The first date

The worst kind of attraction (if you want to avoid losing your head) is the sort that starts as a minute spark and gradually builds to a roaring fire over a period of time. This sums up the other night.

So, readers, I finally met him – XY, as I’ll call him, in celebration of the male chromosome (where would we be without it?). I was not bowled over – tall, skinny, big (ish) ears. I generally go for big and meaty (in all departments), but I thought it was only fair to give the guy a chance after we had been corresponding for so long. And I had seen a photo, which he did look like, but even if a picture is accurate and recent, it never captures everything. The only way to do that is to meet the person in full 3D real life.

It was slightly awkward with a few silences at first and he seemed to keep glancing at the wall behind me – which he later confessed was his way of avoiding eyeing my cleavage. And by the way, this wasn’t because I was dressed like Dolly Parton – I was just wearing my best push-up bra which made them eye-pokingly ‘out there’.

As the conversation picked up and the ice was shattered, thanks to a few drinks, I felt myself warming to him. And while some would say he was not conventionally attractive, I started to notice he had a good face and I was starting to like it more by the minute. Or was that just the wine/beer goggles?

I am not going to go into what we talked about to protect his identity, but he had obviously been as nervous as I. His big embarrassing moment came in the restaurant. I was only glad it wasn’t me.

He raised his hand for emphasis and the half-full bottle of red wine tipped and began its slow motion descent to the floor. But quick as a flash he caught it and in the process sprayed the right side of my dress with the contents. I did my best calm, unflappable, not at all bothered act – the kind I use when my three-year-old has started screaming in the supermarket because I won’t buy him a lollipop.

To XY’s credit, he was apologetic and mortified in equal measure, but I didn’t prolong the agony by mentioning it again and we forgot about it for the rest of the night. For one thing, we were totally distracted by each other by the end of dinner and had to extend the night with more drinks elsewhere.

I know some of you are now screaming out to me to cut to the chase and start on some erotic scenes. Sorry to disappoint, but that is not going to happen. It did not happen. While regular readers know I am a dirty slut, I did not want to jump into bed on this occasion. The drunken slut is being kept under wraps/ hidden in the closet for the time being while I get to know XY better and perhaps build the foundations of something special. We did share a kiss, though, and if that is anything to go by, anything else will be worth the wait.

Full moon/strange dream

I was at a party in an unfamiliar house. The music was trance-like and hypnotic; the lights were dim with flashes of primary colours. I felt light-headed and carefree; this was clearly a point in my life when I wasn’t weighed down by the burden of responsibility or the need to leave at a specified time. I was totally free.

We were in a large hall, me and a crowd of young, beautiful people. I had no idea what I looked like, as there were no mirrors, but did not feel out of place. The music vibrated, pulsated and whirred around us.

A boy with curly brown hair and intense green eyes walked over to me. We were strangers, but something about him made me feel drawn to him, like we had a deep and unique connection. He held out his hand and said: “Let’s get out of here.” I nodded and followed, not for a second thinking this was a little rash.

He led me down a long, dark corridor which had no doors on it, just a dimly lit room at the very end. As we neared the room I could see it was lit in red and purple and had the sense of being a separate entity to the rest of the building. It felt rather like a little garage, shed or well-renovated cave. But it was warm and secluded from the main party. No one had passed us on the way, so it seemed safe from prying eyes.

The boy looked at me full on and I could now see his face in all its glory. He was handsome in a pretty kind of way, with rosebud lips and soft, smooth skin – not my usual type, but I still wanted to kiss him, still wanted to feel his slim body against me. There was something primal in my attraction to him.

He leaned in, no words spoken, and kissed me, first with soft, gentle pecks, then with passion and hunger, our teeth colliding.

But as he kissed me, something strange started to happen. He seemed to growl and his smooth skin started to feel stubbly. I carried on kissing him with my eyes closed. When I did finally open them, the sight of him should have struck me with fear, horror and revulsion and I should have run as fast as I could. It didn’t, though and I stayed.

His face had sprouted fur, his nose and features had broadened and elongated, his teeth had grown long and sharp, his ears had shrunk to be replaced by small, pointed velvety ones on top of his head. His clothes were in a heap on the floor, ripped and frayed forced off by his broad, long-furred body, complete with clawed paws and a long tail.

But still I was not afraid, I just wanted to stroke and smell him, to feel his head snuggled against my now-naked breasts. He did not want to hurt me; I was instinctively sure of this. Maybe it was why I had no fear.

His long flat tongue licked me, first on my hands, then my face, then my breasts. I held him close as his tongue reached for my neck.

