A brief but still pretty long story of my sex addiction, and hopefully not temporary breakthrough.

Since I was a young teenager, I have been obsessed with sex. OBSESSED. I was always thinking about it and always talking about it. When I wasn’t talking about it, I was consciously holding myself back from talking about it because I didn’t want to bore people. Everywhere I went, I scanned the faces and bodies around me. Wondered who I’d like to fuck. What they’d be like in bed. I fantasized constantly. I masturbated constantly. I wasn’t attractive, so I didn’t have very much opportunity to live out my fantasies.

When I was 18 or 19, I started to come into my own. My confidence came from sex, from the brief high I got from a man’s desire to sleep with me, and from his approval of how passionate I was in bed, how willing to try things I might not really want to do.
I grew more confident. Flimsy confidence that plummeted every time a guy stopped calling, every time a careless remark reminded me I wasn’t really good looking. Sex was on my mind all the time. I slept with everyone who had a glint in their eye. I wasn’t good looking but I wasn’t ugly, and as I grew into a young adult I learnt how to make the most of my looks, and with sex constantly on my mind I exuded sex, and attracted more and more people. I wasn’t good looking but I was sexy.
It felt good, to have found my strength. It felt good, to be sexy, and although I couldn’t compete with the really pretty girls, when it came to sex I was in my element, and I got a certain satisfaction from the pretty girls’ boyfriends hitting on me.

But no one wanted to go out with me. Well, some did. Some fell for me, but they were the quiet, shy types. I had no interest in them. I was loud and bubbly, and I wanted the alpha males, not the “nice guys”. I didn’t really meet nice guys anyway. The ones who called themselves nice guys were usually shy, underconfident, geeky, and unattractive. They got drunk sometimes and the bitterness came out about all the assholes getting the girls. And then I’d think, it’s not because they’re assholes. You’re only as nice as you have to be, you’re only as much of an asshole as you can get away with. Woman aren’t prizes to be awarded to the most deserving. They are people who are just as shallow as you. While you’re complaining about the pretty girl going for the asshole, there’s a not so pretty girl like me bemoaning the fact that some other guy prefers a hotter, less nice girl, and when you set your sights on me, it’s as a plan b.
I chased men. I chased sexy, confident men. Fucked up men. Interesting men, I called them, until they tossed me aside or hurt me and then I called them losers and assholes.

I got a nice boyfriend. He loved me and for the first time I was treated well by a man. But he was quieter than me, and I was immature, and I needed someone to call me out on things, to calm me down, and he let me walk all over him. I did the walking, but I think I was far too young and selfish to respect someone who let me. I don’t regret the loss of the nice guy, because we weren’t right for each other, but I do regret being mean to him and not learning from him. We broke up, and I missed him terribly then, because he was for a while my best friend and my biggest supporter. But the sex was never right. He was less experienced than I was. Of course he was. But I didn’t know how to teach. I wasn’t entirely confident in bed, I just followed a male lead well. Because I was used to it. I was afraid to get on top, because I didn’t know what to do, how to move, what would feel good for him. It took me years to figure out just to do what felt good for me, and the rest would follow. I was embarrassed on top, I felt exposed. I didn’t know how to teach him, because all I had was muscle memory and he didn’t move me around the way I was used to. I thought I was great in bed, but I didn’t know how to be great in bed with him. We had sex drunk a lot at the start of our relationship and then less and less and less until we mostly just cuddled. I was sexually frustrated and masturbated whenever he got up earlier than me, whenever he slept earlier. 

I met an alpha male. He was unavailable. He didn’t want me, he just wanted to fuck me. He picked me up and flung me around with little regard for what I might want. And I played a game, for the first time, finally I had learnt to play the game. He fell in love with me, we fell in love, I was wonderfully happy, I had made him love me, a man who didn’t want a girlfriend tying him down. But it was under false pretenses. I showed him only my good sides, my agreeable, malleable sides. I didn’t show him anything I showed my previous boyfriend. I didn’t let him see the crazy, the weak, the emotional, the slob, the unhygienic, the bitchy, the lazy, the ugly, the fucked up, the sad, the jealous, the insecure.

When we married and settled down together, I relaxed. We both did. Slowly we got to know each other, too late. 

When we first met, the sex thrilled me. But it didn’t do it for me, really. I didn’t have orgasms. I wanted sex, constantly, and he obliged, and then some. But he didn’t try to make me cum, he just expected me to, from the pounding. I didn’t have many friends around me then, and those I did, weren’t very open about sex. So I didn’t know this was normal, that women don’t orgasm from being pounded. I thought it was my fault, and so did he. No other women had this problem with him, he said. 

It was a long time before I realised how many women women fake orgasms. I learnt I could orgasm if I masturbated while we had sex. But then he’d flip me over and I couldn’t do it from that position, so I faked orgasms. I faked orgasms while fake masturbating while he had sex with me. It was ridiculous. I started to resent him. He never went down on me. Once, on my birthday, extremely drunk, he tried to go down on me but it was so obviously a chore to him, I stopped him. He never tried again.

We gradually stopped having sex. I remembered my last relationship and it started to nag at me, that something was wrong with me, that I faked a sex drive for some reason, because I was starved of love, and when I got affection I didn’t want sex any more. It was me, it wasn’t my uninspired sexual partners. When we stopped having sex we put on weight. The fatter I got the less sexy I felt. The less sexy I felt the less I felt at all like having sex. I couldn’t fantasize about sex because it made me too unhappy to picture myself fat, being fucked, and it made me too unhappy to picture myself skinny, being fucked, because I wasn’t skinny. I masturbated when my husband slept beside me, and whenever he was out of the house. But I didn’t think of myself being fucked. I thought of him cheating on me with someone better looking and skinnier. It made me feel hurt but excited. And the fact that it was weird, and kind of fucked up to think about the man I loved fucking someone else, made it kinky and sexy.

I tried to initiate sex sometimes but my confidence was so low, because I was fat, because he didn’t want to fuck me, because his porn history was always right there when I checked my emails, and it was all big tit latinas, and not fat pasty women with small tits.

I left him. I had an empty apartment and no one to cuddle. I bought diet pills that gave me oily diarrhea. I ate big salads for dinner and bananas for lunch. I lost a stone in two or three months. I looked great. I fit into jeans I bought on sale, stubbornly, years ago, that I’d never managed to sit in. I took photos of myself in underwear, because I couldn’t believe I was slim, and I looked good, and I was happy, and my sex drive came back in force. 

Sex drive, or the desire to be witnessed, to be seen and approved of. And this is around the point where my blog started. If you go back to the very start, there’s a lot of bitching about people who annoy me, and I feel so young, reading it back, like shit, I can’t believe that’s just four years ago, or so. But that’s the point I was at. I had lost weight and I wanted to fuck, and it was all I thought about.

And then I went through a year of loneliness and sexual frustration in Italy, and then I came back to Ireland, and then I went to France, and then I went to Ireland again. And I decided to go back to university. 

And I spent a year partying and not writing, and making more friends than I’ve ever had, more close, real friends. And I’ve looked forward to college, more than I ever imagined I would. And I went through a stream… a torrent… a waterfall of men. 

I dipped my toe into the fetish community, because I was bored. I found the fetish community boring and cliquey. I had some fun, though. Learnt a few things about myself. I tried some interesting things. I met some people who, while annoyingly square about their kinkiness, at least put a lot of time and energy into both sides of the experience. People tried to make me cum. I gave them a few courtesy fake orgasms, because they made a good effort, and of course I can’t really orgasm without some intervention of my own. But then I let go, sometimes, and I found I could have orgasms, after all. I had the best sex of my life, by far. But it didn’t satisfy me. I still wanted sex, constantly, abundantly, until I was exhausted, and then I’d want more when I woke up, and more and more the more I had. 

I had an insane high from sex, even when I didn’t orgasm. And then I crashed, when it was gone. I was tired of fucking just anyone… my standard had been raised. Not for men, but for sex. I wanted the lickouts, the kink, the imagination, the spontaneity, the uninhibited quality of the fetish but without the crappy clichéd aesthetic, and the weirdly prevalent dominance and submission. Why so much bloody power exchange? Why did everyone expect that? I just wanted good, wild, interesting sex. I didn’t want to push my boundaries, I just wanted to keep things interesting. To treat bodies like climbing frames, to treat sex like a smorgasbord. I was too much of an anarchist to delve into anything properly, like bondage, power exchange, fetish, because the people who got there first had made up rules and etiquette and vocabulary that made me cringe, and lose respect for its blind followers. 

