Tag Archives: bad sex

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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The end of the affair(s) – part one

As I watch the snow gently falling outside and the black silhouette of the lifeless tree against the grey sky, I can’t help but feel the end of an affair is near. Perhaps, after two years, my older lover and I are in the winter of our relationship.

We met at a party in London last week. It was the first time in six months. The last time we kissed goodbye it was early summer. The sun shone brightly and there was hope, a lightness, an optimism in the air. It was also then that I gave him a drawing, a birthday present. A drawing that now, apparently, hangs in his marital bedroom.

I arrived at the party, excited at the prospect of seeing him. My eyes scanned the room when I entered, but I couldn’t see him and so chatted to strangers, looking up expectantly every time a guest arrived. It wasn’t until an hour or so later that I saw him. He had been there the whole time. We chatted amidst others, trying to keep the conversation casual. Eventually we left the party together. It was a late hour and there was no plan to go on together. We walked and talked, kissing in doorways. I told him I was in love with him. I told him how much I missed him. How sad I was that we had not seen each other in six months, despite many attempts on my part to make it happen. He asked why I never write in our blog anymore. Why I am so distant. I got into a taxi. He got on his scooter. We have not spoken since.

In my mind, I make excuses for him – his redundancy, search for a new job, father of three kids, etc., etc. That is why it has been so difficult for us to meet when I have been in London. But then I think that if he really wanted to, he would make it happen. He does not commit, does not make plans. It is all left to the last minute, to fate. He fails to realise the lengths to which I have gone and will go to see him. The lies I tell, the money I spend. And so I told him that. I also told him how I had realised that I will never be his focus. His family and wife will always come first. And that makes me ever so slightly sad.

I am not entirely sure what new phase of our relationship last Friday night marks. I worry it is the end. It leaves me feeling empty. Cold.

If it is the end of my affair with my older lover, then I do not regret my time with him. He was, after all, the best fuck I’ve ever had. He raised the bar. He gave me the best oral sex I have ever had. I shall miss him.


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London lover odyssey part 2 – the wedding gift

Life’s commitments have not permitted me the time nor space to document subsequent parts of my London lover odyssey. But today, as I sit outside in the morning sun, a cool wind lifting my hair and spirits I feel the need to write again.

I awoke on day 2 feeling that familiar ache in my legs and my cunt still tender from the hours spent with my older lover the night before. It was going to be another hot London day. I showered, reluctantly washing his scent off my body, dressed and headed into town to meet my original lover for lunch. We had not met for half a year or more, we haven’t slept together for even longer. Ever since he became a father, our lust for one another has faded. He still holds a very special place in my heart. We met near his office in the city, I saw him walking down the street towards me. I skipped towards him and we hugged, allowing the other suited workers to stream past us. Then we walked and talked, stopping at a little restaurant for a bite to eat (his treat) and wandered through the city at a slow pace. I had forgotten how well we get on and felt a little craving in my womb. The idea crossed my mind to book a hotel room, even if just for an hour. I’ve always wanted to do that. I love the decadence, the naughtiness of it.

After lunch, a stroll and an ice cream we parted, agreeing to meet later that afternoon at his office for a coffee. I roamed the streets of London floating in the summer’s breeze, feeling elated at the thought of my older lover’s tongue on my clit and the prospect of a new lover later that day. That afternoon I returned to his office. I think he wanted to show me his new place of work. We sat in his glass office and chatted over coffee again. I imagined what it might be like if his walls were not made of glass. The things I would like to have done to him then and there. The excitement and tenderness of our love affair was rekindled, ever so slightly. He had to go to a meeting and so I left him, both of us feeling the urge for more than just a hug and goodbye.

It was nearly time to meet the tall guy for our rendezvous and his wedding gift. He had flown into London especially. I walked to Soho and waited for him in a pub. He arrived from work wearing an expensive suit. Men in suits… call me old fashioned, but it just turns me on. We enjoyed a cold G&T together and moved on to a restaurant of his choosing. He had offered to buy me dinner – I assume to relieve his guilt of the sex that was to follow. Dinner was charming, a fancy underground affair. We ate and chatted. He told me about his wedding (it had taken place a mere month or so before). Perhaps we are two of a kind. He said he felt no guilt at breaking his vows so soon after making them.  And so after a drink at a seedy bar and numerous kisses across the table, we finally arrived at his hotel room. My wedding gift to him – me.

Having spent all day walking in sandals my feet were tired and aching, so I ran some cold water into the bath and sat on the edge, dipping my feet and washing them with soap. He came into the bathroom to bring me a drink and hugged me from behind, letting his hand stray inside my dress. I took his other hand and gave him the soap, then guided his hand down to my cunt, lifting my dress so that he could touch me with his soapy fingers. As he did so, I turned my head upwards and we kissed. He began to gently masturbate me and I could feel his cock through his trousers. I stood up in the water and he helped me step out of the bath and led me to the bed. Before I knew it, my dress and lingerie were off and I was lying naked before him. He stripped and lay next to me. We fondled each other’s bodies, savouring the new details. There is such a delight in discovering a new body. Every crevasse, crease and mole.

In our IM chats leading up to the meeting, he had talked about bringing a silk scarf, a blindfold. I had been excited by the prospect of a slow, sensual session. Yet, he had forgotten to bring it and as we fucked I began to remember why on the last occasion we had fucked it had not been an earth shattering experience. He entered me from behind and came rather quickly. The long drawn out build up I had hoped for did not occur. And after coming, try as he might, he couldn’t get a hard on again, despite numerous blow job attempts on my part. During one such blow job I suddenly realised he was trying to masturbate me at the same time, by rubbing his foot against my cunt – not, dare I say in a slow and sensual manner, but rather in a jerky and sporadic way that turned me off, rather than on. I decided to fake an orgasm in order to curtail the evening’s events. Then I dressed and left him to sleep, taking a cab home and feeling rather deflated. I had had high hopes for the night, he is an incredibly good kisser after all. But, it seems that some men just aren’t the right fit.

Perhaps that is a good thing, given he married someone else a month ago.

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German lawyer – would you?

So the German lawyer has been in touch again. He would ‘love to meet’. After my last experience I happily re-categorised him under ‘RIP‘ lovers. On the one hand, our first encounter was incredibly sexy – plenty of kissing, touching, fondling. But then on the other hand, two attempts at actual fucking later and he had yet to locate my clitoris.

I’m curious, what would you do? Third time lucky?

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Perhaps there’s a thesis in that…

On my long drive across the Europe today, I had plenty of time to think. It occurred to me that the two lovers designated to my ‘RIP’ category are both Doctors. One has a doctorate in maths (the Italian), the other a doctorate in law (the German). Both speak multiple languages – 4 and 5 respectively.

Both seem to struggle with the most basic knowledge of female anatomy and sex. Could these facts somehow be related? And if so, is this a bad sign for the cute barman?

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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


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