All Clear

Aussie Bloke carries on texting me for a few days after our last meet up but, within minutes of the wife getting back from her trip, he stops.  I send a few texts over the following week and he always replies, but the momentum has gone and, having gone from at least 5 or 6 texts a day from him, I am down to virtually none.  I suppose it's to be expected but, still, it would have been nice to be prepared.  I send him a text at the end of the week saying "you are a bit quiet with me these days, do you still want to keep in touch?".  I get back "yeah, sorry, been a bit hectic since they got back" which isn't a resoundingly positive response so I decide to leave him to it for a few weeks.  Maybe we'll see each other again at some point, or maybe it was just a "while the wife is away" fling.

Anyway, all is not lost because, out of the blue, I get a text from Sexinsussex, asking how I am.  I am excited that he might finally be out of the dog house and be able to meet up again.  In fact, like a Pavlovian response, I start getting moist down below as soon as we start texting back and forth.  Text chemistry is a funny thing - there was hardly any with Aussie Bloke, but loads in person.  Sexinsussex has it both ways.  Compare "Hi, what u up to?" (AB) with "would be nice to have my hard cock inside you" (SiS) and you'll see why I start salivating when I hear from SiS.  Unfortunately, he is still "being watched like a hawk" so doesn't feel able to meet up again just yet.  Am hoping he manages something soon though - after two blow jobs and a hand wank (for me) I want the full monty with him at some point.

Also out of the blue, I get a phone call from Mr EPC asking if I want to meet for lunch.  Now, that is a surprise - 4 months after shagging me senseless he finally rings as if nothing ever happened.  Luckily, he is the sort of person I can verbally abuse and make laugh at the same time, so we end up chatting for a while and agree to get together the following week.

Meanwhile, I have been back on IE chatting away to various chaps.  There are certainly a few fruit cakes on board.  Read this charming exchange with Pandects...

(Him)  "That's the main problem. Because the women don't pay, they just dabble. The whole thing is so distorted. Not sure why I bother with it. The last woman I met was telling me all the things she was going to do with me. When we met, she bottled it completely. Pathetic."

(Me) "Maybe she just didn't fancy you in person? It happens, the chemistry has to be right. Don't get bitter - I know a couple of men on here who are doing OK, so maybe lighten up a bit!"

(Him) "Fuck off"

Then, the following exchange with Cinnamon Toast:

(Him)  Am I your type, yes or no? It would be presumptuous to be too prescriptive. It would be wonderful if you had an optimistic outlook though. Together we could then take down the collective trousers of Misfortune and Pessimism, damn their respective eyes, and warm their heels from here to Putney Bridge, stopping off for refreshment on the way. Hurrah ! If you like what you read please mail me, and we can chat some more.

(Me) Liked the profile - very funny! Shame Nottingham is so far away, Been in the midlands for long? (I assume not, as you still sound quite chirpy and cheerful.)

(Him) I'm 50 quid an hour. And I don't do kissing. Or anal.

(Me)  sounds very cheap - I get £130 an hour, which would leave you in debt I'm afraid. And you'd have to add in the travel costs, as I don't bother leaving the balmy south coast. 

(Him) Do you take cheques ?

(Me) Certainly not! The sort of low life prepared to pay me £130 for an hour of ho-hum sex is likely to ensure funds have mysteriously disappeared from his account by the time the cheque attempts to clear. 

(Him)  Been there before, eh, pet ?

I'm still not entirely sure he wasn't joking...

Unfortunately, it is now holiday season and everyone seems to be going away, so IE is a bit bereft of talent.  Another problem is that the Sunday Times has just had an article featuring IE, so the place is awash with the type of man who reads the Sunday Times.  Now, I have nothing against Sunday Times readers, I read it myself.  I suppose I am politically more inclined to read The Observer, I just find it a bit boring.  Much better to read about how the underclass are tearing the country to shreds and we are all being overrun with immigrants while doing an excellent job in Afghanistan, than it is to read a load of mealy mouthed do-gooders blaming the riots on bankers - even if I am more inclined to agree with the latter.  Anyway, when it comes to bonking on the side, I would rather go for a Sun reader and they all seem to be on holiday.

Hence I find myself on a Thursday evening in a seedy pub in Brighton (because he is less likely to bump into anyone he knows there) with a deputy head from a prep school.  Followed by lunch the next day with a top IT consultant who has a degree in Maths from Cambridge.  Both lovely chaps - PrepMan being quite fanciable I guess (but not to me) and the IT Man being very witty and good company but completely unfanciable.  There's no getting away from it, to get me wet quickly you have to work with your hands.