But I did have some great sex. But I didn’t WANT to just have sex. It was naturally unavoidable, that I would have lots of sex, all the time, because I had a drive, I needed it, I wanted it all the time. I wanted to meet someone lovely, caring, who would make me laugh and who would appreciate me, who I could have fun with, and cook for, and care about, and support, and then I wanted them to fuck me all night too. But where to meet this guy. I hadn’t met anyone in ages, I had never met anyone who really ticked all the boxes. There was no “one that got away.” All my boyfriends had in retrospect been awful. And all the men I’d overlooked… well, I probably didn’t remember them. But I wanted someone really special, for me. I had so many friends, and so much going on, and so much to look forward to, an actual life goal, too, that my confidence was growing, and not just from sex. But my foray into the kinky world had given me more sexual power, and now I knew I wasn’t sexually defunct, and I wanted more, and no longer could I kid myself that a quick casual fuck would satisfy my craving.

A couple of months ago I got fantastically drunk with a few friends and one of their acquaintances who turned out to be a kinky guy, and when he pulled out a bag of coke, and everyone else went home, we talked more and more about sex, and kink, and we trailed off back to my house, and I dressed up and let him tell me what to do, and I felt like a goddess, because he was so impressed by me, because I was such a strong woman, so clear about what I wanted, and so sure of myself, and yet I’d still go either way in the bedroom. And the next day I woke up and felt fine about it, he spent so much time going down on me, I couldn’t even count the orgasms or where one ended and the next began. I felt fine about it, not regretting drunk sex, as I have occasionally done. But I felt not just fine, I felt like I was too good, for this. Yes, I am a strong woman. Yes I do know what I want. I am sure of myself. Finally. I really am, I know my needs, my wants, I know my worth. Not that sex is a gift to hand to the worthy, but damn, why am I bending over backwards making it easy for people who have done nothing for me? I mean, yes, some of these people put a lot of work in with the orgasms. But mostly, they don’t. And I’m worth more than this. I want more, I don’t want to be this supposedly great woman and then just fucking any man who wants to and has a bit of confidence to ask. What a pity, what a millstone around my neck, this damn sex drive.

I imagined all I might achieve, if I freed up my mind, my energy, my drive, for other things. To work on myself, on my life, on getting me the real lasting things I wanted, not the instant gratification. The instant gratification that left me desolate, lonely, hollow, half the time. And the other half, left me attached to the object of my lust, falling in obsessive love for short bursts, thinking of nothing and no one but them until it burst and I went back to rudderless horniness. I wanted out, but I assumed I’d never be out, because I’d been like this since I was a teenager. It was how my brain had grown. Sex was the fulcrum. Sex was the monastery around which my brain had grown, sex was the old roads that couldn’t be widened any more, because the buildings were built there, sex was the reason everything was laid out as it was. Sex ran through my reasons for everything. I imagined ripping out the thing that had defined me for so long, and what would be left? Sex is who I am. By saying I was tired of meaningless sex… was I forgetting all the beautiful, meaningful sex and moments of passion I’d shared with men who, no, had not loved me, but they had, maybe, for a moment. I resided, just a piece of me, in the memories of so many men. All so different. I didn’t have a type. I had shared intimate, very intimate moments with men of all walks of life, of… well, not all ages, but a wide range anyway. I treasured the experiences. I had taken chances and opened up, and taken things, tiny things, from every man I’d given something to. Was that wrong, or harmful, or the very best part of me? Would I just be dulling myself, skimming the cream off the top because I couldn’t handle the ill effects? Was I just afraid I wouldn’t meet someone perfect, because I was slumming it? Wouldn’t the right person for me be slumming it too, waiting for the real thing? 

Ah. But there was a problem, I was forgetting it, the problem was I spent most of my time depressed from lack of sex, the rest of the time either high on sex or anticipating being high on sex. It was exhausting, draining, and it wasn’t making me happy. 

I googled sex addiction. I found a group in Dublin, Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous. I contacted them. Asked to attend a meeting. A man phoned me the next day, and gave me details of how to meet, because there was a pre-meeting first, to avoid revealing the location of the group to just anyone. I was going to attend. He sent me some pdf documents about the group.

I read a little and realised it was based on the 12 steps of Alcoholics Anonymous. The 12 steps, with the higher power step, where you have to admit there’s a higher power, or a god, and you can call it whatever you like but I’m not just an atheist, I’m totally anti-spiritual. I’m not going to sniff at what works for others, but in my personal opinion there’s not a whole lot of point in calling a psychological issue or condition or habit or addiction a “disease” and admitting you have no control over it. Maybe the point is to go to AA, or SLAA when you’ve tried everything alone, and come to the conclusion you have no control over it. But if you hope to get any help from a support group, which can’t give something up for you, what the hell use is admitting you have no control over it? I bristled at everything I read. I was still planning on going, because as righteous as I considered my opinions, I obviously wasn’t right at all, because I couldn’t stop myself from doing something what was frying me mentally, year after year, man after man.

But then the next day, typically, was a gorgeous day, and my friends were going to the river with a canoe, to drink gin and row and be reckless. So I called the sex addict man and wondered if he was attractive, and wondered if anyone at the meeting would be sexy, and I told him I wouldn’t make it today, and I would reschedule some time.

I never did.

Soon after I was horny and I thought who can I call, and I flicked through my phone book and saw name after name of people I’d slept with, people I could sleep with again, but nobody inspired any excitement, I just thought, yeah, I could… but why bother. Why slum it. Why give someone my time, my body, I felt like fucking, but I couldn’t bear to kiss anyone. I wanted to meet someone lovely, and sweet, and funny, and sexy. I didn’t want to suck a dick, much as I loved doing that, I just wanted someone to look at me and see everything, and I thought for the first time, really for the first time, something I’ve only ever heard or read with a patronising tone. 

I thought maybe I’m not letting anyone see the whole picture, because I keep shoving sex in their faces. I didn’t think “no one will respect me if I have sex with them straight away” or “maybe if I really like someone I should wait so I can see if he’s worthy of me” or “I should give it more value by withholding it”

I didn’t think women are different from men, and I should hide my sexuality. I just thought… I’m just LEAPING down their throats with sex. I’m expecting people to see I’m much more than that, but it’s all I’m really putting out there. I’m chasing men down and making the first move before I’ve given anyone a chance to see what they think. My friends don’t think I’m all about sex. I’m not all about sex. 

And I said, that’s it, I’m going to not have sex for a while. I’m going to take a break. I’m going to just… not give it up, exactly, because there’s nothing good on the horizon anyway, manwise. Just… I’m not going to go out looking for it. I’m not going to scan the party for a suitable penis carrier. I’m not going to fuck someone I don’t really feel like fucking just for the sake of it. I’m bored. I’m out.

That night, typically, I had sex. Very good sex, with a very nice, fun, attentive man, who made the first move because I didn’t give him any come on, and I left the next day thinking, that was great, that was better, and all because I didn’t try, and look how much better it felt. But how lousy I was at being celibate.

But THEN, I felt like everything I thought the day before, started to swirl around my head again. And settle into place. And I meant it, I felt like I wanted… to be free from sex for a while. And even though I had a dick in me a few hours earlier, I felt like I had snapped out of it. Like something clicked, I’d been going around on the same track for years, so long, all the time too bloody stubborn to accept that my own way of doing things that wasn’t making me happy, could possibly be the reason that I was unhappy in love and life and sex. I couldn’t, well, of course I couldn’t listen to anyone else. Their voices made the words sound accusatory. Their reasons for not fucking everything that moved, were kind of anti-feminist, anti-having any faith in men. Whenever I was told to hold off on sex, it was because men couldn’t respect a woman who was easy to bed, and because men wanted a nice girl, and because men had sex drives and women didn’t, and it made me angry, because that was all wrong. I’m not going to pretend I’ve had an epiphany, that I’ve changed my life forever, that I’ve got it all figured out.

The last time I had sex was nearly a month ago. Not that long a stretch, I’ve gone longer before, I swear. 

But the difference is… for the first time since I can remember, I haven’t been obsessing, I haven’t been scanning the people on the bus for faces I’d kiss, and I haven’t been flicking through my phonebook for names I’d revisit. 

And I haven’t felt empty of like I’ve lost my centre. Sex isn’t gone from me, but it’s not fast food, and I’m not looking for it. I got a message from the guy… oh, I don’t know if I ever wrote about him here. But I met a guy nearly a year ago online, and eight months ago we met and had amazing sex, and did some kinky stuff, and he lives in the UK so kept up a long distance thing, that sort of trailed off, but he was going to come back and we were going to meet, and man, that was great sex. And I liked his company, too. He was funny, and interesting. So of all the people to tempt me, someone I could definitely justify sleeping with as he’s not fast food sex and he’s not something bad for me, he’s pretty much as good as it gets. 

And he wrote to me and said he’s coming over this weekend, and I happen to be house sitting for a week and have a house to myself, and he could come over tomorrow and see me and we’d have all the privacy we could want. But I don’t want to. I have no interest. And this is pretty fucking big, for me.

