Category Archives: RIP

Highs and lows

This week has been marked by a series of highs and lows.

One evening spent in the company of Moriarty and my closest female friend, both of whom know about this blog and yet still talk to me. We sat in a room with a view over the city of London, watching the sky turn from pink to violet with golden whisps of cloud and finally black. The conversation was open, sexual, sensual and honest. A rare meeting of minds. Not that we all share the same opinion, but somehow at that moment in that space we were all free to talk. There were moments when I felt suspended, in a glass bubble. Given the topics of conversation I left that space feeling incredibly elated, horny and generally alive.

Picture the same setting the next evening. I invited the economist to join me. He brought the drinks and we sat next to one another looking over the skyline before us. We had briefly kissed on the lips when he first arrived, more out of habit and I tried to withdraw, wean myself off him. It was awkward at first. I think we both knew what the outcome of the evening would be. He apologised for ignoring me completely at the party. I told him it would be easier if we agreed to just be friends. He admitted he wasn’t able to cope with both of us at the same time. It was amicable, sweet.  But I couldn’t bring myself to look into his eyes, and so adjusted my chair and stared out over the cityscape before me. We listened to music and chatted on and off. There were moments of silence, of sadness. I felt a big space inside. It got late and so we left. As we said goodbye outside, we hugged briefly and he asked when I could introduce him to a friend of mine, a possible business contact for him. That threw me. My instant reaction was one of feeling used, but then he continued that it was just another way of asking when he was going to see me.

That cycle home was cold, damp and difficult. I felt as if I had no energy, my legs, head, heart felt like lead. I knew the husband would be at home and so tried to force myself to smile as I reached the house. He was still working and so I said a brief hello and went straight upstairs to bed. I collapsed and fell asleep, the weight of my decision pressing me into the sheets.

Checking my email before drifting off, I saw a message from older lover suggesting a drink next week. Perhaps this lowest of lows will be followed by another high. But for now, I stand below ground.

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The end of the affair(s) – part three

I have not written much about the female friend. She was first and foremost a friend. And so I felt uncomfortable writing about our relationship. However, as the title of this post suggests, even that friendship is over. This is about her.

It was my own fault. I was the one who initiated it. About two and a half years ago, she and I were drinking and chatting in a pub. Moving onto the whiskeys signalled the snap in my brain. It happens sometimes. I don’t know why, but my blood races, my heart pounds and all I want is to be fucked, or in this case fingered. I remember thinking, as I spoke to her, ‘this is not what I really think, why am I saying this?’. I told her I liked her, that I found her interesting, attractive and wondered what she thought about me. It was suggestive enough for her to get the gist of what I was saying and she was ‘flattered’ by my advance. There was no fingering that night and I awoke to a terrible hangover and regret for what I had said.

Since then we have had a couple of encounters when, again after numerous drinks, the conversation turns to our ‘relationship’. There has been one kiss, which was not at all one I would like to repeat. Perhaps I am not attracted to women. Or more to the point, I am simply not attracted to her. She is not my ‘type’, if I had one.

One thing I have learned during these close encounters with her, is how tedious women can be about relationships. It is all so serious, so emotional. Whenever I found myself in earnest conversations with her, in which she raised concerns about my marriage and how she was ‘there’ for me if I needed her, I kept thinking: ‘and all this because I just wanted to be fingered’. Christ. What happened to easy talk and loose sex?

Back in the summer, she was round for dinner with another friend. We drank a lot and chatted late into the evening. At one point I caught her eye and she mouthed ‘I love you’ to me. My stomach lurched and I felt slightly sick (a sure sign that there is no attraction, I think). That was the last time I had seen her until November when I met her and the tall guy for dinner and drinks.

I purposely arranged to meet both of them, so I would not have to:

1) sleep with the tall guy, who, although a good kisser, just ain’t that good in bed

2) have long, meaningful conversations with her about our supposed relationship

The tactic worked to some extent. The tall guy could only grope and kiss me when she went to the bathroom and she didn’t find the opportunity to ‘talk’ alone with me. After dinner we trawled the cocktail bars in Soho. A lot was drunk. We finally parted company with the tall guy and she and I shared a taxi home. There was a long (and rather tedious) conversation about our last encounter and how she had spotted my recoil from her ‘I love you’ words. When I got out of the taxi, she stepped out too, to continue the conversation. All I wanted was to go to bed. I was drunk and tired and had had enough of all this ‘analysis’. But she went on and on, until she said she could not cope with seeing me, even as a friend. It was too upsetting for her. Or at least, it was something like that.

I am surprised at how I responded – tears (I was tired and emotional, aka drunk). But inside I was happy. Happy, that by ‘breaking up’ with me, I no longer had to deal with her conversations, insinuations and expectations. Happy, that I could shake off that little mistake I had made two and half years ago. She was the one who wanted me out of her life. And so I would oblige. The tears were there to make her feel good, to mask my relief.

