On Monday, I met my good friend Cassie for lunch. Cassie is not just my friend; she is also my sexual mentor. She prides herself on being a connoisseur of cocks. An expert on ejaculation. A doyenne of dicks. You get the point.
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."
Wednesday 17 September 2008
Sunday 14 September 2008
Restraint...and not the good kind
When I was slapping on my fake tan to go out last night, I had no idea that I would soon be receiving a lesson in restraint. If I had, I might have imagined all sorts of dominatrix-style behaviour, mostly involving myself chained to bedpost while someone gave me a good seeing to.
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.
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
Global Slut
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.
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