The King Of Cunninglingus

It’s a Sunday evening, I’m working my weekly bar shift and shuffling over to the end of the bar that the cameras don’t cover to check my messages, expecting nothing more than an unrequested update from mum on her day so far followed by an unnecessary row of kisses. So you can imagine my surprise when I see this:

So um whereabouts in ldn you at nowadays?- Ben

To set the scene, Ben- also known as ‘The King Of Cunninglingus’- is a boy I met on the first night of freshers during my brief three month stint at further education. Long story short, he paid a fairly average looking girl with a worryingly low level of self esteem some attention, and said average looking girl (me) fell head over heels into the biggest infatuation of her life so far, blinded by his height and man bun and flannel shirts and perfectly shaped penis. He was also funny and charming and liked the same music as me- a very promising candidate for the future father of my children. Unfortunately I soon learned that Ben was/is a bit of an arsehole. In fact I’m pretty sure if you urban dictionary the word ‘fuckboy’ a picture of him will come up.

Once I’d quit uni, it became somewhat of a tradition that whenever i’d visit Brighton I would ‘holla’ and we would fuck- for old times sake. Yep- all fun and games until I received the dreaded Clamydia-positive diagnosis. And although to be fair to him, I had slept with a couple of guys since, he was by far the obvious culprit. So naturally I confronted him and threatened to chop of his manhood with a pair of garden sheers if he ever dared come within a fifty feet of me again. And that was the end of that (for a while), until roughly a year later I went back to Brighton the visit some pals and ended up running into him on the beach where we proceeded to flirt like strangers and reconcile our short lived feud. (Yes it was all very early 2000’s rom-com-esque.)

A while ago I heard through the grape vine that he’d bae-ed up. Naturally I launched into MI5 mode and stalked the absolute shit out of this poor girl. Seriously what would you like to know about her? I can give you a detailed summary of her family tree going back three generations; I can tell you her best friends dogs name; her national insurance number; where she went on holiday every year since 2007; the lot. You name it, I know it.

As far as I was aware, nothing had changed. The last time I checked out her facebook, the relationship status was still holding my future husband captive. So the options were as follows:

  1. He is still in a relationship but it just texting to extend the olive branch of friendship and has no ulterior motive. (Highly fucking unlikely)
  2. They have broken up very recently and he is about to try and lure me to Brighton to embark upon an evening of forced conversation and rebound sex with him.
  3. They are still in a relationship, but he happens to be in London, drunk, and up for cheating on his girlfriend.

Intrigued, I decided to leave the standard half an hour before replying and resumed pulling pints for pitiful middle aged men who ask about my love life in the hope of getting some vicarious sexual gratification. But then I hear the hotline bling again.

Sad- Ben

Wtf is that supposed to mean? I’m sad? You’re sad? Something sad has happened? Very vague text.

I’m in West Hampstead. It’s like North West London. Angry – Me

Mate am currently in like NW/central. Y u angry?- Ben 

Option 3. Why am I not surprised? I definitely feel an inner conflict about being the other woman. Part of me feels like as women we should stick together and not allow men to get away with shit like this but I can’t help but think theres something quite flattering about playing the part of the other woman. Clearly this guy is bored in his relationship, so you are his dirty little secret for the night; his fantasy brought to life; a release of months of sexual frustration. And I mean, its not like I know the girl. And I met him first! I have dibs right?

Oh you said sad so I thought we were just listing a spectrum of emotions. What are you doing in London?- Me

Cup final ting. Been a saints fan for the day. Now I’m sad &currently third wheeling beyond belief w my saints fan pal & some girl he knows from ldn town.- Ben

Where are you? That is sad- Me

*attached screenshot of current location* Am here- Ben

Shit he’s like ten minutes away from mine. What are the chances? London is a big place. Is this God’s way of telling me to have sex with him tonight?

Oh you’re in Camden. So weird that’s like a ten minute drive from mine. But I’m not home atm. Will be at like midnight though.- Me

Fuck i’m in Camden. I’m so fucking cool. Ten minute drive. Will be home at midnight. Are either of those the invite I’m angling for?- Ben

Well that was the gayest sentence anyone has ever said. But yes I wouldn’t want to refuse an old friend some hospitality.- Me

So cruel. Am nae bent. So kind accepting third wheel refugees.- Ben

Yes you are the Anne Frank to my annexe- Me

Christ am I expected to hide in you? Sort out your metaphors.- Ben

I hate him for making me laugh (and compromise my morals). Two hours later i’m back at home, frantically clawing at my legs and vagina with a razor like a manic depressive on acid when I hear the door buzz.

Fuck. I told him to text when he’s outside. My flatmates will throw an absolute shit fit tomorrow if he’s woken them up. Although I figure I’m not entirely lacking defence ammunition. I have spent the past three months of my life listening to Laura have sex with her boyfriend through the paper thin walls three out of seven nights a week. It’s actually at the point now where I can recount the pattern of their sex noises off by heart. It starts off with Laura’s short staccato ‘uhs’ for the first five minutes or so, and then he will join in with the uh’s growing longer and slightly louder, only to finish with a big long ‘uh’ in unison. Stunning. I love my life.

I scramble out of the shower and throw on a skirt and an off the shoulder top which I hope says ‘I have my shit together so I lounge around in going out clothes all day’- but probably says ‘I really fancy you so I’ve made loads of effort for you; please fuck me.’ – and I get the door.

The first thing I notice about Ben is that he’s limping.

This better not affect his performance.

The second thing I notice is that he is nowhere near as good looking as I remembered. I can’t help but feel slightly deflated at this realisation which is probably my own fault; a product of my romanticisation of every encounter I have with the male species and editing of my memories to warp my conquests into these seductive super beings when actually I probably wouldn’t look twice if i saw him in Tescos.

I give him a brief tour of my flat, trying but failing not to appear smug. I’m well aware that my flat is very nice and in a decent part of London and definitely not what you’d expect a university dropout to be living in aged twenty, but I choose to live above my means. I suppose it’s to give people (and myself) the impression that I’m doing well for myself. I can tell by the look on his face that he’s impressed and now I’m even more smug- and I hate myself a little bit for it. But hey, confidence is sexy right?

‘Can I get you a drink Ben?’

Seriously who the fuck do I think I am.

