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[crystal-chandeliere]

Leonard: After The Beginning

Being with Leonard was liberating. I loved him so much, and he took in all my kisses, all the pettings and the little songs, and he loved me back and recited me spontaneous poetry and performed naked dances. It was delicious. I started the relationship in my usual disparaging way – I thought he was a little wet behind the ears, but quite lovely, so I lay in bed with him for days, stroking his hair and feeding him. I thought – how can someone so much older than me possibly accept all my bullshit. I thought – when it stops being fun, when he gets clingy, I’ll end it. I thought – he’s too kind to not secretly be a psychopath. I didn’t text back and he thought I was angry with him, but I was only in the shower. I filled with sympathy for him, silly thing, sitting on the train wondering if I would still see him when he arrived. It still makes me want to cry; I do the same thing myself all the time.

He drove me to his home for a weekend away. I wasn’t well, was drab and quiet when I met his sister and his parents and friends. I felt embarrassed. We had a fantastic shag over the back of the sofa; it rocked to and fro with our slamming hips, and almost fell over with us on it. He went down on me when I was watching High Society - most diverting. And in the night, I sprung out of his spoony, furry cuddle and crouched on the floor, paralysed with anxiety and convinced that my insides were rupturing and tearing apart. It was the worst pain, I could barely get upstairs to the bathroom, where I vomited copiously (COPIOUSLY) with the shower turned on so he wouldn’t hear. Then I sprayed deodorant around so the smell wouldn’t pervade the house, although it probably did anyway. I sat on his living room floor and cried at three in the morning, and he put me in the car with a dinosaur biscuit tin to vomit in, and drove me back home, without my even having to ask. I think that’s the most romantic thing that's ever happened to me, even though we had to stop off at a petrol station so I could throw up some more, where I did a very sickly shit. My kind of romance. There’s a lot to be said for the moment you realize you could shit yourself and fall in it, and your new boyfriend would still want to bang you. Not that that happened. 

[crystal-chandeliere]

Famous People I Would Do Things To: Barbara Windsor

I would be in a pub, of course. A smelly old man pub with red velveteen seats and sticky tables, and a rug woven from vomit. I'd be enjoying an ale at the bar, alone, because drinking alone is elegant and sophisticated. I swing myself off my bar stool, and head through door at the back, in search of the ladies', as I need to powder my nose. I trot up the stairs, creaking as I go (the stairs are old, and so are my bones), and am met by three doors, all of which look identical, and all of which are unmarked. I open one and, immediately, a broom falls out and bops me on the nose. I put it back and open another.

Inside, I see a young, Carry On era Barbara Windsor jumping about in a rather peculiar fashion, waving her arms here and there, and losing her balance. She stumbles into me, and I catch her, a vintage confused/concerned expression on my face.

"Oooh lumme," she squeals, clarifying the situation most helpfully.

"I'm so sorry to barge in on you, madam. May I be of assistance?" I enquire.

"Oooh there's just the most enormous fly in here and I just can't get rid of it, oooh," she gurgles, straightening herself up and looking around for the buzzing offender.

"Well, madam, why don't you stand over there, and I shall stand over here, and when the fly comes into the middle of the room, we can both leap forwards and catch it together," I suggest, ever so pleased to help.

We position ourselves against opposite walls. The fly, as planned, makes his attack, and we leap into the unknown.

Rrrrrrrrip!

In a remarkable twist of fate, it appears that both Barbara and myself have become caught on nails that stuck out most dangerously from the walls. Our clothes have been ripped clean off and we're standing in just our scanties!

"Oooh!" cries Barbara.

The fly lies dead upon the floor. Her surprise and vulnerable semi-nudity are mingled with relief. She has nothing more to fear. A giggle escapes her pouty lips, and she whaps me with a pillow that lies at her feet.

I whap her back, as a similar goose feather pillow lies at my feet, too.

Then we have a sexy pillow fight with much laughter and naughtiness, and downy fluff raining upon us like dolla$$$. I ping her bra band and she attempts to body slam me, but she is very small so nothing really happens, except for our screams of mirth.

"Oi! What's going on 'ere" shouts Phil, bursting through the door, but we tell him to go away because he is tedious and rude. He is duly cowed.

[crystal-chandeliere]

Alban: The End

I would go round to Alban's house to be adored, and petted, and waited on hand, foot and finger. I never spent the night. He'd profess his dear feelings to me every now and again, though I know he never meant it. He loves to be in love, and I didn’t want any more than the sexual acrobatics. The very few times he drew my attention to his make believe puppy love, I saw red flags and squirmed away, and told him I was never going to love him. It sounds cruel, but Alban needs firm boundaries, not kid gloves. We haven't spoken in a few weeks, although we're on perfectly amicable terms, and it seems he's forgotten all about his Big Feelings again.

