Friday, 18 February 2011
Wednesday, 17 September 2008
I was leaving for Bangkok and Cassie was catching a domestic flight to Glasgow so we convened at Gordon Ramsey's Plane Food restaurant at Heathrow. Cassie is a PA to a well-known TV personality and she often travels the UK as per the demands of her employer. (The person in question is an esteemed member of the entertainment industry and has capitalised on her salt-of-the-earth, motherly screen persona, but Cassie assures me that she's a complete bitch.)
While we perused the menu, Cassie ran her manicured fingers through her platinum blonde hair while sucking on a plastic nicotine inhaler. She is trying to kick her ten-year smoking habit - it's her seventh attempt.
"So, had any cock lately?" she asked in her typically candid style.
I filled her in on my recent deviant behaviour and she nodded with smug approval.
"Good boy," she said proudly.
Cassie was the catalyst for my sexual endeavours. She encouraged my journey of promiscuity and taught me everything I know about blowjobs, handjobs and everything in between. She claims that she is a "dab hand" at handjobs and employs a curious technique that she calls the "five-finger fast-fuck" - patent pending.
Cassie is also a self-confessed "Spermaholic". I can't stand sperm - I don't like the look of it, the taste of it, the touch of it. I just see it as an unavoidable by-product of shagging. But Cassie loves everything about it and she isn't afraid to say so. She considers herself the Lloyd Grossman of jizz.
"I'm shagging a walking sperm-machine," she announced loudly, as a blushing waitress brought our drinks to the table (a flute of Kir Royale for her, a Virgin Mary for me - in case you're interested).
I wasn't sure if I wanted to know any more but, against my better judgement, I found myself saying, "Come again?"
"He did actually," Cassie boasted. "Several times. I swear, he pumps out gallons of the stuff. When he fucks me up the arse, it's like having a colonic irrigation."
The waitress nervously approached our table with her pen poised.
"Can I take your order?" she asked.
I fixed her with a watery stare.
"Actually, I'm okay," I said weakly. "I've just lost my appetite."
Sunday, 14 September 2008
Surprisingly though, it was restraint of a different kind.
For the first time in a while, I found myself confronted with the definite opportunity to partake in some hot gay shagging with a gorgeous man... and turning him down.
The man in question clocked me the moment I walked into the bar. As this was the start of the night, I was fairly confident that I looked decent enough. No doubt, I would be a slightly different sight after a few more rasberry mojitos - the hair would be tousled (and not a sexy way), the tan would be streaky, the eyes would be bloodshot and bleary and the dance-moves would definitely be dodgy. But, for the time being, I knew that my preening had paid off.
I acted coy for a couple of minutes and he eventually swaggered over. He fixed me with a cocky stare and flashed an even cockier smile. Try as I might, I just can't resist a cocky bastard. All of my instincts tell me to avoid the cocksure, over-confident types but I just can't help myself. And he was as confident as they get. He had an overpoweing sense of arrogance which I knew should have sent me running, but it just seemed to turn me on.
We chatted for over an hour. During this time, I missed the opportunity to dance to Britney and Rihanna - always a sign of a good conversation. Usually, nothing short of a hurricane can stop me from running to the dancefloor when 'Gimme More' comes on, but I was too engrossed in our chat to tear myself away.
Inevitably, he mentioned that he was going home. With one of his hands on my knee, the other fondling my crotch and his tongue in my ear, it was clear that he had no intention of going home alone.
But the night was early and, more importantly, I liked him. And, bizzarely, I never shag anyone if I actually like them. It's so rare that I meet someone I can connect with that I don't like to spoil it with meaningless sex.
Instead, I gave him my number - which I never do.
Now I can't stop thinking about that cocky fucker. And I can't stop checking my bloody phone.
Wednesday, 10 September 2008
My slutty mission has taken a new twist. Just after Christmas, I started a new job as an air steward for a world-famous airline and I love it. Every week, I fly from London Gatwick to fantastic destinations all over the globe.