‘Yeah l’d love a drink. What have you got?’

I fetch a bottle of Havana Club (that doesn’t belong to me) from our communal flat bar (a small corner of a shelf in the living room that consists of three empty bottles of Absolut and a bottle of sloe gin that Liams mum left at the flat during Christmas), and wave it in his face.

‘Well this is probably the strangest Sunday evening I’ve had in a while,’ I state.

‘Good strange or bad strange?’

‘Good strange I think. Usually it’s a roast at nans. But I guess you’ve got to love a spontaneous visit from an old pal.’

‘Haha. I agree. Shall we cheers to it?’

Laughing, I clink my glass against his and accidentally loo into his eyes.

Holy shit I take back what I said about him not being as good looking as I remembered. His eyes are a lovely blue. He really does have a fantastic bone structure. I wonder if he’s ever thought about modelling?

‘So um how the hell did all of this come about? What have you been up to?’ he asks. I snap out of the eye-contact induced trance and focus on trying to appear cool and mature.

‘Working, sleeping, eating, repeating. Seriously stay at uni as long as you possibly can. Freedom is no longer a thing when you get out.’

‘Oh mate, I’m already planning my incredibly unnecessary masters. But seriously what are you up to these days?’

Hmm do I tell him I’ve spent the past two years getting teas and coffees and processing invoices with a bunch of fifty year olds and crying in the toilets every other day because I miss spending time with people my own age? Nah I’ll settle with something vague that makes me sound more important than I am and pray he doesn’t ask any further questions. 

‘I’ve been working in finance.’

‘Oh cool.’

Phew.

He then proceeds to complement my flat and fill me in on who’s-shagging-who at uni and we laugh and get drunk and pick up the maracas that one of my flatmates stole from a mexican restaurant once. After a couple of hours I become conscious of the fact that he came here for sex. I feel weird- probably because I haven’t actually had sex with anyone else but Alex since August. And then I feel weird for feeling wierd. I mean, I’ve had sex with this guy tonnes of times- and from what I remember he’s pretty good at it. I take initiative.

‘What time is it?’

‘It’s ten to two.’

‘Shit you know I’ve got to get up for work in the morning right? We should go to bed.’

Tehe.

He follows me into the bedroom. My heart is pounding.

Holy shit I need to relax.

‘Do you have a cigarette by any chance?’

‘Yeah but I only have one…’

‘Can we share?’

I lift up the window and stick my head out.

Ah that’s nice. I like air. Air is nice. 

He lights the cigarette and we talk about the rain. And now I’m switching off the lights- it’s been a while since he last saw my body and my dinner is still making itself known in my middle region. Also I’m pretty sure I broke a world record for the the quickest vagina shave in Britain and cut myself to shit so I’d rather he didn’t get a close up of the crime scene. He takes the lighter and lights one of my candles on my bedside table.

He’s not going down without a fight.

I blow it out.

‘Oh.’ I can sense his disappointment.

‘Sorry I just want to relax.’

‘Mmm.’

Then he’s pressing his body against mine. Were still standing. Now were kissing. Really nice kissing. I’m getting tingles in my vagina. I press my body harder against his. He’s hard. He picks me up and i wrap my legs around him. And now he’s biting my neck. I like it. Aaaand…..now I’ll spare you the gory details, but the one thing you need to know about Ben is that this guy is a giver. He loves eating girls out. And he is fucking amazing as it, hence the title. Within minutes my back is arched and I’m panting and he’s holding me down.

Holy fuck he’s good. 

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Accidentally Drunk For Your Job Interview? Fear Not…

So, the other day I found myself in a situation that I hope many others haven’t experienced and one that I pray I will never be found in again.

To set the scene, I currently work full time Monday- Friday as a finance assistant in Central London, and on weekends I work as a bartender.

Last Friday, after an intense telephone interview at a company that shall not be named, I was invited to meet with the director to discuss the potential of working for him in his team. I was feeling focused and motivated and ready to grab the world by its big fat hairy balls, so come Sunday when my manager at the bar insisted I come for a drink with the rest of the team after work, I immediately refused and explained that I had an important job interview the following day like the functioning, sane citizen that I am.

A few hours into the shift, word had got out that I wasn’t attending the drinks. Apparently I’d already gained a reputation as the life and soul despite only working there a couple of months, because a queue of my fellow bartenders formed with each and every one demanding me to state my reason for shunning the rare opportunity for a free drink (the managers were paying).

Eventually I gave in to peer pressure and agreed to go for one.

One.

The idea of having one of anything has never really made much sense to me; chocolate; jobs; men. It was simply a concept that I had never quite managed to get my head around.

But tonight would be different. Of course it would. I had to be up at six to get into work early so they would let me leave at 12.00 to go for my ‘dentist appointment’. There was no possibly way I could stay out past eleven.

 

*

It was at approximately eleven thirty when I ordered the fifth round of jaegerbombs.

Three tequila shots, four gin and tonics and a line of something suspicious later, I found myself being clutched and stroked by the bar manager’s girlfriend was who apparently my new closest friend. Despite having known each other for less than six hours, we’d already cried in one anothers arms, watched each other pee, and she’d asked me to be the maid of honour at her wedding (he hadn’t even proposed yet).

We called it a night around 5am and I woke up in my bed six hours later (fucks knows how i got there) in true gollum style, gasping for air. The concoction of thoughts and emotions I experienced in the following ten seconds was hilarious.

Confusion.

What time was it? Why was I not at work? What happened last night? Where did I go? Who was I with? Why do I feel like I’ve been hit by a bus? 

Fuck. 

Was I hit by a bus? 

Relief.

Ok I’m alive. It can’t have been that bad. I still have all my clothes on. There doesn’t appear to be any unfamiliar penis’s in my immediate peripheral. 

Panic.

Shit it’s fucking half past ten. Shit. Fuck. Eight missed calls from work! And the interview is in two hours! Fuck! Shit! Bollocks! Cock in my eyes!

Helicopters.

Everything is spinning. My jaw is swinging. Holy shit I am still fucked. How the fuck am I going to do this interview. 

After the initial shock set in and the memories came flooding back, I knew I had to take control of the situation (even if I was technically still classed paralytic). I quickly reeled off a bullshit text about unbearable cramps and diarrhoea to send to my boss and googled ‘how to do well in a job interview when you’re still drunk.’ Needless to say there were not many returns. This was one mess I was going to have to get myself out of.

