The Awkward Bus Encounter

November 16, 2014 § Leave a comment

Coming home late last week, I jumped onto the university bus heading back to the main accommodation. I was tired from an evening of work and quickly scanned the crowded bus for a free seat, eventually spotting one toward the front. Headphones in, music loud, staring at my phone screen, I was just keen to get home.

But then I noticed the guy next to me looking over my shoulder, starring at me and then at the phone in my hand. I ignored him at first, but he was doing it so unsubtly it reached a point where I had to acknowledge him.

“Alright?”, my tone weary and sarcastic.

“Yeah, I’m not bad thanks, how are you?”

“Fine, yeah”

“Been up to much?”

Ok, Mr Friendly was in the mood for conversation. Though I wasn’t particularly enthusiastic, I generally enjoy a good chat to a stranger – you never know what might come of it. So I unplugged my music and engaged with the discussion.

I politely enquired what he studied and where he was living, and as he told me I caught a glimpse of his face. I hadn’t really looked at him up until this point, but there was something oddly familiar about him.

As our exchange continued I suddenly realised what it was I hadn’t been able to place before. Shit.

It was Pierre. The French guy I’d slept with in Freshers week. I’d had a whole bloody conversation with the guy and completely hadn’t twigged who he was.

“Oh shit… we’ve met before haven’t we?”

“Err, yeah” he looked sheepishly down at the floor. This was not news to him, it seemed.

I apologised profusely for not recognising him, which he kindly dismissed, telling me not to worry as it was “quite a while ago” (last month to be exact…).

Our bus journey was nearly over at this point, but we managed to exchange a few more pleasant words before parting. I felt so awkward at not having recognised a guy who’d come on my face, that I ended our meeting rather abruptly. In hindsight, I wish I’d gotten his number. His accent was just as arousing a as I’d remembered, and despite the slightly porn-esque style of our previous encounter, the sex was pretty good from what I remember. It’s not often you have that sort of initial chemistry with someone (though copious amounts of alcohol tend to aid that possibility).

I’ll know next time to swallow my pride and ask the guy out. Though knowing my luck, I now won’t see him again until I’ve forgotten who he is.

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Being in a relationship when you’re not in a relationship

October 26, 2014 § 10 Comments

Labels. God I love them. If I had a penny for every time someone had asked me, “so exactly what are you and Frank?” I’d have several whole British pounds (which as an impoverished student I necessitate with all my heart).

I always tell them, as honestly as possible. We’re close, we have sex, we enjoy spending time together, but we’re not exclusive and there’s no pressure to see each other regularly. To me, this is absolute perfection, but it confuses people because he’s not quite my “boyfriend” and he’s not quite my “fuck buddy”. It seems if there’s not a society-accepted coined term for it then it doesn’t exist. My flatmates seem to have listed ours under the “open relationship” category, which is fine by me, call it what you will.

For a time it confused me too. If I can’t explain it to people, maybe I need to re-evaluate what we are? But it works. This is the key thing that everyone seems to forget. If we’re happy – and god I am – then why does it matter whether we’re “friends with benefits” or whatever other expression you might like to apply.

However, as with all relationships, be they common forms or not, there exist issues; ups and downs. Right now he’s jetting off to Australia for 2 months. We assumed before coming back to England that our locations would keep us apart at least a little (it’s probably a 2/3 hour journey between us), but he’s come to see me 5 times in 4 weeks. It’s been fantastic, I am one satisfied lady – a quandary I pondered before I came: Who will satisfy me like Frank could? Other than Frenchy from Freshers week, I’ve had a pretty chaste first month as a newby (though I’m still topping the ‘tart chart’ of our flat). He’s truly kept me content in that department.

It’s also been great to have that familiar face on a regular basis. I adore my flatmates and the people here, but being new anywhere is hard sometimes, and it’s been incredible emotional support. I’m so grateful to him, even if it is just my sweet, sweet body he’s after.

