The first date

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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

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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

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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

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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?

 

 

Cyber crush

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Q: Is it possible to fancy someone you have never actually met, merely through the words they have typed on a screen and a couple of blurry photographs?

A: It would seem so. But in the relative security of exchanging messages at home, without having to get dressed, speak, let alone spend hours prettifying/planning conversational topics and the job-interview-over-dinner trial of a first date, anything is possible.

So, readers, some time ago, I announced that I was entering the largely dark and nocturnal world of internet dating. And this is where I am with it right now – typing messages to total strangers for whom all I have to go on are (mostly) poor quality photos and their names, heights, interests and ages. For some, disclosing just this is too onerous a task – the odd one or two just display their name, age and no photo, yet they expect someone to go out on a date with them. How naïve and desperate do they think women are? While for some, they attempt a photo, but lack the common sense skills to choose a suitable one. Examples on the cheap and cheerful site I have joined include a man in a Santa hat, one standing at least half a mile from the camera so all one sees of him is a dot in a green field, one gulping down a pint of beer so only his eyes and top of head are visible and one in a fancy dress costume wearing a mask!

Yes, it should all be about personality, but you need a visual to at least distinguish one ‘profile’ from another. And even if you are judging on character alone, many can’t be bothered completing the ‘tell us a bit about yourself’ box, so expect someone to choose them just from their height, age and marital status. Others will say ‘wud u like 2 have sum fun? Then chuse me.’ Or ‘looking for my Miss Right.’ And that’s it. My selection criteria at least requires them to say a bit more, be able to spell reasonably well and demonstrate some personality in their statements. It is surprising how few of them do just this.

Then, when there is some interaction it is like a strange game. I have received some odd messages – ‘How ya doing?’; ‘Wud u like 2 chat?’; ‘You live near me, would you like to meet?’ etc. The more normal ones I respond to begin a chat, we exchange a few comments then frequently they just disappear and stop corresponding. This is a little frustrating when I have spent time and effort trying write in a witty and charming way (as you can imagine, readers, this is no mean feat for me). The reality, probably, is that the glamorous blonde they keep clicking on has finally given in and decided to get in touch and send a private shot of her left nipple. So, despite persevering with this strange pastime for almost two months, I have still not been on a date.

But, things have not been a total disaster (although I do keep wondering why I didn’t join a better-known site like Guardian Soulmates) and I am currently having almost daily online conversations with one person. I am reluctant to say much about him, as I don’t want to jinx anything and, at present, I only have good things to say.

What I can say is that we began very coyly, both of us wary of revealing too much, but as time has moved on we know so much about each other, that it is almost like we have already met. We have covered all our interests, work, families, films, books, underwear… and then we began talking about sex. I have not reinvented myself as a demure, innocent young thing, but a lady needs to hold back a little, doesn’t she, readers? He wanted to cover all sorts on this topic – such as revealing each other’s fantasies, but it was I, the self-proclaimed drunken slut, who had to rein things in. I firmly, but nicely suggested this was something for ‘later on’. He sheepishly retreated and changed the subject.

I do admit, though, that the direction of the exchange did get me a little hot under the collar, even though the whole thing was being carried out on a computer screen over a couple of nights. Then, despite us behaving ourselves, our next conversation seemed to be littered with innuendo, such as me talking about a ‘nice warm shower’ and him pondering what underwear I had on.

The situation is an odd one, and one unique to the 21st century, I feel, as we have as yet never ever met. We certainly plan to, but is so much knowledge of one another an advantage or a hindrance? Will we have nothing to talk about or will this online acquaintance mean we can launch into a conversation without any small talk or awkward silences? Will we even fancy each other – couple of blurry photos is very little to go on. Maybe he will see me walking towards him and make a run for it.

The nerves have set in and I now have to wait a few weeks before the ‘big reveal’.
Just do me a favour, dear readers, if you run into him, don’t mention the blog – shhh!

The Italian job

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Fabio came and went. There was little remarkable in the whole episode. It was over before it had started.

But his passing through did mark one thing – the start of my Italian phase. As Picasso went through his Cubist period, his blue period and African period, so I went through different ‘periods’. There was the ‘snogging people you don’t really fancy, but, what the hey, it’s still a snog’ period; the ‘long-haired or dreadlocked – whatever, just different hair’ period; the ‘desperately in love but sadly rejected’ period; the ‘oh I must find someone with commitment’ phase and the ‘series of really bad fuck-ups’ period. And this is just to name a few. I could give Picasso a run for his money, unless it came to producing amazing and priceless paintings. On that score I would have to hand him all my brushes and canvasses.