So I showered, downed a couple of pints of water, knocked back a couple of paracetamol, ironed my white blouse, threw on my respectable work skirt and hopped out of the door thinking positive thoughts all the way.

This guy (Steve was his name) is never going to expect me to be drunk in a million years. Because who in their right mind would get so fucked up the day before a big interview? Absolutely fucking no one. Apart from me. (And the chances are if you’re reading this- probably you as well.)

I’d managed to make myself look reasonably presentable- bar the bloodshot eyes and temperamental skin that was crying out for some hydration- but as I was escorted to an empty meeting room by the chubby receptionist with a rather amusing eyebrow piercing, the shakes and jitters started to kick in. The walls were made entirely of glass and we were on the eleventh floor of a building overlooking the entire City of London. I felt unbalanced in more ways than one. A tiny bit of urine escaped my body when the door flew open.

The interview lasted approximately two hours. I still can’t say for sure what went right, because I can only remember short fragments. What I can tell you is that i remember referring to myself at one point as ‘a Robbie Williams surrounded by a sea of Gary Barlows’ and that ‘I needed to go and join the rest of the Robbie’s because the Garys are dragging me down’.

So that, ladies and gentlemen, is the story of how I landed my dream job and my dream company.

Fuck Buddy Advice

Like many other long term members of the singletons club, I would now consider myself an expert in being alone, and how to fucking love being alone. I am an advocate for living life to the fullest, living every day like its my last, no matter who I’m with, what I’m doing or who I’m doing it to *wink*.

So of course right now your assuming I make the most out of my single status by going out every other night, waking up to a different 7 inch boner digging into my back every morning, and slaying through five packets of durex slim feel a month.

Well… not quite- let’s be real- I currently work a seven day week. A trainee accountant, part time student and bartender, an aspiring novelist and entrepreneur. I barely have time to google Jason Mamoa and finger myself these days. Also as much as I like the idea of playing the wild and carefree nymphomaniac, the reality of it is I could do without having to share my bed with a stranger whose name I definitely won’t remember in the morning; make small talk with them about how ‘drunk we were last night’; and don’t even get me started on the constant fear of STI’s. Ultimately, people kind of sicken me. Unless you love someone, why the fuck should you put up with them snoring in your ear? Or wiping their ejaculate on the towels you’ve just washed?

So as of 1st May 2015 I officially no longer partake in one night stands. Do I still partake in meaningless sex? Of course. Lots of it.

*

The audition process was a lengthy one, but as soon as I met him I knew he was the one. He was perfect- dark and handsome with the perfect amount of stubble. We met in the smoking area of a bar in North London, he introduced himself to me by his last name and informed me that he was a musician. He proceeded to tell me about his multi million pound family business and the boarding school he attended before getting kicked out for substance abuse. I was also invited to feel his biceps (which I must say were shockingly underwhelming). Never before had I met someone so pretentious and self obsessed. I absolutely fucking despised him.

All night I played with my hair, giggled at his shite jokes and leant in towards him to promote a bit of cleavage. I made sure he knew exactly what I wanted from him. And that night/morning he gave it to me- five times.

The little that we had in common meant there was no fear of us engaging in any form of pillow talk. And my departure from his place the next morning was swift and frosty. Just as it should be. Of course I slipped the necklace I wearing under the pillow so he’d have to invite me round again to collect it. Oops.

*

Fast forward two years later and here we are. I’m sitting here alone in my apartment in the dark, having just ploughed through two tubs of ben and jerrys while watching back to back re-runs of season one Sex And The City. Now I know for all my fellow Carrie Bradshaw fans out there this may sounds like ones idea of a perfect evening, but in all honestly I’m not feeling too great. In fact I’m feeling pretty shit and i’d be lying if I said it had nothing to do with him.

So I suppose my question is…how the fuck did this happen? When did it go from casual sex to sex with attachments?

The answer? Cuddling. Spooning. Lying excessively in one another arms for longer period of time than necessary. It has been scientifically proven that cuddling releases oxytocin and boosts your immune system so if you think about it, attachment was inevitable from day one. We cuddled before sex, after sex, all throughout the night, the next morning; so of course I’m going to associate him with comfort and safety. The way I see it I’ve been tricked into romanticising something that actually was just two people fucking, who would never even contemplate one another for a real relationship. The way I see it- if I fucked and cuddled Donald Trump for long enough I’d probably fall for him as well.

So ladies- my advice? If you want to maintain a healthy fuck buddy relationship and go the distance with your friend with benefits- don’t hang around for the cuddles. Just hit the big O, grab your clothes (although I suggest tactically leaving a bra or piece of jewellery to guarantee another session), order yourself a cab and get the fuck out of there.

If you don’t you’ll end up where I am right now, somewhere I expect thousands of women have been before me, mourning a relationship that didn’t exist and figuring out how to let someone go who was never really yours in the first place. I can only hope that in years to come I’ll look back and remember him as nothing more than a one night stand that went on for two years too long.

Although the fear of the unknown is making its presence known right now, it’s also pretty fucking exciting. So watch this space…because a self confessed man eater is back on the loose.

 

Why are female bosses complete arseholes?

Why do female bosses feel the need to belittle their female subordinates?

Relatively, I am still very young (the ripe age of twenty years old) but I have been engulfed in the rat race for a healthy and painful amount of time to have noticed a common theme in the workplace- that female bosses are total fucking bitches.

I work in finance/accounts (which is traditionally quite a male dominated industry) so perhaps its unfair to assume all female bosses are the same across every sector, but my observation is one that i can no longer ignore.

And just a quick disclaimer, I am not of the opinion that all women over the age of forty are evil soul destroying hags with no zest for life, and that all men are perfect and should monopolise the industry, but having worked beneath both male and female superiors, I could immediately tell you which of the two proved a more pleasant experience.

Now my question is- Is it that its in the female nature to be completely and utterly patronising fuckwads to our subordinates due to some sort of inner need to abuse the novelty of being in a position of power?

Or is an age thing? That older women are simply jealous of our thriving prospects and youthful aesthetics? That they are from a lamentable generation where feminism had not yet lifted off the ground and women working together (as opposed to against) was simply not ‘a thing’ for them?