So… I think I’ve made some serious headway towards something. I can’t do anything to hurry up my meeting someone great, but I think if I can fill up my life, with other things, with things that don’t just explode and fade to nothing, and be happy with myself like this, then I won’t need that person to show up so soon. And when I do meet someone wonderful and worthwhile, then I’ll be so much better placed to act and to let them see the things I want them to see. And maybe I’ll fuck them right away. And if they’re the right kind of person, that shouldn’t make any difference. But perhaps I’ll settle down by myself for a while, and see what happens. It’s not like I’m making some huge effort- perhaps I’m just going through a phase- but I really hope I’ve grown out of something that is rarely great for me. Being rampantly sexually active hasn’t all been bad. I’ve had LOTS OF FUN and fallen in love more times than I can count, and had great experiences and met great people in weird and wonderful ways. But the mental thing, more often than not, fucks with me, because I’m not unromantic, and I’m not able to separate sex from emotions. 

I feel pretty good, right now. Really good. So that’s probably more navel gazing than anyone wants to read, but I feel so hugely different lately, I just wanted to record it. Maybe if I go back to my old ways, it’ll serve to remind me how I felt, and put me back in this frame of mine. So for that alone, I’m hitting publish.

I just really hope this no sex thing doesn’t make me fat.

Weekend confessions of Abby N. Flicker

So after the monster hangover last week and all that entailed… panic attacks, self loathing, and of course… parent resenting… I jumped right back on the horse, the noble stallion called alcohol abuse… I wasn’t GOING to drink, but I spent the beginning of the weekend arranging everything for Italy this week, so I can go back and ship my stuff over (well, I booked a return flight…)

Then, due not to being an international billy-no-mates but rather just a series of plans coincidentally misfiring… I wound up on Friday night with nothing to do and nowhere to go.

I used to have a few friends near my mum’s house, but most of them have either migrated to the capital city or even left the country itself. I have one remaining friend in the area…. but he’s someone I really shouldn’t….

You see, and I don’t want to sound like, full of myself here or anything, but this guy was my best friend for a couple of years, and let me tell you, my milkshake brought him to the yard. If that’s not a euphemism for giving him oral or something, but rather just means he likes the cut of my jib, and if we take jib to mean hot pants. I mean, he likes me, I friend-zoned him, but I didn’t even have the decency to be consistent about it.

In fairness we only ever met because of this really hot guy I was pretending to be ok with casually fucking when I was 16. Hot guy came to my house one time when my friend was staying over and brought his buddy along… we got on great, discovered we were neighbours, and the rest was… a messy drunken friendship. We used to spend hours watching Seinfeld and smoking joints and drinking masses of cheap wine and cheap cider and whatever we could scrounge from my parents. He was always in my house, he would just pop in and stay until ridiculous o’clock, he ate dinner with my family, or depending on what was on the menu, he’d go home, feed and maybe even bathe and then head back over to mine for the rest of the night.

He always outstayed his welcome but I liked having him around most of the time… He was easy to talk to, funny… it was fun. I was mean to him. I bullied him and when he pissed me off I’d say “get the fuck out of my house, Steve.” And Steve would look at me nervously and go “ha” and I’d fix him with my bitchiest look and say “no, I’m serious… get the FUCK out of my house.” Anyway we drank a lot together… we drank bottle after bottle of wine and then I’d be horny and lonely and he’d muster dutch courage and violate the vague line I’d set out, that he was not supposed to cross. He’d kiss me suddenly, with his whole body, urging me… and you know, I have a high sex drive and a desperate, easily flattered ego.

When someone pounces like that, with every nerve and sinew… strongly driven by desire of me, it is VERY HARD NOT TO GET INTO IT. And in my defence, I mostly tried not to, I mostly pushed him away in disgust and told him to go home… but it did, of course, turn me on, this huge attraction he would so often spring on me. But then A LOT of things turn me on… and I liked him, I really cared about him as a friend. I had a lot of respect for him, despite how mean I was. I was only mean because I didn’t want to encourage his feelings, but obviously that’s like trying to put out a fire with vodka.

I was totally naive, I clung stubbornly to my idea of our friendship, him as a kind of gay friend accessory, and I refused to accept his feelings as valid or serious. We hung out every single day… I missed him desperately when he wasn’t around but really, honestly I just wanted to be friends. I only wanted to fuck him in the sense that I want to fuck every man…. So many times I forgot, or stopped caring, or toyed with him on purpose, exaggerating my behaviour… letting him catch a glimpse of underwear… just because I was bored…

We both drank far too much. He gazed at me needily, my friend said. He looked at me with begging in his eyes… He LOVES you she said. I just thought it was such an affront to me, this love… There’s nothing more unattractive, more misshapen and creepy, than unwanted love… I wanted us to be best friends. I wanted to talk to him about everything… but I didn’t want to respect his feelings, because they ruined everything. But I knew it was me, I fed it too… I was too aware of my own guilt, that I sometimes flirted with him but pretended it was just him reading into things… I’d “accidentally” let him catch a flash of underwear… I’d get drunk and snuggle up to him, for my own gratification.. I was pretty much a horrible selfish uncaring dick. However, he could keep trying, because aware as I was of my own fault, I didn’t get angry when I pushed him away, and when I lost control and let him kiss me, with a passion I don’t think anyone has ever had for me… all over my face, neck, chest… smothering me with desperate kisses…  I would say no, no, no… I don’t want to ruin everything… because I just wanted to know, yes, I still had him… but I was never angry or weird the next day, because I couldn’t blame him for something he did drunk… and we didn’t talk to it, and I told myself he just tried because he was drunk, and it wasn’t a big deal….

We eventually came to the end, we had a huge falling out. He started spreading rumours about me, I think, or else he said his friends said I was an annoying bitch, and I was heartbroken anyway, and I called him to talk it out like adults but brought a raw egg in my pocket when I met him on the street between our two houses.

I asked him again, what did he say? He called me a bitch, and I knew he was right, I was a total bitch, so I hated him with all my heart and an eerie grin crept across my face, not the expression I wanted to show right then but it stretched out against my will as I delivered what I thought would be a crushing, cool as fuck, one liner… and brought the egg down on his head. Now that I think back, I realise how fucking stupid it all was. He stood there and said, yeah, you ARE a bitch. You’re a fucking bitch Abby. I’m glad I said that, you’re a fucking bitch, you always were a fucking bitch.

And I laughed at him because there was egg dripping down his head and I said yeah fuck you too, and I ran home and cried in my bedroom and wished I hadn’t done anything and hated him and hated myself and wondered why I thought the egg thing would be cool or funny and wished I could rewind it all. We didn’t see each other again for ages, and then we made up at some point but we weren’t best friends any more, we each had our own separate friends and I wasn’t sure where our friendship stood at all. I apologised for being a horrible bitch… I don’t remember the conversation but I apologised for all my awful behaviour.

Then about a year ago when I was in the first most sluttish throes of my separation, we crossed glasses again… after a few years total radio silence. We sat, we drank, we talked candidly… I recounted my sorrows and he shared about his ex… he told me, she was jealous of me, despite the fact that I only saw him once or twice while they were together, because I lived in Italy. He must have talked about me a lot… he said, one time I invited him over and he arrived and I was trying on some leather clothing. I didn’t remember this, but he said it drove him crazy… I was wearing some leather outfit and he said I looked incredibly sexy… he couldn’t stop thinking about it… and his girlfriend went ballistic because he told her he had gone to visit me. So I sat and listened and cringed and remembered how much of a selfish cock… how mean I was with my so called best friend’s feelings.  He clearly liked me a lot. And what the fuck did I do? I invited him over to watch me try on leather outfits? I don’t even remember the occasion properly but I know myself and I was of course doing it on purpose. I promised myself not to toy with a man like that again. What an egotistical bitch…..

Anyway that night we drank a bottle of his parents whiskey and sat on the carpet to smoke out the window. We wound up holding each other… in perfect honesty it didn’t occur to me that it was a prelude to sex or kissing, I was just drunk and sad and lonely and heartbroken and drunk. He stroked him hair and held me in his arms and I felt my sadness booming deep down… but also strangely calm, at peace. I have my friend back… lovely… I thought dreamily as he stroked, stroked, stroked my hair, and my jawline… I would have been happy to stay like that, to fall asleep in the arms of someone who cared, just for this once…. but it shifted, then we were aligned differently and our mouths met. There’s something about kissing someone when you are on the verge of tears… it’s oddly passionate. We kissed and I saw us moving in his desired direction… it had been so long, I no longer held the control like before. Times had changed, he wasn’t some inexperienced boy any more, hoping for a shot with the girl almost next door… He was holding me to him, he wasn’t asking me to allow him… and while I wondered if it was what I wanted, or if it was a bad idea, or if I even wanted him to stop… he lifted me up, his mouth locked to mine, and carried me in his arms into his bedroom. I was dumbfounded. A few years have passed, of course…. he’s… well, It was terribly passionate, sweaty… hot… he surprised me…. There was only one condom and it broke or was filled quickly or something happened, but we managed to find other ways to completely negate whatever friendship we had. I lay on my back and he stood over me, looking down on me… “have you any idea how sexy you look right now?”

