The rebound guy

It was nine or ten months after I’d got out of a dysfunctional three year relationship, and about a year since I’d had sex. Over those years, I’d come to mentally associate sex with that person to the extent that it was months before I could even consider masturbating. Needless to say, it was not a time that sex was high on my list of priorities. I’d recently started to recover from the breakup, and was finally starting to eye up guys in the street again. One Friday night, I was texting the BFF when I was at work far later than I ought to have been. The BFF was, as usual for a Friday night, out with her colleagues, drinking heavily, and apparently discussing me. The topic of conversation: the new vibrator that my friend had recently posted me as a New Year present.

I have a tradition with some of my oldest friends, that when anyone is having a particularly rough time, or need rewarding for a particularly vast achievement, that we’ll post them a vibrator wherever they are in the world to cheer them up. These gifts have ranged from hilarious corn on the cob shaped dildos, to personal recommendations for Rampant Rabbits. I’d recently been sent a glow in the dark vibrator, and had been considering initiating the BFF into this tradition, for reasons now long forgotten. She apparently had been vocal about this proposition amongst her colleagues, and I was soon exchanging text messages of encouragement with one guy she worked with.

We texted for a few days before he asked me out. With the BFF keeping me updated on his every facial expression related to me, I nervously anticipated our date, it being the first time that I’d been out with a man in a long time, and the first time I’d ever been on a blind date. Naturally, I’d facebook stalked him as thoroughly as possible from his relatively private profile, but even with the low-down from the BFF, I felt totally unprepared. We met in a bustling Covent Garden on a Saturday night in February. Luckily, I recognised him from his photos, and was pleasantly surprised that he was evidently unphotogenic, he was more attractive than I’d expected. He wasn’t my usual type, but that didn’t mean that I wasn’t going to give him the benefit of the doubt.

We went for cocktails, and I introduced him to my obsession with vanilla vodka (Smirnoff beats Absolut, just in case you were wondering; it’s a bit sweeter), and we made slightly hesitant small talk. We had a lot in common, but there were definitely pauses in conversation until the second cocktail kicked in. Blind Date evidently had a plan, and cocktails finished, he whisked me outside and we set off through the streets. It had started to snow, a fine dusting covering the cobbled streets, and an atmosphere of merriment seemed to have fallen over the city. After all, who doesn’t love snow? He led me down streets I didn’t recognise, until we emerged at a salsa bar. After a few more cocktails, tequila and dancing, we found ourselves wrapped around one another on a sofa in a dark corner of the club. Clearly, we’d found something to break the awkward silences.

By the time we decided to leave the bar, it was late. The tube was no longer running, and as is typical of London in unusual weather, the buses had ground to a halt. At the time, I was living quite far from the centre, and with a typical taxi from central London costing £40, night buses were the only cost-effective method of getting home. Of course, on this particular night, this was going to be a nightmare journey, promising to involve hours of waiting in the freezing cold. After dithering for a while, while Blind Date bought me a coffee, I hedged my bets on his generosity, and invited him back to mine, hoping that this would involve him procuring some form of transport. This was definitely easier said than done, with every serviceable vehicle in the city swallowed up by the masses trying to get home. Eventually we made it back to mine, by which time several inches of snow had settled on the ground. I luckily took advantage of a few minutes in which he wanted to smoke a cigarette to do a whirlwind tidy of my bedroom. After all, it had been a long time since I’d had anyone in it, I hadn’t predicted this turn of events.

I ushered him inside, and hesitating at first, we kissed. We didn’t hang back for long, and soon enough, clothes were shed, and we were under my bedcovers. I gasped as I took off his boxers, this was definitely not something I had been used to. After spending three years  with the same person, you get used to a certain standard, and upon unearthing an unexpected behemoth, I could only hope that he knew what he was doing. I was distinctly rusty from my year long dry patch, but I did the best I could, usual techniques rendered impossible due to his sheer size. My hands were unable to enclose his tremendous girth, my mouth barely began to contain his colossal length. Still, it seemed to work, and as my confidence grew, I decided to brave the part that I was most nervous about, and reached into my bedside cabinet for a condom.

From then on it should have been easy. Unfortunately, despite my sensible intentions, the use of this prophylactic was hindered by his mammoth proportions, and despite a highly awkward few minutes of trying the several different types and brands available in my condom box, we soon established that it just wasn’t going to work without specialist equipment. After all that effort, I no longer cared to be responsible, and decided to worry about the consequences tomorrow.

The sex wasn’t earth-moving, and with his vast dimensions, a certain delicacy was required, but it was genuine and straightforward, which after a year off, was exactly what I needed. Morning sex seemed natural when we woke up, and we stayed in bed until late morning, when it became apparent from the influx of messages that the BFF was desperate for a debriefing. I’d send a text to her in the middle of the night when Blind Date had gone to the bathroom, “So I might not be alone in my bed right now…” This was the start of a beautiful relationship, where the BFF became privy to every minute detail of my love life. Up until this point, there’d never been anything interesting to share. Happily, now she gets fed up with the bombardment of middle of the night messages.