Or perhaps its in our DNA? That women are genetically programmed to be more emotional creatures and hence deal with workplace pressures more personally than men, leading them to lash out on those that they are in a position to do so to. So do the bitchy attitudes actually just boil down to an inevitable and unavoidable need to release stress?

There is one woman in particular that I have in mind whom I’ve worked with quite closely for approximately a year, and we are the only two females in a team of five. One of her favourite workplace pastimes is analysing and telling tales of the ‘boys club’ that exists in our office dynamic. According to her, the boys exclude us. They don’t listen to us. They don’t value our opinions. All of which I have never felt to be true and would not have even considered, had she not felt the need to highlight it every day. Sometimes i catch myself starting to believe it- that yes, maybe the boys don’t have any respect for me, maybe they don’t listen to my ideas, maybe they don’t value me as a person? I find myself reading into things and looking for something that simply isn’t there.

The same woman, also feels it necessary to point out when a third head manifests itself on my face as a result of weekend binge drinking and overindulgence; on what I’m wearing; where I live- all personal aspects of my life which are completely irrelevant to my ability to fulfil the duties of my role. These are the only times I feel uncomfortable in the workplace.

And I mean, I could spend hours and hours reciting examples like this, but what it all comes down to is that these women are taking on the role that they insist men are acting out in the workplace. And I’m sorry but i fail to see the girl power in that.

I do hope that in years to come when senior management is made up of women from my generation, that what I’ve experienced for the past three years no longer exists. People are products of the people around them and I like to think that one day not only will I be someone’s manager but someones mentor, and someone who is respected and trusted not out of fear or intimidation.

The Posh Boy

Ok so the first thing you should know about James- he pronounced Pret (as in Pret a manger) like Prèt- like- ‘one second guys I’m just about to go to Church and fucking pray.’

Vile.

One of life’s biggest turn offs in fact.

Closely followed by men that eat tuna and sweetcorn sandwiches.

He also had this weird trait that loads of middle aged mum’s seem to have where they cannot remember a single fucking name correctly. As in- I threw a sickie one day in the height of our romance as we planned to go and buy lunch from ‘Pray’ and then eat it in Regents Park in the sun which was only a short drive from my house. I must reiterate that I definitely emphasised that it was Regents Park. Regents fucking park- in north fucking London.

But there we are, the picture of young love- my head resting on his shoulder as the sun beat down on his naked chest and what does he come out with?

‘Babe I’m not being funny but this definitely isn’t Richmond Park. Like I’ve been to Richmond Park and this isn’t it’.

Picture the most condescending and patronising tone to ever have been uttered by a man to the woman he is supposedly courting. That’s how these two sentences were said. No wonder he got rejected to study a Phd in Neuroscience. I had a strange yearning to dig out my old baby pink Nintendo DS and force him to play the brain training game for at least four hours a day.

I mean, I might seem like I’m being petty with this whole name thing- but he did it ALL the time- and it did really rustle my feathers when he called me Ellie as opposed to Evie. But come to think of it, that was because he was seeing us both at the same time so I’m actually quite impressed it just happened the once.

Then there was the sex- oh the painfully dull sex.

I tried to come.

Genuinely I tried.

And I’ve always thought that I found tall boys really sexy. You know- like a big masculine Jason Mamoa type figure that you can just climb like a tree. But with many things in life like birthdays and home cooked meals and shower sex- the reality just does not live up to the expectation. Fucking limbs everywhere.

I suppose a positive that has come out of the whole debacle is that I no longer doubt my ability to fake an orgasm. I mean I’ve been a faker since day one- an original orgasm illusionist- I like to think of myself as a ‘courtesy fucker’. You know, sometimes you’re just not feeling it but you take one for the team and get stuck in out of courtesy for the other person. It’s the polite thing to do.

I put moans and groans and sweat and tears (and sometimes blood if I was just coming off my period) into my fake orgasms. Think When Harry Met Sally but with more passion and a far less attractive Sally.

Although I can say with confidence that I’ve given every one of them my all, I did always secretly wonder if my performance was convincing enough. James helped me see the light and overcome my self doubt so for that I am forever in debt of gratitude to him.

‘Uh. Yeah. Uh.’ I panted, actually genuinely trying to get into it. I could feel the beginnings of sexual pleasure stirring in my lower body- and I should think so too considering we’d been at it for at least half an hour.

A few more stirrings came through and I had confirmed with myself that yes what I was feeling was in fact sexual pleasure. If only he could just keep this up (and maybe grab my vibrator out of my underwear drawer)

…But no I like this guy!

I don’t want to knock his confidence by introducing toys into the bedroom as a necessary additive after two weeks of dating.

I’ll be the bigger person and force myself to go along with this sexual experience that is shaping up to contain as much excitement  as an episode of Emmerdale. 

Hmm…yes…ok…now were getting somewhere…

Oh my fuuuucking God. Oh fuck.’ he spat into my ear.

‘Oh….did you come?’ I dared ask.

‘Yeah…sorry it was a bit quick but I can’t help it with you.’

Alright fine. He looks genuine and I’m a sucker for compliments so i’m not going to react.

it’s ok….it’s just that I was just getting there you know.’

*bats eyelashes and smiles sweetly into his eyes*

‘I know Evie but I don’t feel as bad because I know I’ve got you there before. You know. Like with you it happened pretty quickly but sometimes it can take months of being with a girl before you can actually make her come. Actually I read the other day that some girls can just never come through penetration.’

Oh my fucking God stop talking please. But yay. It appears my fake orgasms have passed the test. Every cloud. 

The Musician

‘Where you going to Miss?’ an eastern european accent inquired from the drivers seat as I slid into the back of the black ford focus.

Bloody hell.

A pungent aroma- of what i assumed to be cigarettes and sweat- flooded my nostrils, temporarily impairing my respiratory system. My insulted reflexes and survival instinct sent me lunging for the window button on the side of the door, gasping for air as I waited for the glass to lower.

‘You ok there Miss?’ the cabbie asked, craning his neck around the head restraint to reveal a pair of lawlessly unkempt brows.

‘Uh…Yeah…Fine…Kentish Town please… Weardale Road.’ I croaked, amidst my battle for oxygen.