So, Fabio was the first of three. I met him in a night club in Camden when I was staying with a friend. It was the late 1990s; we were young, free and up for fun but had reached the point in life where we had seen it all, in terms of the nonsense men use to ‘pull’ at such venues. We were drinking, dancing and having a reasonably good night, but it had been slightly marred by a procession of creeps who had tried to either grope or proposition us.

I had also noticed a group of dark-haired, olive-skinned guys standing in the corner of the dance floor. They stood out as they were all well turned out and quite handsome (a cliché, I know, but true).

The shorter one of the group, with shoulder length dark hair and a leather jacket was staring at me, then he came over. I looked behind me to check he wasn’t approaching someone else. But no, it was me.

“My name is Fabio. I am from Italy. Please may I dance with you,” He said in a thick Italian accent. After all the earlier creeps, I was taken aback by his politeness and unassuming approach. How could I refuse?

We did the awkward dance where neither of you wants to look ridiculous when you are trying to be cool, sophisticated and fanciable. You both move stiffly and try to hold a neutral facial expression – letting yourself go could produce an ugly gurning face, while smiling may look like you are laughing at the other person and being too serious could look like you are in muscle spasm or hating every minute.

We attempted conversation, but the combination of loud music and his limited English made that a big challenge. So, he leaned in for a kiss and I obliged. He had soft lips and smelt really good – a pleasant but not overpowering after shave.

It was the typical nightclub pick up scenario and the fact that I was only in London for a couple of days meant I didn’t expect to see him again. There was also no chance of ‘going further’ than a snog as I was staying with my friend’s parents.

Fabio got my number but I didn’t expect to hear from him.

Then, a day after I got back to my flat, my phone rang. “’ello. I am Fabio,” said the voice on the other end. “When I see you?”

He was so cute, so sweet, polite and I loved the way he spoke. So, I did a rash thing.
I bought a train ticket to go all the way back to London for a day to meet a virtual stranger, who had a casual job in a restaurant kitchen and lived in a shared house with five other Italian guys.

“What the Hell,” I thought. “You only live once. Maybe I can move to Italy one day.”
He was just as handsome, but seemed shorter this time – about the same height as me and had a strange tuft of facial hair just below his bottom lip (a soul patch?). I just wanted to pat him on the head and squeeze his bottom, but restrained myself.
We went back to his house and he introduced me to various people – Luigi, Mario, Alonso and co. Then we headed to his room and he pulled me on to his bed. We rolled around and kissed before he nudged me in the direction of his throbbing erection. I dutifully unzipped and extracted it. He proved the point that a person’s height is certainly not proportionate to the size of their member.

His rather substantial member enjoyed some sucking and licking and rubbing as he moaned and said words I didn’t understand. But as I climbed on top of him so we could both share the fun, mini Fabio deflated.  He was apologetic, but at this point someone knocked on the door and we quickly adjusted ourselves, game over for now.

After going out for a coffee there was little time before my train home, so no chance of a rematch.

I again assumed this was the end of our encounter, but was proven wrong a second time. He rang me to arrange to come for a visit. Intrigued, I accepted.
He stayed for a couple of nights. I took him to a few tourist attractions, out for meals and drinks. We tried to talk a little, but conversation was limited.

The first night we tried to pick up from where we left off in his bedroom. Mini Fabio was a little perkier this time, so I was able to climb aboard as he sat on my sofa. We shagged furiously and Fabio reached his peak, shot his load and I got off, but there was little in it for me. I dismissed this as him being tired from his train journey, but each time it was the same. I was expected to ‘get him up’, deliver a ‘blowie’ or “you go down” as he put it, but he did not go near my area with his fingers or mouth.

He looked me up and down on one occasion, as I got us both a drink and said: “You a beet fat. Not too fat, but a beet. But no lose weight. If you lose weight you will lose these,” and he gestured at my boobs. “And I like-a these.”

That once and for all flicked off the switch – the one in my head that had stayed on in hope that things may develop between us. Us ladies are sensitive about these things. It is alright for us to call ourselves fat, but if anyone else says it, we are deeply hurt.
So, I was glad to see him leave. He did cook a nice meal one night (carbonara, I recall), but that was where his usefulness ended.