Mmmm… that’s what I like. I like to hear that, very very much. I happened to be wearing matching underwear that day, for no particular reason… He pounced on me, with 6 or 7 years of experience and distance from how it used to be…

I snuck out of there in the morning and back home… my mum at the door going to work… I told her I fell asleep on his couch, pissed… I don’t know what she believed, but I slept like a baby… it took 12 hours or so for me to stop desiring my friend… I cooked up schemes in my head, to get us privacy… I wanted to feel those eyes on me again, lustful, admiring… he surprised me in bed… I was impressed. I guess a lot of it was, how much he wanted to fuck me… and to be honest I was always curious too…

Anyway I know I’m a silly girl but I wound up the next night, having a repeat… in my house this time, and again without condoms. We fucked for a short while anyway… just to see what it was like… of course… and he sighed in my ear “I love you” to which I didn’t reply but I held onto his back tightly as the sadness and reality seeped into the moment. I realised I was doing a bad thing again, and I stopped, and I remembered where there were condoms but I didn’t say. I tried to leave and he kept pulling me back and forcefully kissing me, holding my neck… making me stay… and little sparks jolted me from within…. man, I wanted to straddle him right there… but I reclaimed my dominance as he gripped my neck just a bit too tight and I told him “look, there’s a fine line between your forcefulness being a complete turn on and being actually scary. You’re starting to cross it…”

He let go of me with a flicker of recognition, look who’s back, it’s Abby- the- Bitch. He saw the moment was over, the chance had passed, I wouldn’t be his like that again… not unless, maybe, a lot of drinking…. who knows.  That was the end of that. My mother asked me, isn’t Steve coming over again? And I said no, he was annoying me…. I wonder what she thinks of my friendship… maybe she just presumes I fucked him all along. I can’t tell how much of my bullshit my mother believed in my teens… and bullshit, if it goes unchecked… well, you really never know how good a liar you are unless people call you out for lying.

Anyway… This little story was just because, I wanted you to know about my friend Steve… and after last time, I said no… it’s just not fair of me to go using him for friendship and randy drunken antics when he clearly wants and will continue to want something more. The thing about the male-female relationship is, for me anyway, if a man likes me, he’s gonna like me a real lot… I’m like Marmite, baby. I have a polarising effect on men. And if he likes me, like, likes me, then the slimmest, dimmest chance of my becoming his… even for a moment… is totally worth risking or destroying the friendship. He’s got better friends than me, he’s got funner friends than me, and he can talk to them too, in a way he can’t talk to me. I’m just the selfish cunt who used to lounge on the couch, resting my feet on his lap, mischievously aware of what might be going on underneath my restless tootsies… and whine and moan about how there are no men around, and how much I wanted to meet a hot guy… I mean, I fucked a lot of his friends. But that was after all, how we met.

So on Friday when I had nothing to do and nowhere to go, I trampled the little voice of reason telling me to leave the poor bastard in peace, and I said no, I just want to see my friend… and I texted him sup, homeslice? Are you around? He immediately said he was in the area and would call in… He probably ran to my house. He was pretty sweaty… So we watched some comedy shows… ate takeaway with my parents… hung out… it was nice. I had a few glasses of wine, he no longer drinks at all. Coincidentally, he quit drinking the day after our last… reunion. I have a strange niggling feeling about that… honestly I don’t know how to take it.

But Friday night, he’s sitting there beside me, he doesn’t keep my eye contact and it’s a little unnerving…. But I was beginning to nurse the idea of just fucking him a little tiny bit, just to like, get it out of my system… like a noble sort of friendship thing… hmmm… when my stepdad burst in, home from the pub, with three of his oldest, drunkest friends over from California for the weekend. My teetotal pal Steve took this as his cue to leave… goodnight… my stepdad met him in the hall and told him regally, he was always welcome… to pop in… even if I’m not there, he’s welcome… he’s one of the family… thank you, thanks… good night… I  followed Steve out to the hall and wondered would I give him a hug and be a bitch, do some sort of lingering, confusing squeeze, or let him feel my breath hot on his neck… but he gave me a quick smile and we waved at each other from a metre away… and he left, thank fuck, before I could do anything stupid.

I joined the drunken middle-aged folks for a little while. They had a bottle of 18-year-old Jameson which went down a treat… beautiful stuff. Let me tell you, it won’t be easy-going back to the normal cheap shit after tasting that. My… that was a lovely tipple. I was witty and soberer than everyone so I said a few great one liners and then retired to bed, perfect showmanship… I started to write a post about how much I wanted to fuck my friend, but I let it simmer for the night, and when I woke up it was just horny rantings with terrible spellings. I know, I know, my best posts, right? Well whatever.. I woke up disgusted with myself and infinitely grateful that nothing had happened. For someone who is really not interested, I am giving totally the wrong impression. It’s not my fault I’m incurably horny, but there’s no excuse for me toying with someone over and over again… I like to tell myself “he’s a grown up, he can look after himself” but I’m a woman, I have my wiley ways… how is he supposed to resist my tipsy flirtations?

I was in bed by 6 anyway, pondering delicious dirtyness with my neighbour while resolving to leave him alone and stop this madness.

Then the next night, I stayed in with my mum… enjoyed feeling good, and normal… ate cheese, watched episodes of the IT crowd. Realised that as my body returned to its normal levels of hormones and serotonin and whatever it is, I was more able to cope with my mother talking to me.. I was nice to her, I bit my tongue… avoided argument… and we had a nice time, laughing… just getting along well. I could see that for every bit of truly annoying mother rhetoric that stresses me out, there is at least one or two nice, friendly things she says that I am flipping out about by proxy. I’m sorry, mother. I will be nice…

Later on, the drunken revellers landed again, but this time they brought company, a lot of company. A party descended on the house, and my mother and I rolled our eyes, finished our wine, and knowing we could never beat them or get any sleep next door… joined the cider and beer-swillers.

Had a lot of fun… it was a middle-aged party but they were mad, bad middle-aged people with pills and uppers and downers and all kinds of pharmaceuticals… the energy in the house was lively and off the wall. I didn’t take anything, I mean I may party with my folks sometimes but I wouldn’t take drugs with them. There are certain things my parents don’t need to see, and my eyes rolling around in my head as I share my most intimate secrets with the world is not one of them.

One of my old teachers was there… he actually didn’t teach my class, but he worked in my school for a bit. I knew him as Mr Lyons, and I saw him at a party when I was 17 and he still worked in that school… I remember being silly and flirtatious just to creep him out, and calling him “Mr Lyons!” all the time. So on Saturday night he was there and I saw him and bellowed “MR LYONS!” and he shook his head, Jaysus… you again…

He tried to get me to call him by his first name, but I refused to even learn it… I called him MR LYONS all night, giggling to myself, feeling like a naughty temptress although I’m well past having a Lolita effect on men… I used to get a great kick out of being young and making men uncomfortable. But at this stage, the schoolgirl thing… I probably can’t pull it off any more, but I still had a wild one-sided laugh with myself. I thought it was hilarious, randomly interrupting Mr Lyons when he tried to have normal conversation with me, exclaiming loudly “SORRY MR LYONS BUT I DONT THINK ITS APPROPRIATE ME CALLING YOU SIR, I’m sorry but I just don’t want to call you SIR!” and he was like… oh shut up… stop that.. as people looked around with raised eyebrows, and I was massively entertained by my cleverness and mischief. Eventually he left, I like to think I just made him too uncomfortable when I started sitting up on the kitchen counter (I wasn’t getting enough attention) but it’s entirely likely he just left because it was ridiculous o’ clock and daytime and most people left around then anyway.

My mother went to bed around 8 or 9 am and the only other woman went home with her husband a little later. She was a patronising 40 something year old who kept bursting into loud and incorrect singing of the music that was playing…so when she left, I was the only woman left, and came into my own, queen of the castle, the prettiest girl in the room, yay! And I positively blossomed under the male admiration, even though, yes, of course, these were some very, very drunk and high middle-aged men. But fuck it, an ego massage is an ego massage.

I walked on their backs… don’t know why or who initiated it, I’ve never walked on a back before. One of the men walked on my back… it made me laugh hysterically the first time, and I think he really enjoyed that so he kept taking me aside, whispering, as if it was a dirty little secret… and asking to do it again, and then he did it again and I felt obliged to laugh the same way as before, for some reason. I got high on walking on those mens backs… it was glorious fun. I felt dominant, mwahahahah… wonderful stuff.

We smoked joints all night… for some reason we were doing blow backs. I haven’t done a blow back in years, but I know that by hanging out with me for the night, I had swept these geezers up with my youthful energy and they were feeling all bold and young for the evening… also, drugs… One of the men kept trying to whisper to the other… but missed the entire point of the enterprise, ie, the volume reduction and stealth… and I heard him yell-hiss “I’m SO attracted right now… I’ve never been so attracted to anyone in my life… she’s incredible…” now this was said by a guy in his late 40s on ecstasy… but my ego accepts all major currencies. It counts, motherfucker, it counts.

