wave of exhaustion, rolled over and fell asleep on the far side of the bed... Not the height of seduction, sure, but I had orchestrated the entire evening, as I saw it. I deserved a rest.

I'm not entirely sure what I was expecting... That perhaps as I drifted off to sleep, Jim and Sarah would get into some flannel pyjamas and it'd be lights out... Like, *yawn* ‘OK guys, I'm ready for sleep - You too right?! Cool, night you two. See you in the morning’.

So I was sliiiiiiightly, if unreasonably, surprised to wake up several times over the next couple of hours to the sound of Jim and Sarah having sex. ‘What the -?!’... I mean, fair play to Sarah – she had carried on where I had given up, and as such she should reap the not inconsiderable rewards of grinding Jim to faltering orgasm at least once or twice. Good for her! Good for him! But... but...

I haven’t had sex with him at all yet! *stamping feet, childish pout, clenched fists*. It’snotfair! These are the thoughts that raced through my mind nanoseconds before I fell straight back to sleep.

Unfortunately my looming hangover woke me up fairly early the following morning. In a hotel room the size of a cupboard there aren’t many places to go when you wake up before your bedfellows (utterly exhausted from their continued night of passion no doubt), so I curled up on the other side of the bed, clutching a tooth glass of water and thinking over the previous night. I spotted a Bible on the bedside table... Well that's a relief.

It is actually close to impossible to feel left out when there are three of you in a bed about 2 ½ feet wide, and yet somehow I managed it with aplomb. Sarah and Jim had fallen asleep where they fell and were draped across each other. They looked a bit like a sexy tableaux. I clutched my tooth glass closer and pondered on whether I needed to be sick (hangover, not consuming jealousy). Just you and me, tooth glass, just you and me.

This has to be the threesome’s downfall. Well, the GGB threesome at any rate... Even when everything is biologically functional there’s never going to be enough to go around.

Maybe a foursome’s the way to go? I’ll keep you posted.

BeDJ

One Hundred Hours of Servitude.

Be very careful what you wish for.

Following Rusty Brand’s failure to launch last week, on Tuesday I was confronted with a somewhat different problem. Failure to finish.

That night I went to a gig with a friend of mine, let’s call him Sam. We met up in the afternoon and began a slow descent into drunkenness. There was some flirting... Sam and I have been friends for a while, but he’s recently split up with his girlfriend and is therefore suddenly, and rather uncomfortably, available. The how/where/why isn’t that interesting, but the point is one thing lead to another and then we were in bed.

The thing about Sam that he’s mastered is talking to you like he’s thinking about fucking your brains out. All the time. And no matter what the topic. You could be discussing taking out the rubbish and he would still conduct the entire conversation with the air of a man who would like nothing more than to throw you down amongst the wheelie bins and give you a bloody good seeing to. Mostly it’s quite fun, but faced with it in the bedroom, it was... exhausting. Sam is one of those rare men who actually worship women. I’ve slept with a couple of them in my life and such is their unadulterated praise of everything from my hair to my toes and everything in between, I’m always slightly taken aback to look down during sex and see my own body attached to my neck. “Hang on! This isn’t right! I’ve got the wrong body on! You were describing the body of an angel – this one’s a bit soft round the edges, and the skin colour is dangerously close to Magnolia.”

So he was taking his worshipful time and undressing me very, very slowly. He smelled the back of my knees, kissed the insides of my elbows, bit my neck and traced concentric circles around my belly button with his tongue. He was moaning with pleasure just touching me. Now don’t get me wrong – this is all incredibly hot. I’m all for extended foreplay. But. After last week’s penetrative let-down with Jim, what I really wanted Sam to do was get on with it. Especially as... hangonaminute... I’ve just noticed that he’s got an amazing cock...

Now, on what may appear to be a topical detour, I should inform you that for some time now Sam’s been on medication which – amongst other side effects – delays ejaculation. Brilliant, you’re thinking. (Well, that’s what I was thinking, when he oh so subtly dropped it into conversation at the pub. I’m a sucker for this kind of suggestive comment; I’ve got a very male brain.).

8 hours after falling into bed and the delayed ejaculation is no longer my friend. All I want in the whole wide world is for Sam to come, and I want him to do it now. He looks like he might actually drop dead if he doesn’t orgasm soon, and I am experiencing genuine guilt for having done so already myself. In penance I have been a slave to Sam’s erection for what feels like days. I’m surprised to find it’s only Wednesday morning. I feel like I’ve lost a week. I’ve got lockjaw and cramp in both my wrists, and frankly I just want to go to sleep.

Finally the hard work pays off in the form of (by the looks of it) a pretty life-altering orgasm – but by that point we’ve both basically lost interest. I could have slept for a week.

My mobile phone has just gone off (not a word of a lie, I deplore narrative devices), with the seventh message of the day from Sam asking me to hang out with him in the next 24 hours. Oh. Good. God. This is the more pressing problem. Forget delayed ejaculation. Wrist-strain and a clicking jaw are really no longer the issue – mostly because despite my love of Sam as a friend, I viewed my epic battle with his limbic system as very much a one-off. The issue now is that Sam got needy. And I don’t mean to be unfair... Yes, the messages are very light-hearted and casual. No-one’s saying Sam has turned into a gas mark 6 bunny boiler after one night of incredibly drawn-out passion. But now it’s out there – he’s demanding my company.

(This last text in particular is noteworthy. It begins: “I’m going to kidnap you and force you to eat lunch with me tomorrow”... I am honestly not joking. Does he think this is cute? Does he?! *Sigh* When will they learn? Less is more when it comes to forcing people into your company. Remember, people: Less. Is. More.)