Also keen to know about my blind date, were my housemates, who, as well as sending me messages trying to wake me up, could be heard discussing it loudly in the kitchen down the hall. I didn’t know what to do with Blind Date. Obviously, I was going to tell my housemates, but they didn’t have to see him! I’d lived with them for about six months, and in that time, I’d never seen anyone bring a one night stand back to the house. They were largely unlucky in love, and my being the only girl in the house, I wasn’t sure how they would react. I offered to make him a cup of tea, threw on some clothes, and slunk towards the kitchen to make tea and hopefully disperse the crowd of my five housemates and some girlfriends who had apparently gathered. After a few minutes of providing coy answers to their intense questioning while I was waiting for the kettle to boil, the worst possible scenario happened. Blind Date wandered out of my bedroom and into the kitchen to find me. It turns out to be true, seeing is believing, as even though I’d just told them, I’ve never seen such a dumbstruck look of that precise combination of amusement and awkwardness. The girlfriends rescued the situation, and made small talk to diffuse my embarrassment. After hanging around my kitchen for far too long, Blind Date caught on to my hinting, and decided to leave. I kissed him goodbye on my doorstep and walked back to the kitchen and the grinning assembly of my housemates.

“Oh, shut up,” I said, laughing. “So, the date went well…!”

Why I can never, ever work in that office again

Two weeks ago, a new bar opened on the same block as my company. Or rather, it reopened, having been closed for about a year. Until its closure, it was the number one spot for people at my company, and the location of many of my debaucherous nights out; its reopening was very highly anticipated. Great crowds were expected for their opening party, with exclusive entry and long queues to avoid overcrowding. Luckily, I’ve been around long enough that I knew what to expect, and made sure that me and my friends got in hassle free, without waiting in line.

Anyone who’s anyone was there. I saw dozens of people that I knew, and just walking to the bar to get a drink felt like a high school reunion. I had expected all of the guys from my old office to be there – they were very firm regulars at the old place – and was very surprised to only run into two of them, neither of whom I’ve ever even considered a dalliance with. I’d gone to the opening with the guys from my new office (obviously, in my new office of ten, I’m the only woman) who I don’t yet know all that well (and luckily don’t fancy), so instead of hobnobbing and talking to everyone, I stayed with this group of people and had a lot of fun. Disappointingly, the guys from my office aren’t exactly party animals, and they left at about 8pm, leaving me with two guys who were friends with someone from my office. We chatted, but I wasn’t that interested in them, so when I went to get a drink and saw The Editor talking in a group to one of the guys from my old office near the bar, I leapt at the opportunity to converse with far more exciting acquaintances, as well as to interact with The Editor in a more social setting than the newspaper office. None of us realised that we were mutually friends, and so that gave us a starter, and from there conversation flowed.

I’d never really spend much time with this guy in the office, despite knowing him for years, I wasn’t actually sure that we’d ever had a one on one conversation. All I knew about him was that he sailed a lot, and he was dating someone who I went to university with, but didn’t really know (small world, isn’t it?). With The Editor distracted by the others in this group of people, The Sailor says to me, with a flirtatious smile, “So. How’s your love life?” I assumed that he was referring to the incident with G, frowned, and asked whether he was joking. He wasn’t, he swore, it was a genuine question. I responded with a wry smile, telling him that it was disappointingly dull, and nothing was going on. Ah yes, he lamented. “Mine too.” It was then that I remembered hearing that he’d broken up with his girlfriend a few months ago, after being together for years. I’d assumed that they would have got back together, I felt bad for him. But I changed the topic of conversation, lest he get depressed, and started gossiping about people in his office. It wasn’t really flirty, just friendly, and I was happy when The Editor rejoined our conversation.

I was pulling out all the stops with The Editor, at my most charming, with funny stories coming out of my ears. It was going well – I remember him saying that I was the most interesting person that he’d ever met, and conversation was flowing readily. Despite the rest of the people he was with drifting off, he didn’t seem keen to leave. At the same time, neither did The Sailor. The Sailor was keeping me supplied with drinks, and as he drank more, he started flirting, and was becoming quite tactile about it, constantly touching me in some way. I was panicking that this might give The Editor the wrong impression, and was focussed on not reciprocating in any way, while at the same time being royally confused. The Sailor knew that I’d slept with one of his office-mates (luckily, he didn’t know that out of the five guys, it was actually two, with the other two being married and asexual), why was he hitting on me? I’d never thought about him sexually in the remotest sense, I just didn’t know what to make of it.

After several more pints, and some shots of tequila that I made the boys drink instead of me (“Trust me guys, you do not want me to drink that tequila. I am not responsible for my actions if I have tequila”), as it got much later and approached the closing time of the bar, The Sailor won this standoff between men, and The Editor made his excuses and disappeared. Although I’m sure that he said that he would be back, I didn’t see him again after that, although that could be because I got a little distracted. Now we were alone, The Sailor upped the ante, and flirted even harder. There didn’t really seem to be a reason to fight it anymore, and when he leaned in to kiss me, I kissed him back. Soon we were up against a pillar, necking like teenagers, in a bar that had called time and was waiting for people to leave.

I pulled away from him, slightly embarrassed at the situation. “They’re closing,” he murmured, nuzzling my neck. I looked around, confused. I didn’t realise that it was so late.
“I guess we’d better leave then,” I murmured back.
“What do you want to do?”
I shrugged, raising my eyebrows.
I could see him weighing his options. “I want to go somewhere and spend more time with you,” he eventually said.
Very cautiously put. I grinned. “Well, let’s go then!”

At this point, I don’t really know what I was planning. He’d certainly got me hot and bothered, but I wasn’t sure if I liked him enough to take him home. I’ll probably leave him at the tube, I reasoned. The walk to the tube took a lot longer than usual. Stopping every few steps to press each other up against glass windows that we normally look out of during the day, our eager hands explored each other in the relative privacy of the dark streets. If that hadn’t got me riled up enough to decide to sleep with him, the decision had been made for me when we got to the tube station. Much in the same way as had happened with Homeboy, I’d missed the last tube home in my direction, and really had no choice but to go home with The Sailor.