I swelled up with pride at my achievement. I feel like I won “best female in show” at an event where no other females showed up. STILL COUNTS!

They all have wives. They all started the night singing the praises of these wives, talking about the importance and wonderfulness of these wives… towards the end, towards the midday point… they seemed to have forgotten the wives a little. One admitted to having a sort of open marriage… where the wife winds up fucking 20 year olds and he… doesn’t seem as capable of taking advantage of the arrangement. I find this fascinating, but oh… the dwindling drinks, the starting to pick up opened beers, slopping them, checking for liquid… knocking back anything… I opened the fridge, saw there was no booze left, checked the cupboard, and returned to the fridge… and repeated.  No booze… no bloody booze. We polished off the rest of the 18 year old whiskey. The men gazed at me with the confusion of the truly drunk, the beyond help….

One of them was like a chubby Tigger, a cannonball of energy… obviously it wasn’t all natural, he had a pocketful of rainbows, that guy. He kept pawing at my chest, I don’t know what kind of brain function made him think it was subtle… it was actually so ridiculous, it took me a while to realise it was a desperate attempt to touch my boobs. I don’t really have much boob though so I just thought it was funny. Also I was wearing a very padded bra so I couldn’t feel thing through the cushioning… maybe that was giving the illusion of a greater chestal region. Probably. Anyway I just laughed, if you party with middle-aged men and drink all night and all morning, you have to be reasonable about the flirting. It suits my purposes, ie, my vanity, so I’m nice about it. You silly men… tee hee…

There were the overt come-ons in the form of swipes across my front… then we had a nice little dance, he twirled me almost into the glass doors.. I had fun but left the dance floor before I gave them a little too much encouragement. I may be a bad, bad dancer, but these men are twice my age, any way I lurch around, it’s going to look like missed opportunities and old girlfriends. But I did sit up on the counter a lot, with my legs up… wearing a skirt, obviously…which was probably just as bad…. When one of the final three men fell asleep on the couch, and one was in the bathroom, the remaining partygoer seized the opportunity for alone time and I could see and smell and sense he was going to kiss me… I wouldn’t have done it because I wasn’t attracted to him at all, but I let him sort of believe I would have if it hadn’t been for the circumstances… etc. He nodded at my “no, it’s not a good idea” as if he had also come to the same decision, thinking of his family and all, and he probably felt really undeservedly good about that…

It felt sort of like a good deed, returning the ego boost, a thank you for making me feel good about myself…  It always reminds me of how much everyone is full of shit. These are extremely happily married men, I have never met anyone who wouldn’t cheat given the opportunity and the right state of mind. I guess there were drugs involved, I’m pretty glad I didn’t have any or who knows what I might have done…

Anyway, I stayed up til 1 or 2 pm, polished off the last of the booze in the last of the mostly empty bottles, and went to bed, emotionally hugged my new friends goodbye, and they watched me disappear into my room with bleary eyes. Good night, it’s been real…

I went to bed, I slept shakily until they all burst in on me the next day…still horrifically mangled, to beg me to come to the pub. Come on! You were so much craic last night, come on to the pub!

I considered it for a second… getting up, getting dressed… makeup… bloody marys…

The only woman in the room…

Me stepdad came in, partially recovered… He was one of the first to k.o. that night. He’s now leading the expedition to the pub. “It’s boys only, but you can come if you like! It would be nice actually… come on!” aww thanks you guys…

But no, let’s not. I don’t want… I CANT bear another hangover like that, I just can’t do it. The panic… the fear… the depression… NO. So I smiled weakly and waved them away. I will take the hangover now, thanks. And for my sobriety, for my resolution… you would think I would get an easy time, a nice weak hangover…

But I still had a heavy dose of panic attacks, the frail stomach, the weakness of body, the ache of skin and muscle and the tight stressed jaw. Thank fuck I cut my losses and quit while I was behind. The men continued on to the pub and then to another pub and stayed out all day and most of the night before arriving home, twisted and mangled and with broken shades and missing jackets. My mother stayed in with me, looking after me, bringing me things i wanted and taking away things I decided I didn’t want any more.

I had tea, I had soup, I had half a packet of stilton.

And I found myself, going through the absolute horrors… on facebook… and I threw out the typical feelers of hung-overness, I messaged a couple of friends who were online… hello! How are you! What’s up? PLEASE somebody witness me right now, I need to know I exist, I need to keep the dark back…

And one friend, a school friend I hadn’t seen in years, but we sometimes synchronise loneliness and have a little chat, posted something about a hangover. I rejoice… a hangover buddy! I message him, something like, I bet my hangover could kick your hangover’s ass.

We exchange descriptions of how bad we feel. He has a pizza, and I am hideously jealous of that pizza. My mother enters the room and offers me soup, bread, more tea… pain killers… I hiss at her “WHY IS THERE NO PIZZA?” and she gasps, with an indignant “I ASKED you what you wanted, I went to the shop and you said you didn’t want anything!”

“YEAH WELL I didn’t KNOW I wanted pizza. There should be pizza. It’s not fair!”

My mother offers me soup and fish and bread again. NO I DONT WANT THAT YOU KNOW I DONT LIKE FISH! I ONLY WANT PIZZA! But she’s been cleaning up after the party all day plus I’ve already had her bring me lots of things and so she ignores my petulant sulking and tells me it’s my own fault, she ASKED me what I wanted. I yell “UGGGHHHHHH!!!” In exasperation and then go back to abusing my hangover buddy for having pizza. I call him a motherfucking serial rapist and type frustrated strings of letters “ARRRRRGGGGGHH! UNNNNNGGGG!!”

It doesn’t help, I’m all tense and I can’t believe how awful it is to be without pizza now that I know of pizza. Ignorance of pizza was bliss….

He tells me he’s really enjoying the pizza, it’s almost better than sex. And so, sex is added to our conversation. Ugh it would be so nice to get laid now. That would truly hit the spot. We commiserate on lack of sex.. he enters my mental sphere of sexuality. Hmm. Well, of course he’s in another country….and I never considered him that way, and  wouldn’t… except for this conversation. We might have kissed once or slept together in a platonic way… with a little flicker of sexual tension… once… maybe…years ago… but I’m a bit of a tramp actually so that’s not particular to this one guy. I have slept with or kissed pretty much all my male friends … Our chat progresses, it leaves sex, it muddles around in our news, our lives, what we are doing, where we want to be… but the sex has been mentioned, it’s on the table and we both know we are just circling above it, it’s going to be revisited, one or the other of us is bound to bring it up again…

He says he’s too hung over to do anything, his day has consisted of porn and pizza and netflix. Mine has been netflix and food but unfortunately I am in my mother’s house and I don’t really enjoy my bedroom… it makes all my wanking nostalgic, and the post-auto-coital feeling is one of tremendous failure… He says he’s enjoying being home alone. I throw out an innocent, “nice one handed typing…” and he admits, he’s pretty horny right now, but has both hands on the keyboard. You know me and sex and talking about it and masturbation and all, I don’t really think of it as flirtation… in fact I tend to keep my hobby out of conversation if I like the guy… but I am flirting now, just in a casual way, I don’t really care if I sound stupid at all because I’m just shooting the breeze with my hangover buddy. It’s all protected under the “what? That was just all a big joke” agreement.

The conversation escalates… I laugh, I’m typing with one hand too… guess what I’m doing… He says, I’m not gonna lie, that’s turning me on…. Hee hee. I’m eating a piece of stilton actually. Oh…

I realise I feel much better with this distraction from my hangover. My head no longer feels like it’s held in place by a thought, and if I let go of the right thought, my brain will just die… I feel shitty, but a little frisky now…. Things are starting to hum into action downstairs… I consider how long to leave things in the innuendo stage before I retire to my bedroom with the computer…

This morning I looked back over our conversation. It lasted 5 hours….  and reading back over our exchange, I think we were both pretty smooth, and I got another good one out of the re-read… I am impressed with what I said, it managed to be just the right amount of sexy and casual…

We went from joking about masturbation… to… well, I brought my laptop into my room and told my mother I was going to try sleep for a bit.

I started to actually type with one hand. I made a few spelling mistakes… he picked up on it. I played silly-coy, but let him know… actually yes, you’re right… that’s what I was doing… but I stopped because my hangover was too fucking intense. He admitted, the idea of my hand between my legs… was turning him on. As usual, when someone is turned on by me, my sex drive revs into action. We flirted more obviously… he let me know, he was touching himself too… our replies became shorter…

He admitted, “you’re playing a pretty big part in my fantasy right now…”

“Oooh… What part am I playing?” I asked, “I promise I won’t be weirded out…”

He starts to describe what he wants to do to me… nothing creepy there… sounds pretty great actually… I counter with what I’d do…  leaving out, of course, all the really weird stuff I would actually fantasize about, and sticking to a normal run through of just a really good fuck. I don’t want to freak him out with my skeevy honest fantasies… he’s probably doing the same thing and editing all the weirdness out…. Or maybe he’s not, and I’m just a creep.