He tried to ring me a few times, but I screened my calls and never picked up. We lived too far apart for it to be worthwhile, my attraction to him had faded and clearly I was too ‘fat’ so I wasn’t even sure why he was still ringing me.

So, Fabio was the first. Then there was a second, shall we say, much longer term relationship. And the third was Benito, a UK-born Italian, who like Fabio was my height. Benito was excitable, funny, moody, fussy and fun – very similar to Fabio, but without the language barriers. He also had the best, most pert and grab-able bottom I have ever seen on a man to this day. I absolutely fancied him, and could have stared into his big brown eyes, framed by long black eyelashes, for hours.

But he had only agreed to go out with me after I sent him a series of emails after finding his contact details through mutual friends. Some may call that a form of stalking. I call it resourceful.

At least he gave me a shot. We had some long, heart-thumping kisses so I could enjoy his perfectly formed lips. But aside from him inserting two fingers inside me once, there was no physical interaction whatsoever. Clearly I was not as gorgeous and sexy to him as he was to me. But there are always going to be defeats. I am no Angelina Jolie, so am never going to ensnare all I seek to trap.

And there ended my Italian phase. Since then, there has been no common link between any of my ‘men friends’, but I am still holding out for a Scandinavian Thor-like period – a procession of tall, fair haired blue-eyed hunks – and maybe even a dishy, twinkly parade of Irish men next. The trouble is that I may be pushing a Zimmer frame before these chaps make an appearance.

*I hope this post doesn’t cause any offence to Italian male readers. It is only taken from my very limited experience.

 

Mountain man – part 2

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After my night of wine-hazed passion with S, I awoke in a panic. We had to be ready for breakfast at eight and back-packed and booted for a practice walk soon afterwards.

My mouth felt like a dried up dead cat and I was a little dizzy when I got out of bed, but with a mad rush I just made it on time.

S showed up halfway through breakfast looking shower-fresh and ready for action, his firm biceps peeping out from his t-shirt. He glanced at me and flashed a cheeky grin. It must have been obvious that I was feeling a little fragile. He probably did this kind of thing all the time – bonking single female guests, then striding out over the hills the next day, without any side-effects.

As we gathered for a quick pep-talk before setting off, he looked around our group and advised us to apply sunscreen as it was unusually hot for June. “You could have put some shorts on,” he said, disapproving of my khaki cotton trousers. I just shrugged and blushed.

That was the only thing he said to me for the whole of the walk – which took us all day. In my young head, I assumed he thought the previous night was a drunken mistake. So instead, I chatted with my fellow travellers, keeping a serene exterior throughout the day and into the evening for dinner and drinks. A good night’s sleep, alone, was a wise move, as the next day we had an even earlier start for the first leg of our five-day trek into the mountains.

At least the next morning I was in better shape, rucksack all packed for a day of trekking and a night in a bunk house. I had even put on some shorts.

We spent the day walking across green pastures until we reached a rural village of barking dogs, clucking chickens and a stone building where we were to spend the night. After a shower, copious amounts of gin and tonic and cheap red wine, I retired to bed in a room I shared with two new female friends. S again didn’t follow.

The situation remained the same the next night as we had ascended further up towards snow-capped mountains and our beds for the night were triple decker bunks – a real passion killer when you are sharing a room with five other people. Of course I was the one stupid enough to take the very top one, which didn’t even have a ladder to reach it. So, a late night trip to the hole-in-the-ground toilet meant having to whisper to S, who happened to be on the bottom bunk, to lift me down. He thankfully obliged without hesitation and at least for a few seconds I felt his solid body against me.

Within a few hours into our journey the next day, I realised I was struggling and my ankles and knees were on the verge of collapse, while everyone else seemed to be in better shape than me and doing fine. Clearly they had all practised the art of drinking gallons of wine and walking for six hours the next day.

S, who hadn’t completely ignored me over the last two days – in fact he had joked with me and teased me for my accent (we both came from opposite ends of the UK) – came to the rescue. Despite the fact that he was carrying a heavy rucksack, seemingly weighed down with bricks, he strapped mine to his front and marched on, untroubled by the extra weight. I could only stare in amazement at his broad shoulders and meaty calves, as I sheepishly followed him.