We spent the tube ride being those horribly inappropriate people you sometimes see, unable to keep their hands off each other, and barely keeping their behaviour to an appropriate public level. Tube trains are well lit, after all. Luckily, it was only a few stops. Once off the tube, we played a more residential version of our few steps to distraction game. After a probably illegal few minutes against a wall, I pushed him back. “There’s something that I should tell you,” I said seriously. “This morning, I made the decision between coffee and shaving my legs. Coffee won. They’re pretty hairy.”
“Are you serious?” He laughed. “Is that really your biggest concern right now?”
“Well,” I said. “Yes!”
He kissed me.

In between the wall moments, we held hands and had those pseudo-deep conversations that you can only have with people that you’re sleeping with. Eventually, we reached his house, and headed straight for the bedroom, with a temporary diversion so that we could both pee. Both relieved, I pushed him onto the bed and climbed on top of him. We were suddenly both trying to rid each other of our clothes in record time. He fumbled with my bra, but then got it undone, and in one swift motion he rid my upper body of several layers of material. Still straddling him, I pulled him into a half sitting position and took off his t shirt, then reached down to undo his belt. As soon as I’d done this, I felt his strong arms hold onto me, and he somehow stood up, lifted me against the door, shed his jeans, and tug mine down over my hips, all in one swift motion. I was impressed, and very turned on – I didn’t realise he was packing that kind of strength! Eventually we were standing there, both totally naked. He made some lighting adjustments, and we dived under the covers of his bed.

Ever the gentleman, he seemed to be very focussed on my pleasure. As I tried to go down on him, he asked me the question that every girl deserves to hear. “Don’t you want me to make you come?” Ever one to look a gift horse in the mouth (and hoping that he’d make it up to me), I wanted to fuck him more than I wanted him to make me come, at that moment in time. After what felt like a lifetime of waiting, he eased into me, and we both moaned in ecstasy. After what was becoming far too long a dry spell, it was incredible to finally feel someone inside me again. And what I was becoming increasingly aware of was that he was really, really big! We fucked exactly as you’d imagine, like two people who were both breaking a drought. It was fast, hard, and passionate. We eventually broke apart, and lay back on the bed, panting and satisfied.

Exhausted, we shifted into spooning, and he fell asleep. I lay there, warm and comfortable, but unable to sleep. After a while, I decided to get up and go to the bathroom. I’d been drinking for hours, I was drunk, thirsty, and I needed to pee again. Unfortunately, I had no idea where my clothes were. Luckily, as I was looking for them, he woke up long enough to direct me to his robe, which pretty much came down to my feet. After drinking as much water as I could bear from the tap, I got back into bed with him, and went to sleep. Fast forward a few hours, when I woke up deathly hungover at about 7am. I needed more water, but was too hungover to get it, and he was still dead to the world. I think I did the classic girl thing of lying awake, tossing and turning, until he was sufficiently disturbed to wake up. Without my even saying anything, he pretty quickly went a filled a massive glass of water and put it by the bed. Either he’s psychic, or he’s a hell of a catch.

We fell back to sleep, entangled in each others arms, but were rudely awakened by the doorbell. The Sailor sprung out of bed urgently, and put on his robe, as I heard someone calling his name from the hallway. He offered no explanation as he disappeared out of the room. I could hear a lot of activity, but I had no idea what’s going on. I knew that I had two options: get dressed and prepare to leave, or pretend to be asleep. I opted for the latter, and tried not to freak out as the minutes ticked by. About fifteen minutes later, he came back into the room, shed his robe, and got back into bed.

“S’going on?”
“Tesco delivery. I was supposed to be up for it… Did my alarm go off?”
“Uh, I didn’t hear one. What time is it?” It was gone 11am, too late to be hanging around after a one night stand. “I should probably go…”
“Nah,” he replied, wrapping his arms tighter around me. “Leaving is overrated.”

We lay in bed for another few hours, chatting, snoozing, and intermittently shagging (because how can you not, when you’re naked in bed with someone?). He held up on his side of the bargain and went down on me, doing things with his tongue and fingers that I cannot possibly explain and feel that everyone should know about. I wanted to ask what he was doing, so that I can teach it to every man ever, but I didn’t think it was the right time – it seemed like there would be more opportunities to ask on the horizon, after all. Getting hungry, he offered to make me breakfast, which kept failing to materialise as we got distracted from the task of finding food. After a final round, ending on the magnificent climax of a simultaneous orgasm (pretty good for a first time, it was only the second time I’ve ever come without any direct clitoral stimulation), we lay back on the bed, gasping for air. It was nearly 2pm. “Right,” I said, once our breathing slowed. “Let’s get something to eat.”

It became apparent that in order to eat, we would have to leave his bedroom. It also became apparent that we would have to face his housemates. No problem, I thought, I’m not ashamed. I would take a stride of pride into their midst, hair a mess and reeking of sex. “Who are your housemates?”

My heart dropped when he told me that he lived with one of the guys from the office and his wife. I covered my face with my hands and groaned. “Of course you live with him,” I said, cringing. Luckily, due to his being married, the housemate was a lot less laddish than the others, and at least wouldn’t say anything to me. I took my time getting dressed while The Sailor made french toast. In fact, I took so long that he came to find me and asked if I was hiding. I was, sort of, but only in a delaying the inevitable sort of way. Fortunately, in this time he seemed to have taken the hint, and told his housemates to make themselves scarce. The wife had gone out, and the husband was in his room. Breakfast was delicious and very welcome; The Sailor was clearly a very competent cook. Plates cleared, we each curled up at opposite ends of the two seater sofa and chatted, nursing cups of tea. Our conversation was slightly stilted, it was obviously a bit awkward, and moving between topics of conversation was difficult. However we found lots to talk about, even beyond work we had quite a bit in common. This was the first time we’d ever had a conversation alone together, I realised.