He came round to my flat some time ago, to take some time out from a stressful week for both of us. A mini-break at home, if you will. I love home mini-breaks; take aways, baths, uneventful films and all the blankets, pillows and cuddles you can manage. I wanted to throw him a bone; he was such a little lapdog for me and I wanted to treat him to an evening of sexual delights and relaxation. He turned up bang on time and greeted me with an enormous smooch, before walking past me into my flatmate's bedroom, removing his jumper as he went. She was distressed, but I fished him out swiftly, and ushered him through the next door along, into my boudoir.

I took off his clothes and sat him down on my bed, as he smiled at me expectantly, some kind of stupid, sweet question on his lips. My kimono 'fell' open and dropped to the carpet. Kneeling over his lap, I unhooked the Slutty Red Bra from the front, and slid it off my shoulders. He leant his face forward to graze my nipple, and I smacked him gently on the nose. No touching yet. I stood up and took off my knickers. Picking my satin dressing gown cord off the floor, I made a little blindfold, securing my underwear over his eyes. He was smiling now, asking me what I was up to, as I knelt on the floor between his legs. I lubed up my hand and began sliding it up and down his cockstand, kissing his thighs and stomach. His hand tangled into my hair as he rocked his hips in time.

I paused, and smeared my wet hand over my chest, before pressing his dick in between my breasts. I can only give tit wanks when I'm kneeling down, or it hurts my back. Ah, age. But seriously, my breasts are only about a handful each; if I use each hand to push them together, a lot of core strain goes into the rubbing motion if I'm on top of a gentleman, leaning over.

Alban was pawing at my breasts and moaning gently. I love that he's so vocal in bed - he's not a screamer (too embarrassing, I would never have been able to keep seeing him if he was), but he responds to absolutely everything I do, so it's clear what he does and doesn't enjoy. I released him from my cleavage, and clambered onto his lap, kissing his neck and mouth and forehead. Straddling him, I ground my wet lips into his crotch, slipping up and down, and finally taking him inside. Grabbing two of his wrists in one hand, I pushed him down onto his back, planting my other hand on his chest, and tyrannised his darling body, tormenting his chest with kisses and fretting him into oblivion with my gung ho quim. When he was close, I hopped off his lap, whipped off the blindfold, and tossed off his soldier all over my throat. A happy ending indeed, or so I thought, as he flopped back and spent a good ten minutes mouth breathing and telling me how wonderful in bed I am. I know I am, sweetheart. I have such fun shagging in my own company that I indulge my narcissistic urge to blog about it.

I went to run myself a bath. As I dipped in my feet and gingerly lowered myself in to the steaming water, Alban ambled through the bathroom door, now clothed. He closed the lid and sat down on the loo, gently stroking my hair and gazing at me with his adorable googly eyes. I soaped up my hair and submerged my head under the water, and his hands followed me, touching and petting all over. I surfaced, and told him that I didn't want to play in the bath - I love baths, but they make me light headed. He nodded and smiled, and cooed the lovely things he was cooing, because he was enjoying the intimacy of the moment, and the romance he thought must go with it.

When I got out of the bath, hot and faint, and lay on the floor to compose myself before getting dry, he knelt down and kissed me a great deal. Like in Spiderman.

When I got into my PJs he tried to take them off again. What is that.

When we snuggled up to watch a film with my duvet and a cheesecake, he kept interrupting the movie to kiss me at length. Worse, he kept trying to interrupt me when I was eating my cheesecake. I told him how much I like cheesecake. I told him not to get between me and my snacks. Why would he think I was joking?

When it was bed time, he didn't go home, although I politely invited him to leave. And then he tried to sneakily cuddle in the night. He knows I hate that.

It was just so apparent how ill-suited we were to one another's needs, even though we'd done alright until then. Alban had to go. On the one hand, I felt a bit mean, but on the other hand, I discussed what I wanted with him before we started sleeping together, and he told me he wanted the same thing. I discussed my boundaries with him and he didn't see fit to stick to them. And why would anyone try to remove my pyjamas when I've ONLY JUST PUT THEM ON? If I wanted to be naked, I wouldn't have bothered. Why would he want me to be cold?

In short, I am a mean, bitter old lady and have no business ravishing lovely young men anymore. Also, if someone tells you they prefer cheesecake to kissing, DO NOT KISS THEM WHEN THEY ARE EATING CHEESECAKE. Oh my, I don't know how I'm going to let this go.