Then… “Ouch!” A little nip on my shoulder. I shrunk back, more surprised by this than his initial transformation. Then my head started to tingle, my senses seemed heightened and I could suddenly see much clearer, hear the trance music down the corridor – every twist and turn of it, smell the musty earthy scent of my companion.

I looked at my hands. Little hairs were starting to grow on the backs of them and my nails seemed to be getting longer. I felt my face – first downy, then hairy. Within minutes I had taken on the appearance of the wolf-boy. We were now the same.

He howled and licked me. I licked and nibbled him back, and then we playfully bit each other’s necks, growling and barking.  I stopped for a second and he padded behind, placing one paw, then the other on my shoulders. I felt him enter me and we went at it vigorously, yelping and barking. He stayed inside me for a few moments as his penis swelled and I clamped around him. We eventually rolled over and lay in a heap of fur, nuzzling and grooming each other’s coats.

We fell asleep, warm, contented and bound together in mutual affection. I had never felt more comfortable or had such a deep bond with another living thing. We even breathed in time as we fell deep into our slumber.


Pip, pip, pip! With a jolt I am rudely awoken by the sound of my alarm clock. In my own bed, alone in my pyjamas, confused and disorientated.

Note: After ejaculation the male wolf’s penis swells so it cannot be pulled out for some time. It sometimes takes an hour to return to its normal size.


Lust in an elevator

It was my last and only chance to make it happen, the ideal time to do what I wanted, without worrying about what anyone thought, the ultimate ‘goodbye and sod you all moment’ – my last ever day in a job I never wanted, nor needed to leave on good terms.

I had taken a mundane filing/general gopher job after hitting the post-uni world with a bump in the mid-1990s, when getting a job was only marginally less difficult than it is now. My idealism about being snapped up by a media or advertising company, or landing a role writing a film script, was snuffed out within weeks of living back with my folks and having to sign on at the job centre.

So, I ended up with this job of filing, and running around for people in a public sector/civil service department, purely because the job centre made me take it on. It was supposed to be a five-week stint, but I ended up there for three years, my brain turning to porridge and any ambitions rapidly fading away. But it had been a crash course in office politics, cynicism and the revelation that people in mundane government jobs were all at it like rabbits, whenever they got the chance, regardless of whether or not they were married.

During that time I had been ogled by middle-aged men, learnt how to pretend to work, heard numerous stories of this man and that woman shagging in the empty office upstairs and had a bit of a fling with the quiet but cute guy in the office down the corridor. But I had always carried a torch for the tall, blonde mail delivery boy – let’s call him ‘E’. He had been out of reach, flirting and joking with the older women in the office. I was only a couple of years younger than him, but his quick and witty banter meant he could hold his own with senior officers, even though he was qualified to do little more than push a trolley round the building.

I was also aware that he fancied another girl in our team, so there was no hope. But in my three years of mundanity, people came and went, including this girl, who eventually left to do a nursing course.

My escape finally came when I realised I should apply for a vocational course to shake off the label of useless graduate with an ‘arty-farty’ degree. And as is traditional in most workplaces, I was coerced into the usual ‘leaving do’.

For this particular workforce, that meant starting on drinks around midday and not returning to the office until mid-afternoon, if at all; no one seemed to care. This was the good old days of not having to log your every move, and productivity targets being set very low.

So, we marched down to the nearest pub – me and what seemed to be an army of male colleagues. The two most attractive were E and ‘Lechy Les’ – he had winked at me and sweet-talked me since day one and now, knowing this may be the last time he ever saw me, he was trying extra hard. He was in his late 40s, drove a vintage convertible sports car and clearly saw himself as one for the ladies. It was evident that he had been a very good-looking guy in his prime (yes, nowadays I may have thought differently about a man this age), say 20 years ago. But now, he was clearly aware he was fading a little, so was putting in 100 per cent effort when up against E.

E was also being more focused on me than ever, seeing as nurse girl had now left and he was single. There was a lot more smiling and eye contact than usual when he would normally be entertaining a captive audience with his silly voices and jokes. Our hands brushed when we both reached for our glasses at the same time and we exchanged little smirks. But in the blue corner, Lechy Les, sitting on the other side of me kept putting his arm around me and I was not exactly pushing him away. It crossed my mind that he could probably teach me a thing or two in the bedroom. But no, the attraction to E was, by now, too intense.

After what seemed like half a day, we all staggered back to the building. As some of our group started to go in, E and I hung back. E said: “Lechy Les was really up for it back there – he was all over you.”

“But I would much rather have you than him,” I slurred, slightly startling myself at my sudden boldness.