We build a sexy story from the ground up, taking turns describing actions and how it would feel, with one hand of course.. every message coming on screen brings a tingle… I’ve never had phone sex or successfully done this by message before. I mean I have attempted sexting, and I used to “cyber” when I was an impressionable teen playing online jailbait, but I’ve always found it awkward and more cringey than it was sexy. This is just… it’s easy because I’m not faking it, I’m just actually describing what I’d like to do in real life. It’s cool… it’s really turning me on.

Our fantasy reaches a crescendo over half an hour, our alter egos thrusting and fucking and having wonderful, exaggerated orgasms. The reality follows close behind… it’s a massive, wonderful orgasm… much much better than the average solo deal… really, wow…

I read back over it and the last two or three lines we typed are barely approximations of words. I sent one message “uo fjuckkkk”

We discussed it afterwards… it was really, really great and totally unexpected. He said “yeah, it gave me an interesting insight into what fucking Abby would be like”

I grin to myself. Yes, very interesting.

Yes. indeed…

Hmm..

Well, I tell him, if we get the opportunity, we will of course have to do this for real.

He agrees, although of course we don’t live nearby, but sure… if you’re in town, that would be amazing…. Oh, it was fun… fun fun fun. And it totally almost fixed my hangover, although it stirred up all my horniness again. Damn it. Eventually he signed off, some time around 2am… “good night, my sexy friend,” he said, to which I replied, “See you later, masturbator.”

Strange little episode though, I’ve never been comfortable describing sex acts like that, apart from in my blogging and that’s different because I’m not trying to turn anybody on, and I’m not reporting fantasy but fact, so it just spills out of me like surplus jizzle. The whole “uh then I stroke your dick…” thing just always seemed a bit sad and embarrassing and I blush alone to myself, thinking no… they can’t find that sexy… they can’t….

And my buddy, my partner in grime, he’s no one I would have thought of in that way… not that he’s too ugly for my shallow sober persona, which is the usual reason I don’t sleep with someone despite them being straight and male, that’s not it at all, as far as I remember (no good recent photos on facebook) he’s definitely with acceptable levels of attractiveness. It’s just we don’t have a lot in common and when we were friends briefly I think we both had other people we were fixated on… so it never really occurred to me, and then we lost touch.. Anyway it was lovely and weird and fun and unexpected… a little moment of recognition between two very horny hung over people. I like that…. It’s oddly rare…. I used to think everyone had a similar kind of sex drive but lately, I’m finding that we are a minority of some sort… I know my “sex addiction” is self diagnosed but it is probably real, otherwise what the fuck DO I have?

It’s probably totally sex addiction.

Anyway if you are a doctor or a psychiatrist or something, I would really appreciate a free diagnosis. It doesn’t have to be official or anything, you can just be like…pssst… I’m a doctor and you are totally a bona fide sex addict. You poor thing, you are doing so well despite your terrible affliction. Well done on the not fucking any old people or taking advantage of your old friend who is in love with you.

If you are a medical person and you think I am not a sex addict, well that’s just like, your opinion. I may not be humping furniture or getting rapey with anyone but just remember, for every miserable bone I detail here, there is at least one other I am too ashamed to mention.

I was going to watch that movie “Shame” because I thought I could decide if I had sex addiction or was just unusually randy,  based on that movie, plus, I’d like to see lots of non-porn movie sex, but then I couldn’t find a pirated copy, so my proper diagnosis will have to wait. But rest assured, I’m going to get a second opinion on my condition, even if it is just 2 hours with Micheal Fassessessassenbender or whatever, mmm he looks pretty hot. He’s Irish, apparently.

Anyway. I’m all tired of typing now. I think I might have another read over my filthy conversation from last night and muse on that for a bit, then hit netflix. I have netflix now. I love netflix…. internet streaming in this house is so bad, I couldn’t handle waiting 20 minutes to load 5 minutes of film, so I got netflix. I’m pretty impressed so far, I have to say…

So. That’s me gone for the time being. Please take two seconds to answer my poll, in the name of scientific research and the advancement of my mental health. Thank you.

 

Later-oonies,

 

Abby N. Flicker.

I’m here to tell ya, honey, that I’m bad to bone.

Woke up this morning with full recollection of last night’s dream.

The moral of it is,I really really need to get laid.

Last night I dreamt I was in Doctor Who, I was the doctor’s newest companion… we were in the Tardis but it was like a building, one main room with a load of long halls branching off it and it was really weird and mazelike. Anyway that’s not important- what happened was I was playing with all these old board games and the doctor distinctly told me not to open the “Risk” because it contained a really really evil alien he had managed to trap there. And this alien was apparently really powerful and evil but there was a photo on the cover of risk, and it was a really sexy alien that looked kind of like Jude law except more evil. Sort of like Jude Law in that robot film with the little sad-eyed kid… what was that called?

So what did I go and do? As soon as the Doctor was off in another room sonic-screwdrivering something, I opened the box and let the alien out because I wanted to try have sex with it. And then it was like oh I’m just going to go next door and freshen up, and then of course it didn’t come back, it escaped. And the doctor came in and saw the empty box and all this goo on the floor that this alien leaked (it wasn’t sexy goo, it was just like the alien’s footprint) and he was soooo pissed off with me and he couldn’t believe how foolish I had been. And I was all embarassed and felt guilty because the alien was evil and was going to kill everyone. The doctor said I couldn’t go travelling with him any more and he made me clean up the room while he tried to get the alien back before it destroyed the world.

You might think, it was my dream, why the hell didn’t I just jump the Doctor’s bones? I mean, he’s pretty damn sexy no matter who the actor is, and it was a DREAM. But no, in my dream I was too afraid of making a fool of myself by being rejected.

Anyway yes this kind of dream makes me think dang… I need to spend less time on the computer games and more on the joystick, amiright?

So I’m going to socialise fiercely, take all opportunities I can get, even with people I find a bit boring.Someone has to have a sexy asshole friend I can rub up against.

I mean I know it was only a dream, but I probably would try to have sex with an evil alien if he was hot.

I’m totally starved of sex but at the same time, the idea of screwing someone kind of creeps me out. I feel like I wanna do some dude who doesn’t know who I am or anything about me, and who doesn’t have my number so that he can neither call me nor can I feel upset because he didn’t call me. I want some kind of straight woman’s glory hole, except obviously I don’t wanna give head, because what’s the point in that? Head giving is my manipulative bitch tool, it’s got about as much to do with sex (for me) as making tiramisu for your partner: it’s a treat, and can be used for bargaining/to impress him. I know, terrible attitude to sex…. but I don’t care if there are nice selfless people out there or women who actually get off on that shit. For me, head giving is only for occasions where I want to leave a really complimentary memory of our hook up implanted in the recipient’s head. Maybe I said something really stupid or my legs were bristly- a good enthusiastic blow job seems to correct most mistakes like that….

Anyway I’m a little confused about what it is I actually want. I do want to dance the horizontal tango, and I don’t want to do it via glory hole, ideally, but I have the paranoid fear that for men who sleep with me, the next day, the air of attraction will disolve and they will be laughing at me and thinking what a sap, did she think that facial expression was sexy or something? How embarrassing. Also, those boobs are a weird shape, they were only round for like 20 seconds until they became warm and then they looked absolutely shit….

Also, they will think, my god I’ve never come across a woman with weaker thighs, she only lasted on top for like 10 flimsy bounces and then she had to flip over and what a shitty excuse “oh I get too distracted, I can’t be on top”, and the last woman I fucked was way better and had nicer boobs and was an athlete and so could be on top for AGES and there was no awkward “oops it came out” fuckery where penises have to be re-inserted again and again because man, being on top is not my forte as well as being a really unflattering angle for pretty much everyone who doesn’t actually set aside time specifically for moving stomach muscles.

Anyway this paranoia I have makes it very difficult to let just anyone play with my sad excuse for funbags, never mind get proper nakey with. Any guy I’m so comfortable with, I can actually get naked and do sex, I end up feeling really weird about doing my “routine”, like I can see the lucky lad thinking “oh that’s what she has learnt so far from her previous sexual partners, I wonder who told her THAT was enjoyable? Also she’s surprisingly limp in the sack for such a slutty girl”

So I just need to get reeeeaaally drunk or preferably fuck some guy who’s just as terrible in bed as I am, so I can feel superior to him and therefore relax. (a GUY who’s bad in bed is even worse, I’m sure their part is easier with all the thrusting and stuff. I reckon I could give good thrusting action if I had a dick)

I very rarely let my guard down properly and lose my inhibitions. In fact part of the reason I got married in the first place was because I had wow managed to find a guy I had really good crazy sex with. We had a phenomenal sex life (before the marriage and stuff) and prior to meeting him I had only had about 3 or 4 sexual encounters that had really been very good at all despite having racked up a phone bill of partners.