‘Ok Miss.’ he replied, blissfully immune to the stench of his own body odour, as he fiddled with the sat-nav attached to the side of the wind screen.

‘You want radio on Miss?’

No. What I want is for you to have a shower, stop talking and drive so I can stare out of the window peacefully and evaluate my life choices. 

‘Um no thanks,’ I replied coyly, faking a sugar coated smile as our eyes met in the rear view mirror.

Refreshing punches of air greeted my face as we pulled out onto Holloway road, cruising by the familiar string of pubs and oriental takeaways and barely clothed sixteen year olds roaming the streets looking for somewhere that wouldn’t ID. I guided my phone out of my pockets, winding out the labyrinth of headphones that encased it, and pressed the home screen button to check the time. 9.24pm. The roads were surprisingly clear for a Friday night and apparently my unhygienic cab driver knew how to step on it, so I opened up the messenger app and hovered my fingertips over the keyboard before I began tapping.

I’m in a cab, will be about fifteen mins x 

*Send*

The next few minutes of my life were spent crucially debating whether I should have added another kiss or not. I learnt the hard way not to underestimate the significance of the ‘x’: two exudes sexual tension; one maintains more of an aura of mystery; and anyone that sends anything above that- unless they’re your mum or using for the purpose of sarcasm- should be avoided at all costs. There’s something not quite right about a multiple kiss user. Concluding that I’d made the right decision to play it safe with one, my attention was stolen by the uncomfortable juxtaposition of nerves and excitement that was stirring in the pit of my stomach. I hadn’t seen him for quite a while- almost three weeks I calculated- definitely long enough for him to have been with other girls. Natural female instinct took control and flicked my mind into overdrive.

Were they prettier than me? 

They probably were.

Did they have better bodies than me? 

Well it’s not hard is it. 

How big were their boobs? 

Shit I bet they all had at least double D’s.

Might as well turn around and go home. 

The sound of my phone buzzing interrupted my frantic Q&A session on the potentially non-existent competition.

Ok. Can’t wait to see you xx– Alex

I fought against the pathetic smile that was apparently desperate to occupy my face. Those last five words cast my anxiety aside, replacing it with a warm, floating sensation that lingered with me all the way to Kentish Town until the car gradually tempered to a standstill on the side of the road. Still thoroughly engaged in a doe-eyed daze, I gazed out of the window up at the familiar house I had spent so many nights.

‘Miss, that will be twenty two pounds please.’ Snapped out of my trance by the mention of money, I dug a twenty and a five out of my pocket, thrusting them into the cabbies impatient hands. I swung open the car door without stopping to wait for my change, and tumbled onto the pavement.

Fuck it’s cold tonight. 

The anxious jittery feeling resurfaced as I edged towards the bright red door, bringing my hand up to the cold frame to ring the doorbell.

The sound of heavy footsteps grew nearer.

Fuck it’s really cold.

I shivered on the spot and took a step back.

The door swung open.

Alex was propped up against the side of the wall, wearing a navy flannel shirt unbuttoned at the top, offering a subtle trailer of his tanned chest. He ran his fingers through the curtain of thick hair that framed his face, unveiling his dark brooding eyes.

Holy shit I’m punching. 

‘Come in its freezing!’ He hauled me inside by the waist, sending an army of goosebumps charging down the side of my body.

‘Yes oh my God it’s so fucking cold.’ All of my muscles relaxed as the warmth of his house enveloped me.

‘…Hey by the way!’ I added, swinging my arms around his neck to grace him with the compulsory hug.

‘Haha hey Evie.’ He responded, resting his arms slightly lower down my back than necessary.  Alex was one of those take-your-shoes-off-at-the-door guys- a trait which doesn’t usually sit well with me- but hey- no one’s perfect.

I wriggled out of my suede black chelsea boots and shook off my coat. He trailed behind me at a distance as I paced across the cream carpet that covered the hallway towards the kitchen and the living room.

Shit he’s probably looking at my bum isn’t he. 

I should have worn the American Apparel jeans. 

My bum definitely looks better in them. 

He placed his warm hands onto my shoulders and steered me into the kitchen.

‘Fancy a drink?’

*

Three 75% gin and 25% tonics later, my confidence was roaring and all of my insecurities had dissolved, as I lay sprawled across the sofa howling with laughter at a story Alex was telling me about his cokehead neighbour.

‘…and so I literally just backed out of the room and left her rocking backwards and forwards on the chair laughing at the wall! I was just like what the fuck?’ he babbled. Droplets of gin splattered across the sofa as I collapsed with laughter.

Very smooth Evie. Well done. 

An indecipherably serious expression replaced the smile on his face as he took the drink out of my hand and placed it on top of the glass coffee table without saying a word.

Shit he looks annoyed. 

Did I do something wrong?

Is he pissed off about the spilt gin?

Tightening his hands around my wrists, he drew me in towards him so our faces were millimetres apart. His brown eyes bore into mine. His breath warmed my face.

‘Are you going to give me a kiss then?’ he ushered in a low tone, entirely motionless. The urge to rip his clothes off set in at this point; but I had something interesting planned for this evening, and didn’t want to rush it or give anything away too quickly.

‘Mmm maybe… depends.’

‘On?’ he pressed his body up against mine.

Shit this is the part where I’m supposed to come up with a witty response. 

Fuck. 

Shit. 

I did not think this through. 

‘….on whether I feel like it.’

Another good one. Witty and original.

He paused, scanning my eyes for answers.

‘I know you want to.’

His lips parted and hovered over mine, lingering there for a moment; not kissing; just touching. Lacking patience, I curled my hands around his neck and initiated a kiss, weaving my lips in and out of his. The taste of alcohol and cigarettes was faint but present. I kind of liked it. It tasted of him, of the nights we’d spent together. Instinctively, I brought my hands up to his chest, peeling the top of his shirt back to explore his bare skin. As our kiss continued steadily gathering momentum, he lifted me around to straddle him initiating an involuntary circling movement in my hips.

‘So you know I said I was going to make it up to you?’ I slurred, as a playful smile lit up my face.

‘Mhmm…’

‘Well, I’ve got a surprise for you…’ Undoubtedly intrigued, he raised his eyebrows and tugged me in towards him, caressing my thighs gently.

