A huge number of city workers return from their Christmas family canoodles adamant to find a better job. By this they mean, of course, better hours which will enable greater time to be spent with the family, equal money, for they can now tap into the resource that is their 'experience' and a different challenge (Note - A mince pie has the ability to make people believe they are invincible, that they could do absolutely anything).
Now, I fit quite neatly into this pool of people. Only with me, it's less talk and more action. I have handed my notice in and have a month of late nights and tedious tasks before I'm free. The job hunt for something 'better' started a few weeks ago and there are a few things in the pipeline. Speaking more generally, people should always have things in the pipeline. Remaining stagnant in any shape or form curtails progress and makes you boring. At least, this is what I've always thought.
The friends I have who are 'settled' in their lives will undoubtedly fling a hammer over my head in response to this last comment - but hey, it's Christmas and I'm not one to mince my words.
So, if things work out, and why shouldn't they? I'll have some time in between jobs in which to let myself run wild.
This means writing some more of my novel, applying for other interesting jobs and, perhaps most importantly, fulfilling my ambition of becoming, in some capacity, an escort or sex worker.
Those of you who have read a lot of this blog will realise that the whore theme, and my desire to partake in it, has been there from the start. Getting paid to do something others do for free is something I have no problem with. Placing myself in a position where the desire to fuck for money is replaced by the reality of actually doing it is something that excites me. And for this reason alone my task over the next few days is to shortlist some agencies that fit my bill.
Let me be honest from the start
I'd prefer to escort women on a completely non-sexual basis. The reason I say this is because, although certain women turn me on, the chances of my not being able to perform are increased. Fundamentally, this would be a waste of my time and their money - things we could both do without.
I'd happily fuck men for money - the only difficulty i have, or point i find interesting, is how I'd manage to get and maintain an erection for somebody for whom I felt little or no desire. This is where I imagine the business kicks in. My service is in demand and I have to supply. I can work to deadlines, make small talk pretty persuasively, say the odd filthy word and even string a sentence of thirty if pushed, and most importantly, I'm well endowed. My penis is in good shape and usually attracts gleams of pleasure from those who have seen it.
The policy will be to protect myself in any way i can, through sexual health visits and the ferocious use of condoms. That said, many people i know seem to harbour under the delusion that gay men nearly always have Aids. This is not true. And often, fucking occurs only occasionally. The power of a blow job and foot wank will always surprise people. If I decide to become a sex worker, I must ensure that it is done safely. That said, the person who goes on the pull every Friday night and sleeps around with a vast array of people is much more likely to catch something than sex workers are. This is because sex workers are faced with these risks every day.
The only thing I'm unsure about, in the grander scheme of things, is whether I'd like to write about my experiences knowing that some of the people reading this blog will be pointing their judgemental fingers. Rather a lot of people know who I am and that I write this blog. One things is for certain, there are certain people in my life who'll never know about any sex work I undertake. And this is reason enough not to write about it.
But, as far as you're concerned, the idea is there. The idea that I'd sell my body for money. I suppose it's up to you to imagine whether I have the guts and ability to follow my ambitions.
Monday, December 31, 2007
Friday, December 28, 2007
Festive
Alright, so I've had a little holiday. Nothing exotic, just a week where I ate myself, fairly comfortably, into a coma. And, not that I need to say it, Ho Ho Ho.
Over the Christmas period I spent an awful lot of time eating. In some capacity we all do. This is the one truth that most people accept once Christmas is over: 'I should have eaten less! If I'd have eaten less I'd still be looking closer to Kate Moss and less like Lilly Allen.'
But let me tell you something: That feeling one gets when the roast potato, coated in gravy, hits the roof of your mouth is pretty much an orgasm, if cooked correctly, in itself. That taste of tender crunchy sprouts, of moist roasted turkey, makes this meal worth every ounce of misery we go through in the week following.
Alas, tell yourself it's Christmas. If you don't enjoy yourself now, you probably never will.
Most families have a Christmas film don't they? A film they watch with the family, the fire blazing in the living room, the box of Thorntons gracing the old mahogany table. Most families watch films like 'Oh what a Wonderful Life', or, dare I say it, The Sound of Music'. Not us. This year, we replaced Octopussy with Titanic. THAT was our family film. The tale of a sinking ship, of love between the lower and upper classes. Of a man freezing to death in the Atlantic whilst his lover lies on a broken shelf, which, I'm convinced, would have fit them both had she only moved up a little.
And then, as it's Christmas, we act it out. The family and I. The hitting of the iceberg, the 'dance of commoners' that takes place in the lower deck, and of course, perhaps most importantly, 'Jack, Jack...don't leave me Jack'. Me being me, I prefer to lay on the leather sofa and tell one of my cousins to 'paint me like one of your french girls, wearing this and only this'. Alas, my cousin is no artist.
And then there's all the alcohol. Mulled wine, red wine, any wine. Sherry, Brandy, Gin, Whiskey. All of a sudden, every alcoholic spirit appears festive and fit for the occasion.
My Christmas Shocker occured when I learnt that my brother, in a drunken fit at uni, stripped down completely on stage at a club earlier this year. He seemed to remember a lot of what happened mind. How people were cheering him on and shaking his hand. At the moment he told me, my desire to cry took a full twenty minutes to simmer. It was then that I realised that in fact, we were all stupid on occasion. That he was in fact having the good time at uni that I'd never really had. That we were all sexual beings. Although, the thought of your sibling doing anything that involves their privates parts is something I'd rather deal with when drunken enough to forget about it. When he told me, my cousins and I were sitting in a Shisha Cafe smoking a wild berry and mint flavoured Shisha and (me) eating a slice of overpriced strawberry cheesecake.
'When I get drunk' I declared, for no particular reason, 'I start to giggle at everything and anything. I'm not the only one however, and I've come to realise that I'd much rather be a laugher than one of those people who cries over a playground breakup every time the gin gets a little too much.
And as the alcohol wears off, people face the reality of what they've done. You know, shoving their hand down the secretary's panties during the Christmas party, or going in for a whisper but instead licking the Secretary's ear dry. Or, if you're female, coming to terms with the tit-flash that you gave to the boys over in Accounts. And then there's the sex. How many people who work together will have, by now, have slept together? Far too many to count. I use the word slept lightly. Some people do it standing up, others, legs perched into the sky, torso thrust into the air. And some people just can't remember exactly how it all happened.
All in all it's been a good week off. Doing very little, relaxing and finding that, given the chance, I could sleep far more than I'd ever imagined.
On the relationship front - it's been as dry as a baron dessert without a well. Whenever I come oop north, that's part of the deal. My sordid sex life is something that stays well and truly down south. Up here, it's all about the family, isn't it? Isn't that what Christmas is all about?
That and receiving an awful lot of money with which to buy cock rings on my return.
I wonder - how wrong is it to spend Christmas money on something the donor would have a heart attack over? Is any right to the money lost once the envelop passes hands?
