50 Ways to Find a Lover (12 page)
I feel like a failure. It’s now been 351 days since I had sex. That’s a bloody carnal drought. If Bob Geldof knew about it he’d hold a concert. And then when I do get a shipment of adult fun I run away from it. I’m frigid. I’m a frigid spinster.
What can I write in my blog? How can I explain that I fled Louis’ flat with nothing but a wet ear? You don’t go to a man’s house in hold-ups, drink a bottle of cheap wine with him and then lock yourself in the bathroom on the phone to your mum before leaving.
Rachel Bird revels in uncomplicated sex. When you read her blog it sounds easy to be naked with a stranger. She makes you feel like you have sexual power being a woman. That is why so many people read her blog. No one wants to read my blog all about female neuroses, not even my best friend.
Which is why I’m going to lie. I’m just going to make up a little sex story. I’m sorry, God. But I’m too proud to admit the truth on my blog. It’s not my fault I’m proud. Leos are proud. You could have sent Mum into labour early, then I’d be a Cancer. If I was a Cancer I wouldn’t be in this mess.
God, I know that you’re not a fan of sex or lying so please try to forgive me for what I am about to do.
Right then, how shall I start it?
I felt sexy in my hold-ups.
(God, this will entail a lot of lying, so please just look elsewhere for an hour or so.)
I stood on L’s doorstep.
(L didn’t have a doorstep because it was an ex-council block, but that just doesn’t sound sexy.)
I started to feel excited . . . I stood there for a few minutes . . . wobbling slightly on my perilously high fuck-me shoes . . . then I closed my eyes and I imagined kissing him, little feather kisses, and slowly nibbling his bottom lip, and then proper tongue endoscopy kissing . . . I hadn’t been touched for a year and suddenly being on the brink of physical contact with a handsome man made me feel like a tethered bull in a field of pretty Friesians . . . I wanted L to untether me . . . I wanted L to do quite a lot to me . . . the thought of feeling L inside me was making my nipples poke out like massive hard rabbit droppings . . . I touched them and imagined that my hands were his hands and I felt the wetness in my knickers and then I knocked on the door . . .
(God, go away! It’s important I use terms like ‘nipples’ and ‘wetness’ because people do Google searches for them and they’ll find my blog that way and I’ll get more readers; three people found my blog because they did a Google search for ‘sweaty fanny’. It’s not my fault your people want filth!)
L came to the door. He looked much better than I had remembered, with a nice amount of stubble . . . he was wearing a pink shirt with two buttons undone so I could see his curly chest hair.
(This is bad. Now I’m imagining it’s Paul. Gorgeous, funny Paul who I really clicked with but who doesn’t want me.)
He stood before me with that cheeky grin, and then I noticed his eyes wander down to my breasts . . . he looked at me for a long time and then smiled and said, ‘I bought shampagne – come through and let me get you a glass’ . . . He walked me into his beautiful flat . . . it was very clean and tidy. I wondered if he had cleaned it especially . . . He led me straight into his bedroom . . . a huge bed lay made up but we didn’t stop there. He opened the huge bedroom window and said, ‘Would you like to step on to my unofficial roof terrace?’ We clambered out on to a huge flat roof littered with cushions and candles . . . a bottle of champagne was on the floor with two glasses by its side . . . L lay back on one of the cushions and poured the champagne . . . it was dusk . . . we clinked our glasses . . . he said, ‘To us.’
Then he asked me all about my life . . . he was very attentive . . . I was just telling him about my mother running the marathon when he leant towards me and kissed me softly on the lips . . . he felt lovely and he smelt amazing . . . I wanted to kiss him for ever but he pulled away.
‘I’m very sorry for interrupting but I just had to kiss you,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t help it. Please, carry on, I want to hear all about your amazing mum.’
I think the fact that he’s about to move to Austraylia and I’ll never see him again made me far more forward than I’d ever been before . . . I got up and moved to his cushion. I looked into his eyes and said, ‘No, I’m far too distracted now.’