Our stop-over that night was a mountain hut, but S asked if anyone fancied sleeping outside with him. He was looking at me specifically. Clearly, my weakened state was tugging on his heart strings.

So, while everyone else was settling down in cosy bunk beds, I was standing shivering in my fleece – the temperature seemed to have dramatically dropped on this section of the route – waiting for S to zip our two sleeping bags together.

We got in and had no choice other than to huddle together to keep warm. I could feel his heart beating against me, and as we squeezed one another, I could feel something else pulsating against me. We kissed again and hurriedly removed our bottom half clothes for a frantic but irresistible bonk. His dick was broad, like the rest of him and fitted snugly inside me. He even complimented me on my tight vagina. I enjoyed the warmth of his body and the extra closeness of him, now we were linked together in the most intimate way. It was over quickly, but this time it didn’t matter, as we were both exhausted.

I got up the next morning feeling shattered – communal sleeping out in the cold with a virtual stranger does not make for a restful night. But still, we all had to continue on our way, especially now as we were in ‘nowhere’ territory, on land barely accessible by vehicles other than donkeys.

After another full day on knee-shattering loose gravel, we landed in a remote village, our stay for the night. It ended with another night under the stars, but this time two of our female travel companions joined us to chat and drink until we all dropped off. So no action for S and I, who lay metres apart from each other.

The next day, I was excused from most of the walking, as my collapsing knee had got quite serious and S was probably worried about me suing the travel company. His boss, Paul, had arranged to meet us in a more vehicle-friendly leg of our trek to pick me up and take people’s luggage to the next pension of the route. This afforded me a head start with a room and a glorious warm shower – a luxury after days of washing in a cold shower one night and mere splashes of spring water the rest of the time.

After a snooze on the bed I heard voices – everyone else finally arriving. S was trying to explain in broken Spanish how many guests there were and how many rooms were needed. There were two other beds in my room, so I assumed two of the other girls were supposed to share with me. Feeling guilty for showering and resting while everyone else was tired and sweaty, I got up and put my head round the door, saying there was room for two more. S looked a little annoyed at me. Later that evening he said: “You were supposed to stay quiet – then we could have had that room to ourselves!” Hey ho – so much for having a conscience.

We got through dinner, more gins and lots of chat – by now we had really bonded as a group and I had become good friends with the other girls on the trip. What made it awkward, though, was the night that followed. S still wanted to share my bed. He snuck into our room when he thought the two girls sharing with me were asleep and we quietly snuggled under the covers. Or more accurately, we squashed into the single bed and I ducked under the sheet to give his member a special ‘hello’. He squirmed quietly, battling with his urge to make a noise.

Then, when it all got too much he gently eased me up the bed and rolled on top of me. I ran my hands down his broad back and up again over his shoulders and firm, beautiful arms as he lowered himself slowly and silently inside me. There was nothing frantic about this interaction, as we were trying our best not to make the bed creak. But somehow, it was more delicious and exciting as we were in a room with two other people. We rose and fell, rose and fell, as he gently kissed my neck, shoulder, breast and I drank in the smell of his clean body and fresh perspiration. I pushed down his rump to take him deeper inside.

We tired and he pulled out. The next morning, S was still beside me and our other two companions woke to see him. He wished them a ‘good morning’ before sloping off to his own room. I then endured some teasing and being asked how many marks out of ten I would give him. It was now obvious that no one in the room had been asleep during our ‘silent’ shag.

That morning’s breakfast hailed the start of the final stage of our journey. My knee had not improved much, probably not really aided by my nocturnal actions. I staggered through the pastures and along an old Roman road. At one point S took so much pity on me that he lifted me up and gave me a piggy-back over a short distance. This only made me worship him even more, as even back in my 20s I was not a slip of a girl.

A long, painful descent took us back into the little town where we had started all those days ago. The day was rounded off with a hearty meal and yet more cheap wine. I slept apart from S, sharing a room with one of the girls, but this time it was welcome, as I needed deep, revitalising sleep.

The next day was a free ‘do what you like’ day. After breakfast, a jeep roared into the guesthouse car park. Behind the wheel was S. “Get in,” he ordered me. Weak-willed and infatuated I climbed in, without hesitation. He drove us a couple of miles to a low rise concrete block where he rented a flat. After a coffee we went straight to his bedroom – his private space, no one around.