You may think that this job has given me exclusive access to the world's most notorious membership: the mile-high club. But you'd be very wrong. Believe me, I can't imagine anything more unerotic. The cramped conditions, the smell, the floor covered in piss and sometimes even blood. And these are the good points!
You would have to be seriously desperate to attempt sex in an aircraft restroom. Apart from the highly undesirably surroundings, the crew check the loos every twenty minutes so - unless you're very quick - you're bound to be caught. I'm sure that some people find the prospect of being discovered quite exciting, but it doesn't appeal to me. I'm far too classy - hey, don't laugh!
So although the legendary mile-high club remains out of bounds, my new employment has allowed me to explore my promiscuous side on a whole new level. I was quite chaste for the first 6 months, but I have recently discovered the advantages of being a fly-by-night slut. I can literally have a cock in every continent, with no fear of getting a bad reputation or bumping into the people I've slept with. It's shame-free shagging!
Being a worldwide wench has been fun and I've learned that American boys are the easiest. I took a gamble and shagged a concierge in Las Vegas, popped a guy's cherry in the Big Apple and got blown in the Windy City. God bless America!
I recently got back from Hong Kong and, after barely three hours' sleep, went clubbing in London. The day before, I'd consumed far too many Bloody Marys and ended up in bed with a colleague. I should have been all shagged-out, but I'd developed what I liked to call 'Aircraft Amnesia.' The moment the plane takes off, the memories of my slutty behaviour are banished from my mind and I almost feel cleansed of my shenanigans.
So, although I'd been shagging my co-worker all through the night, I was now back in the U.K. and therefore the incident had never happened. It's warped logic, but it works for me.
As a result, I found myself in Soho on the prowl for my next victim. My friend Garv had long abandoned me in search of the dark room, but I prefer the more traditional form of pulling. Call me old fashioned, but I like to see what someone actually looks like before I shag them.
Several vodkas later, I found myself in a cramped Camden apartment with a former Big Brother contestant. At first, I'd pretended not to know who he was - I thought that was the correct etiquette for celebrities. Maybe it is. But not if the 'celebrity' in question is a Reality TV reject. The moment I uttered the immortal words "I recognise you from the telly" his hard-on literally popped up from nowhere. It seemed like the notion of celebrity turned him on more than I did.
To test my theory, I said "You're famous" and - I swear on my life - his erection grew twice the size. Much like his ego, I suspect.
Against my better judgement, I went home with him. The fact that his bedroom wall was covered with cut-outs of himself from Heat magazine should have put me off, but I was randy. When he turned on his stereo and put on a CD, I was half expecting it to be the Big Brother theme tune. Fortunately, it was a Ministry of Sound complilation.
We stripped off and started playing around.
When he fixed me with an earnest stare and, affecting a Geordie accent, said: "Who comes first? You decide?" without a trace of self-awareness, I knew that it was time to leave.
I promplty evicted myself from the house. I was in such a hurry that I forgot to grab my £300 All Saints jacket on the way out.
Well, they say that fame costs. I just didn't realise that I would be the one paying.
However I do have a genuine (if slightly sickening) excuse....
I fell in love.
Before you fall over yourselves running for the sick-bucket, let me assure you that I am equally horrified by this admission. I never thought that I would be the type to just fall in love and live happily ever after.
And, as it happens, I'm not. I don't want to bore you too much with the details, but I will summarise the whole fiasco as succinctly as possible:
Basically, I met a gorgeous boy from Liverpool on a night out. We had a couple of dates (which mostly involved me trekking up North on the train), he declared his undying love for me and asked me to move to Liverpool, then shagged someone else - all in the same night.
I was mortified and heartbroken, yet when I relayed this modern fairytale to my gay friends, their reaction was muted to say the least. Apparently, my story is quite tame. We live (or so I've been told) in the Age of Dead Romance. And that's just for straight people. Apparently, the gay scene is far more dire.
Call me naive. Call me pathetic. Call me desperate.
More importantly, just call me. Please?
Anyway, the whole disaster left a very bad feeling in my mouth (not least because I sucked off the Scouse prick on our last night together, unaware that he had just been fucking some tranny bareback in the toilets).