‘…but I need to go to the toilet quickly!’ I announced. He really didn’t have a clue what was about to hit him. Grabbing my bag apprehensively I scurried out of the room towards the bathroom. His heart must’ve sunk because everyone knows the only time a girl brings her whole bag with her to the toilet, is when she’s on her period. Poor guy was probably petrified I would come back swinging a used tampon in front of his face. Surprise Alex!

Locking the door behind me, I quickly fished the black bodycon suspender dress and stockings out of my bag. I didn’t want to take too long or he’d come looking for me. That would completely fuck up the blueprints I had drawn up in my mind for how this night was going to do down. I stripped completely, and rolled the stockings up my legs carelessly. Then after squeezing the black mesh cami over my body, I clipped the stockings onto the suspenders. As i spun around to unlock the door, I caught sight of my reflection in the mirror, and I do hate to be arrogant but I was most definitely bringing sexy back. The combination of mesh and lycra fabric detained all of my wobbly bits, and the stockings rimmed with floral lace at the top, encased my thighs perfectly. Somewhat smug and radiating confidence, I headed back into the room where a tipsy Alex sat unaware on his sofa, watching Family Guy, drinking gin and tonic. His eyes widened as I sauntered across the room.

‘Oh hey.’ I said. He remained mute, focusing on the sight before him. For a brief few seconds, I was genuinely scared he was going to come there and then.

‘You…you look… fucking awesome,’ he managed to stutter as his impatient hands wandered vertically up my thighs.

‘Thanks.’ More than satisfied with this reaction, I knelt down between his legs and allowed my hands to do some wandering of their own; he was deliciously hard. Without breaking eye contact, I carefully unbuckled his belt and zipped down his black jeans. My gaze fell to the prominent outline of his erection beneath his boxers. I felt a flutter in my pelvis. Reaching out to free his erection, I made sure to meet his eyes once again. I wanted him just as badly as he wanted me- but tonight was his treat, so tucking my hair behind my ears, I brought my tongue to the tip of his cock and licked it.

It twitched.

I glanced up at him and smiled.

Wrapping my whole mouth around the top of his cock, I began working my lips backwards and forwards further down his shaft. His eyes rolled to the back of his head with pleasure. Within a matter of seconds I was sucking his dick with passion and intensity. It tasted good and I moaned every time it struck the back of my throat. Concerned for his stamina, I decided to cool things down for a while and let my hands take over duty.

‘Shall we go upstairs?’ I asked. My patience was deteriorating and I needed to feel that hard cock inside me as soon as possible.

‘Yes.’ His revealing tone made it clear that as thirsty as I was, his desire outweighed mine. Another good thing about this lingerie was that it could make an anorexic, pre pubescent boy’s bum look rotund and peachy. So tactically, I got up and walked out of the room first, leading him behind me practically drooling like a baby over my falsely advertised derriere. As we ascended the stairs his gaze never wavered from my bum and I didn’t need to look at him to know that.

‘Never come to my place dressed like this again. You might never leave.’ he said. I blushed.

‘I’m fucking serious. You look so fucking sexy.’ The corners of my mouth crept upwards in response but I ushered them back down in an attempt to prevent them dampening my sex appeal. Theres nothing sexy about a cheshire cat.

We tumbled across the room falling entwined onto his bed. He lay down on his back and seized my hips, pulling them towards his face. It took me a moment to comprehend what he was about to do. Alex Sackwell everyone: the cunninglingus phobe. One of the many disgraceful boys in Britain who refuse to go down despite expecting an endless supply of blowjobs on demand. Jesus Christ. Seven months I had been sleeping with this boy and the whole time, all it took was a thirty pound slutty outfit from Ann Summers! All I could think of at that moment was how much I would like to express my gratitude to this ‘Ann’ for everything she has done for the women of Britain and personally nominate her for a nobel peace prize.

His mouth pressed against my bare skin and goosebumps prickled over my entire body. His tongue explored every crevice of my pussy and I felt myself begin to melt. I continued riding his face, letting out a lengthy involuntary sigh when his tongue brushed against my clit.

‘Oh babyyy,’ was all that I managed to say, but that was enough encouragement for him. He followed direction and continued moving his tongue back and forth against my clitoris, taking me to new levels of ecstasy. He varied the pace for the next few minutes and my legs started to tremble. I didn’t want to orgasm just yet. I wanted this feeling to last forever, or at least slightly longer; so I broke away and kissed him desperately on the mouth.

‘Baby I need you to fuck me now’ I demanded. Without hesitation, he slipped his cock into my dripping vagina and drove it backwards and forwards accumulating speed.

‘Yes baby…’ he hissed.

‘…Ahhh you’re so fucking tight.’ That was a relief to hear because i felt as though all my vaginal muscles had packed up for the evening and gone home. I could tell from his face that he wasn’t going to last much longer. I decided to put him out of his misery because- to be fair- this night was supposed to be all about him.

‘You wanna come?’ I whispered into his ear in hot breathy tones.

‘Mmhmm,’ his face strained further as he continued thrusting his perfect cock in and out of my pussy.

‘Where do you wanna come?’ I teased. I realised I wasn’t going to get an answer to that question when he hauled his cock out of my body with intense concentration and sprayed his warm sticky semen onto my stomach. In the heat of his sexual release, his eyes rolled to the back of his head as he drew a dizzy semi circle with his neck. I was starting to feel slightly light headed myself just watching him. When he eventually came back down from whatever planet he was on, the small puddle of white liquid on my stomach caught his attention.

‘Ah fuck… Let me get you a towel,’ he insisted. I waited patiently as he leapt up, scurried across the room and reached for the purple towel that was hanging on the radiator.

‘Thanks.’ I gave my mid section a thorough wipe down and discarded the cum-covered towel on the floor, grabbing my phone from the bedside table as I sat up.

One missed call: Sammie

Shit.

I was supposed to meet her and some of the others that evening to see the light show in Central London but as usual when the classic ‘What are you doing tonight?’ text came through from Alex, any prior plans I had for the evening became redundant. I stood up and made my way over to the open window where a cold stab of air waited patiently to greet me. I’ve always liked the view from his window, i mean its nothing special, just the back of a few houses and some more houses. But it’s London, and it’s comforting. I tapped the ‘call back’ option on my phone and shivered on the spot while it rang.