E’s eyes widened for a second, not believing what he had just heard, and then the cogs in his mind must have started turning very quickly. He grabbed my hand and quickly led me inside. By now no one was around, as they had all sensibly returned to their desks, probably pretending to work.

E, still holding my hand pressed the button for the lift. As soon as the doors opened he gently, but purposefully pressed me against the wall and kissed me, his lips soft, but sensual, the tip of his tongue entering my mouth. He tasted of cold beer and excitement. I kissed him back with gusto, feeling his firm torso through his blue cotton shirt.

The lift landed on the next floor. He reached out to press the button for the doors to quickly close without moving his lips away from mine. All these years of going from floor to floor with the mail trolley were clearly not wasted – they had reached fruition in a moment like this.

By now we were kissing full-on passionately, our bodies pressed together, our heartbeats thumping in unison. I could by now feel the solid bulge in his trousers against my crotch, as my hands glided down his back and rested on his pert buttocks.
We had not come up for air, so I was starting to feel light-headed and nuzzled his neck, gently kissing his shoulder.

The lift stopped on the next floor so again, he blindly pressed the next button, which took us up to the second floor, then the third. No one worked on this floor, so it was a safer location. And by now, we had to make a choice – passionate kiss, then back to our desks, or dare to bare.

He paused and looked in my eyes for a moment. “Yes?” he asked without needing to elaborate on the question. “Yes,” I gasped, again starting to kiss him. It was a hot June day and being in a small, confined space was beginning to feel a little sticky. It also meant my only obstacle was a pair of knickers under my short cotton dress.

He pushed me against the steel wall, and his hand slowly moved under my dress, his fingers finding their way inside my pants, inside me and … “Oh!” I sighed. I was aroused and wet within seconds and my hips were thrusting themselves forward beyond my control, yearning for him to be inside me.

I walked my fingers to his crotch, picking at his zip and fly. I grabbed his firm, sizeable cock, running my fingers up and down it, enjoying its pink, shiny beauty. I wanted this thing inside me.

There was no going back now, and at that moment I didn’t even care if someone caught us. The lift had not moved or been ‘called’ from this floor, so I slipped a foot out of one side of my pants.

He lowered himself so his cock was under me, then slowly pushed against me, entering my wet, blissful vagina. I grabbed the bar behind me to steady myself as he thrust. We both sighed, partly from the heat and partly at the relieving of our urges.

“Yes,” I whispered, “yes.”  I was pinned against the cold metal wall and we were banging and clanking. The little metal box we were in must have been juddering on its cables. But I was in no hurry for this to stop. There were many better, more comfortable places to do this, but this was the moment, the here and now, the only time we would do this. We both knew it and were happy to bruise ourselves – him his knees, me, my back and bum as we threw ourselves against the walls. His cock fitted well and I pressed his rear to keep him going, faster, faster, intensifying the banging against the wall.

“Aah,” he exclaimed, as his thrusting switched to the familiar spasm of a man about to ejaculate. He pulled out and came all over the lift floor. We quickly reassembled and adjusted ourselves, enjoyed a long and lingering final kiss, smeared the liquid into the floor with our feet – what else could we do – then pressed the button down to the first floor.

I walked out of the lift calmly returning to my desk and pretending to tap a keyboard. He sauntered out a few seconds later, retrieving the mail trolley, pushing it down the corridor for his afternoon collection. Then at 5pm, I was straight out of there, on to a new start, a new life.

As I set off for the train station, a car beeped after me. A voice hollered: “Hey, can I give you a lift home?”  Lechy Les was behind the wheel.


Firsts and lasts

The first date is the equivalent of doing an audition in front of one judge or having a job interview, where not only do you have to say the right things, but also multi-task by trying to sip a drink, without spilling it, or eat without dribbling, at the same time.

I have never perfected the skill to do this well. There are probably people out there who have job offers left, right and centre and others who do first dates so well, that they spend their entire lives just doing first dates – maybe their downfall is going for a second date. Like that difficult second album, as they say about musicians, it’s a massive uphill challenge.

Having said that I have not had a first date of disaster movie proportions…yet, but a few I would rather forget:

Teenage desperado

This was not just a first date for him – with hindsight I deduce that this was his first ever date. It was the late 1980s, he wore the front section of his hair pointing upwards, rather like a cockatiel. I think that was the main reason I agreed to go out with him – crazy and interesting hair.

But that was where the crazy and interesting stopped with him, as I discovered he was actually quite dull.

We met in a well-known pizza outlet. His hair was freshly coiffed, held up by sugar and water or an extra strong brand of hairspray – there were plenty about in that era – and he smelt overpoweringly of aftershave to the point that I felt light-headed from inhaling it.