Over the Christmas period I spent an awful lot of time eating. In some capacity we all do. This is the one truth that most people accept once Christmas is over: 'I should have eaten less! If I'd have eaten less I'd still be looking closer to Kate Moss and less like Lilly Allen.'
But let me tell you something: That feeling one gets when the roast potato, coated in gravy, hits the roof of your mouth is pretty much an orgasm, if cooked correctly, in itself. That taste of tender crunchy sprouts, of moist roasted turkey, makes this meal worth every ounce of misery we go through in the week following.
Alas, tell yourself it's Christmas. If you don't enjoy yourself now, you probably never will.
Most families have a Christmas film don't they? A film they watch with the family, the fire blazing in the living room, the box of Thorntons gracing the old mahogany table. Most families watch films like 'Oh what a Wonderful Life', or, dare I say it, The Sound of Music'. Not us. This year, we replaced Octopussy with Titanic. THAT was our family film. The tale of a sinking ship, of love between the lower and upper classes. Of a man freezing to death in the Atlantic whilst his lover lies on a broken shelf, which, I'm convinced, would have fit them both had she only moved up a little.
And then, as it's Christmas, we act it out. The family and I. The hitting of the iceberg, the 'dance of commoners' that takes place in the lower deck, and of course, perhaps most importantly, 'Jack, Jack...don't leave me Jack'. Me being me, I prefer to lay on the leather sofa and tell one of my cousins to 'paint me like one of your french girls, wearing this and only this'. Alas, my cousin is no artist.
And then there's all the alcohol. Mulled wine, red wine, any wine. Sherry, Brandy, Gin, Whiskey. All of a sudden, every alcoholic spirit appears festive and fit for the occasion.
My Christmas Shocker occured when I learnt that my brother, in a drunken fit at uni, stripped down completely on stage at a club earlier this year. He seemed to remember a lot of what happened mind. How people were cheering him on and shaking his hand. At the moment he told me, my desire to cry took a full twenty minutes to simmer. It was then that I realised that in fact, we were all stupid on occasion. That he was in fact having the good time at uni that I'd never really had. That we were all sexual beings. Although, the thought of your sibling doing anything that involves their privates parts is something I'd rather deal with when drunken enough to forget about it. When he told me, my cousins and I were sitting in a Shisha Cafe smoking a wild berry and mint flavoured Shisha and (me) eating a slice of overpriced strawberry cheesecake.
'When I get drunk' I declared, for no particular reason, 'I start to giggle at everything and anything. I'm not the only one however, and I've come to realise that I'd much rather be a laugher than one of those people who cries over a playground breakup every time the gin gets a little too much.
And as the alcohol wears off, people face the reality of what they've done. You know, shoving their hand down the secretary's panties during the Christmas party, or going in for a whisper but instead licking the Secretary's ear dry. Or, if you're female, coming to terms with the tit-flash that you gave to the boys over in Accounts. And then there's the sex. How many people who work together will have, by now, have slept together? Far too many to count. I use the word slept lightly. Some people do it standing up, others, legs perched into the sky, torso thrust into the air. And some people just can't remember exactly how it all happened.
All in all it's been a good week off. Doing very little, relaxing and finding that, given the chance, I could sleep far more than I'd ever imagined.
On the relationship front - it's been as dry as a baron dessert without a well. Whenever I come oop north, that's part of the deal. My sordid sex life is something that stays well and truly down south. Up here, it's all about the family, isn't it? Isn't that what Christmas is all about?
That and receiving an awful lot of money with which to buy cock rings on my return.
I wonder - how wrong is it to spend Christmas money on something the donor would have a heart attack over? Is any right to the money lost once the envelop passes hands?
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
Opening up
Over dinner with Katerina and Belle-de-Bengal (Who, it transpires, is more lovingly referred to in the workplace as 'The Voice of Doom'):
'I've got a lot of men interested in me. Everything's complicated. They all earn less than me and a lot of them have long terms girlfriends. I'd never come between a couple as I have morals'
And now for the science:
A) I've got a lot of men interested in me - This is nice. It's nice to have a selection of men whom you could sleep with. What's not so nice is that, of the men she described, one of them was..ugly, another couldn't get it up or two separate occasions and one of them was, as much I love them, a born again Christian who, Belle de Bengal was positive, wouldn't give her the pounding she so deeply desired. Both Katerina and I agree that a pool of men is better than a couple. Having said this, you might have ten 'minging spags' and three 'romeos', in which case, quality should prevail over quantity.
B) Everything is complicated - It always is. Perhaps because most of these men work alongside her in the same company. Mixing business and pleasure is perfectly doable but more often than not, it's the sluttiest, most uninhibited who can pull this off successfully. Belle de Bengal isn't one of these. She thinks about morals where other people simply think about the cleanest surface, the largest empty office room and their quivering, dripping lady garden.
C) They all earn less than me - Granted, high-flying men are more attractive than milkmen. Hot shot city types, of which the Belle de Bengal has many experiences, are not difficult to find. The trouble is, if they earn much more than her, they ask her to stay at home and plant a few marigolds in between bouts of Loose Women. This, she won't do. When considering a full term relationship I can fully appreciate why somebody might consider salary to be a factor. Indeed, I would. But really, when all we want is a shag. When all we want to do is to feel some body's body up close to ours, their hot breath against our neck, their dirty words in our ears, does it really matter how many zeros come at the end of their salary? I don't think so. And, when considering some body's shagabililty, I for one am not swayed by the size of their wallet. It's more about the size of their bulge. And, if truth be told, anybody can dress up in a suit and look important. I'm more of an overalls man myself.
D) A lot of them have long terms girlfriends. I'd never come between a couple as I have morals - This moral card is played far too many times by far too many people. As humans it's our right, our fundamental right, to try and do things that make us happy. If this means sleeping with a man who has a wife, or a long term 'steady' girf, then so be it. I'll tell you why this is; if you say no, some other girl will say yes, either way, your refusal to engage in infidelity won't save their marriage, for the marriage is well and truly in the well of misery by now. The moment he considered being unfaithful, the deed was more or less done. Therefore, be a good girl and look after yourself will you? When you 'come between' a couple, it's not your fault, remember, it's the person's fault who is being unfaithful. You owe no moral obligation. Let me be clear.
Yesterday I saw a slightly different, more open side to Belle de Bengal, in what she said, what she heard without cringing or looking pale, and the way she behaved. I believe my whoretanical friendship may have had some impact.
'I've got a lot of men interested in me. Everything's complicated. They all earn less than me and a lot of them have long terms girlfriends. I'd never come between a couple as I have morals'
And now for the science:
A) I've got a lot of men interested in me - This is nice. It's nice to have a selection of men whom you could sleep with. What's not so nice is that, of the men she described, one of them was..ugly, another couldn't get it up or two separate occasions and one of them was, as much I love them, a born again Christian who, Belle de Bengal was positive, wouldn't give her the pounding she so deeply desired. Both Katerina and I agree that a pool of men is better than a couple. Having said this, you might have ten 'minging spags' and three 'romeos', in which case, quality should prevail over quantity.