[crystal-chandeliere]

Remember to pick up your poo

Usually I don't bother over thinking when it comes to making a move. Sometimes, though, when the stakes are high, I remind myself of an excellent story that I suspect may be an urban legend (and if it isn't, let's turn it into one), and I feel rather braver:

A friend's ex-flatmate from university spent forever mooning over some boy, and finally got drunk and made a move on the last day of the summer term. They had one night of semi-functional, alcohol-impaired passion alone in his flat, as his flatmates had all moved out (usually preferable as far as braying all your favourite sexy noises is concerned). The next morning, she had sex bloating and went to let it all out in the bathroom while he was asleep. And while she was at it, she thought, why not do a bit of a poo as well; get it all out in case they decide to go for another round. As one might guess, the poo turned out to be a bit of a beastie and didn't flush. She panicked - she couldn't blame the flatmates, because they weren't there. With only a short time before he would wake up and notice her absence, she got resourceful. She sourced a plastic bag from the kitchen and fished out the poo by hand (bleghh, but also BRAVO, girl guide). She got dressed and collected her phone, bus pass, keys, and all that other stuff one needs to successfully sneak home. Finding a scrap of paper on the floor, she scribbled a little farewell note: Morning! had a really great time, see you around :) x

She left, aloof. Crisis averted, and the disappearance/note made her look super unconcerned with the sexual non-event she's been waiting for FOREVER. And as she closed the front door, clicking the latch into place, she realised she'd left her poo on the kitchen table.

[crystal-chandeliere]

Breaking Up Is Hard To Do

I've only ever really loved one man. I'm not a fireworks kind of woman - I prefer the kind of love where you paddle into the water ever so slowly, and one day you realise you've plopped into the ocean. And sometimes that ocean of love is the best friendship ever, and sometimes it's more the I-want-to-bone-you-forever kind of love. Everything else is just chemistry, and chemistry is great, but it takes more than that to be one of my favourites.

Leonard is one of my favourites. We haven't been together for a long time now, but sometimes I still need to lie down and mope a bit about it. I'm down to a twenty minute moping window now, which is a huge improvement from where I started. I think that in some ways, it's harder to deal with a break up when you remain friends. If we'd cut off all contact when we decided to stop sleeping together, it would have sucked way more intensely for a while, but I suppose, after a time, I would remember him as warped and flawed, or forget him entirely. In any case, we broke up amicably and didn't see the point in avoiding one another. I wanted to be able to support him in his next endeavours, and needed him to support me in mine. Cutting him out would have been like cutting off my own head. I don't envy those of you who have had to go through that.

I'm happy - very happy - but I do often miss him. Mostly when I want to be cuddled by someone who doesn't care if I fart in bed, or suddenly feel nauseous, or act on an urge to sing to them. When he visits, he still has afternoon naps in my bed, partly out of habit, and partly because, post-illness, he tires out very easily. He was having such a nap some time ago, and I was working in bed next to him. Seeing him all snoozy and calm was too much for me, as one would imagine it would be, and I soon put my laptop away and snuggled down on my half of the bed. Sweet, spoony Leonard pressed up against me and draped an arm over, and I wriggled against him. I love those embraces, but they're not really right anymore.

I could feel his sleepy erection pressed against my rear. I love erections, and his is my favourite in the world. It's as though it was perfectly formed to nestle right into my cheeks. It hardened: solid and urgent, and futile, because it would have been uncaring, really, to use it. His nose was pressed against the tufts of soft hair at the nape of my neck, just an inch away from the old bearded kisses right across my shoulders. I have found that when one embraces a truly missed ex-lover, the relief of being in a comforting, beloved old place is shattered by the little distances that make themselves apparent. The clothes worn where none were worn before. The places that are forbidden to touch, because a line has to be drawn somewhere, even if it doesn't really mean anything. The limited number of ways to say "I love you" - now always said in a casual voice, or a friendly, platonic tone.

I do love him, and I will for a very long time. But I believe that if you love someone, it's best to let them be whatever they need to be. Even if they need to be without you. I don't think of myself as some martyr for love, or that awfully pathetic woman from The Holiday. I am certainly not the 'walking wounded'. Leonard and I have enriched each other's lives in so many ways, and if being together will make us both miserable, I'd so much rather we were friends, instead, and got on with our lives.

I just wish I didn't love his penis so much as well.

[crystal-chandeliere]

Better The Devil You Know

I'm not religious. I envy the comfort people seem to find in their faith, and I'm touched when someone politely expresses the wish to save my soul, but I don't believe any of the stories. Other people's peaceful interpretations of religious scriptures reassure me; why wouldn't one want to be surrounded by beings who exude love, kindness and understanding? Nevertheless, I find the crossover of religion and sex a rather uncomfortable point. The idea that sex (as I see it, an amazing, fun, social activity) could possibly be an evil force of corruption between two consenting adults is alien to me. I don't believe in shame after consensual sex.

I was on the rebound. I'd just hit the flirty & free streak of the post break-up emotional buffet, and I was taking an acting class in the big city. It is so true that the acting and waitering professions are full of attractive people. I fancied almost everyone in my class, and bode my time, in a non-predatory way, trying to gage which one of them was most interested in me. How else do you choose between a bevy of attractive people when you're on the rebound and not really interested in personality?