‘Evie, where are you?!’ she squealed into my ear.

’I thought you were coming to the light show?’

I paused to figure out how best to phrase my response. Is there a polite way of saying ‘Sorry I couldn’t be bothered because a boy texted me and good sex was on the cards.’?

‘Sammie! I’m so sorry something came up and I couldn’t get out of it. How was the light show?’

’It was so amazing! But Josh and Emily had like this massive fight and basically just ruined the whole thing for everyone because they made the whole night about them. What are you doing now? Me and Gemma are looking for a motive.’

‘Ummm I’m actually just with a….buddy at the moment.’

‘Buddy?’ Alex whispered as he approached from behind and slid a warm pair of hands across my rear. He kissed my neck and a flutter rippled through my pelvis. It had only been about five minutes since we’d had sex, but I hadn’t climaxed and the juices were still very much flowing as far as I was concerned. I forgot I was on the phone for a moment and turned to face Vienna.

‘Well would you prefer I referred to you as something else?’

‘No…but I’m hardly your buddy am I?’

This was a delicate topic. We weren’t in a relationship, but we had sex. Apparently we weren’t buddies. Neither of us knew whether the other had feelings for one another, and to be honest i don’t think either of us knew ourselves how we felt about each other.

‘Evie? Are you still there? Whereabouts are you? Ask your friend if we can come too!’ Sammie’s muffled voice squealed from the phone.

‘Sorry babe, me and her are going to have sex. I don’t think you want to be there for that.’ Alex slurred into the phone. Though this did leave me feeling slightly embarassed, his candor was attractive.

‘Ooooh I see. Ooo ok. Have fun kids. Be safe!’ Clearly amused, Sammie laughed and hung up the phone. Who wouldn’t be happy to see an old friend getting laid?

Alex was still pressed up behind me, his hands had now diverted their journey to my thighs. Surely he couldn’t be ready to have sex again? It hadn’t even been five minutes since the last time. Well, as my mother always said, you don’t get what you want in life unless you go after it yourself! I slid my hands up his thigh and reached for his crotch by virtue of my impatient curiosity, only to find that the beast was dormant; I mean it was hardly surprising but the disappointment was written all over my face. He threw me an apologetic smile and led me back to the bed. We lay there for a few minutes side by side in silence. I thought about his reaction to me calling him my ‘buddy’ and was surprised by how much I enjoyed him challenging it- but what was i supposed to call him? I mean ‘boyfriend’ was completely out of the question; maybe i should have called him my ‘fuck buddy’, but it felt like there was something too brutal about ‘fuck buddy’ that didn’t quite fit the brief of what was going on here. We were in a kind of undefined limbo and I didn’t know where exactly that was, but I knew we couldn’t stay in it forever because the longer we did, the more it would hurt when we eventually got out of it.

Shit. 

The realisation was gradually setting in that maybe I wanted more than just sex from him.

‘Are you hungry Evie? Do you fancy ordering a pizza?’

Wow.

The ann summers lingerie had really worked its magic for me that evening. The last time I’d stayed over I’d begged him to order me a post-sex pizza and he insisted that nowhere would be open at 2.00am that delivered to Kentish Town. Erm dominoes is a twenty four hour service you fool.

‘Mmm, if you want to? I’m not really fussed,’ I lied.

‘Okay. Let me see what I can do.’ he replied, like a wild animal about to brace the jungle in a dangerous bid to gather food for his cubs. I’m sorry, but it’s not rocket science. You download the app, enter your postcode, pick a pizza, press the order button, and Bob’s your fucking uncle! He punched some numbers into the phone and dialled. A long pause followed; I was starting to think Papa John wasn’t home.

‘Hey…yeah I was just wondering if you delivered to Kentish Town…mhmm…yep…5 Weardale Road…okay great can I get one margherita and one meat feast please?…Er cash…Great thanks!’ He put the phone down. I couldn’t help but feel slightly offended that he had me down straight away as a plain margherita girl, despite the fact that I am one- am I that obviously boring?

‘The guy said its going to be half an hour.’ he announced with pride. The wild boar had returned home with with enough prey to feed his wife and cubs, and the cubs were happy.

‘Cool.’ I smiled and leant in to kiss him. He was the perfect balance of sexy and cute with his dark hair swept across his face and tracksuit bottoms that were so long for him, his feet had poked holes in the bottom. Our lips greeted one another lightly, but developed within seconds into a passionate and desperate session of tonsil tennis. This was the Wimbledon final of tonsil tennis. I could feel the tension in my own body rising as he tore his mouth away from mine and dragged it down my neck, straight down the centre of my core. I breathed heavily and let out an involuntary sigh. How did he do this to me every time? He paused just above my pussy and looked up at me.

‘Well what are we going to do with half an hour…?’ he asked. My body throbbed as the corners of his mouth turned upwards and he buried his head between my legs. Too lightheaded to even think about coming up with a witty response I lay back and let myself be pleasured. Times like this was why I still believe sex with Alex was like a form of meditation to me. It was the only time when my mind would fully switch off and let my body take control. It was so organic and never felt unnatural or forced like it had with other guys before him. He continued weaving his tongue through my pussy until I was grabbing the bed sheets to steady my body from jerking with pleasure. His hands migrated north to support my fully arched back, as he slid his solid cock inside me.

“Fuck,’ was all I could manage. Our hips moved in perfect sync as we thrust our bodies together, the scent of sex filling the air. After a short while, he withdrew himself from me.

‘Get on the floor.’ he demanded. I obeyed and immediately shuffled out of the bed onto the grey fur rug that covered the wooden floor. He scrambled off of the bed after me.

‘Get on your knees.’ Again I obeyed, and knelt down on my knees. He slowly rubbed his perfectly hard cock against the entrance of my pussy and that beautifully torturous throbbing sensation returned. I whimpered. Clearly enjoying the torture, he moved his cock upwards and rubbed it against my clit. This amount of teasing shouldn’t be legal; I was desperate for him.

‘Fuck me…please,’ I begged.

‘You want me to fuck you?’ he teased.

‘Mmhmm.’ I cried out as he drove his cock deep into my pussy and pleasure rippled through my body. I lost track of how long we continued fucking like this, his cock pounding against my G spot, but I’m guessing it was around ten minutes. Annoyingly, our doggy session was interrupted by the sound of his phone buzzing and whilst still maintaining the pace we had set, he reached over to the bedside table to grab the phone.