B) Everything is complicated - It always is. Perhaps because most of these men work alongside her in the same company. Mixing business and pleasure is perfectly doable but more often than not, it's the sluttiest, most uninhibited who can pull this off successfully. Belle de Bengal isn't one of these. She thinks about morals where other people simply think about the cleanest surface, the largest empty office room and their quivering, dripping lady garden.
C) They all earn less than me - Granted, high-flying men are more attractive than milkmen. Hot shot city types, of which the Belle de Bengal has many experiences, are not difficult to find. The trouble is, if they earn much more than her, they ask her to stay at home and plant a few marigolds in between bouts of Loose Women. This, she won't do. When considering a full term relationship I can fully appreciate why somebody might consider salary to be a factor. Indeed, I would. But really, when all we want is a shag. When all we want to do is to feel some body's body up close to ours, their hot breath against our neck, their dirty words in our ears, does it really matter how many zeros come at the end of their salary? I don't think so. And, when considering some body's shagabililty, I for one am not swayed by the size of their wallet. It's more about the size of their bulge. And, if truth be told, anybody can dress up in a suit and look important. I'm more of an overalls man myself.
D) A lot of them have long terms girlfriends. I'd never come between a couple as I have morals - This moral card is played far too many times by far too many people. As humans it's our right, our fundamental right, to try and do things that make us happy. If this means sleeping with a man who has a wife, or a long term 'steady' girf, then so be it. I'll tell you why this is; if you say no, some other girl will say yes, either way, your refusal to engage in infidelity won't save their marriage, for the marriage is well and truly in the well of misery by now. The moment he considered being unfaithful, the deed was more or less done. Therefore, be a good girl and look after yourself will you? When you 'come between' a couple, it's not your fault, remember, it's the person's fault who is being unfaithful. You owe no moral obligation. Let me be clear.
Yesterday I saw a slightly different, more open side to Belle de Bengal, in what she said, what she heard without cringing or looking pale, and the way she behaved. I believe my whoretanical friendship may have had some impact.
Monday, December 17, 2007
Flirtation
'You've got lovely eyes. They're amazing eyes' - Belle de Bengal's friend said, at his Birthday do last Friday.
'Really? Thank you'.
'They're really amazing. Especially you're left eye. The other one, not so much, but your left eye, that's amazing'.
Firstly, nobody has ever said I have striking eyes, although I did put this down, quite quickly, to a drunken attempt as a chat-up line.
Secondly, the guy has told me previously that he thought I was 'hot'.
Thirdly, on the point of eye-discrimination? WTF! I do think it's hilarious, victimizing one eye to make the other one feel better; but really. Surely somebody as confident as this man is might think that this could be a mood killer.
Needless to say, he apologised the next time I saw him. It made me laugh.
Lesson to be learnt - When drunk, lower your inhibitions to a point where they still make you appear to be attractive. When flirting, honesty sometimes isn't the best policy.
'Really? Thank you'.
'They're really amazing. Especially you're left eye. The other one, not so much, but your left eye, that's amazing'.
Firstly, nobody has ever said I have striking eyes, although I did put this down, quite quickly, to a drunken attempt as a chat-up line.
Secondly, the guy has told me previously that he thought I was 'hot'.
Thirdly, on the point of eye-discrimination? WTF! I do think it's hilarious, victimizing one eye to make the other one feel better; but really. Surely somebody as confident as this man is might think that this could be a mood killer.
Needless to say, he apologised the next time I saw him. It made me laugh.
Lesson to be learnt - When drunk, lower your inhibitions to a point where they still make you appear to be attractive. When flirting, honesty sometimes isn't the best policy.
Staging a Comeback
I thought the whole point of the 'Spice Girls' was that they were each different, that you could have your favourite and that, consequently, they appealed a wider market.
So, it puzzles me, the fact that they now appear to have shed their Kappa Tracksuits, Ginger Hair, Frightening Afro, Ridiculous pink ribbon and Little Black Dress in favour of a more, conformed look.
All of the girls have now become wannabe-elegant-spice. And what a shame that is.
Aliena wanted me to accompany her to the concert, for which she has tickets, but has since ditched me in favour of another, more appreciative Spice Girls fan.
I used to like them. I used to like Gerry, I thought she was hot and rounded. I even saw that film they did, as a child. But right now, I can't seem to see beyond the money-making scheme that they seem to be a party to. And the false friendship that seems to have been forged for the purposes of further financial security. It's not because I'm jealous, it's because I think real talent is a gift to be given, not a commodity to be exploited.
And on the subject of Comebacks, The London Lite informs me that Micheal Jackson is planning a comeback early next year.
What am I? Going to run and get tickets before the world and his wife do. After all, it's about time I learnt to moon walk.
So, it puzzles me, the fact that they now appear to have shed their Kappa Tracksuits, Ginger Hair, Frightening Afro, Ridiculous pink ribbon and Little Black Dress in favour of a more, conformed look.
All of the girls have now become wannabe-elegant-spice. And what a shame that is.
Aliena wanted me to accompany her to the concert, for which she has tickets, but has since ditched me in favour of another, more appreciative Spice Girls fan.
I used to like them. I used to like Gerry, I thought she was hot and rounded. I even saw that film they did, as a child. But right now, I can't seem to see beyond the money-making scheme that they seem to be a party to. And the false friendship that seems to have been forged for the purposes of further financial security. It's not because I'm jealous, it's because I think real talent is a gift to be given, not a commodity to be exploited.
And on the subject of Comebacks, The London Lite informs me that Micheal Jackson is planning a comeback early next year.
What am I? Going to run and get tickets before the world and his wife do. After all, it's about time I learnt to moon walk.
Thursday, December 13, 2007
Old people, New Opportunities
Had a call last night (night being the operative word), as I worked like a dog, from an unusual number.
By unusual I mean, of course, that it ended with four of the same number and wasn't saved already on my phone.
Having said this, receiving unusual phone calls and messages is something that happens to be with an alarming frequency these days. It's all that gumtreeing, all that gaydaring, all that...well...saunaing.
Note - I'm not a floozy or, as my brother insists, a 'phone hoe', but my number is also on my Facebook page. Perhaps removing it will give me back my pure heart.
So, back to last night's phone call. It was that guy - you know the one. The charmer, the man who wants to pay me to have sex with him. My first escorting assignment.
'Hey! it's x' he said
'Oh hi, how are you?' Let me be honest, I knew the sound of his voice straight away. It's a great voice, a truly fuckable one. He's witty and quite charming. I'm just not, well, sexually connected to him. There's none of that energy. Perhaps that's the reason I'd prefer to escort him. To be paid for my services. for there to be a visible, clean and uncluttered transaction. Money for my body. Clean and clear and under control.