Eventually the housemate reappeared, and came out for a cup of tea before leaving. He was admirable – he didn’t seem the least bit fazed by my presence (he’d obviously been warned, but I didn’t expect him to be able to keep a straight face after probably hearing us at it all night) and acted as though it was totally normal that I was in his house looking like a mess at three in the afternoon.

Once the housemate left, it was slightly easier. Every so often I would suggest that I ought to leave, and he’d brush it away, encouraging me to stay. Eventually, it was gone 5pm. “It’s dark outside!” exclaimed The Sailor.
“Okay, this time I really do have to leave,” I insisted. He offered to walk me to the tube station, and after gathering my things, we set off. Unlike the previous night, we didn’t hold hands as we walked, instead out hands buried deep in coat pockets to protect from the cold. I didn’t say much, waiting for him to address the meaning of this day in some way, but it never came. At the station, he hugged me, our first significant physical contact since getting out of bed. “I’ll see you soon,” he said. “Maybe at the bar.” He grinned.

I didn’t really know what to make of it all. He was giving off so many mixed signals, that could be attributed to awkwardness, I just had no idea how he felt. After relaying the story to the BFF, we decided that maybe there was potential. He’d added me on facebook during the evening, so when I went online to accept his friend request that evening, I took the opportunity to send him a message. I know, why would I do that? All I can say is that it seemed like a good idea at the time.

“So… How’s your love life? ;)”

Nearly two days later of mildly freaking out (though not even close to the levels of stress reached with G):

“A bit messed up, you?”

What even is that?! What does it mean? I waited a few hours, and consulted the BFF on a reply that would be technically neutral, but not unenthusiastic, just in case. And to be honest, I was offended by his messed up comment, I wanted to know what it meant.

“A little bit more interesting than yesterday. Why is yours messed up?”

Two days passed. In that time, I had an excellent session at the gym, and managed to sweat out all my nervous energy. I wasn’t bothered anymore, he’d taken too long to reply, he obviously wasn’t interested. Then…

“Because I’m a rubbish person”

Well. What sort of grown man sends a message like that? I knew that I could do one of two things in response: either send a bitchy reply, calling him out on his ambiguity, or I could leave it. I chose the latter. I’m too old to get drawn into stroking the egos of these emo men who don’t know what they want. He obviously wanted me to ask why he was rubbish, and I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. Whatever his reasons for being rubbish, he’d quelled amy flames of desire I was harbouring for him, and I was happy to leave it there.

That was the end of our messaging, but of course, it doesn’t mean that I haven’t seen him several times since. At the bar, where I’ve seen him a few times, he’s managed to avoid me to the point that I can’t be sure he even spotted me. He sat down with some friends at the next table over in the canteen the other day, and I got to watch his face as he noticed me. He visibly cringed, squirmed, and looked around panicked as though he was looking for any possible reason to change seats. I’ve definitely had a lasting effect on him, but the reasons are unclear. Reasoning from some trusted mutual (female) friends guesses that he’s never had a one night stand before, and feels awkward about it. Other reasoning suggests he might not be over his ex. Or maybe he’s just not that into me.

As a result of our lack of contact, I have no idea whether everyone in the office knows about us. I’ve tried to make subtle investigations, but the only people who would come out and say it to my face are the ones who I can’t ask – the ones I’ve slept with. I’m desperate to know, partially because I’m strangely proud of my record there. Out of the non-married, heterosexual guys who coincided with my time there, I’ve scored with all of them, and at some point, I’ve entertained the notion of it being something more with each one. I haven’t met my (male) replacement in the office yet, but maybe I’ll make him my next target. It turns out that third time isn’t the charm after all!

Getting back on the horse

I haven’t written anything about my escapades in quite a while. There are a few reasons for this. I don’t normally write posts that aren’t telling a specific story, but there’s a lot of context to get caught up on, in the mess that is my life. One reason is that I started a new job, which meant finishing everything off at the old one, writing training manuals, doing far too much admin, and then being on the receiving end of training manuals at the new one, all while doing even more admin. Another reason is that I got a second job, which unsurprisingly, doesn’t leave much spare time on top of my original full time job. Until fairly recently, I’ve not had the time to have sex (at least not story worthy sex), much less find time to write about it.

Leaving my old job means that I’m out of the office that was basically an abridged version of my sexual history, which is pretty refreshing. Unfortunately, I haven’t gone very far. I’m still very broadly working for the same company, but doing something more important, in a different building a few minutes walk away. I’ve been there for two months, and on a day to day basis, it’s now unusual for me to run into someone in the hallway who I’ve slept with. If I stray too far, by getting off at a different tube stop, or going to the wrong place for lunch, I will inevitably see someone and maybe it’ll be awkward, but at least it’s not encroaching on my professional life anymore. Of course, I haven’t entirely gone far enough. I have fortnightly meetings with the guy that I dated in my final year of university, and the local pub hasn’t changed, meaning that after work drinks are still a stressful experience. As much as I complain about it, I do kind of love the drama – it means that I’ve got a lot of good stories to tell, after all!