The point was supposed to be no pressure, and that’s still true. But the regularity of his visits has made him a wonderfully orgasmic staple in my university life, one that’s about to be whisked away until Christmas. There’s no doubt we’ll see each other again in December, but that’s a long time to be lacking his considerable length in my University halls. I’ll have to seek out some other means of gratifying my needs…

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Getting laid in Freshers – like stealing candy from a baby

September 27, 2014 § 5 Comments

So I’ve started a new chapter in my life. Welcome to university! And what better way to make a good impression in front hundreds of new people that you’ll have to endure for the next three years, than to get atrociously shitfaced and complete a series of ridiculous and possibly life-threatening tasks, all in the name of banter?

Freshers is renowned for being the one time of your university career, if not your life, where you can acceptably fill the black void in your soul with a constant stream of alcoholic beverages and meaningless sex, and my experience did not stray from the norm.

Having survived the week, albeit a little worse for wear, I can certainly recount some stories. A flatmate of mine got kicked out of the local Wetherspoons for fingering a girl on their sofa. So you have an idea of the general tone for the week.

My most exciting encounter was on Friday. My flatmates and I headed to a local club called Firestation, but I soon lost them when across the dance floor I locked eyes with the beautiful Pierre. Pierre has the most exquisite French accent, and it didn’t take much of his incredibly sexy grinding to convince me to accompany him home.

I was surprisingly pleased with the skill Pierre was gifted. His foreplay was impeccable, and he was just my type in the sack (even if a little on the smaller side, but hey, a girl can make do). That was, until…

Men. Never, I repeat, never, give a woman a facial unless she asks for it. Especially when you don’t know the girl that well. Just show some fucking respect, come on, now. I got it in my fucking eye, and that shit stings! I don’t want anybody’s fucking semen in my eye, especially some randomer from the club. Jesus.

I was out of there before his vision had come back into focus (unfortunately mine wouldn’t return until the following morning), and no, I didn’t get his number.

Pierre, you may be the sexiest French dancer I’ve ever encountered, but next time, come on your own fucking face.

5/10

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When friends don’t want to be friends

September 11, 2014 § 1 Comment

Ah, the heart-warming world of unrequited love. Going out for a drink, laughing and joking, one person admits their undying love for the other, awkward silence followed by a heartbreaking conversation. Idyllic.

Gosh I do love these situations. I went to a gig in Norwich this week with my friend, we’ll call him Barry, and we were having an extremely pleasant evening together. He gave me a little tour of the city, me not having really seen it before, then we went to dinner at a very cute little place. I know this sounds date-y, but tell me, if I did all these things with a girl, would you automatically assume we were together? I’m really tired of people assuming that men and women can’t have platonic relationships. Though then again, I probably can’t start this rant and then talk about my close male friend who fancies me…

So good times ensued; very nice intimate gig in some hipster basement (I secretly love that crap), then drinks at the local pub. Drinks are always a good idea (*cries into gin and tonic*). I ended up tipsily lecturing Barry on why everyone ought to take chances in life, and that living with regret was pointless etc. etc. (I’m super deep as you can probably tell), and he took this to mean that he should confess his feelings for me. Fabulous. Nothing kills the mood more than talking about feelings, God (I realise there are possibly some deep-seated issues here, but we’ll save those for another time).

Is there any good way to respond to that statement? Of course, other than, “Omg, no way! Same.”

Unfortunately that wasn’t really an option. I sat there in stunned silence for a few minutes, which probably answered his question for him, but I still had to say something. I eventually settled on, “Barry, you know I adore you, but… as a friend”

Even as the words came out of my mouth I felt like the most horrid person on the planet. I realise it’s not my fault I’m not attracted to the guy, but it’s awful just because he is one of the nicest, sweetest people you could possibly meet, and deserves nothing more than a lovely girlfriend, and I know that in my rejecting him it’ll probably just lower his self-confidence even more.