For the first time since our original night of steamy passion we could fully peel off all our clothes, enjoy our bodies in a range of positions, make as much noise as we wanted and let the bed rock and creak to its heart’s content. He was all mine for a couple of hours.

As we lay in a post-coital embrace, smoking post coital cigarettes (it was 2000 when I smoked and people still enjoyed indoor smoking guilt-free), I asked him why he decided to sleep with me.

“Well it was a toss-up between you and two others. One was likely to get too attached, and probably stalk me afterwards, and the other was all mouth and trousers. You seemed like you would be fun. And you were.” So here it was – my future path – the person who was fun to fuck and gave off vibes of not wanting a serious connection.
I just said: “Oh, right. Thanks,” and kissed him.

That night, our last night together as a group, a momentous occasion after our epic journey, and our last night with S, I really did take being ‘fun’ to the limit. I got so totally, utterly paralytic, by mixing the cheap wine I had become accustomed to with beer, and some drags of hash, that I was barely able to speak or stand, let alone spend one last night of body exploration with S.

He wasn’t there for our minibus ride to the airport the next morning so I never even had chance to say goodbye to him.

Mountain man – part 1

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It wasn’t a typical summer holiday, but it was my first trip away alone and I didn’t want to  be lounging around a pool, with no one to put sun cream on my back, or sitting at a sad little table for one, not knowing where to look, as couples around me held hands and shared desserts.

No, none of that for me – I was 26, an independent woman and only now on the first rung of my personal career ladder. So, I was going to spend ten days trekking up mountains in Spain with a small group of like-minded people. I’d bought the big ruck sack, the water bottle and dug out my trusty old boots.

I was totally prepared but wasn’t prepared for any action, other than the pounding of my feet over grass, sand and stone. And maybe a glass or two of Spanish Rioja at the end of a tiring day.

But I felt the blood rush around my body as soon as he fixed his blue twinkly eyes on me. S, our English guide had met our group of ten at the airport with his boss, Paul. We made our introductions and he smiled, but his eyes kept wandering back to me.

He wasn’t my usual type at the time – late 30s, shaved head, the healthy tan of someone who spent a lot of time outdoors and a broad and muscly rugby player’s frame. But something radiated from him that made him very sexy.

We settled into our rooms in a small hotel-cum-guesthouse and met later for dinner, followed by drinks in the bar. The large gin and tonics flowed and we all eased into getting to know one another. Then it got to the point in the evening – a habit with me – where I noticed that there were only three of us left. Just S, a woman in her 30s, called Becky, and I remained. I think we all realised this at the same time and Becky (helpfully) announced she was turning in for the night.

S offered to walk me back to my room, but at this point I still hadn’t twigged that he meant he wanted to come into my room. In my drunken haze I just thought it was an odd offer when my room was only a few yards away, but I still nodded.

As soon as my door shut behind us both he leaned in and kissed me and I was powerless not to kiss him back. He was strong and solid (everywhere) and knew just how to choreograph our next moves. He led me to the shower where he hastily stripped off and I copied unquestioningly. Everything seemed to happen in a dream-like haze, enhanced by our tipsy state and the steamy condensation-filled shower cubicle.

We kissed, licked, nuzzled and explored each others bodies through the warm water. I ran my fingertips down his broad shoulders, back and solidly toned buttocks and round the front to his robust and firm cock. He rubbed, squeezed and massaged my breasts before moving his hand down to my pulsating clit.

Without stopping to get dry we moved to the bedroom and I let myself fall on to the bed, now desperate for him to be inside me. I wanted to feel the full weight and strength of his body. He readily obliged and we writhed, soaking wet, still in our steamy haze, even though we were now out of the shower. He pumped me slowly and firmly on top, under me and from behind, never tiring.

His nut brown skin and strapping body made me feel like a pale, petite and lady-like, probably for the first and last time in my life. And his lips were delicious, soft and tasted of strawberries.

It was one of those incidents that remains clearly etched in my memory, despite many years passing since, as all my senses were stimulated – the salty but sweet taste of him, the wet skin, the sound of our kissing and breathing, the beauty of his frame and the smell of wine, sex and sweat. Truly heavenly.

He left in the early hours to avoid any embarrassment the next morning – after all, he was to lead us up hills and mountains for several days. I fell into a deep sleep, in a wet bed, with a smile on my face.