So far, I’ve been maintaining a rule that I will not sleep with anyone who is in my department, building, or who I have to work directly with. About half of couples meet at work, so this does seem terribly restricting, but having been gently nudged out of my old department due to my unprofessional conduct (apparently senior staff don’t view you in quite the same light once they’ve overheard detailed descriptions of what you’re like in bed – thanks for that, G), I don’t really want to take that risk. Although the vast majority of people I slept with, either in that building, department, or even small office didn’t spill the beans, there is always going to be one who does, and that can come back to bite you. It took a lot of persuasion to get this new, more advanced position, and at least for now, I’m not going to do anything to jeopardise it. Of course, I’m a shameless flirt, and have already achieved a certain chemistry with several handsome young men, so we’ll see how well I maintain this rule following the slew of Christmas parties!

The second job is something that I’m really excited about. I started working at a weekly newspaper, which is amazing, and a lot of fun. It means that my writing goes out to a far more expanded readership than this blog, although it’s usually on topics that I enjoy writing about far less than I like writing about sex. Although it’s a lot of work and takes a lot of time, the paper is a lot less formal than my other job – I’m not worried about the career destroying implications of dating or sleeping with anyone else who also works there. This is good, because I have developed a full on crush on the Editor-in-chief, who will hereafter be known as The Editor. I hope that there are some stories to tell about him before long, but I think I’ve sabotaged any relationship with him with some slightly shameful behaviour with The Sailor (story to come, I can promise scandal!). That said, there are a few other guys who I wouldn’t exactly turn down either!

Having stayed away for so long, I have updates on a lot of my key players and a few new and old stories that I can’t wait to tell. I’ve finally broken my long dry spell, and I am definitely back on the horse. Let me tell you, it feels good to go riding again ;)

Is it possible to be friends with someone once they’ve licked your arsehole?

I finally actually had sex with Computer Guy last night. Not just oral sex and fondling, as we’ve done before, but actual penetrative sex. I threw a party, and after remaining fairly sober for the last few weeks, I was very excited about getting drunk and having fun with my friends. At around 2am, when most people had gone home, I happened upon one of Computer Guy’s friends pouring him water, and making sure he was okay. Apparently my feeding him all that tequila earlier on in the night was too much for him. His friend sent him off to my bed with a large glass of water, which is where I joined him a while later once everyone who was leaving had gone, and the few who were staying had been found places to sleep.

I got into bed with him and spooned him, as usual, but I didn’t expect anything to happen, because he had just passed out drunk. To my surprise, almost immediately after I turned out the light, we were kissing, and things escalated from there, and I chanced upon something entirely new for me.

I’m not very experienced with anything anal. My longest relationship guy, my primary source of sexual experience, was absolutely dead set on avoiding that area entirely, and while curious, I was happy enough for it to stay that way. I’ve experienced the suggestive nudging of my hands in that direction from boys, but have rarely been brave enough to actually go through with it (what if I’ve misunderstood and that is NOT what they were getting at?!) I was slightly more experimental with Homeboy, who encouraged my hands to wander places that they’d never been, and responded in kind, which was a new, mildly stressful, but not altogether unpleasant experience for me. Computer Guy, last night, also seemed determined to provide me with this additional pleasure, but took it another step further. Being very keen on “mutual devourment”, as he referred to it at some point, I was continuously finding myself in positions where my nether regions were presented for him in what I’m fairly certain is a wholly undignified manner. Trying to maintain your position to receive optimal pleasure, while trying to deliver pleasure yourself, is challenging at best, and your enjoyment is really entirely at the mercy of your partners skills (which I suppose is exactly the point, but sometimes it’s nice to be able to help them along at little bit!). Because of this, I found myself in what I think is the even more nerve wracking position than before, of receiving analingus.

I’m not always 100% comfortable with receiving normal oral sex, mostly for paranoia reasons, and will using only do it with someone I trust, or someone I’m not going to see again. While this was definitely out of my comfort zone (I didn’t even know that I was going to have sex at all. Had I known, more paranoia preventing preparations could have been made!), I think it’s an incredible testament to our friendship that I trust Computer Guy enough to actually let him go through with this. I can’t say that it’s my favourite thing in the world yet, but I am new to this anal game, so maybe I’ll learn to love it more.

This is definitely a whole new level to our relationship though – while sexually this isn’t a significant difference from what we’ve done before, the fact that it keeps happening is going to need to be addressed at some point. Although I slept in his bed a month or so ago, and he stopped anything from happening between us, as a rule, he’s definitely still keen in the mornings when he’s sober.

What I am concerned about, however, is the frequency with which these encounters coincide with situations involving his ex, one of my best friends. Since their breakup, his ex has become involved with one of Computer Guy’s best friends, who he lived with for a substantial part of their relationship. This best friend also happens to be a girl, and someone who Computer Guy was crushing on at the time that they she got together with his ex. As if this wasn’t unbelievable enough, neither of them have ever been in same-sex relationships before, making this pretty unpredictable. The first time that anything happened between Computer Guy and I was around the time that this exciting new lesbian couple announced that they were moving to the country together. This situation is horrible and incestuous and convoluted, and understandably, Computer Guy was a bit confused about how he felt about it.

Last night, they were staying at my flat after the party (it takes a while to get back to the cottage in the country, after all), and were sleeping in the living room while we were in my bedroom. While I’d like to hope that this isn’t motivated by him wanting to get back at his ex, in a weird sort of way, by making the situation even more complicated, some things he’s said make me a bit worried about his motivations. When we were lying naked on my bed in a post coital haze, duvet long discarded due to the extreme heat in London this weekend, I suggested that we should make ourselves vaguely decent because they would probably come in and jump on the bed to wake us up in the morning, and if we were naked, that would just be awkward. He seemed thoroughly unconcerned about them walking in and seeing us naked, and sort of wistfully said that his ex didn’t used to be the type to be perturbed by things like that.