So, all in all, my diary is back to being clear of bookings.  Which is a shame, because I finally get the all clear from the clap clinic and am raring to go again...

Down Under Again

Did I really think it was a good idea to go and see Aussie Bloke again, the day after spending the afternoon in the clap clinic?  No, I didn't really, especially as I also had an ear infection and was having a tough week sitting in a room with a load of system developers.   Now, I like IT people.  Yes, they are a bit geeky, but they are also usually quite funny and, it goes without saying, pretty bright.  I don't normally have to mix much with them but, for various reasons, I have got myself involved in a major IT project with my ex-employers.  I'm not normally concerned about my ability to keep up with intellectual heavyweights - MM is pretty heavyweight in the intellect department and I run rings round him on a day-to-day basis.  (He will take great exception to this, but it's true - I just can't equal him when it comes to depth and breadth of knowledge.)  But sitting in a room with a load of IT people discussing the finer points of interfaces is a bit of a stretch from my normal work, which doesn't require a great deal of mental agility.  It's stimulating in a way - I just feel my brain has been doing gymnastics by the end of the day. 

What with that, and the ear infection and the simmering resentment left over from the clap clinic, having sex probably isn't the best idea.  Still, I hate being let down at the last minute (see The Plumber for confirmation of how badly I take that sort of thing) so I decide to go.  Once I've been able to get home and have a small glass of whisky in the bath, I'm feeling a bit better anyway.  I text AB to say I'm going to be half an hour later than planned and he texts back to say he's starving and can he eat without me.  Well, I'm starving too and don't have time to eat anything, but I'm always happy to lose a couple of pounds at short notice so I say yes and resign myself to an evening of hunger pangs - hopefully they will get drowned out by the sounds of passionate lovemaking.

I park round the corner from his house and he comes to get me in his car.  I still fancy him (phew!) and he is very appreciative of my fishnet stockings and starts running his hand up my leg almost before I've got in the car.  I'm glad he likes the fishnet stockings because I did, in fact, have a bit of a dilemma about my underwear this evening.  Mostly because MM has confiscated my lingerie.  Well, confiscated is probably an exaggeration - let's just say he has a possessive streak when it comes to my underwear.  I don't know what that says about him, and I'm not complaining, but still, it does mean that I have to occasionally negotiate over my rights to use certain items of underwear with other men.  His first proposal was that I was only allowed to wear lingerie I had bought for myself.  Well, that's all very well, but I don't buy much for myself, mainly because he buys so much for me.  After a bit of reasoned arguing, we settled on me also being able to use any lingerie he had bought for me as a present, leaving only those items (the majority) that he had bought for his own use.  No, I don't mean he likes to parade around the house wearing it, but he does buy a large amount of stuff I wouldn't been seen dead in, unless I died at a swinging party.  Therefore, in both our minds, it is his lingerie and shouldn't be used for other men.  (I try not to muse too long over the inconsistency of him being possessive about my lingerie and not about me, but I'm sure someone somewhere could write a thesis on it.)  Anyway, in order for me to turn up for a tryst with AB in a different set of underwear to last time, I had to nip round to MM's house on my way home from work and negotiate hard to get my favourite black and red suspender belt.  I was safe with the fishnet stockings because (a) I bought them myself and (b) MM isn't really into fishnets.

When I get into AB's house, I find he's delayed dinner for me after all and there are 2 barbequed (what else?) pork chops being kept warm in the oven and some rather overdone vegetables and new potatoes.  I am quite overwhelmed momentarily and kiss him hungrily before remembering that I am also hungry for food so I sit down and get stuck in to my meat and 2 veg.  I've completely forgotten to bring wine, but luckily he has some chilled chardonnay in the fridge (leftover from some other "entertaining" no doubt) so I get stuck into that as well.  Now, I like my food and I love cooking which can mean I am rather judgemental about what is cooked for me (see MM for confirmation of that) but this guy certainly knows how to barbeque a pork chop - it is really nice.  Can't say much for the veg though, but I do my best - it helps that I'm starving.