After a few conversational cliches I said I'd call him once I'd finished work.
Later, in my taxi home I sent him a message asking him to call me in half an hour once I'd be home.
What did he proceed to do? Call me straight away. Here's a man who doesn't waste any time, I thought, and answered.
'You keep pushing the goal posts back another half an hour' he continued.
'Yes, I do, because I've just finished work and I'm on my way back as we speak'.
A few other conversational cliches
'so, what are you doing over the next few days?' he asked.
'Um, I might be free on Saturday during the day. We could meet for a drink'.
'Well I was thinking about booking a hotel room.'
'Oh were you?'
'Yes, you could drink as much as you want'. At this point i wondered whether the man was substituting hard cash with alcohol. Nu-uh I'd happily give away alcohol for a Michelin starred meal (paid for by myself), any day.
'Hmm, let's see. Anyhow, I need to go now because I have a million friends trying to get through to me who I need to speak with' - It's true, The Dame was on the blower at that exact time. And so was somebody else. Okay, so not a million, but two.
'Why don't we speak tomorrow?'
'Sure.'
And he'll call me later I'm sure. Positive.
All that remains is to decide how to play my cards. Might this be the sexual experience I'm after? Might the man, as he has suggested previously, hire a few other boys too and have himself a merry orgy? Let's hope so.
Fucking somebody you don't really desire is no new thing, let's be honest. Millions of girls and boys do it every Friday night. Oh, some people also refer to this state of being as succumbing to 'beer goggles' and being 'desty'. The only difference between them and me is that I'd take money up front for something they'd happily do for a shot of tequila.
By unusual I mean, of course, that it ended with four of the same number and wasn't saved already on my phone.
Having said this, receiving unusual phone calls and messages is something that happens to be with an alarming frequency these days. It's all that gumtreeing, all that gaydaring, all that...well...saunaing.
Note - I'm not a floozy or, as my brother insists, a 'phone hoe', but my number is also on my Facebook page. Perhaps removing it will give me back my pure heart.
So, back to last night's phone call. It was that guy - you know the one. The charmer, the man who wants to pay me to have sex with him. My first escorting assignment.
'Hey! it's x' he said
'Oh hi, how are you?' Let me be honest, I knew the sound of his voice straight away. It's a great voice, a truly fuckable one. He's witty and quite charming. I'm just not, well, sexually connected to him. There's none of that energy. Perhaps that's the reason I'd prefer to escort him. To be paid for my services. for there to be a visible, clean and uncluttered transaction. Money for my body. Clean and clear and under control.
After a few conversational cliches I said I'd call him once I'd finished work.
Later, in my taxi home I sent him a message asking him to call me in half an hour once I'd be home.
What did he proceed to do? Call me straight away. Here's a man who doesn't waste any time, I thought, and answered.
'You keep pushing the goal posts back another half an hour' he continued.
'Yes, I do, because I've just finished work and I'm on my way back as we speak'.
A few other conversational cliches
'so, what are you doing over the next few days?' he asked.
'Um, I might be free on Saturday during the day. We could meet for a drink'.
'Well I was thinking about booking a hotel room.'
'Oh were you?'
'Yes, you could drink as much as you want'. At this point i wondered whether the man was substituting hard cash with alcohol. Nu-uh I'd happily give away alcohol for a Michelin starred meal (paid for by myself), any day.
'Hmm, let's see. Anyhow, I need to go now because I have a million friends trying to get through to me who I need to speak with' - It's true, The Dame was on the blower at that exact time. And so was somebody else. Okay, so not a million, but two.
'Why don't we speak tomorrow?'
'Sure.'
And he'll call me later I'm sure. Positive.
All that remains is to decide how to play my cards. Might this be the sexual experience I'm after? Might the man, as he has suggested previously, hire a few other boys too and have himself a merry orgy? Let's hope so.
Fucking somebody you don't really desire is no new thing, let's be honest. Millions of girls and boys do it every Friday night. Oh, some people also refer to this state of being as succumbing to 'beer goggles' and being 'desty'. The only difference between them and me is that I'd take money up front for something they'd happily do for a shot of tequila.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Hard facts
Back on 'Confessions' earlier this afternoon and look what I came up with:
I'm not getting off by saying this, i'm not being childish and NO, im not horny (which admitedly is rare for me) but I just wanted to make this confession to all women of all shapes and sizes, the world over.
I personally love to go down on a girl and I love to tease her there for as long as possible until she is dripping all over the sheets and is gagging for the whole thing to go inside... at which point i tease her still!
I'm a tease!
But what is absolutely essential is to ensure that you are "well kept" down there. I.E. its vital to keep hair down there to a very low minimum. If you want it to feel great, then all we ask is for you to clear the way a little. If there is no hair there (ideal situation), or if there are very very few hairs down there, then it just looks amazing, more hygienic anyway, smells better and makes for a better session and better sensation for all concerned.
What is just as important, cannot stress how important this point is, but i assume all you women do this anyway, is to ensure you wash that region well before engaging in sexual acts (ideally via a shower/bath) because if it doesn't smell "nice" then it becomes a "No-Go Zone" which kills the whole mood, entirely! After all, this is all common-sense and very basic manners.
Apologies ladies for having made this confession and forgive me if you do all this anyway, but some of your counterparts really need reminding about this.
So do your husbands, your boyfriends, your lovers, your shag buddies all a favour and either do this for them or ask them to lend a helping hand. I'm sure they will be more than happy to groom that area of yours which we men adore and love so much.
Peace, and happy love making.
Well, it made me smile.
I'm not getting off by saying this, i'm not being childish and NO, im not horny (which admitedly is rare for me) but I just wanted to make this confession to all women of all shapes and sizes, the world over.
I personally love to go down on a girl and I love to tease her there for as long as possible until she is dripping all over the sheets and is gagging for the whole thing to go inside... at which point i tease her still!
I'm a tease!
But what is absolutely essential is to ensure that you are "well kept" down there. I.E. its vital to keep hair down there to a very low minimum. If you want it to feel great, then all we ask is for you to clear the way a little. If there is no hair there (ideal situation), or if there are very very few hairs down there, then it just looks amazing, more hygienic anyway, smells better and makes for a better session and better sensation for all concerned.
What is just as important, cannot stress how important this point is, but i assume all you women do this anyway, is to ensure you wash that region well before engaging in sexual acts (ideally via a shower/bath) because if it doesn't smell "nice" then it becomes a "No-Go Zone" which kills the whole mood, entirely! After all, this is all common-sense and very basic manners.
Apologies ladies for having made this confession and forgive me if you do all this anyway, but some of your counterparts really need reminding about this.