Despite this though, there’s no denying that we have a lot of chemistry, which is always present, not just when he’s stressed out over his ex. While certain interactions with her might make him less cautious about the implications of engaging in sexual activities with me, I would suggest that she’s definitely not the root cause, and there might be something there.

As always with Computer Guy, I’m refreshingly not stressed about whether it’s okay for me to contact him later, about what’s going to happen next. I’m curious about whether we’re going to evolve into an arranged friends with benefits situation, or whether we’ll keep this uncertainty where it’s a possibility whenever we see each other. It might even not ever happen again, but given the pervasiveness of his embraces, I’d be surprised if that’s the case. And really, can I ever just be friends with him again, knowing that his tongue has probed my arsehole?

Engaging the ex

So my ex-boyfriend is engaged. He’s the one who I don’t like to talk about, the one who I dedicated three years to being in love with, at the detriment of pretty much everything else in my life. I am completely over him, I’m not in the slightly denial-esque stage where I say things like, “Well, you know, part of me will always love him”. That’s not true. He could get eaten by a lion tomorrow and I wouldn’t feel any sadness. But I found out today that he’s engaged, and while I mostly think it’s pretty hilarious, I’m a little perturbed by how it went down.

We broke up in the summer of 2011, so about two years ago. While the finer details aren’t relevant, over the course of our breakup, it became apparent that he’d been telling a lot of lies, and claiming infatuation with just about every woman on the planet apart from me. Given the extent of his behaviour, all of my friends had known about this for a long time, and I was naturally humiliated. While we tried to remain friends, his attitude towards me was such that after a few months, I decided that I would rather chew my own face off than ever talk to him again. And I haven’t, and that’s been great.

Shortly after our breakup, he went public (and by that, I mean that he put it on facebook) with his relationship with a new girl, who is in every measurable way identical to me (except that she’s crazy, and I’m prettier). When questioned by my friends, he swore that it was brand new, and there was no crossover. But obviously, he has a certain penchant for lying. I haven’t really given this much heed, being careful that I never even let myself facebook stalk them, and I have moved on. Today however, I was walking with a colleague, and we saw them with their group of friends.

Eager to contextualise the reasons that I’m such a commitment-phobe and a bit of a cynical bitch, I pointed them out to my colleague, and explained a bit about how much of a psycho my ex was. He looked a bit surprised, and said “Oh, them! I know them!” It turned out that they had some mutual friends, and were apparently interesting enough for him to actually know about. This colleague is really not one to gossip, so I knew that anything he was about to say would be good. “Isn’t she a bit of a psycho though?” he asked me. “Like, isn’t she crazy?”

I have no way of vouching for her craziness, but based on what’s been going on, it’s the only conclusion that I can possibly draw. She, of course, is about four years younger than my ex, and they met when he transferred into her year at university, while we were still together. Her first year at university, she got very serious very quickly with some guy that she picked up, and they were engaged by the end of her first year. They broke up around May 2011, by the account of my colleague, and within a month, she was getting it on with this new guy. This new guy, he now realises, is my ex-boyfriend. This places very significant ambiguity on whether or not there was overlap, and given how he was acting, I’m inclined to think that there was. Not that that’s really any worse than anything else he did, I’m not really surprised by that. It’s what happened next that’s weird.

According to my colleague, within about a month of them being together, they got engaged, with her providing the engagement ring from her previous fiancé. I think that that alone is illustrative enough of how crazy the both of them are, but they remain together to this day. And they’re still engaged.

Are they going to get married? Is this actually legit? What the hell is wrong with them that they seem determined to repeat the same mistakes over and over? And isn’t the thing with the same engagement ring a bit fucked up, really?

I’m happy to receive gossip occasionally as I observe their lives from a very removed distance, and I suspect that this will only provide entertainment, but it’s impossible not to wonder what’s so special about her, or what it was about me. I don’t know how to feel about this because I don’t know how seriously to take it. In my head, this makes their relationship seem less serious, because they obviously don’t have normal standards to base commitment on. I don’t know if that’s just my rationalising it because I just don’t want to admit that I’m chronically single when he’s obviously succeeded at the relationship game (if you ignore the fact that they’re both crazy, anyway).

Is it going to be like this with every boy?

Seducing the Irish

Around the time when I started working in my current department, my company threw their annual mingling event, to allow people from different departments to get to know one another. A lot of new people had just been recruited recently, and I was looking forward to seeing some new faces and meeting some new people. I took one of my old housemates with me, so I didn’t have to turn up by myself, and so that I knew that even if I didn’t happen to meet anyone interesting, I’d still have a good time. And as my old housemate is a buff guy, I knew that I could count on him to intimidate away anyone that I didn’t want to talk to.

Positioning ourselves near one of the bars, we found an acquaintance, and with the excuse of catching up, introduced ourselves to his friends, and joined their conversation. After we’d been talking for a while, I spotted one of my best friends on the other side of the room, and excused myself to rush over to her and squeal excitedly. Seeing my housemate was happy talking to the girls in the group we’d been with earlier, and having sunk a few pints, I decided that I was more enthusiastic about going to dance with my friend in the indie room and seeing what that would bring, than I was about talking to them anymore. We headed upstairs to the beautifully decorated dancefloor, decked out like a middle eastern cafe, with plush stools littered everywhere, and wonderful fabrics draped from the ceiling and walls. The decor did not in any way match the music, and we danced to Nirvana until we were so hot and sweaty that we went outside to drink some water and cool down.