I walked back home, feeling elated. When I got back, I told my husband (having woken him whilst drunkenly getting changed) that we should have a child together. It felt right. Then.

The next day, I received a text from her. She regretted what she had said and wanted to ‘keep me in her life’. I am not sure I want to. Things felt so simple that night she ‘broke up’. The irony of course is, there was nothing to ‘break up’. Just a friendship.


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The end of the affair(s) – part two

Closure is important, I suppose. So when my Italian lover contacted me on Skype recently, that is what I gave him. Closure.

We have not seen one another since saying goodbye at the airport after our second Scotland trip together back in March. I resolved back then to dump him, after some of the worst sex I’ve had and three excruciating days together. I’ve received the odd text from him since then, but nothing more than that.

Two weeks ago he popped up on Skype. Told me his news and then asked me about mine. Then he wanted to know what had happened, why I had suddenly stopped talking to him nine months ago. I realise now, that nine months is perhaps a pertinent number given his question about whether I had had a baby. In his mind, I suspect he had concluded I was pregnant after our Scotland trip and hence had broken off all contact. Of course that was not the reason.

Being English, I have real issues when it comes to politeness and upsetting people. In fact, I believe one of the reasons for my numerous lovers is that I do not wish to offend any admirer and so would rather go to bed with them, than upset them by saying no. However, I felt it was time to give him an answer.

And so I told him: his unwillingness to use a condom, despite numerous requests on my part, showed a lack of respect for my person. And, as a result, I was angry with him and that is why I never contacted him again. He was devastated.

I’m just glad I told him that reason and not that he was simply shit in bed… Not sure his ego could have coped with that blow.

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Manners or RIP – the German lawyer

WARNING: this post does not contain any erotic writing.

So last night’s encounter with the German lawyer was a disaster. First, he was late in calling to arrange to meet. I had just taken the first few sips of white wine and was still wearing my dressing gown after a hot bath when he finally phoned. I had already decided I was not going to go out again. It was close to 11pm, but somehow he managed to persuade me to meet him

“I’d really like to see you”, a line I find it hard to argue with.

In 10 minutes I was dressed again – black skirt, black polar neck, black boots, red lipstick and stockings. I decided to cycle so that I would have a cheap way of getting home later. On the last two occasions with the German, I have had to pay for a taxi home. It seemed like an unnecessary expense this time round. Pedaling quickly through the cool night I arrived at our rendezvous a few minutes before him. We went to a bar, where I let him buy the first round. After all, I had bought dinner on Friday night.

The next few hours were odd – he seemed to feel the need to raise the question of my marriage (slightly hypocritical given he had no qualms last week), his recent ‘devastating’ break-up, questioned why I had left in the middle of the night on Friday, etc, etc. It seems he has ‘issues’ to deal with, not least learning some bloody manners. He was sipping his drink slowly, as he’d already had a quite a few beforehand, so I was forced to buy myself another beer. In my book, he should have at least offered. We even discussed sex and what it was we liked. I told him quite clearly that without some form of clitoral stimulation I’m lost. Jokingly I said:

“You do know where the clitoris is, right?”

“The what?”

“The clitoris.” I thought he was joking.

The bar was shutting around 1:30 am and so the question arose of what happens next. We kissed again and I had that same butterfly, melting sensation. It seems to interfere with my ability to think logically. He asked me to come back to his place “Just to sleep next to each other”. I resisted, knowing full well that I was not going to endure another night of freezing my ass off with no covers, no pillow and his snoring. So I agreed to come back to his place, on the condition that if I cannot sleep he would not take it personally if I left. He agreed.

All this time, I was thinking – ok, so the first sex with someone isn’t always great. But the second time things usually take a turn for the better and it can be mind-blowing (especially after giving such explicit instructions). Let me put it this way: there was no ‘mind-blowing’ anything. I did all the blowing, reminding myself where to find my gag reflex in the process. I had a real sense of dejavu. We fucked again, he used that old chestnut about the “condom desensitizing” him and DID NOT, I repeat DID NOT make ANY effort to find my clitoris. I can only conclude that despite his Doctorate in law, he simply has no idea about female anatomy. He seemed to be fiddling about with the bit further down, near my vulva. I just didn’t have the heart to tell him.

Instead, he ended up coming over my chest, rolling over, taking all the covers and then asking me if I needed ‘something’. Yes, I needed to get the fuck out of there (and some tissues). So, I lied, said I was an insomniac and there was no way I was going to be able to fall asleep, got dressed and left. There was definitely an awkwardness in the air – both of us probably thinking “what the fuck?”. Turns out I’m away for a few weeks, then he is, so happily there is no opportunity for us to meet again until at least the end of April. Or ever again.