And I felt like I was actually good in bed, with this guy. He later admitted that when we first hooked up, I was like a piece of wood. But THEN I became awesome in bed. The best ever, he said. This was insanely complimentary because woah he was a massive man slut when we met, and for some time after we met…. I tamed the beast with my wonderful hour long blow jobs, something I can’t even be proud of because I haven’t retained the skill- it was motivated purely by the desire to please this guy who to my 20 year old self, symbolised every man whore who had ever not really wanted me much more than once…. I received the super cock-sucking powers from some mysterious source, like a mother who finds she can lift a car up off her trapped child, but who then finds she comes last when she enters some fucked up Asian car-lifting contest because, the strength was just on loan to her for a minute. I wonder if I’ll ever really really want to impress a guy like that again… enough to get my super suckie powers back- eh yes, probably, definitely.

Anyway once I knew I had the bastard hooked, I became sloppy. OR rather, less sloppy. I became one of those girls who gives it a measured, nothing special kind of attempt, then pauses and looks up at regular intervals, checking for the cue to move shit up to the reciprocal levels… or there’s the last resort excuse, for those who really really are not in the mood for having a fucking sex limb in their mouths, you can just say your mouth hurts or you can’t muster enough spit. But this isn’t much of an excuse because it’s about as effective as saying “I don’t DO blow jobs, I’m not that kind of girl”

BJs aside, my finest moments in the sack have been during angry revenge sex (I found my boyfriend sexy-messaging a girl, so I fucked this other guy like I was trying to strangle his cock. I may have cried angry tears during, and I know I clawed his thighs a little. I woke up the next day really ashamed and self conscious, but my flatmate (yeah I fucked my flatmate) was like, no that was awesome… really didn’t expect that…

But I don’t think I could pull that kind of crazy out of the bag unless seriously provoked. Also, I’ve felt good about my performance when really mangled on MDMA. It’s perfect for me because I’m so paranoid usually, I’m brilliant when I’m uninhibited and it just doesn’t occur to me that anyone could think I’m not fantastic.

I hadn’t got it right (sex) before I met husband, I only became good with him, and whatever habits I picked up or tricks I learnt, they appear to have applied mostly to him. So I’m back at the ignorance levels of three years ago. I can’t help feeling like all my peers have squeezed in monstrous amounts of experience with a wide range of partners even though I was the slutty one. I had slept with so many people before (it’s shocking, I don’t even know how many but I do know when I stopped counting…) and learnt fucking NOTHING… I don’t know what it’s gonna take for me to unleash my true freak but in a good way. Of course most people have wasted great swathes of their lives on celibacy and relationships too, mine is just highlighted because it was 3 years all together and for nearly 2 of those years I had to stifle a laugh when someone asked what contraception we used. I accidentally panicked one time when my mum asked how  was keeping from getting pregnant as obviously I didn’t want any babies popping out any time soon. I don’t know why I didn’t lie and say condoms, but I know I didn’t tell the truth (abstinence) because of shame and knowing that it was a SERIOUS problem, so I for some reason said “withdrawal method” so my mother thought I was a big ole fool who hadn’t absorbed any of her cringey advice when I was a teen.

Anyway.

Presumably to become good in bed you just have to spend a lot of time there and sleep with the same person more than once, but less than FOR THREE YEARS IN A ROW. I find it tricky to muster lady-wood for the same guy twice unless I actually want to go grocery shopping with him and make him soup, in which case I’m in it for the long haul and I’m just going to skip the foundation level sex studies and go straight to a masters in this particular cock.

Garrrrr

You see I am forced to admit that I am one of those horrendous people who thrives on drama.

Or no, I’m not, maybe…

I think it’s just today is like the MOST BORING DAY EVER.

10 hour shift at work on my own and no fucking customers. Like, five people all day. TERRIBLE. Looks really bad on my saleswomanlihood, but tisn’t my fault really because I have been super friendly and not snapping at people even when they ask me stupid shit and I have even been nice to people who want restaurant advice and directions to places that are nothing to do with my business.

So it’s not my fault, but I’m bored out of my mind.

Oooh there is a tantalising smell of pesto in the air. It reminds me, I bought basil with the intention of making pesto, and left it out on the balcony….aaaaaaabout 2 months ago. Shit.

I may have to buy pesto, but I hate that store bought shit. It’s funky. I’m a pesto egotist and snob, I like my own pesto more than real authentic shit. I don’t like the original so much because it uses pecorino which is sheep cheese. I have no real problem with sheep cheese but I do find it a bit creepy that pesto includes both pecorino sheep cheese and parmigiano which is cow cheese, and I know it’s just my own sick imagination but I kind of imagine these sheep nipples rubbing off these cow nipples in a really disgusting way and I’m sorry for that visual but it was haunting me, I had to offload it onto other people. Ugh freaky.

Sorry. Anyway where was I?

Oh yes, I’m awful in bed.

And I have a pornographic imagination about cheese.

That’s all now I should get some sleep.

If I have a recurring dream, trust me, tonight I will pluck up the courage and jump the Doctor’s bones. He can’t still be mad about that evil Jude Law robot alien, can he? Maybe if I give him head, he’ll forgive me.

Anyway.

Good night, and sorry for the mental imagery.

 

Grumpy, useless post office employees? Probably just need to get laid too.

Today I caught a sweet glimpse of the kind of person I would be if I just got laid.

And it’s not the customer-hating, hostile banshee you have come to know in oh so much detail…

Today at work, I overheard a woman say to her friend “why don’t you ask that helpful girl if they have any of those trousers” and I was bristling with indignation at their sarcasm… when it dawned on me that it was not sarcasm. I had actually been helpful and friendly. Faces lit up as I found them items they loved… wallets yawned and spilled out willing notes and coins.. I even let a dog in my shop. I always hate on the dogs because, fuck people who think they can bring dogs shopping. For many reasons. But this dog looked kind of like my old dog, it had that same gormless face with a permanently put-out expression… I even pet it awkwardly on the head. A woman with a little boy in a pram… the boy was seriously cute. I smiled at him generously, imagining what sort of hot man he might one day become. He went all shy and I thought fondly how all the men I knew who had screwed me over cruelly and broken my little heart before I went all badass and independent, were once cute little faces in prams smiling up at bigger people. Another woman entered the shop and asked if she might be permitted to look at the shoes that were right in front of her. Ordinarily I just answer “yeah, of course..” in a tone that is supposed to imply that their question was stupid and superfluous, but probably only makes me seem like a grumpy bitch who needs to get laid. (yeahhh…) Today, my high spirits led me down the “dad-joke” route. It’s an unfortunate side effect of my cheerful moods- I make lame jokes that inferior people like. Like old women. So I told her “no, you have to look at the scarves!” in a jolly voice that left no room for suspicion of rudeness. Her sides split with chuckles. I honestly prefer myself grouchy and sarcastic, but I suppose it can’t hurt my street cred too much to indulge the part of me that could get along with more people if only I respected them enough to bother.

You may be wondering why the sudden outpourings of good will. Let me assure you, my 6 month hymen has not been shattered. My regrown cherry remains unpopped. The cobwebs of my post-marriage spinsterhood have not yet been parted. But it’s all looking very promising indeed.

But it’s going to happen.

I’m making it my mission to get laid. Back home… back home is where I blend in with all the other fuck ups. Where men expect some kind of crazy, and maybe even consider it a plus in the bedroom. No need to fear me getting needy and expecting flowers and a phone call after. (well…)  I’ve been doing it all wrong for months, complaining about these frigid poetic Italians…. Ahhh I’ve been so stupid about it all. I should have just gone home and gone out and fucked someone. It was so easy back there… I was a filthy slut and it was all good in the hood… I’ve been barking unsuccessfully up the wrong tree. I shouldn’t have been barking up a tree at all. The cats I have apparently been trying to fuck just clamber higher into the canopy, terrified and unseduced. Because back home, the cats might even purr and recognise me and know what to expect and notice I lost weight AND became tidier in my lady garden. Ok they can stop being cats now.

So all day long I have a smile on my face, I’m nice to people, smug in the knowledge that it’s only a matter of time. Time, and effort. Two things I really don’t harvest very well ordinarily. But it’s a time of great change for me. I can do it.

And this morning I stopped off at the bar where hot barman works, in a short dress barely covering the hum of the newly stirring engine… He guessed my order. So I went with the chicken sandwich with cheese, even though I had planned for something more salad-y. Fuck the diet pill side effects. I can take it. (Really not pleasant) I drank my coffee and he handed me the sandwich in its bag. In a low voice, leaning towards me as if there were some secret, he asked me “And how are you? All Good?” with that thrilling too hot for me by far smile. I said yes and flashed him what was probably a coy smile but I’m not an expert on coy… Our eyes met. Our eyes shook hands, and our eyes kind of fucked for a moment. Oh, that was an intense look. It lasted a few seconds longer than a non-sexual exchanged glance. Definitely happened. Not my imagination. I know this. I know it was definitely an “I want to fuck you” gaze. Oh yes. And I didnt look away. I was emboldened by my nether regions in their constant state of readyness. I held it and gave him my absolute best seductive eye moves. I actually am really good at seduction with my eyes, or at least I think I am. I always wonder exactly how subtle or obvious my eye seduction is. Can a guy tell from my fuck me stare that I want to fuck, as well as I can tell from the fact that he is looking at me that he wants to fuck me? And do I even have that power of insight or am I just seriously egotistical… Probably a little of both.