It’s not his fault. It’s because I broke two of the Golden Rules. 1) Never sleep with your friends and 2) Never get them on the rebound. Sam is both a friend and recently unattached, making him high on the list of don’t-go-theres. But I went there, and now all I’m left with is a slightly shaky approximation of our friendship pre-Tuesday night, and an overwhelming feeling that hindsight is a bitch.

Must find more appropriate sexual partners.

On which note (perhaps), and in case you were wondering about Jim... It took the skinny-jeaned-one a week to text me after our first date fiasco. Date two, coming right up. I’ll keep you posted.

BeDJ

On Impotence and being Earnest.

On Friday I spent two of the sunniest hours of the day cooped up inside the dank, syphilitic dungeon that is Camberwell GUM Clinic awaiting a check-up. And in case you’re wondering... I am a-symptomatic. You may be wondering why I spent such a very large part of a warm day getting my non-existent symptoms for non-existent STIs checked out. Why, when there is so much pear cider to be drunk?

Well, amongst other things, this week has seen me almost have sex with a boy wearing nothing but a smile and a beard. And I mean nothing – not even a nod to prophylaxis. So. Best to get it all checked out. And as a reward for sitting in there for two – I hope – totally pointless hours, I decided to start a blog about my sex life. Because sometimes it’s nice to get it off (your chest).

The week’s leading man had been Jim (no, obviously I’m not going to use real names), an absurdly thin Russell-Brand-alike that I met a month or so ago at a friend’s leaving drinks. We went on a day-date on Wednesday... I was a bit nervous to be honest – mostly because young Jim could actually be the poster boy for anorexia, striding around in women’s skinny jeans, whilst I on the other hand am looking more and more like the human haggis. It’s lucky he’s quite tall; otherwise he’d look like my bearded child. That’s a lot of pressure to heap on a gal, especially when putting together the dreaded date outfit (Before you ask: Aerosmith wife-beater and denim jacket, tights, plimsolls. Big hair. Sunglasses. Yeah – pretty 80s.)

We went for drinks in the afternoon, and then suddenly without me noticing it’s 7pm and I’m drunk. And then I behaved – well, quite badly really, all in all. I abandoned him to go to a gig I’d just been invited to, left the gig early, called and texted him several times, demanded he leave the party he was at to come and meet me, and then got into his bed with all my clothes on. No, I wasn’t feeling that amorous after 8 pints (I know, hideous), and just quite wanted to go to sleep thankyouverymuch. So why did I commute all the way to the other end of the Victoria line to go to his instead of mine?! I always think I’m quite normal and level. But I’m not. I’m bonkers. I am a bonkers woman - and I mean that in the pre-Dizzee sense.

He eventually got most of my clothes off, and then removed his at lightning speed. As he got on top of me (I’m thinking: ‘he’s as light as a feather’) and looked set to go for it sans condom, I said – a bit dramatically - “This is wildly irresponsible”. To which he replied “My cock’s wildly irresponsible”... *Suppressed laughter* (‘He didn’t just say that did he? He must, must, must have been joking. Shit, I don’t think he was joking’).

I love being a blogger. I’m having a fag and typing the word ‘cock’. If only the other attendees at the clinic had known... “I’m not rife with gonorrhoea! I’m going to be blogging about it! It’s for my blog!”. In the waiting room I am constantly scanning the other people there hoping that someone is showing signs of something horrific, whilst all the while making sure to Never. Make. Eye. Contact. On this visit I had a great nurse or healthcare assistant or something called Sofia. At the end of the appointment she offered me a “news leaflet”... I had to ask her what she meant 3 times before I realised she was saying “lubricant”. Oh, how we laughed.

(ALSO – Why am I being offered lube?! What’s lube got to do with sexual health? Oh God - Does she think I’m being bummed?!! She thinks I’m being bummed. She’s saving me from my own lifestyle by protecting my bum with tiny sachets of lube. How reassuring.)

Anyway. Back to Jim. Where were we? Ah yes – Mycock’swildlyirresponsible, suppressedlaughter... And then... Nothing. No wildly irresponsible cock in sight. His cock wasn’t wildly irresponsible; it was the Chairman of the Neighbourhood Watch. And so it remained, despite some quite earnest attempts by both of us over the next howeverlong. This isn’t the first time I’ve been in bed with Jim (night we met, missed last train etc etc) and this isn’t the first time this has happened...*Alarm bells alarm bells*... Am I wrong to be worrying at this stage? Should I be worried - if he does ever agree to see me again after my somewhat high-maintenance and selfish behaviour on Wednesday – that this might be some sort of (whisper it) problem? Because I’ve done dating (again, whisper it) boys who couldn’t get it up before, and frankly it’s a ball ache. For all concerned. But that’s a story for another day.

So. Do I bring it up, this not having sex that we’re doing? Or am I over-reacting to what is possibly just him being a bit pissed on two occasions? I enjoy his company a lot, but what are we doing here apart from just enjoying each other’s company in between jumping in to bed? I don’t want a boyfriend out of this situation, certainly not one who’s not having sex with me.

This is all, of course, assuming that he’s not currently holed-up somewhere up there in North London writing an anonymous blog about the insanely demanding girl in the Aerosmith t-shirt who is bloody hard work and better not want to be his girlfriend, or even ever see him again for that matter... But assuming all of that...

So there I was, in the GUM clinic, being responsible and pro-active and all those things you’re supposed to be where your genitalia are concerned. I thought about Jim, grinding his ineffectual penis against the inside of my thigh, and hoped he didn’t have the clap. Whilst I was waiting, two of the staff attempted to re-programme one of the vending machines - A seemingly endless process involving said vending machine emitting a high-pitched computer game style *BEEP BEEP* on and off for an hour... I wanted to beat a Chlamydia-ridden teen to death with a can of Vimto.

What to do about the impotent Mr Ripley? I’ll keep you posted.

BeDJ