So do your husbands, your boyfriends, your lovers, your shag buddies all a favour and either do this for them or ask them to lend a helping hand. I'm sure they will be more than happy to groom that area of yours which we men adore and love so much.
Peace, and happy love making.
Well, it made me smile.
The Office Christmas Party
Well, we've all had one, or are about to have one, or aren't old enough to have one. Either way, the Christmas party at the office is the highlight of the working calender. That and any form of annual leave.
So, had mine last Friday. And it was at a very plush hotel near the Strand. If I told you the name of it, I'm sure you'd all say Ooooh, and so I won't.
Just for the record, plush venue may equal plush service but seldom does it equate to plush food. I've had plenty of better roast dinners in my time. In fact, just the other afternoon Katerina and I had lunch at our favourite roast joint here in Central London. And it was bloody marvellous.
I should and do consider myself fortunate to be working for an company that pays for pretty much everything. A mini-cab to the venue, all the alcohol I could possibly consume once I arrived, all the food and the DJ, and then a plush taxi (with Heat magazine tucked firmly into the magazine rack and bottles of water) back once it was all over.
But it's funny, working at such a low level and seeing all the office elite get bladdered at the first downpour of mulled wine. To see them run riot after a few glasses of bubbly and to see my HR manager plastered over the dance floor, gyrating to the rhythm of a song by fifty-cents.
Coming from an Indian family, it surprises me just how quick non-Indians are to jump onto the dance floor at the first sign of any music. Indians are so much more reserved. I'd much prefer it if they were as candid about their desire to boogie as they were about their desire to see me have an arranged marriage.
Don't get me wrong, once people are up on the dance floor it's difficult (and occasionally not worth the effort) to drag them away, but getting them there in the first place is often very difficult. That's when the local vamp has to intervene and titillate their taste buds, so to speak, with a shimmer of her chiffon sari beneath the disco lights.
So, back to my Christmas party. Why is it always the 'admin staff' who have the most fun. I'm sure this is true of any organisation. The man who works in our library was plastered even before he'd finished his turkey. And once the bar was open there was no stopping his head as it hit the table, or his legs are they hit the table, or indeed any part of his body as it hit the table.
And secretaries dance so well, don't they? Well, most do. And the occasional loud mouth who insisted on trying to pull my black tie off!
Now this year I was really looking forward to seeing sexual acquaintances develop or reveal themselves during the course of the evening. Alas, nothing. Not one tongue in one ear! Perhaps because we have recently merged, or perhaps because we are small enough to avoid the possibility of people fancying one another (something I doubt).
Sexually it was a dud, the food was also a semi-dud but all in all I had far more fun than I'd anticipated.
I wonder where I'll be at this time next year. Perhaps locked up in a posh cubicle with a fellow work colleague at another office party. Here's hoping!
So, had mine last Friday. And it was at a very plush hotel near the Strand. If I told you the name of it, I'm sure you'd all say Ooooh, and so I won't.
Just for the record, plush venue may equal plush service but seldom does it equate to plush food. I've had plenty of better roast dinners in my time. In fact, just the other afternoon Katerina and I had lunch at our favourite roast joint here in Central London. And it was bloody marvellous.
I should and do consider myself fortunate to be working for an company that pays for pretty much everything. A mini-cab to the venue, all the alcohol I could possibly consume once I arrived, all the food and the DJ, and then a plush taxi (with Heat magazine tucked firmly into the magazine rack and bottles of water) back once it was all over.
But it's funny, working at such a low level and seeing all the office elite get bladdered at the first downpour of mulled wine. To see them run riot after a few glasses of bubbly and to see my HR manager plastered over the dance floor, gyrating to the rhythm of a song by fifty-cents.
Coming from an Indian family, it surprises me just how quick non-Indians are to jump onto the dance floor at the first sign of any music. Indians are so much more reserved. I'd much prefer it if they were as candid about their desire to boogie as they were about their desire to see me have an arranged marriage.
Don't get me wrong, once people are up on the dance floor it's difficult (and occasionally not worth the effort) to drag them away, but getting them there in the first place is often very difficult. That's when the local vamp has to intervene and titillate their taste buds, so to speak, with a shimmer of her chiffon sari beneath the disco lights.
So, back to my Christmas party. Why is it always the 'admin staff' who have the most fun. I'm sure this is true of any organisation. The man who works in our library was plastered even before he'd finished his turkey. And once the bar was open there was no stopping his head as it hit the table, or his legs are they hit the table, or indeed any part of his body as it hit the table.
And secretaries dance so well, don't they? Well, most do. And the occasional loud mouth who insisted on trying to pull my black tie off!
Now this year I was really looking forward to seeing sexual acquaintances develop or reveal themselves during the course of the evening. Alas, nothing. Not one tongue in one ear! Perhaps because we have recently merged, or perhaps because we are small enough to avoid the possibility of people fancying one another (something I doubt).
Sexually it was a dud, the food was also a semi-dud but all in all I had far more fun than I'd anticipated.
I wonder where I'll be at this time next year. Perhaps locked up in a posh cubicle with a fellow work colleague at another office party. Here's hoping!
Thursday, December 06, 2007
Queen Camilla
OMG. Have just discovered that a guy I work with (who I thought was Polish, but who is, in fact, very very English) is second cousin to Camilla Parker-Bowles.
What am I? Blissfully ecstatic. And, as you can imagine, my mouth simply wouldn't close.
At the end of the Spanish Inquisition, I simply couldn't control myself:
'Arrange a luncheon will you?' I added.
'Yes, alright' he said, in a very blase fashion.
The trouble is, tomorrow is his last day at work.
Sod's law, in't it!? Just as I discover a stepping stone that'll lead me quite firmly to Camilla, it threatens to sink beneath me.
And I just had to show him the book I'm presently reading (and thoroughly enjoying), 'Queen Camilla' by Sue Townsend.
Well...he smiled. And then went on to tell me that she had read it and really enjoyed it.
See, the ideas I had about her weren't based on misplaced lust after all. That she is a dignified, intelligent lady with a great sense of humour is truth. TRUTH.
What am I? Blissfully ecstatic. And, as you can imagine, my mouth simply wouldn't close.
At the end of the Spanish Inquisition, I simply couldn't control myself:
'Arrange a luncheon will you?' I added.
'Yes, alright' he said, in a very blase fashion.
The trouble is, tomorrow is his last day at work.
Sod's law, in't it!? Just as I discover a stepping stone that'll lead me quite firmly to Camilla, it threatens to sink beneath me.
And I just had to show him the book I'm presently reading (and thoroughly enjoying), 'Queen Camilla' by Sue Townsend.
Well...he smiled. And then went on to tell me that she had read it and really enjoyed it.
See, the ideas I had about her weren't based on misplaced lust after all. That she is a dignified, intelligent lady with a great sense of humour is truth. TRUTH.
Hair removal
'So, you're telling me that there's no difference between having a hairy arse crack and a smooth one?'