But I did not misread this.

It was the most concrete definite fucking yes signal I ever gave to/ received from hot barman. And it’s probably because I am mind numbingly horny for someone else right now. He just picked up some of the excess radiation from another man’s fithy sweet nothings. Now I need to create the opportunity for him to ask me out…. maybe if i hang out by the toilets long enough, he’ll go in to clean them and then I can follow him and we can have romantic alone time. And he’ll drop the mop and his pants and I’ll be all like “oh hot barman, what is the meaning of this!” and he’ll be like, “We’re all out of chicken sandwiches, so I hope you don’t mind Italian sausage”… but actually that scenario isn’t sitting right with me because hot barman isn’t like that. I’d be more likely to use the line about sausage. And he probably wouldn’t find that appealing. He’s really really hot and doesn’t look at all sleazy or disgusting and you know the story with hot barman…. A long drawn out pile of barely there sexual tension that could easily just be politeness.. but won’t go there. Deep breaths. I’m boarding the f-plane in just a week and a half. It’s torture I just want to be there now and put on my heels and launch myself at some blurry man shape… But in the meanwhile I will frequent my hot barman’s bar and hopefully leave a trail of horny vibes that will last until I get back and have no more trip home to look forward to.

And then I was mooning over all my dirty plans… and a hot air conditioner maintenance guy comes in to fix my air conditioner. I was half expecting some porno backing music and for a hot woman to pop out of the changing room with just a towel covering her and for us all to have a threesome while saying really cheesy lines to each other relating to air conditioner and our inability to pay for the service and so we would have to fuck for it or something. But he was flirtatious all right, and I realised that i was probably still giving the sexy smile I had on since the morning with hot barman and all the time I was thinking over my dirty messages. So I was starting to consider whether I would add a third potential fuck to the mix because he was giving me all the right signals (I think) and then he was like, you used to work in The Ukelele Emporium (name of shop changed to protect my identity), didn’t you. and I’m like, yes I did. And he says ah I remember you from last year when I fixed the air conditioner there. And I’m like, yeah you do, stranger, I’m fucking memorable. And he’s like where are you from, and are you on your own here? And I’m like, well I have family here. and he’s like… well, last year, didn’t you have a boyfriend? And I didn’t imediately get the hint because I am very very stupid and I was like no I was married. And he’s like oh! was? And I’m like yeah we split up, but of course I am still married until blah blah sort it all out. And he’s like wow… then he says this phrase I didn’t get, it was something like “I don’t want to put my hand in the cake” or something like that, and the meaning seemed to be like, I don’t want to get involved… so I took it that he didn’t want to be nosy asking questions, and I was like ah don’t worry it’s fine, I don’t mind. And he was kind of amused but he said, ok well I’m off, bye, see you next time. And then I realised he meant, I don’t want to get involved like I don’t want to get involved in your messy divorce that is clearly quite recent and who knows what your husband will do? Or something like that. As in, he would have asked me out otherwise. So anyway fucked that one up big time, but it would have been weird anyway if I did go out with him… it would of course end badly and then I’d have to see him once a year on air conditioner maintenance day. And I couldn’t be having that kind of awkwardness.

But hot barman has to have gotten the hint today. I couldn’t have reeked more of sexual desire if I had inserted my hand into my vagina, swished around a bit and then approached hot barman with the plea of “SMELL MY FINGER”.

And on that note, because I like to leave you with a nice image, I bid you good night for now.

Things I think impress people, volume 2: Cake

I’m going to a barbeque this weekend (hellllooooo motherfucking social life) and I’m going to make a cake. I love baking cakes but it’s so much fucking hassle and then I just end up eating it by myself. Or I’ll make two cakes and share one and the other is a secret shame cake I eat alone in bed. So I don’t make cakes very often. But I can feel one coming on…maybe it’s the hangover.

I’m going to impress the hell out of everyone with my chocolate whiskey cake. So tasty and moreish. And a perfect prop for me to play my sexy part. I don’t know why but eating cake is deemed an acceptable time to make orgasm faces and noises in public. Of course, I tend to take all the subtle out of the equation and practically deep throat my icing-sticky fingers in some poor man’s direction. Ooooooh it’s so fucking good… I want more… I want more of this sweet sticky goodness in my mouth… oh yeah oh that’s it yeah more, mmmmm so fucking good…so creamy… so moist…mmmm yeah harder harder fucking harder that’s it oh yeah don’t fucking stop oh fuck yeah that’s it i said don’t fucking stop im nearly there…. All things that are totally fine to say just because there is cake involved. Maybe not in a string like that, but individually… we all say filthy shit when eating cake. My mother does this to really uncomfortable effect. She closes her eyes when eating nice food. I’m on edge as soon as we order- please don’t do orgasm noise. Please don’t do that shit. It’s a restaurant. Her eyelids flutter closed and it’s all “mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm…. mmm hhhhmmmm hmmmm” and it ruins my appetite. I’ve never had the guts to just get out with it, tell her that no one outside of a low fat yoghurt ad enjoys a spoonfull that much. How to broach the subject? And that every time we go to a restaurant together, I’m secretly hoping they burn her dish. But she doesn’t even have to have a main course or dessert – even trying a good olive, or a small piece of cheese is enough to send my mother into fits of over the top food appreciation. I have never baked her a cake.

But I’m going to make a cake. And I’m going to lace it with alcohol and put way too much icing on top. Cakes need lots of icing or you may as well eat a piece of fucking toast in my opinion. The sponge part bores the hell out of me. Old lady cakes are the worst. And then those versions of chocolate cake that look sumptuous and rich but are actually dry and flavourless, just a brown version of a fairy cake, and have marmalade or jam or some crap in the middle… what a jip. I like a cake that’s moist and totally overloaded with flavour. A cake that with one slice, makes you instantly feel too sick to ever eat anything again and you have to lie down to deal with it properly.

So I’m aiming for that kind of cake, and hopefully everyone will be as impressed as I am with myself. Here’s hoping a nice specimen of manhood appears, so I can show my knife wielding and baking skills. I have already gone off hottish guy with girlfriend. I facebook stalked him for a little, mentally crunching our numbers… running over positions and venues and considering the furniture in my apartment best suited for an attractive scene. Really need to get a high chest of drawers for my bedroom… none of my furniture will do outside the kitchen, and there are no curtains… and my kitchen is almost too dirty for sex. I looked at his photos… I imagined what kind of dick he might be equipped with. Pity always have to do all the effort before you get a look at the cock. It’s kind of important. I’m not a discriminating asshole, I just hate pencils… Really a turn off, but it’s kind of too late when you find out… I’ll go through with it anyway but really just want it to be over. Guys with thin, spindly penises get my best efforts in bed or on my knees- I just want them to come quickly and get it over with. There should be some kind of cock register online where you can check someone out before committing the time and energy. I looked at his wall….and read a lot of very uncomfortable-making sweet nothings between him and his girlfriend (who is actually fiancee). He reminds me of myself when I was all in love and naive and thought I had found my soulmate… sick making. I feel dirty and ashamed of myself for trying to get in the way… no I don’t actually. It’s just a turn off to see a guy so besotted with someone (else). Poor guy, wonder how much he will have invested in his relationship by the time it ends… it will of course end… although he does seem much nicer than I am so maybe he’s capable of supporting a ball and chain.

Also realised he probably is just friendly. The leg touching is probably part: drunken intimacy and part: he was not going to jump away in horror just because a part of our bodies touched. And then I considered, if he did want to get freaky with my killer body, he probably would take it to mean a lot more than it would… I know when I cheat on my current soulmate I always think I have some kind of bond with the guy I’m screwing on the side. It’s hard to have a heavily invested emotional relationship with one person and not carry some of that shit over into what should be “just a bit of fun”. When I’m in a lovely committed relationship, I miss the ferocity of sex with someone I don’t give a shit about, who I just want to use and discard. But I forget how much I miss having my hair stroked and my face kissed and my neck caressed and getting the good, serious oral…and actually most of my boyfriends didn’t really do that shit either… but I end up being really sweet and tender with my random hook ups and expecting them to care and lie there afterwards talking…. When I’m in a relationship, I mean.

Ooh maybe hottish guy will give me boyfriend head? That would be not too bad at all… No, forget it. He is clearly not interested. Will have to find another set of ears to squash between my wonderful thighs.

And win over their owner with cake.