I did everything I could think of at the time, by spluttering out a series of clichés including, but not limited to:

But you’re so great/sweet/[insert meaningless complement here]

There’s plenty other girls out there, who I’m sure are equally as fond of Doctor Who and choral music as you

And for good measure, a sprinkling of self-deprecation: “No, no, I’m really shit, I promise”

But I felt even shitter saying these, because I knew he wouldn’t really believe any of them.

Then I did something stupid.

“Would it really confuse you…if I kissed you?”

Nothing like ending the evening on a mixed-message high. I’m still not really sure why I did it. I just knew at the time it was what I wanted to do. Not because I was suddenly interested in him, but because I knew I was hurting him, and felt an intense need to do something about it.

He still knows where I stand, and I don’t regret it, I just hope that he doesn’t hold it as some sort of hope that I might change my mind.

He messaged me the next day, friendly as ever, not talking about anything in particular. I’m inclined to take that as his “I still want to be friends and for everything to be exactly as it was” attempt. Though we both know that it’s not the same, and that really saddens me.

Is there any way to avoid this outcome? Anyone else been through a similar experience and had it go back to normal?

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Vietnamese Love

September 2, 2014 § Leave a comment

Ok, so love may be a bit strong. But being felt up by a stranger is practically the same, right?

I’ve been off on many exciting travels these past few months, so apologies for the lack of material. Also my busy schedule has unfortunately slightly disrupted my sex life, but not to worry, I managed to snaggle at least one unsuspecting victim in Asia.

I’d stumbled across two gorgeous Italians in a bar close to my hostel, and in asking if I could “practise my Italian” with them, they happily allowed me to accompany them to another bar. Our foreign conversation was soon intercepted by a group of tipsy kiwi bankers, who were on a weekend away from Hong Kong, where they worked. They’d soon charmed me enough to convince me to be whisked away to a secret rave nearby. You can tell I’m hard to get, can’t you?

This secret rave was actually great fun, although looking back it may not have been the most sensible idea to jump in a taxi alone with a group of strange men. But hey, I’m still alive! And when did anyone get a good story out of stopping after two drinks and going home?

So I’d soon been seduced by one of these gentlemen with a deadly combination of a vodka soda and the compliment “You’re the sexiest girl with a fannypack I’ve ever met”. And let me tell you, girls with fannypacks are fucking sexy, so that’s big. He tried his utmost to coax me back to his hotel, which I’m sure would’ve been one of the most luxurious in all of Hanoi, but I thought I’d pushed my luck enough with strange men  that evening, and decided to head back home. Being the drunken gentleman that he was, he insisted on accompanying me home via motorbike taxi. Sandwiched between him and the driver, I achieved one of my sex-bucketlist items: to make out on the back of a moving motorcycle. (You’d have thought, having been fucking a motorbike owner for the past 6 months I’d have this one down, but alas, only handjobs)

All in all I’m pretty pleased with the experience, despite it being the one and only of my Asian adventure, however it certainly beats the rainy shores of the UK, where I’m back and loving (hating) life!

8/10

I have, however, got a date for Thursday this week, which will almost certainly involve sex on a boat. Details to come!

 

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The trifecta

July 22, 2014 § 1 Comment

A thousand apologies for these lengthy intervals between posts, I’ve no excuse other than gallivanting around Europe with sporadic and unreliable internet access. I also fear this irregularity will continue briefly until I’m back in the country for good in September – bear with me!