I left him in bed (he did not even bother to get up to show me out), jumped on my bike and cycled the 25 minutes home. About 2 minutes from home, at 4am in the morning, when not a single car was in sight, I skipped a red light, not wanting to be harassed by the usual drunks near the station, only to be PULLED OVER by the police. They took my ID, made me stand there for 10 minutes whilst they checked my details and then had the audacity to FINE me 50 for jumping the red light. As I cycled off he wished me  “a nice day anyway”.

Fuck. Fucking tossers. Fucking disaster.

RIP the German lawyer.

“The only things one never regrets are one’s mistakes.” – Oscar Wilde


Filed under flings, General, RIP

RIP – the Italian

It started just over a year ago, on an Easyjet flight to Italy. I had been up late the night before, a visit from older lover followed by a drinking session with three male friends, including the horny American. Needless to say, I was tired and hung over . All I could think about was getting on the plane and sleeping for the duration of the flight. I spotted a free seat in the first row and asked the guy sitting in the aisle seat if it was taken. He offered it to me and helped put my case and coat in the overhead locker.

He started talking to me and I had that sinking feeling. You know the one, when all you want to do is put your ipod on and close your eyes. Instead, to be polite I talked to him and it turned out to be one of the best flights I have ever taken. We talked about everything – life, being married, living in different countries, history, music, art. At one point he asked me to take off my glasses and strangely I did, blushing as I did so. Later he told me he had gotten an erection at this point. He gave me his business card and a hand-written note. I have kept that note. It reads:

Hope you can forgive my (unexpected for myself as much) verbosity. The only way to hope for your forgiveness is hoping you will consider as an option, next time you are passing alone or in company, through London, my flat at the Angel is a place to stay.

He has a rather floral way of expressing himself in English. I can only assume this is because he is Italian. I learned to love his unique expressions, particularly in the IM chats we had after our first meeting. They began innocently enough, though I think we both knew there was something else spurring us on. Within a few weeks, the conversations took a sexually explicit tone. I wish I’d saved some of them as he came up with some hilarious phrases – one was “my balls are like two dried prunes”. Perhaps that sounds better in Italian.

So, then we met again. I took the train to Pisa to meet him for lunch. It was raining cats and dogs. He picked me up at the station and we drove to a little cafe. From the beginning, everything was always such a rush with him. He offered to drive me home after he had finished work, so I spent the afternoon walking in the rain. I was fascinated by him. An engineer, he had been in the navy, directed an orchestra, had a PhD in mathematics and played the piano. I’m a sucker for a renaissance man. We kissed in his car, the rain pounding on the windscreen. It reminded me of that scene from “Un homme et une femme” when they are driving in the rain and he keeps looking over at her as he drives.

So that was the beginning. I went to see his band rehearse, taking photographs of them for their website and when the others had all left gave him a blow job in the dark studio. After that, I moved to a different country and we kept in touch via SMS and IM. The first time we fucked was in London. I met him for dinner and then we went back to his apartment. I suppose the first experience with someone usually gives you an inclination. He was rough, preferring to fuck me from behind, pulling my hair as he did it. Sometimes I like that, the carnal nature of it. So, I didn’t toss him aside initially, instead I decided he just needed a little more time and effort.

Then out of the blue he asked me if I would go to the Outer Hebrides with him. That was last May. I thought why the hell not. And so I flew to London, then to Stornoway. We spent two days there, driving around the islands, staying in a B&B. At night we fucked. Sex improved and he made me come. Though I found his need for verbal commentary rather distracting. It was a magical trip and one I will remember forever.

Since then, we have met in London a number of times – usually for dinner and then ending up at his place or mine. And last week we met in Scotland again. This time for three days. And that spelled the end of our affair (though I haven’t told him). I think it was a combination of lack of sleep, his incessant talking and my PMT. The first night in the hotel, we fucked. He was rough again, gratifying only himself, not using the condom I had given him and then falling asleep. He snored all night long, stealing the covers, hogging the bed, so I lay awake until 5am. I had a lot of time to think and worked myself into a fury at his behaviour. It was made worse the next day when he said the previous evening had been “magical, perfect”. For him maybe. I had already decided to end the affair before he awoke the next day. I just had to get through two more days with him and that would be it.

The bad sex, coupled with calls to his wife, work colleagues and terrible driving have resulted in my first “RIP lover”.  There were some good times, but I am searching for sexual fulfillment. He just didn’t measure up and life’s too short to teach him the basics.


Filed under lovers, RIP

The German lawyer

I’m going to start with my most recent experience. Fresh out of the shower, having washed off his scent from last night, it seems only appropriate to write about him. We met about two weeks ago, in a bar. I was surrounded by a number of men, all rather short and all vying for my attention. Then he arrived. He is tall, has a neat beard, brown hair and eyes. He joined in the conversation and spoke with such enthusiasm and excitement.