MORE NEXT WEEK…

Barry and Sandra: The Christmas Special – Part 2

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The ‘disco’ part of the evening was well underway and even a few of the women from Sandra’s office had taken to the dance floor, swinging their hips and side-stepping to the usual recycled party tunes, such as The Time Warp, Birdy Song and Oops Upside Your Head.

Sandra and Stacy continued to grimace at each other as Phil Pop churned out one ‘classic hit’ after another.

“Another white wine and soda?” Offered Sandra as she got up to go to the bar. “It may anaesthetise the effects of the DJ.”

As she walked around the square of lino that formed the dance floor, her face dropped as she remembered that Martin and Barry were still propping up the bar.

“Your arse looks nice in that dress, love,” Ventured Martin, which was rather bold, even for him.

“Sod off, Martin,” Sandra replied. Barry was oblivious to the exchange and had moved on from reading beer mats to gazing vacantly at his ale. Sandra ordered the drinks, handed over the money and was about to beat a hasty retreat, when she felt a hand touch then pinch her derriere.

She jolted in surprise but managed not to lose the drinks. As she spun round, the red face and slightly bloodshot eyes smirked at her.

“What do you think you’re doing?!” Was all she could muster when the answer was blatantly obvious.

Undeterred, Martin said: “Come on, love. You know there’s an attraction between us. I know you are gagging for it.”

“No, I am bloody well not!” And with that she looked to Barry for support. Even now he surely couldn’t ignore this. But Barry was away with the fairies, still unaware of what was happening.

“But look at you, tits on show, arse sticking out. You so want it. Barry’s had his chance. Now it’s my turn.”

“You absolute dick head!” She screamed and threw her white wine and soda in his face.

“Ooh, feisty! Come here, now and give me a kiss.” And he reached out to grab her arm, even though his face, hair and shirt were now sodden.

At this point Barry was roused from his reverie. He quickly took in the scene and guessed what had happened. Martin was his mate, but he knew he was a lech. He had accepted this, but could not if it involved Sandra.

Without a second thought, he jumped up from his bar stool so swiftly that it fell and hit the floor with a crash.

He pushed Martin so that he lost his balance and stumbled over backwards in a heap. He then went over to him, helped him up and dragged him out of the room.

“Let’s go after them,” Exclaimed Stacy who had dashed across the room to see what was happening.

“No, leave it, please. Let’s just go and sit down. I want to forget about it and enjoy the rest of the night,” said Sandra. She didn’t know whether to be more shocked by Martin’s actions or Barry defending her corner. She couldn’t believe that, after weeks of avoiding her, he would step in to help.

Ten minutes passed. It felt like an hour. Then the door swung open and Barry walked in, alone. He looked a little dishevelled, slightly weary.

Stacy waddled across the room again. “I think you deserve a drink, Barry. What you having?” He accepted quietly, but barely glanced at her. He was looking around the room anxiously.

“She’s over there,” said Stacy. “I’ll bring over your drink, then pop to the loo.”

Sandra was slouched at her table, her chin resting in her hands, her mind running over what had just happened. She watched the coloured lights above the dance floor. Then her view was blocked by a man in a blue shirt.

“Hey, wake up, daydreamer,” Nudged Barry. It was the first time he had spoken to her for so long, yet still his tone was light-hearted and jokey.

Sandra didn’t know how to respond. She just gazed into his chestnut brown eyes. She felt her own eyes fill with warm tears and tried to blink them away. She looked down, having nowhere else to hide the fact she was about to cry.

But Barry sat down next to her and took her hand. With his other hand he gently brushed away a small tear before kissing her softly on the lips. It was just a small kiss but enough to press the right button in Sandra. She threw her arms around him and used all her strength to push him closer, forcing him to kiss her again, this time long and hard, tongues and all, dissolving every last scrap of pink lip gloss. Sandra’s right leg had also managed to raise itself to wrap around Barry’s hips. (“Thank God it was a flarey skirt on this dress,” she thought.)

As they kissed, the music and everything around them seemed to fade into a muffle. That was until a very loud “Woo!” became too hard to block out. It was Stacy trundling back to the table.

“You did it!” She bellowed. “You two belong together. He’s a keeper, hun.”
Barry and Sandra smiled shyly, feeling a little awkward that their reunion had been so public and guessing that it may be the subject of office gossip next week.

Then a familiar tune rose from the speakers. “Oh, maybe he does know how to play something decent for a change,”said Sandra, belching on soda bubbles.