So, news. Travelling through the continent is a practical guarantee to some sexy time, what with all those unwashed backpackers looking for kinky stories to relay to their folks back home, and my experience was no exception. My man-count hit a spectacularly average three, each more clichéd than the last.
Number one was an American backpacker I shared a hostel with in Italy. He explained that his girlfriend had given him a “free pass” during his travels. As far as I know, mate, you’re single, so spare me the gory details. One and I fooled around in the barely-passably clean kitchenette, before I sent him drunkenly stumbling to bed, as I had a train to catch. 
Number two was in Europe’s largest club. I was dancing away to the oldies when I was approached by this Aussie, the best candidate I’d seen all night. We made out and we swapped facebooks. You know, just in case I ever move to Sydney and want to reconnect with that guy I said roughly two and a half words to in Prague.
Three was more interesting, in that I’d met him in Italy, and then we’d managed to meet again in Germany, where he’s studying abroad. I was meant to be going home that night, but a couple of beers down the line and I thought it’d be a simply fantastic idea to take up this guy’s invitation to crash in this tiny German town two hours away by bus…
We were pretty well behaved considering we had to share a bed, although my American friend wasn’t exactly encouraging celibacy with his roaming hands and probing questions; “So, do you like rough sex?” 
Subtle.
Again, we only fooled around, but my experience was tainted when he insisted I pay him back for the 10 euro bus journey despite my lack of funds. Soon as I’d left his place I received a text of his bank details and nothing else. Who says chivalry is dead? (I came to fucking Friedrichshafen. You got to see me semi-naked. You have a full time job, forget the £8.50! Jeesh)
So all in all not an astounding line-up, but at least I got to end my European adventure with a little bang. Plus the entire coach journey home I was sexting Frank, so I can’t really complain too much in terms of sex life.
Now I just need to fuck him on his boat.. 

Questions of infidelity and sex in public places

June 12, 2014 § 4 Comments

It’s been a busy week. I’ve had sex in three different public places, all with spectacular views, and met a guy. Yeah, another one.

I got to chatting with The American after he asked for directions at a fountain and we discovered we both spoke English (always a bonus here). He’s very talkative. I seem to attract them. But also very interesting. A young businessman in the midst of sealing a very important contract. Looks, brains AND money. He seemed genuine when he said he didn’t know many people here, so I gave him my number.

The next night I invited him to drinks with a few of my friends, where he brought a stream of beautiful Italians with him. I decided I liked him. As did my friends, so we invited him out again the following night.

A few beers later and we all ended up star-gazing at the Pantheon. As you do. The American and I ended up talking alone and our flirting lead to kissing. I felt guilty for a second, then I kissed him back.

We saw each other again a few nights later, where, again, we passionately said goodnight. He left for Israel today. I probably won’t see him again, which is why I don’t feel the need to tell Frank. I was fully intent on doing so, as I thought I really had feelings for The American, but I think the combination of the brevity, and perhaps the fact that I’m feeling more and more like I’m in a relationship (an emotion I’m generally not fond of) was probably what fuelled this attraction.

Don’t get me wrong, he was hot. But I think it was a slightly false appeal; me trying to prove I still held independence outside of Frank or something.

Yesterday, all my conflicts were resolved. Frank had promised to whisk me to a nearby lake on his motorbike, so I rocked up at his place early, to find him hungover and fast asleep, with little desire to get up and go out. Unimpressed was an understatement. No wonder my thoughts strayed back to the engaging young entrepreneur.

Of course I fucked him anyway, and possibly because I was in a place where I really didn’t care about his getting off, I concentrated very much on my own pleasure which lead to the best orgasm of my life, and ended up seriously turning him on in the process because I was enjoying myself so much. I should cheat on my casual flings more often.

After that, followed by a cup of coffee, he finally woke up enough to drive me up to this absolutely gorgeous lake. I had the most scenic sex of my life. Seriously.

public sex

That is what I was staring at when I orgasmed. Then we picnicked by the view and wondered into this picturesque little lake-side town before swimming in the lake. We’d have loved to shag there as well, but I was pressed for time; my work started in less than an hour, and the drive home was a good hour and a half. What’s life without a little risk though, eh? (because very public sex apparently doesn’t provide enough of an adrenaline rush for me)

We’d had such a romantic day together, I left feeling all elated and fuzzy inside. Not even the rushed apology to my boss for being 40 minutes late could spoil my good mood.

“You’re so beautiful. I can’t quite believe this is real”, he said.

I berate myself for becoming side-tracked. No sweet-talking, gorgeous American can really replace the months of sex and drunken conversations Frank and I have had. After all this time the casual encounters start to add up to something.

 

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