Conversation ran dry over a few rounds of ‘what music do you like’ and ‘what are your favourite films’. So instead we sat staring at each other, occasionally nibbling a bit of pepperoni pizza. After that, he held my hand across the table and looked at me with a really rapt, intense expression. This was all the more awkward when I clocked a couple of kids I happened to know, out with their parents, at a nearby table. They kept glancing over at us, giggling and mimicking the now over-long hand-holding.

We followed our lunch with a walk in the park, him almost cutting off my air supply by putting his arm around me extremely tightly. Then, the big moment, the kiss. He placed his lips on mine and pressed down really hard, not even moving them. It felt like a slow motion punch in the mouth. I made a mental note to avoid that again and made excuses about my mum wanting me home for three so I could jump on the next bus out of there.

I avoided his calls for the next fortnight, before he eventually gave up on me. Poor, naïve, inexperienced boy – I only hope someone could be bothered teaching how to kiss properly.

New Year’s Eve panic

We’ve all done it at some point, or maybe it’s just me. New Year’s Eve is looming, no man on the scene with whom to share the festivities. Solution – settle for the nearest male species that shows an interest and hope that it is human.

So, it was the early 90s, I was out with a female friend at a local rock nightclub. Most of the men were long-haired and wearing black tee-shirts, tight jeans and boots and largely fitted the description of the type I was attracted to at that point in my life. Luckily my taste improved in the years to come.

We had been dancing to a mixture of grunge and cheesy rock songs. Then, something terribly 80s and ‘cock rock’ blared out from the speakers. Being a little tiddly we decided to have an ironic dance/mosh. But at the corner of my eye, I noticed a tall, dark haired chap watching me. He sidled over and started to dance near us – not ironically; he clearly liked the song.

I played along and danced with him, then couldn’t shake him off for the rest of the night. He was ok- looking, but had the features of American actor Kevin Bacon, whom I didn’t really fancy. I decided, though that he was tolerable and I could have done much worse, so I agreed to a kiss and to go out with him New Year’s Eve which was only a few days away.

We drank, we chatted, it was all just ok, nothing exciting. We then visited the same night club for last part of the night. I considered doing the ‘you’re a nice guy but I’m not looking for a relationship’ spiel, but seeing as it was New Year’s Eve, I decided it would be unduly harsh to ruin his night. So instead I fake smiled through the evening, despite secretly wishing I had stayed in.

I was grateful for this decision when we left the club and discovered it had not only snowed, but the ground had slightly frozen. I have never been one for walking on ice, as it transforms me to an 80-year-old with osteoporosis, who fears falling and breaking bones. So I was grateful that ‘Kevin Bacon’ was around to prop me up on my tread-less winkle-picker boots. I had to lean on him to shuffle and slide across town to the nearest taxi rank, but fortunately, I still lived with my parents at that time so he didn’t try to come home with me.

Out of place

Ever felt like things are set against you, just through the finger of fate, rather than the person you are with?

I met ‘A’ through a dating site. We had corresponded a few times and seemed to have a great deal in common, so was really hopeful about our first date.

We met in a local pub. I wasn’t overwhelmed by his looks and there was no obvious chemistry, but I felt these things may improve through conversation and a few drinks.
But the pub, normally a cosy, traditional sanctuary from the outside world, seemed to disagree.

First, we sat in a room upstairs and started our conversation. All well and good, until we spied a PA being set up, drum kit being assembled and guitars plugged in. It appeared that tonight of all nights a local thrash metal band were playing just a few feet from our table.

So, we moved to a table downstairs and resumed our chat. After about ten minutes, a couple of people from a nearby table got up and walked towards us. Had we accidentally spilled their drinks? Were they long-lost relatives? No, what drew their attention was the wall above our table, or more precisely, the picture on the wall above our table. Neither A nor I had given it a second glance as we were just grateful to find somewhere else to sit.

But on closer inspection, the image, or rather sight, was that of a collage of  pictures of women’s genitalia and boobs – not the sort of picture you would expect on a pub wall. Whatever happened to old pen and ink sketches of men in Victorian clothes, old mirrors with vintage soap ads on them and copper kettles hanging from the ceiling?

So, our onlookers were making comments like “ooh – that’s rather odd” and “blimey, that’s a bit of a naughty picture” while we were sitting beneath them feeling rather awkward and starting to blush a little. We tried to laugh it off after the viewing had finished, but it placed a cloud of unease over the rest of the evening. I felt so bad about the way things had turned out that I agreed on a second date, somewhere far safer – a ten-pin bowling alley. But the magic was never there, even without any irritating distractions.

So who knows where the finger of fate will point next?