As Paul Weller’s ‘You Do Something To Me’ started up, Barry gave Sandra a look she understood without words. They both stood up at the same time and he took her by the hand to the dance floor. Wrapped around each other, Sandra’s head nestled in Barry’s chest they did a slow dance which was more like a swaying hug. But they looked contented and in love.

“Aw bless,” Sighed Stacy to no one in particular.

Barry and Sandra: The Christmas Special – Part 1

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In the British Christmas tradition of dramatic plotlines in TV soap operas I have a treat for readers this year. Ever wondered what happened to Barry and Sandra? Here’s where we catch up with them…

Sandra stands sideways in front of the mirror and sucks in her stomach. She has a slight belly pouch, despite wearing her best ‘control’ pants. But still, her black sparkly dress with a floaty skirt looks pretty good.

She has just had her roots done and her hair looks soft and shiny. As she puts on her lipstick she is filled with excitement and nerves in equal measure – could something good happen tonight or will she remember how low she has been feeling the last few months?

It is the office Christmas party and she knows Barry will be there, and they will set eyes on each other, after weeks of hiding behind desks and ducking into doorways to avoid any awkward exchanges. Barry worked in a different office, so it hadn’t been that hard to avoid him, after he unexpectedly dumped her by text message.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a loud flush. “You look nice, hun. Who are you trying to impress?” Rasped Stacy, Sandra’s rather loud and large work mate. Stacy winked and didn’t wait for an answer before she breezed out of the office loo.

Sandra glanced at her watch – “Bugger!” It was nearly time to go. She grabbed her bag and dashed out. Her and four colleagues were walking together to the Queen Rose Hotel where her work had hired a function room for turkey dinner and disco.

‘Walking together’ was rather a euphemism, seeing as they were all, including Sandra, wearing spiky high heels which they were already teetering in, before a white wine and soda had even passed their lips. They were clearly hoping for someone to lean on by the end of the evening.

As they walked through the double doors a voice boomed out: “Blimey, girls did it take that long to trowel it on? There’s only half an hour to get the drinks in before the food comes out.” It was Martin the sales manager and Barry’s partner in crime. He was always rather red-faced and Sandra didn’t like the way he regularly looked her up and down and stood too close to her whenever they shared the lift or used the water cooler at the same time.

Barry was there, but sitting at the bar, pretending to read a beer mat, avoiding Sandra’s gaze. He felt bad about what had happened, but was scared to commit, even though he knew Sandra was totally smitten. Deep down he knew he loved her, but kept it buried at the bottom of his mind. His strategy for the night was to get quietly wasted, numb his feelings and slump into his bed when he’d had enough.

Sandra spotted him, but he continued to read the beer mat, despite it only having a handful of words printed on it. With his short dark hair, slightly ruffled and greying at the temples and his straight, handsome features and broad shoulders and blue shirt, he looked sexy. For a second she admired the view, and then remembered the hurt he had caused her. Stacy also tugged her arm to usher her along. “Forget him, love,” she whispered, “Time to move on. You could have anyone you wanted, looking like you do tonight.”

Barry slowly emerged from behind the beer mat, watching Sandra walk across the room. Her bottom looked peachy and round in her dress and her hips had just the right curve for him to encircle with his hands. He thought about holding her from behind and nuzzling his face against her neck.

“Another pint?” Shouted Martin and jolted Barry back to reality. He quickly turned his thoughts to beer and banter and the fact that he was happy on his own, no woman to tie him down, nag him and stop him having a life.

So, Sandra chatted with her friends about shoes, make up, kids and TV and Barry focussed on football, beer, politics and silly jokes with his. They were surviving the night without disturbing one another. Dinner came and went – the usual two thin slices of turkey, soggy veg, runny gravy and small block of stuffing followed by a stodgy lump of pudding.

Tables were hastily cleared and the lights were turned down before the familiar sounds of Boney M blared out, courtesy of Phil Pop, the local mobile DJ. Sandra and Stacy groaned at the cliché soundtrack, which probably hadn’t changed for over 20 years. Barry and his friends retreated to the bar. They, of course, were too cool to dance to this shite (as Barry put it). But he wasn’t too cool to keep glancing over at Sandra, now the beer had zapped away some of his self-control.

TUNE IN NEXT WEEK FOR PART 2…