All in all, things are very domesticated and cosy, we chat like an old married couple, he puts away the dishes and I think "oooh what I really fancy now is to sit on the sofa with a nice cup of tea and watch Desperate Housewives, then climb into bed and go to sleep being hugged by this big hairy man".  The trouble is, what I am really there for ostensibly is to have a night of unbridled passion and multiple orgasms.  I don't think it's just me, either.  He's yawning quite a bit and I don't think it's because I'm boring him cos we're still making each other laugh.  Still, we both know what we're there for so we start kissing and fondling on the sofa and pretty soon the only things I'm wearing are my stockings and suspenders.  I go down on him and he gets nice and hard.  After a bit of shifting around on the sofa, we decide it's not really big enough and we'd be better off in bed.  I head off towards where we were before but am then gently propelled in the opposite direction into another bedroom and quickly realise I have been demoted into, not just the spare bedroom (which I can see out of the corner of my eye), but the junk bedroom!  i.e. the room where all the spare furniture they can't fit elsewhere into the house is put - it's like an antique storeroom, and the duvet has a nasty fishy smell which is quite offputting.  Well, talk about a downgrade....  although I can understand why.  His wife is back in a few days and he's probably already swept the main bedroom for stray hairs, earrings and suspicious stains.  Don't know why we can't be in the spare room though, but still, I guess he has his reasons.

Anyway, we get down to it and it's nice, but it's not much like the last time.  He's much gentler with me this time (basically, he has to be, I'm too worried I'm going to be wincing for weeks if he goes for it like before) but he also gets a bit floppy from time to time so I think he's pretty tired.  (I know he's been out for the past 2 evenings, which I suspect is woman-related - not that I mind, but I do if it affects his bedroom performance with me!).  Anyway, I have no complaints really - but I guess it is a bit of a come down  after the amazing sex we had 2 weeks ago.  We both fall asleep pretty soon afterwards and that's pretty much it.  When I've stayed the night with other lovers I've usually ended up demanding more action in the early hours, but not this time.  I'm really not in the mood for it, which is a shame - cos I'm not going to have him for a full 12 hours again once his wife is back.  And he really does have a nice body - I stroke his chest a bit wistfully before waking him up at 7 to say I'm going to have to go.

We have a bit of a cuddle then he gets up to make the tea and I go and have a shower.  We have a chat and a nice long snog before I head off home.  First song on the radio after I get in the car is Men at Work - "Down Under"! ha ha - very apt.

Down the Clap Clinic

Yes, I know, it's a shocker isn't it?  But before you go all poe-faced and disgusted on me, I do NORMALLY wear a condom when having random sex and there isn't any particular reason for me to think I might be coming down with something itchy, bumpy or scratchy - other than nearly 2 weeks after having sex with Aussie Bloke it is still hurting Down Under (ha ha - god, I'm funny).  Anyway, I have to admit I have had sex in the past 6 months without a condom (yes, I know, it's far worse than adultery)  - I am naming no names.  In any case, it is more than 10 years since I've been to the clap clinic and, just to allay any nagging doubts, I decide to make an appointment and get my bits looked at.

Well, things have changed.  10 years ago, I had to sit in a large waiting room with hundreds of other people, surrounded by posters about AIDS and HIV and wait for what seemed like hours.  What made the wait particularly embarrassing was that there was a bloke in there I recognised from a previous encounter.  I had to think for a while to work out whether or not I had actually slept with him - I then remembered I hadn't, it was only a snog.  It was my friend Ruby who had actually slept with him.  But still, you know you have fallen a long way from the innocent convent girl your mother was so proud of when you are sitting in a clap clinic trying to remember if you've slept with the bloke in the chair opposite.

This time, it was much more civilised.  The waiting room was more or less empty (obviously Brighton's sex life is much more responsible these days) and I didn't have to wait long.  After about 10 minutes a 12-year old wearing a white coat came out and called my name.  I followed the child into a room and she shut the door and introduced herself as Dr Speculum (no, I can't remember her real name).  I resisted the urge to ask her where her mummy was and tell her a clap clinic wasn't really the place to be playing doctors and nurses and realised that I am now of the age where not only policeman look like children but doctors do too.  I consoled myself with the fact that she had very small hands, so wasn't going to be hurting me too much on my sore bits when she stuck her hand up there later.

What then followed I can only describe as the modern equivalent of the Spanish Inquisition.  This girl child asked about a million questions on my sex life - here is a sample:

• when did you last have sex (ok, I grant you, this one is probably relevant)?
• was it normal sex? (oh god, does oral sex count as normal?)
• have you had sex with a sex worker (I ask you, do I LOOK like someone who would go to a prostitute for sex - why don't you just ask if I AM a sex worker - that would be more likely)
• how many partners have you had in the past 6 months? (whatever I say is going to be the wrong answer to this girl who, I now notice, is wearing an engagement ring)
• did you have oral sex with them? (yes, I know middle aged women aren't supposed to do such disgusting things, but yes, I did, and I'm quite good at it, actually)
• did you have sex with a man (erm, doh, YES!)
• have you had sex with a foreigner? (does an Australian count as foreign, or do I only include people whose first language isn't English?)