I love people with passion. He bought a round of drinks – something the others did not offer. We talked until gone 3am, then he left. We exchanged numbers and before I had even got home, he had texted to say how much he had enjoyed meeting and would I like to do something sometime. Before he left, I made sure he knew I was married. It is important that they know this upfront. Then, if they still show interest, I know they are a potential candidate.

So, we met two nights ago. He suggested a jazz club, a Jacques Brel inspired concert. I wore a silk shirt, skirt, stockings and high heeled boots. It is important to dress the part. Not only does it make me feel sexier, it can also be a powerful tool of persuasion. My signature is Agent Provocateur perfume. It drives men wild.

The concert was mediocre, rather triste and slow at times. We chatted between songs, shared a few cigarettes in the interval and as the night wore on his hand would linger on my shoulder as he whispered in my ear, or brush against mine when reaching for his drink. I consider these little gestures part of the foreplay.  The subtle touching, the warmth of his breath as he whispers in my ear, the eye contact that lasts just that fraction too long – it heightens the anticipation.

After the concert we went to a little bar around the corner, where we talked, drank, smoked. It must have been after midnight before we first kissed. But what a kiss! I am not very practiced with beards, but his beard and lips were so soft. The lightest of touches – his kisses finding my cheeks, earlobes, lips, eyelids. As we kissed I felt that yearning, tingling sensation in my womb. It is a sensation that usually gets me into trouble. I ran my fingers through his hair, digging my nails in every now and then as we kissed, causing him to emit little groans of pleasure, his eyes closed.

In moments like that, the blood is racing, a dizziness comes over me and I feel like I am floating above the ground. When I close my eyes, I see red. An inviting dark red. I am in the moment. Nothing else matters.

After another bar, another drink and an empty packet of cigarettes, we walked to his flat. A bachelor pad – empty rooms, unpacked boxes, the two chairs in the kitchen the only place to sit. And so we stood, against the wall in his bare living room. The night quiet outside and we kissed without stopping. He unbuttoned my shirt and lifted each breast out of my bra, stroking and kissing each one in turn. I don’t think they have received that much attention in many months. It was glorious. My nipples felt erect and as his hand lifted up my skirt and found my bare thighs above my stockings, I could sense his heightened excitement. His fingers slid up and under my lace knickers. The hours of foreplay and flirting meant I was wet with anticipation. His fingers slipped in and out, driving me to distraction. But, I didn’t want to fuck him then – it was 4am and we were both pretty drunk. I wanted to savour that experience for later. He begged me to stay, but I prefer to avoid sleeping (in the actual sleeping sense) with others. I am not a nice person without sleep. So I left him.

Last night I went round to his place again, taking some bread and French cheeses for dinner. He had been at work all day and was exhausted after the previous night. I arrived, took off my coat and before we even spoke we stood in the hallway, kissing silently, he switched off the lights and we stood in the dark. I could see the windows of the other flats lit up. They could not see us in the dark. Then we backed towards the bedroom where we undressed. His body was so hot, a nice body. Simple, not complicated. I sank to my knees and took his erect cock in my mouth. I like to tease a little before taking it entirely in my mouth. I held his balls in my left hand and the base of his penis with my right as I took his cock in my mouth. He tasted quite good. Taste is an important factor (as is personal hygiene).  After teasing him in this way for a while, he threw me back on the bed and grabbed a condom from his drawer.

The moment when a man first enters you is such a relief – a scratch to an itch, the feeling of letting go and sinking beneath the water’s surface, a bodily sigh of relief. And I needed to feel that yesterday. And so we fucked. Him on top, me on top, from behind until he came. And this is where I wish I were a guy. It seems so easy for you to gratify yourselves with a woman, without needing her. I need to feel mentally turned on and clitorally stimulated, as well as feeling a cock inside me. And so last night was only partially satisfying. I did not orgasm, he did not seek my clitoris. He fell asleep after climaxing.

After a brief sleep interlude, we shared the food and wine and talked. He seemed distant, perhaps that’s the German language. It doesn’t turn me on to talk in German. I prefer him when he speaks English, he is more relaxed. He was so exhausted that after eating, we went to lie down in the bed. He fell asleep. I slept briefly in his arms, then awoke, cold and without any covers to his snoring. At that point I realised there would be no more sex that night, so I got dressed, kissed him goodbye and left. As I sped through the dark streets in a taxi, I felt a sense of emptiness. My craving had not been satisfied – the need is still there. And so today, I have chosen to write, in the hope that I may come a step closer to finding what I search for.


Filed under flings, General, RIP