It was a warm October night, and there were a lot of people sitting outside in benches and on the grass, smoking, drinking, laughing and having a good time. We did a lap around the grassy area, scouting out cute boys, and looking out for people we knew. As we passed one of the many groups of men, I caught a snippet of an Irish accent, and whirled around, placed my hand on one guy’s forearm, and exclaimed, “Hey, you’re Irish, aren’t you?” At the time, I was set on sleeping with someone from every country in the UK (which is explained more here), and Ireland was the only country I was missing. This, to my mind, completely justified my entirely spontaneous, overly forward approach to these guys.

We started talking, and this original guy, who we’ll call Irishguy (this is actually the name that I use when referring to him with my friends, because we’re not actually sure what his name was), bonded with my friend over her having family from his hometown in Ireland. He was the most Irish person that I’ve ever met, and constantly used words and phrases that were entirely new to me. He wasn’t particularly handsome or charming, but he was entertaining enough, and we stayed talking to him until the bars closed and we were thrown out of the building. By this time, I wasn’t ready to go home yet, and wanted to go out clubbing. Irishguy was enthusiastic about this plan, but my friend wasn’t, so I tracked down my old housemate, with the hope that he’d read the message that I was desperately trying to convey with my eyebrows, that I wanted a chaperone to stop me from doing anything stupid. I wanted to complete my collection of British boys, but at this point, not enough to spend the rest of the night alone with him. Unfortunately, this was apparently too complex a message to transfer non-verbally, and I soon found myself alone with Irishguy, on a bus to a club in Soho.

Irishguy was new to London, and could barely grasp the concept of an Oyster card, let alone maintain any clue of where we were. We went to one of my favourite clubs for dancing, and he didn’t gripe about the £10 entry fee, but was visibly stunned when we descended the stairs, to find that we were the only white people in the entire club. As he very loudly pointed out, much to my embarrassment, there were no black people where he came from in Ireland, and for him, this was very different. I was quite proud of myself for giving him an entirely new experience, and after downing a few shots at the bar, I dragged him onto the tiny, cramped dancefloor. We drew quite a few intrigued looks as we danced, as we stuck out like a sore thumb, but I was holding my own, and although he hadn’t been overly flirty up until that point, my dancing was obviously sealing the deal, and he was now very interested. A few more shots in, I was happy for him to move closer as we were dancing, and soon we were grinding and making out in the middle of the sweaty club.

After we’d been doing this for quite a while, a new DJ took over, playing different music that I wasn’t as into, and so we left the club. As he was completely clueless as to where he was, I offered to take him to his night bus. Unfortunately, despite knowing that part of London like the back of my hand, and having an unnatural pigeon-like homing instinct for finding the right night bus, I must have been drunker than I realised, and I got us completely lost, so we walked around for half an hour before we got to my bus stop. I offered to take him to his stop, as I’d now got my bearings, but he insisted on taking me home, saying he’d find his way back from there. At this point, I was feeling bad for him, as he was totally lost in a city that he’d lived in for three days, so I begun entertaining the idea of letting him sleep on my sofa, so he could just get the tube straight home in the morning. Of course, by the time that he got to mine, he clearly had other plans.

As we sat a few seats apart on his first late night experience of a London night bus, I contemplated ditching him and getting off the bus without him. It wasn’t that I really didn’t want him to come home with me, but I was tired, and I wasn’t that into him, and I’d started to realise that I would obviously sleep with him if he came back to mine. I didn’t feel like he’d force himself on me, but I knew that my infamous lack of self control woul be my downfall here. Although he looked like he’d fallen asleep on the bus, he woke up as I was walking past him to get off, and followed me.

As we walked to my flat, we took breaks to make out, and although I’d sobered up quite a lot, my enthusiasm started to return. Once we were inside, we got into bed, and what followed was fairly predictable, we got naked. His… technique, however, was far from predicable. My memory is a bit hazy, but I have flashbacks of him asking me to give him a “tittywank”, which I think is hysterical (which I think is down to the use to titty, as opposed to tit, which I think might be more acceptable), and another of him crouched over my head as I was lying down, holding onto the wall as he lowered his balls onto my face. This was all thoroughly unorthodox, at least as far as my prior experiences are concerned, and I remember thinking that it was mildly hilarious, and a bit weird. Another memory that I’m sure that I have, is of opening a condom packet, of which there was absolutely no sign the next day.

In the morning, I woke up at about ten o’clock, went to the bathroom, and checked that my sister(who I live with)’s bedroom door was still closed. We hadn’t lived together long, and I couldn’t face the idea of her knowing about my seedy one night stand, so I made him get dressed and hurriedly ushered him out of the house. Mission accomplished: she’s never found out!

Later on in the day, I remember texting the BFF, feeling a bit worried. I can’t remember if we had sex or not, I confided. I remember a condom, but I can’t find it now, and I don’t remember actually having sex with him! But we must have, right? This was a tough one to call. In spite of never locating the condom, I must have eventually remembered sleeping with him, because how I definitely count him as one of my conquests. He is, however, the closest thing that I have to a regrettable sexual experience. While I don’t find the memory of him completely abhorrent, I know that I wouldn’t have persevered with it if I hadn’t been spurred on by his nationality, and that’s not really something that I admire in myself.

When I told this story to my friend, she laughed, and looked a bit horrified. “But he had awful bad breath! How did you not notice that?” I hadn’t noticed that. Another point on the side of being drunker than I realised. A similar thing happened when I told my old housemate. “Oh my god, I thought you knew him! I never would have let you go with him if I’d have known!” Well, thanks for that. Then a pregnant pause. “Ew though, seriously. What were you thinking?”