I knelt at his feet and lent towards him . . . he manoeuvred me so that I was straddling him and we kissed. He put his finger in my mouth and I sucked it, imagining it was something else . . . then he traced his wet finger down my front and eased it inside my dress and inside my bra . . . circling each nipple until they were like bullets . . . then he pushed me away from him . . . he looked into my eyes as he undid the small bow on the side of my dress and my dress fell to the ground . . . he moved his hands delicately across my body. . Then he looked at me and said:
‘Take off your bra.’
I did so . . . kneeling before him in just my pants, stockings and shoes . . . He said:
‘Do you want me to suck your nipples?’
I said ‘Yes,’ my voice breathless.
He started to slowly lick and suck one nipple at a time, then he sat back and looked into my eyes again . . . he moved one hand down so that it was between my legs and then he said, ‘Are you excited?’
I gasped, ‘Yes.’
He slid his hand inside my wet knickers and gently started to stroke me . . .
Then he looked into my eyes again and said, ‘Take them off.’
I did and he looked at me before lying under me.
‘I want you to sit on my face,’ he told me.
‘OK,’ I squeaked.
He lay back and started to lick me while fucking me with his fingers and playing with my breasts with the other hand . . . I was just starting the contractions of an amazing orgasm when he wiggled out from underneath me and stood up and started to unbutton his fly . . . I started to reach out to feel his hard cock but he caught my arm to stop me and he moved behind me . . . He started to feel my clitoris with one hand and I could hear a condom being opened and then he said, ‘Would you like me to fuck you?’
‘Yes!’ I yelped.
I felt him gently enter me and then gradually drive into me harder . . . always pressing and moving his hand over my clitoris . . . Despite trying not to come I came three times and then I heard him grunt. He relaxed on top of me for a moment . . . before saying, ‘More champagne? And then I really think you should finish that story about your mum running the marathon . . .’
(God! God! Are you there? Please don’t punish me too terribly for this.)
thirteenSierra Oscar. Sierra Oscar! I need to report the Great Brain Robbery. I think an intruder broke into my body the other night and hot-wired my mind.
Making up a sex story and posting it on my blog has proved to be the most stupid thing that I have ever done. It has even outclassed the time I tried to impress Dave Barnes when I was twelve by jumping off his first-floor landing to the ground. He wasn’t impressed. He asked my friend Michelle out while I was in hospital having my broken collarbone seen to.
Simon says that the important thing to remember in any situation is to keep positive. But it is positively impossible not to focus on the numerous negatives entailed in drunkenly making up a sex story and posting it on the Internet:
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Chris
Your spelling and punctuation are appalling.
To which I responded:
You can shove you’re punctuation up you’re .(§!&..’:{{-=) (that enough punctuation for you?)
Then it got to this:
Anonymous
Who do you think you are, e. e. cummings?
But then this happened:
Rhodri
That was so inarticulate it was like a sex story written by Phil Mitchell from Eastenders.
I got angry. Phil bloody Mitchell!! I responded:
Dear Rhodri
Having recently been concerned by your work output I asked your colleagues whether you were suffering any trauma at home. Imagine my surprise and disgust when I was informed that you had started to surf the world wide web to read about the love lives of strangers online. I have therefore booked you on an intense Internet Addiction Workshop this weekend in Slough. Your boss
So, I’m not focusing on the negative and am trying instead to think of one positive thing that has come out of the experience. It is taking me a while. If I scrape the barrel I could profess that I got a few more hits. I now have eighty-three. However, most of these are me clicking on my own blog so they don’t really count.
As ever, when one aspect of life is careering along a horribly wrong road the rest decides to thumb a lift with it. My bottom has got even bigger. I am currently sitting on a chair in just my pants. When I look down I think, Oh my, how on earth did the biggest choux bun in the world land on my lap? and then I realize that it
is
my lap. If I raise my eyes the view is no better because I am currently looking at the men available on
Love Direct
.
‘Your lovely mum’s on the phone,’ shouts Si, banging on my door. I put a towel around me lest the sight of my bottom should put Simon off women for life, and rush to talk to my wonderful mother.
‘Hello, sprinter. How you doing?’ I ask, getting comfortable on the sofa in the living room.
‘Oh, Sarah,’ sighs my mum.
‘Oh, Mum,’ I sigh back at her.