'Whether it's hairy or not, it's still the place from where shit emerges.'
'But I would imagine a smooth/Imaaced arse crack to feel so much nicer. I mean, when you're rimming a guy, it must just be nicer to be rid of all the hair.'
'You do realise, once you do it, there's no going back. It'll grow back thicker and faster. And who'll do it for you anyhow? It won't just fall off in the shower if you use Imaac, you'll have to scrap it all off.'
'Oh.'
[Desdemona and I discussing my desire to use hair removal cream over my arse crack in a bid to facilitate the rimming process which is, as yet, untested.]
'Whether it's hairy or not, it's still the place from where shit emerges.'
'But I would imagine a smooth/Imaaced arse crack to feel so much nicer. I mean, when you're rimming a guy, it must just be nicer to be rid of all the hair.'
'You do realise, once you do it, there's no going back. It'll grow back thicker and faster. And who'll do it for you anyhow? It won't just fall off in the shower if you use Imaac, you'll have to scrap it all off.'
'Oh.'
[Desdemona and I discussing my desire to use hair removal cream over my arse crack in a bid to facilitate the rimming process which is, as yet, untested.]
Wednesday, December 05, 2007
Date #1 - Failed Actor
It started with a random poke. I think I've written about this in an earlier entry. He poked me, we chatted, I sent him a few dirty texts and he kept referring to me as a 'horneyfucker'. (Just for the record, it should be spelt horny)
Had a date with a lawyer-cum-actor-cum-novelist-cum-returned lawyer, last night.
Before I even got there, let me be honest, there were a few things about him that really riled me:
a) all over his facebook profile he referred to himself in third person - whether it be quotes from broadsheets stating what a wonderful performance he delivered in one of the two (as far as I can count)crummy plays he's starred in. I just happen to have seen and been unimpressed with both of them. In fact, I told him I hadn't liked them, to which he replied
'yes, they were badly written, but I liked my part and my performance was appreciated'. I HATE this! I hate how people sever themselves from something as soon as it's declared a failure. All of a sudden it's about their role and their performance and nothing to do with the play.
'x has written a novel which his agent is trying to sell at the moment' reads his facebook profile. Big sigh.
b) As you are probably aware by now, he is also somewhat narcissistic. And, as I came to quickly realise, here was a man who had given up his job as a lawyer to pursue creative interests, failed in the five years that he has been trying, and was now returning to the lawyering in order to satisfy his longing for an' ordinary and routine' filled life.
Now, it's not the fact that he failed which pissed me off. No, I think there are great guts in biting the bullet and taking the plunge like he did. It shows verve and ambition. But then, to give up because you fail, that's what pisses me off.
I thought creative people (much like myself) wouldn't give up for fear of being unfaithful to the gift of creation they have been given. I always imagined that if your ambitions were true enough and your dedication was unwavering, that you would push until you had achieved what you set out to. You see, this was my problem with the lawyer-cum-actor-cum-novelist-cum-returned lawyer; He wasn't able to really justify his departure from his passion and refused to 'be taken back to something I've blocked in my mind'. 'Stop trying to convince me, it's all over now' he said at one point. In no way was I trying to persuade him. I was merely engaging in a discussion, the aim of which was to get to know him a little better.
c) I don't find many Asian men attractive, regardless of where in Asia they are from. It's not something I control, my cock simply says no. Mind you, this time around, I gave the lawyer-cum-actor-cum-novelist-cum-returned lawyer a chance. I told myself to stop being silly. But the first sight of his aged skin (for he's 29) and what was clearly dyed hair, was enough to seal the envelope before the letter had even been inserted.
'So tell me about your seedy life' he said, over dinner. In his defence, I should say that he picked a plush Chinese restaurant for our meal and is somewhat well connected to the Indian High Society.
I think he wanted details about my sauna affairs and all matter of other sordid goings on, but I was adamant not to give everything away. This was my attempt to 'play hard to get'.
I told him what I had to.
'Those texts you sent me...they were soo...explicit...and...you didn't even know me' he said. Clearly this was his way of saying ' you're a slapper and I was shocked by your attitude'.
'Listen', I said, 'I don't think of sex as something taboo, or a term that should be banded about lightly. I have sex with different people because I want to. And I talk about sex in a very candid way. It's just the way I am. And if people don't like it, they can close their ears or turn the volume up on the Pavarotti.
'You are funny' he continued.
'So, what is your fetish? I ventured.
'I thought I mentioned that on a text. You said we could explore our sexuality together. And I have a thing about feet too'.
Right, so a foot fetish and somebody who hasn't had a blowjob or been fucked.
It's true, I would have explored my sexuality with him, had there been more of an energy between us. Had I wanted to crawl under the table and eat his cock whole. But this didn't happen.
Unsurprisingly, at the end of our meal, it was fairly easy to get away with a promise that we'd 'stay in touch'. I hope to, don't get me wrong. But that's it. Meeting him to explore our sexuality together is something I think I could do without.
Had a date with a lawyer-cum-actor-cum-novelist-cum-returned lawyer, last night.
Before I even got there, let me be honest, there were a few things about him that really riled me:
a) all over his facebook profile he referred to himself in third person - whether it be quotes from broadsheets stating what a wonderful performance he delivered in one of the two (as far as I can count)crummy plays he's starred in. I just happen to have seen and been unimpressed with both of them. In fact, I told him I hadn't liked them, to which he replied
'yes, they were badly written, but I liked my part and my performance was appreciated'. I HATE this! I hate how people sever themselves from something as soon as it's declared a failure. All of a sudden it's about their role and their performance and nothing to do with the play.
'x has written a novel which his agent is trying to sell at the moment' reads his facebook profile. Big sigh.
b) As you are probably aware by now, he is also somewhat narcissistic. And, as I came to quickly realise, here was a man who had given up his job as a lawyer to pursue creative interests, failed in the five years that he has been trying, and was now returning to the lawyering in order to satisfy his longing for an' ordinary and routine' filled life.
Now, it's not the fact that he failed which pissed me off. No, I think there are great guts in biting the bullet and taking the plunge like he did. It shows verve and ambition. But then, to give up because you fail, that's what pisses me off.
I thought creative people (much like myself) wouldn't give up for fear of being unfaithful to the gift of creation they have been given. I always imagined that if your ambitions were true enough and your dedication was unwavering, that you would push until you had achieved what you set out to. You see, this was my problem with the lawyer-cum-actor-cum-novelist-cum-returned lawyer; He wasn't able to really justify his departure from his passion and refused to 'be taken back to something I've blocked in my mind'. 'Stop trying to convince me, it's all over now' he said at one point. In no way was I trying to persuade him. I was merely engaging in a discussion, the aim of which was to get to know him a little better.
c) I don't find many Asian men attractive, regardless of where in Asia they are from. It's not something I control, my cock simply says no. Mind you, this time around, I gave the lawyer-cum-actor-cum-novelist-cum-returned lawyer a chance. I told myself to stop being silly. But the first sight of his aged skin (for he's 29) and what was clearly dyed hair, was enough to seal the envelope before the letter had even been inserted.