I don’t know his name, though I think that I remember which department he works in, so if I tried, I could probably find out. We didn’t exchange numbers, and I sometimes idly think about what would happen if I saw him around the workplace. Then I realise that I don’t think that I would recognise him, so I might see him all the time and be totally unaware of it. He took our photo together when we were in the club, an absolutely shameless selfie, and so he’ll know what I look like. I wonder if he ever sees me!

What’s the verdict?

I think that I just went on an accidental date.

There’s this guy who I’ve known since my first week of university (yes, another one…), who was on my course, in my halls, and part of my main group of friends. We worked together on a big research project in our final year, which made us basically inseparable that year. But then after graduation, he dropped off the face of the earth. Until last week.

When I was out of the country on my business trip, I got a text from him, asking how I was, what I was up to. I ignored it for a week or so, until I got back, and sent him a quick reply, saying that I was good, I’d been away, life was great, how was he doing? Almost immediately, I get a flurry of texts from him saying that I’d brightened up his day, he’d just got a new job, moved house, etc etc. Alright, I thought, that’s cool. I dashed off another reply, asking about his new job, and was very surprised when a few minutes later, my phone rang.

I wasn’t expecting him to call me! No one ever calls me; it’s pretty well established that I’m a texter, I don’t like talking on the phone! But we chatted for a while, and caught up a bit, and exchanged a lot of gossip about our mutual friends from university. An hour later, just before we hung up, he oh so casually mentions that he’s going to be in London next week on business, and wouldn’t it be nice if we could meet up and have a drink or something?

Well yes, I haven’t seen him in a long time, I suppose it would be.

So after exchanging a lot of texts (mainly of a logistical nature, I must admit) over the last few days, we agree to meet for dinner (I’m not sure at what point it changed from a drink to dinner) in a pub in Southwark that he’d passed the previous day, and thought was perfect. There were wink faces in his texts, he was definitely bordering on flirty. I obviously googled the location, and was a little nervous to see that this was more of a restaurant than a pub, but these gastropubs do tend to fancy themselves up a little, so I put it to the back of my mind.

I got to the pub, straight from work, and 25 minutes late (I did text to say that I’d be a little late…), to find him sat in this restaurant, at a table for two, overlooking the Thames. Well, it was really nice, but it was definitely looking like a date. Candle on the table, overlooking the river at sunset… Awkward. He made a joke about the waitresses thinking he must have been stood up, but it was okay, he said, because he knew I would come.

Although I’ve known that he had a soft spot for me (erring towards being smitten at points) since we met, I’ve never had any interest in him in that way. I was off-limits for most of the time that we were at university, but when I wasn’t, our friends tried to make it happen, saying that we’d make a perfect couple, to the point that I had to have a “serious discussion” with one of my final year housemates for making me feel guilty for not fancying him. He’s not what you’d call conventionally attractive, shall we say, and he is a MASSIVE geek, even by geek standards, and just really not what turns me on in a man. But I digress.

I joined him at the table, and beer and conversation flowed. The food was delicious, and to his credit, the view really was amazing. He slightly awkwardly mentioned that I was the only one from uni who he’d seen since graduation, and made a few talking-to-girls faux pas (“I’d forgotten how fast you eat!” No, I don’t eat insanely fast, you just eat insanely slowly. Now shut up and finish your meal.), before suggesting that we take a walk along the river after we get the bill. At this point, alarm bells were slightly ringing, and I ducked out to the bathroom to text the BFF.

“We’re about to leave and go for a walk along the river! …”

“How romantic!”

“I have had quite a lot of beer. My judgement is impaired.”

“What are you going to do if he tries to kiss you?”

“Argh cringe. Die. Basically. Wish me luck…”

When I got back from the toilets, he was waiting for me, having already paid. We’d already agreed that I was going to get some cash to pay for my share on the way to the tube, but as we were leaving, he said, “Don’t worry about dinner, it’s my treat.” Now this is the guy who used to bring me chocolate cookies to the library on Sunday evenings, so he’s always been fairly generous to me, but it was a nice restaurant, and dinner wasn’t cheap (and nor was £4.10 for a beer), so this was quite a big gesture, and that made me a little nervous. But he’s just started a new job, I thought, maybe he’s got some bigshot salary now.

As we walked down towards the path along the river, I made a joke, teasing him about something, and he puts his arm around me, and pulls me into him for a hug, sort of an affectionate squeeze. It was quite awkward, and we didn’t make any more contact as we walked along the river, and crossed Millenium Bridge. It was a beautiful night, and London really is spectacular in the dark, and it was a thoroughly romantic setting. We wandered for 20 minutes or so, until we felt a bit too chilly, and he very politely walked me to a tube station.

We hugged goodbye, and it was slightly awkward. I was tense because I was worried that he might try and kiss me, and he was obviously fairly tense because he wasn’t sure what to do. I kissed him on the cheek, and we agreed that we should do it again when he was in London next, or if I happened to be in the arse end of nowhere where he works now.

So what I’m wondering now, is whether I’ve just accidentally been on a date. I was just looking to catch up with a friend, but there were definitely date-like elements. I text the BFF all the details.

“Verdict?”

“Probably a date. But you do have plausibly deniability. What are you going to do if he asks again?”

“Cringecringecringe.”

I don’t know what I would do if he asked me out again. I don’t know what I would have done if he tried to kiss me. I definitely don’t fancy him, but I do really enjoy his company, and more vitally, I enjoy being doted on. But he’s a very naive, innocent, inexperienced man, by anyones guess, and I don’t want to lead him on, or give him any false hopes.

So I ask you, kind people of WordPress: What’s the verdict?