Look, darling, all you need to know is that I have had unprotected sex at some point in the past 6 months and I would like to get all the tests available under the sun to check I don't have something brewing in my bucket.

She then caps it all off with a nice little homily about contraception: 

Q "When was your last period?" A - "um about 3 weeks ago".
Q "so you had unprotected sex with your partner in the past 3 weeks?"  A - "Yes". 
Q "Are you using contraception"?  A - "No". 
Q "Aren't you concerned about pregnancy?" A - "No",
Q "Why?"  Because I'm not, you daft tart.  I am 48, my eggs are fried, my partner is sorted in that department, and, in any case, what does it have to do with why I'm here at the moment?  For all you know, I might WANT to get pregnant at 48! 

I am so annoyed and embarassed by all the intrusive questioning that I nearly walk out there and then.  Anyway, luckily she moves quickly onto the main business, i.e. getting me up on the couch with my legs spread and her and a nurse with a torch and spatula thingy up my fanny.  There's a bit of fannying around (ha ha, I know, corny..), while she whips that one out and replaces it with a longer one and eventually manages to get whatever she needs to scrape off my cervix and internal walls to send off to the labs.  I briefly wonder if there is a porn film somewhere that finds this sort of thing erotic.  Frankly, I am in such a bad mood after all the questioning and poking around that I decide never to have sex again.

I'll know whether or not I have something sinister in about 3 weeks.

Trouble Walking

I knew there was a downside to amazing, blow-your-socks-off sex.  Having moaned for 6 months about a lack of action in the bedroom department, I hesitate to complain about the fact that a full week after seeing Aussie Bloke my cervix is still grumbling about the persistent battering it got for a couple of hours.  Actually, I'm not really complaining,  I'm just wondering whether it will be back in full working order for when I next meet him.  MM has already put in a formal complaint that I need to be treated a little more gently next time as he has noticed me wincing when he approaches me with a fully erect member and a glint in his eye.

So, as you have gathered, nothing disastrous happens this time and my meeting with AB goes amazingly well.  I park round the corner from his house and he comes to get me in his car.  Fortunately, I still think he is gorgeous. I have on the full regalia of high heels, low cut dress, stockings and suspenders.  (The effect was only partially ruined by getting a ladder in one of the stockings just as I was leaving my house. )  We go for a drink in a bar and chat away for a bit while waiting for the chinese takeaway to be prepared (cooking obviously isn't his strong point).  It is very touchy feely right from the off and I feel completely relaxed with him as well as full of eager anticipation for what's going to happen later.  When we get back to his place I am given a tour of the downstairs areas (of the house, not his bits!!!) and then we have our chinese.  Finally, I am given a tour of the upstairs half of the house and, surprise surprise, we end up in the bedroom. 

The next couple of hours were a bit of a blur but, as I have been told to put in a few more sexual details in this blog, I will get down as much as I can remember.  We start kissing and pretty soon after that I start unzipping his jeans.  I draw out his semi-erect cock, which is rapidly stiffening, and stroke it up and down to appreciative moans from AB.  My dress had been selected with the aim of being easily removed, so I undo the wrap around tie and let it fall open in front of him.  More appreciative noises. 

I'm afraid I can't remember the order everything comes in after that, but here's a list that can be re-arranged in any way that gives you the most pleasure:

• he asks me what really turns me on and I say being licked and being done from behind.
• he licks me expertly and I have Orgasm No 1
• I am on top of him rubbing his cock on my clitoris and we have what I call "the condom moment" i.e. when proceedings have to be halted while the practicalities are discussed and sorted out
• He is thrusting into me from behind and I am moaning "fuck me harder"
• I have Orgasm No 2
• I am on top again and he is sucking my tits.
• We are doing it with me on top, facing away from him, so he can see right up my bum.  Normally I feel a bit shy in this position, but I am loving it all so much, I just don't care about the fact he's looking up my arsehole, in fact I quite like it.
• He fucks me so hard from behind that I am feeling a pain deep inside, but I still want him to carry on - but, in the end, I have to tell him to do it slowly and gently for a while.
• He comes.
• I tell him I probably won't be able to walk tomorrow.
• We cuddle and stroke each other for a while.  I admire his hairy rug of a chest which makes me feel like I'm in bed with a bear and he admires my breasts, which apparently are the perfect handful*.

Well, phwoarrrrrr.....  I couldn't have hoped for better.  It certainly made up for all the bad luck up to now.  I might have to re-subtitle my blog from "how not to get a shag" to "how to get the shag of the decade and end up with internal injuries."

We are meeting again next Wednesday - I'm not sure how my internal organs are going to cope.

*my breasts are very small, his hands are very big, so I am very pleased with this comment.