‘Shit, its the pizza guy!’ he yelled, his cock still pounding me faultlessly.

‘Answer it, he..might…be…downstairs,’ I managed to say inbetween thrusts. He pressed the green button.

‘Hi…uk ok….uh..yeah…five minutes…cool,’ he panted. Flinging the phone aside, he picked up the pace. I was almost there, so close to my climax i could feel my eyes watering.

‘Come on baby, come for me,’ he hissed.

‘Oh fuuuck!’ I wailed as I reach my climax. It must’ve been the realisation that a lonely pizza lay waiting downstairs with my name on it that finished the job.

‘Go and get the pizza.’ I demanded breathlessly as I collapsed onto the rug. Vienna threw his trackies back on and flew down the stairs, returning moments later hugging two pizza boxes. I didn’t waste any time getting stuck in.

‘Thank youuu,’ I chorused after having devoured half of my margherita.

‘Are you not going to eat the rest?’ he asked.

‘No I’m quite tired now. I’ll have it for breakfast.’

I clambered into bed feeling nourished and sexually gratified. He flicked off the light and crawled in beside me, his muscular arms instinctively wrapping themselves around my body, pulling me in close. I felt a wave of calm and safe familiarity.

‘Whats your plans for tomorrow?’ I asked.

‘I’ve got a couple of the guys from my band coming round at like nine so probably will just be working all day.’ he replied, squeezing me in closer. As sexy as I found it that he was a musician, it was annoying as fuck because it meant I could never really lie in properly as there was always someone coming round to ‘work’ on a Sunday. I don’t even understand how it can be classified as work, hanging out with your best mates all day, doing something that you love. I did just wish that for once we could lie in together and get breakfast, and I wouldn’t have to roll out of bed at ridiculous hours in the morning half dressed, looking and feeling like a prostitute.

‘What are you gonna do?’ he asked.

‘Well considering I’ve got a normal job I won’t be working on a Sunday. I don’t know really, I’ll probably just netflix and chill with myself and eat loads of food and get fat and then cry about how i’m an obese bitch and no one will ever love me. Same old same old.’

‘Sounds fun’ he laughed.

‘Erm, excuse me that’s the part where you tell me to eat as much as i like because my body’s amazing and i’m a sex goddess to men.’

‘Eat as much as you like Evie. Your body’s fucking amazing. You’re a sex goddess to men.’

‘Good boy.’ I smiled and closed my eyes.

*

I woke up to find that I’d turned around in the night to face him, my head nestled into his chest. I was warm and comfortable; I loved waking up like that. His eyes parted slightly to reveal tiny brown slits like a newborn hamster, as I wriggled out of his clutches to reach for my phone.

‘Shit its 8.45. I should go.’ I said, clambering out of bed. Fuck, my head really hurt. How much did i drink last night? I quickly scanned the floor for my clothes but only managed to identify the Ann Summers underwear that had been ripped off my body during the pre-pizza sex. Realising they must still be on the bathroom floor, I darted downstairs stark naked, racing past the window so as not to flash the builders doing work on the house across the road (not that they would mind I suppose). I threw on my black high waisted jeans and scooped up my T-shirt that was strewn across the floor. I heard footsteps coming down the stairs.

‘Do you want a cup of tea?’ Alex stood at the doorway of his kitchen, his eyes tired and still hamster-like, his hair a dark mess.

‘Umm, do you have time? Aren’t the band coming round?’ I asked. Tea can be a lengthy affair, once you factor in kettle boiling time, brewing time and cooling time. I thought considering it was now 8.51am, a cup of tea would be slightly ambitious.

‘Ollie’s just texted, they’re running late, probably won’t be here for another hour,’ he answered.

‘Oh ok, well go on then. Do you have any herbal teas?’ I asked as I joined him in the kitchen.

‘Ummm yeah let me have a look… Ok I’ve got peppermint, lemon and ginger..’

‘Peppermints fine.’ I interrupted.

‘Peppermint is it then. I fancy one as well actually.’ He filled up the kettle and flicked the switch on the wall. As the kettle crescendoed into a growl, I spotted my unsightly reflection in the microwave. Jesus Christ I am not a morning person. How did he even get an erection over this? 

‘I’m just gonna to try and fix my face a little bit before I leave if we’ve got a bit more time.’ I muttered, grabbing my bag and shooting up the stairs. I poured the contents of my makeup bag onto the floor and admired my tools. The relationship I have with makeup is powerful enough to rival that of Romeo and Juliet. My eyeshadows never let me down. My lipsticks are always there for me. And my bronzers never like other girls photos on facebook. They just…get me. I picked up a concealer and applied it to the second head that had manifested on my chin. That must be the reincarnation of last nights pizza; I was wondering when it was going to show up. I was halfway through applying my foundation when Alex came edging through the door trying not to spill two cups of peppermint tea.

I hopped up to grab my tea and stared out across the view of London. Alex shuffled over to join me by the window and slid it open, lighting up his cigarette, inhaling deeply. I studied his face; sometimes I couldn’t help but admire how handsome he was. Coming from a strange mix of Swedish and West Indian background, he had this beautiful tanned complexion. His eyes were deep brown and inviting, hidden underneath these long, thick eyelashes, and he had the perfect amount of stubble.

‘What are you looking at?’ he asked, taking a toke of his cigarette.

‘Oh just at how ugly you are,’ I smiled sarcastically. Embarrassed to have been caught perving, I retreated back to the makeup station and continued aiding the natural disaster that was my face. When I had successfully transformed myself from a generous two out of ten to a solid four, I packed up my things and wandered over to Alex, still smoking out the window, to say goodbye.

‘Ok well I’m off now. Have fun with work,’  I quipped as I cast my arms around his neck.

‘Yeah ok, I’ll see you soon.’ he answered, returning my hug, once again resting his arms slightly lower than necessary down my back.

‘Ok, bye buddy!’ I called, already halfway down the stairs. Grabbing my coat on my way out, I closed the front door behind me and fumbled in my pocket for my headphones. The intro to Tame Impala- The Less I Know The Better filled my ears as I stepped out onto the isolated street.