For the last 9 months, my mission to become a shameless man-wench have been on hold. I didn't even want to look at a man, let alone fuck his brains out.
But now I'm back. I have dusted myself off, slapped on some fake tan, bought some ridiculously expensive clothes and - more importantly - rediscovered the latent slut within. In the past week alone, I've had shameless sex with a co-worker, given a celebrity (does a former Big Brother contestant count?) a blowjob in a nightclub and had phone-sex with a straight guy I met in a bar.
It feels good to be back.
Monday, 24 September 2007
I know I made a huge misjudgement and I understand why my actions may have offended or upset some people, but I honestly don't see why the regrettable situation has provoked such unanimous disapproval.
Some of my (straight) female friends regularly have sex without a condom, yet because they are on the pill they are not subjeted to these judgemental diatribes. Just because they can't get pregnant from a one-nightstand, they think that they are "safe". Well, I can't get pregnant either. Does that make me safe too? It's such an outrageous double standard.
When I expressed my indignation, my friends were extremely defensive. "Yes, but... well, it's different for you, isn't it?" they stammered.
I was outraged. "No," I replied. "The idea that HIV is a gay disease is so 80's."
I made a mistake and I know that it was foolish, so please don't think that I am blase about it. I mean no disrespect to anyone who has contracted AIDs or HIV - or any other STD, for that matter. I am not ignorant to the dangers of unprotected sex and to say that I am disappointed in myself is an understatement.
In 3 months' time, I will get tested - apparently, the HIV virus can take that long to be detected in the blood.
In an attempt to console me, my friend Garv revealed that he has had sex without a condom "many, many times." I was quite disturbed by this. Instead of comforting me, Garv's words left me feeling cold and unsettled. I was traumatised that I had sunk to his dangerously depraved level.
I contacted Itallian Stallion aka Mark to express my concerns. He assured me that he got tested just over a month ago and that he has only had sex with one person apart from me - he said that they used protection.
Even if I assume that he's telling the truth, I know that I'm still in dangerous territory. I will make damn sure that I never place myself in this compromising position again.
Monday, 17 September 2007
Finally, I had a message from Italian Stallion over the weekend. He suggested meeting up on Sunday; I presumed that he wanted to rendezvous for a quick shag, but to my surprise he wanted to go on a date. Somewhat predictably, he suggested going to an Italian restaurant. I had no plans for Sunday, so I gladly agreed to meet him.
We met at the restaurant and, thankfully, he was stunning in the flesh. He had flawless, bronzed skin and intriguing dark eyes. Contrary to his username, he spoke with a strong Welsh accent and his name was Mark - not Marco or Gianni, as I had been expecting.
The food was lovely: I had spaghetti with meatballs, but I was too nervous to eat.
A hour later, his meatballs were swinging in my face while I gently took his cock all the way down my throat. We had struggled to maintain a decent conversation throughout the meal, but he was so hot and I was unbelievably horny so sex was inevitable.
After we sucked each other off, I pawed his glistening six-pack and demanded that he fuck my brains out immediately - if not sooner.
It was then that I realised that I didn't have any condoms in the house; I had given my last one to Garv so that he could have a shag in the nearby park with some fifty year-old going through a midlife crisis.
Mark informed me that he didn't have any condoms either.
I have only once ever had unprotected sex - I was seventeen and foolish. I swore that I would never do it again; I just don't think it's responsible.
But I was so desperately gagging for it that forgoing the sex was simply not an option. I pulled Mark closer and asked him to fuck me anyway. He was more than happy to oblige; he promptly bent me over my bed and fucked me doggy-style. I knew that it was careless, but it was so damn hot. As I felt his hot spunk explode up inside my arsehole, it felt amazing.
After our bareback session, we cuddled on my bed. But after the intense climax of the hot sex, I was crushed by overwhelming guilt and I couldn't wait for him to leave. I felt like I had compromised my principles. I had betrayed myself.
Mark eventually left and promised to call. I could feel him inside me for hours after - literally. I had my first experience of what Garv tastefully called "throw-back."
I really do feel like a shameless, immoral slut now.
And not in a good way.