'So tell me about your seedy life' he said, over dinner. In his defence, I should say that he picked a plush Chinese restaurant for our meal and is somewhat well connected to the Indian High Society.
I think he wanted details about my sauna affairs and all matter of other sordid goings on, but I was adamant not to give everything away. This was my attempt to 'play hard to get'.
I told him what I had to.
'Those texts you sent me...they were soo...explicit...and...you didn't even know me' he said. Clearly this was his way of saying ' you're a slapper and I was shocked by your attitude'.
'Listen', I said, 'I don't think of sex as something taboo, or a term that should be banded about lightly. I have sex with different people because I want to. And I talk about sex in a very candid way. It's just the way I am. And if people don't like it, they can close their ears or turn the volume up on the Pavarotti.
'You are funny' he continued.
'So, what is your fetish? I ventured.
'I thought I mentioned that on a text. You said we could explore our sexuality together. And I have a thing about feet too'.
Right, so a foot fetish and somebody who hasn't had a blowjob or been fucked.
It's true, I would have explored my sexuality with him, had there been more of an energy between us. Had I wanted to crawl under the table and eat his cock whole. But this didn't happen.
Unsurprisingly, at the end of our meal, it was fairly easy to get away with a promise that we'd 'stay in touch'. I hope to, don't get me wrong. But that's it. Meeting him to explore our sexuality together is something I think I could do without.
Tuesday, December 04, 2007
Baby
It always surprises me just how much interest a baby can generate on the underground, simply through existing. Oh, and with the odd hearty chuckle.
A baby, so small and unassuming, so free of prejudices and, yes, so adorable (yes, you arrrrre, yes you arrrrrre...).
And I was amazed at the number of people who looked directly at the baby (who was incidentally sitting beside me) and smiled, or began to click their fingers in the air, or to simply stare and look amused at the child.
Perhaps it's because they know that the baby won't judge them. That the baby doesn't really know anything about them, that the baby is free of all illusions, all the clutter of life.
And to think, deep inside, each one of these people knows exactly that the baby will, one day, have to go through all of the same shit we all do. All of the saddnesses, the loss of our virginity (in all respects), the arguments with our lover when we discover he's been shagging that girl at Tescos for four months, whilst telling us he was going to visit his sick mother.
And despite this, we smile. Because in the child we find hope. And, above all else, we find forgiveness.
In which case, perhaps children aren't such a bad thing after all. At least, not the ones under the age of 3.
A baby, so small and unassuming, so free of prejudices and, yes, so adorable (yes, you arrrrre, yes you arrrrrre...).
And I was amazed at the number of people who looked directly at the baby (who was incidentally sitting beside me) and smiled, or began to click their fingers in the air, or to simply stare and look amused at the child.
Perhaps it's because they know that the baby won't judge them. That the baby doesn't really know anything about them, that the baby is free of all illusions, all the clutter of life.
And to think, deep inside, each one of these people knows exactly that the baby will, one day, have to go through all of the same shit we all do. All of the saddnesses, the loss of our virginity (in all respects), the arguments with our lover when we discover he's been shagging that girl at Tescos for four months, whilst telling us he was going to visit his sick mother.
And despite this, we smile. Because in the child we find hope. And, above all else, we find forgiveness.
In which case, perhaps children aren't such a bad thing after all. At least, not the ones under the age of 3.
Slag meeting
Last Friday, Ophelia, Desdemona and I conducted a slag meeting after, what seemed to be, an era.
It's always so good to see them. To have dinner and to discuss the latest antics.
It seems that Desdemona's relationship is 'dead serious' and that she and Othello couldn't be happier.
Neither could her puppy, however, judging by the photo of his erect penis we passed around the table. It was huge. And for such a small puppy.
'Has he, you know, stopped trying to provide you with oral sex?' I asked.
'Oh yes, he's over that now, he prefers to fuck his teddy bears now. In fact, he was mid hump when I took this photo', came Desdemona's reply.
Definitely a move in the right direction I thought.
Then the conversation shifted to a photo of one of our tutors at university, whose cock we'd only recently managed to see on the web!
'It looked awful' we all agreed, even though it was huge. I know I shouldn't say this, but he looked like a pedophile. A cross between a grisly bear and a head teacher.
'Who would actually stand there and let somebody take photos of them looking like that?' pondered Desdemona.
I wasn't so sure, I mean so many people take filthy photos of themselves don't they? Some propping themselves up against the head board, bribing the GirlF with promises of Dairy milk. Others take full blown videos of themselves ejaculating over black suede shoes. And some, some take pictures of themselves inserting various household objects into their various orifices.
It's true, this tutor of ours was by no means an attractive male, but to imagine that he allowed himself to be photographed with a semi erection, is somewhat unsettling. Surely you'd imagine tutors to exercise a little more caution. The only way I got a hold of the photo was through a friend of mine who he'd sent it to and who was, in fact, one of his past students.
On the subject of sleeping with students, I wondered how long this particular doctrine lasted. Even once the teaching period has ended, are teachers forever obliged to keep their students at arm's length? Or can they follow their desires unashamedly.
Anyways, so, after dinner the slags and I went for cocktails and bumped into Desdemona's ex. Yes, he of the handjob in the lecture theatre when they were an 'item'.
Now, Desdemona is a very hot chick. Super hot. But this boy, when we saw him, had totally lost his spark. He looked pathetic, in a very uncharming way. And, from the way he spoke, we were quickly able to ascertain that, given the chance, he's have tried it on with Desdemona all over again. We were out of that cocktail bar pretty quickly, needless to say. This surprises me as Desdemona, of all people, isn't overly good at running away from her ex boyfriends.
Ophelia, on the other hand, is off to 'the homeland' over Christmas. As a result, any further slag meeting will have to take place in the new year.
Note - The Dame was duly missed.
It's always so good to see them. To have dinner and to discuss the latest antics.
It seems that Desdemona's relationship is 'dead serious' and that she and Othello couldn't be happier.
Neither could her puppy, however, judging by the photo of his erect penis we passed around the table. It was huge. And for such a small puppy.
'Has he, you know, stopped trying to provide you with oral sex?' I asked.
'Oh yes, he's over that now, he prefers to fuck his teddy bears now. In fact, he was mid hump when I took this photo', came Desdemona's reply.
Definitely a move in the right direction I thought.
Then the conversation shifted to a photo of one of our tutors at university, whose cock we'd only recently managed to see on the web!
'It looked awful' we all agreed, even though it was huge. I know I shouldn't say this, but he looked like a pedophile. A cross between a grisly bear and a head teacher.
'Who would actually stand there and let somebody take photos of them looking like that?' pondered Desdemona.
I wasn't so sure, I mean so many people take filthy photos of themselves don't they? Some propping themselves up against the head board, bribing the GirlF with promises of Dairy milk. Others take full blown videos of themselves ejaculating over black suede shoes. And some, some take pictures of themselves inserting various household objects into their various orifices.
It's true, this tutor of ours was by no means an attractive male, but to imagine that he allowed himself to be photographed with a semi erection, is somewhat unsettling. Surely you'd imagine tutors to exercise a little more caution. The only way I got a hold of the photo was through a friend of mine who he'd sent it to and who was, in fact, one of his past students.
On the subject of sleeping with students, I wondered how long this particular doctrine lasted. Even once the teaching period has ended, are teachers forever obliged to keep their students at arm's length? Or can they follow their desires unashamedly.
Anyways, so, after dinner the slags and I went for cocktails and bumped into Desdemona's ex. Yes, he of the handjob in the lecture theatre when they were an 'item'.
Now, Desdemona is a very hot chick. Super hot. But this boy, when we saw him, had totally lost his spark. He looked pathetic, in a very uncharming way. And, from the way he spoke, we were quickly able to ascertain that, given the chance, he's have tried it on with Desdemona all over again. We were out of that cocktail bar pretty quickly, needless to say. This surprises me as Desdemona, of all people, isn't overly good at running away from her ex boyfriends.
Ophelia, on the other hand, is off to 'the homeland' over Christmas. As a result, any further slag meeting will have to take place in the new year.
Note - The Dame was duly missed.
Monday, December 03, 2007
Friction
Ermmm....I just expected fucking a guy to be...more fun, I guess.
So, went to a different sauna over the weekend. Chariots in Vauxhall.
Perhaps just as seedy as Pleasuredrome over in old Waterloo, but the talent fluctuated just as much as anywhere else to be fair.
Yes, there were a number of men who brushed their fingers over my nipples or went straight for the plunge down below and quite a few of those should have ideally been sat at home watching The Antiques Road Show (not for fear of seeing themselves on it you understand), and yes I'm still fairly uneasy at the sight of a pensioner laying on a wipeable mattress, legs spread, shrivelled cock in hands, moaning and groaning as young men pass by him.
A string of saunas and steam rooms, one darkroom and many many private cubicles together form this particular sauna in, i must admit, a particularly seedy area of London.
A plus point for the evening was perhaps the heaving orgy that formed in the darkroom over the period of an hour. I Can honestly say there were cocks swinging form every direction. The trouble was, on occasion you weren't sure what sort of face was attached to the soft and that gripped your cock like a vice. And that can be dangerous. Especially so if somebody flashes a torch in your direction at the wrong time.
And there was a man who simply wouldn't leave me alone.
'So...where are you from?' he asked.
'London'
'Noo, where are you from originally?'
This conversation was, as a matter of fact, taking place in a midst of a semi-orgy in the darkroom.
'Well my parents are Indian' I offered.
'Well, in that case, so are you then, unless of course, it's all about passports'.
'I'm really not getting into this discussion whilst we're in a gay sauna', I said.
For fucks sake!
I go to saunas for a reason. Discussions on immigration and the resulting identity crisis suffered by many non-resident Indians is NOT one of these.
And then there was the Australian man who wanted me to fuck him.
Fine, I thought, how hard can it be. Inside, praying that:
a) there was no visible sign of shit anywhere; and
b) the hole was easy to find and that I didn't come across as a novice.
There was no way whatsoever that I could have cum, fucking him. No way at all. There just wasn't enough...friction. Sort of like throwing a baton into a well. Thankfully mine came out still in tact.
Now, I don't have the faintest idea what expectations I should have had regarding fucking a man in the ass, but the experience fell so below them that I questioned whether I was doing it correctly. His moans did appear give off an air of satisfaction however and I came to realise that it was in fact his gaping crater that was the problem and not my cock.
Making up an excuse to do with the heat was all I could do to rid myself of any further embarrassment. Thankfully he was alright about it and declared it unnesccessary to come in order to have a good time.
And I was gone.
For the first time I came to realise how appauling it must be for a straight man to be fucking a girl who's pussy just isn't tight enough. No wonder so many heterosexual men harass their girlfriends to submit and offer up their ass. No wonder!
So, went to a different sauna over the weekend. Chariots in Vauxhall.
Perhaps just as seedy as Pleasuredrome over in old Waterloo, but the talent fluctuated just as much as anywhere else to be fair.
Yes, there were a number of men who brushed their fingers over my nipples or went straight for the plunge down below and quite a few of those should have ideally been sat at home watching The Antiques Road Show (not for fear of seeing themselves on it you understand), and yes I'm still fairly uneasy at the sight of a pensioner laying on a wipeable mattress, legs spread, shrivelled cock in hands, moaning and groaning as young men pass by him.
A string of saunas and steam rooms, one darkroom and many many private cubicles together form this particular sauna in, i must admit, a particularly seedy area of London.
A plus point for the evening was perhaps the heaving orgy that formed in the darkroom over the period of an hour. I Can honestly say there were cocks swinging form every direction. The trouble was, on occasion you weren't sure what sort of face was attached to the soft and that gripped your cock like a vice. And that can be dangerous. Especially so if somebody flashes a torch in your direction at the wrong time.
And there was a man who simply wouldn't leave me alone.
'So...where are you from?' he asked.
'London'
'Noo, where are you from originally?'
This conversation was, as a matter of fact, taking place in a midst of a semi-orgy in the darkroom.
'Well my parents are Indian' I offered.
'Well, in that case, so are you then, unless of course, it's all about passports'.
'I'm really not getting into this discussion whilst we're in a gay sauna', I said.
For fucks sake!
I go to saunas for a reason. Discussions on immigration and the resulting identity crisis suffered by many non-resident Indians is NOT one of these.
And then there was the Australian man who wanted me to fuck him.
Fine, I thought, how hard can it be. Inside, praying that:
a) there was no visible sign of shit anywhere; and
b) the hole was easy to find and that I didn't come across as a novice.
There was no way whatsoever that I could have cum, fucking him. No way at all. There just wasn't enough...friction. Sort of like throwing a baton into a well. Thankfully mine came out still in tact.
Now, I don't have the faintest idea what expectations I should have had regarding fucking a man in the ass, but the experience fell so below them that I questioned whether I was doing it correctly. His moans did appear give off an air of satisfaction however and I came to realise that it was in fact his gaping crater that was the problem and not my cock.
Making up an excuse to do with the heat was all I could do to rid myself of any further embarrassment. Thankfully he was alright about it and declared it unnesccessary to come in order to have a good time.
And I was gone.
For the first time I came to realise how appauling it must be for a straight man to be fucking a girl who's pussy just isn't tight enough. No wonder so many heterosexual men harass their girlfriends to submit and offer up their ass. No wonder!
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