Garth ran the class. He was an absolute dream: tall and muscular (hello, forearms), with dark skin and beautiful almond shaped eyes. He spoke very softly - not in that creepy Michael Jackson way, but in a manner that seemed to radiate inner peace and enlightenment and deep understanding of the universe and so on. Obviously, he thought I was hilarious, and as I am an enchanting, sexy beast, he presumably found me irresistible as well. Actually, I know he found me irresistible, but more on that later. We were discussing profound, intellectual things at the end of one class, and I mentioned that I was preparing a monologue from Wedekind's Lulu. He suggested we go over it together. For those of you who don't know, Lulu is a play about a lady who romps all over Europe, screwing men and bringing about their deaths. It's very dark, very depressing, and very erotic. I laughed, assented, said something very cool and made my exit, leaving my number on a scrap of paper in his hand. I should imagine that he stared wistfully at my rump as I sashayed away.

I received a text, one afternoon shortly after, cordially requesting my presence at a nearby pub that evening at nine. I was taking an afternoon bath at the time; afternoon baths are the best, because baths are never really necessary anyway (if one has a shower), and indulging when everyone else is at work feeling the post-lunch slump feels SO incredibly smug. I didn't hurry out, I had plenty of time.

At half past eight, while I was finishing my dinner (bruschetta and soup), I received a text cordially requesting that we postpone our engagement to eleven, as 'something' had 'come up'. I'm a hip, happening lady, familiar with the late nights of the big city social scene. I don't need to go to bed at half ten. I finished my dinner and curled up with a book.

At eleven, I met Garth at his gastropub of choice. After one drink, the last orders bell rang. Who really thinks meeting in a pub at eleven is a normal activity? REALLY. Handsome Garth suggested, with an understanding look in his eye, that we return to his, and open a bottle of wine. I pretended, as any lady of class does, that I didn't know he was spinning a line (MY line, actually), and we went back to his, engaging in a pseudo-intellectual debate about plays or something along the way. I wasn't really listening, more just staring at his gorgeous visage. As I said, I was in it for one thing, and one thing only.

Fast forward through some drivel about have I read The Women and wouldn't I make a wonderful Crystal, and oh isn't that a funny coincidence, and we were dry humping on his sofa.

"How old are you?" he murmured, passionately.

"...You know how old I am," I replied, giving him side eye through my womanly embrace.

"How old are you. You're eighteen."

I am not eighteen, but I played along, as he persisted, and I really fancied a rebound shag with a beautiful man, even if he was actually a bit boring and kept telling me he was old enough to be my father.

He lifted me up and carried me to the bedroom, throwing me down before crawling towards me on his hands and knees. I pulled off my shirt and he unlaced my bra, hurling it away with a surprisingly forceful action. He was breathing loudly, and I joined in, so he didn't feel like he was the only one making an effort. I'd barely even blinked and he'd whipped off all his clothes, which I have to say is preferable to a man who takes forever to undress. Another half-blink between kisses and he'd pulled off my jeans, and my knickers.

We fuck. He's on top. His sinewy body pumps to and fro; I push back against him, as I quite fancy riding, but he resists, weighing down on me. I'm not entirely sure if he's going to come any second now, but I figure everyone has an off day, and although I'm enjoying him, I'm not exactly having a BLAST. I'm hardly going to shatter into a thousand pieces (yes, I am finally reading it, I got it for a penny on Amazon).

And then it happens. I feel him tense up between my legs. He moans, and as I feel the ejaculatory twitch of his penis, he pushes himself up with one arm, and, staring at the wall above my head, cries out, "You are the devil! You are corrupting me!" as he crosses himself with his other hand.

I raise my eyebrows involuntarily, but say nothing.

I am not going to come.

I receive a brisk smile, as he clumsily finds his way off the bed, and retreats into his ensuite bathroom. At this point, I'm not exactly sure what the correct thing for me to do is, but I figure I'm not really in the mood to stay long, so I clean myself up and put on my underwear and shirt.

He was moaning from within the bathroom, softly at first, then louder and more pained. I knocked on the door and asked if everything was alright, but his only response was that same moan. I pushed the door open and, with a sick shudder to my stomach, saw him crouched on the floor in the foetal position. My knees locked into place and I froze.

"What's happened? What's wrong?" I asked, totally unable to respond to the scene in any kind of helpful way.

Then he shouted at me and told me that The Condom Hurt Him, whining in a way a toddler might to their mother. Let me remind you that Garth was in his late thirties, and, presumably, had tried on a few condoms by this stage in his life. I made an excellent 'unimpressed' face, which no one saw, got dressed and left. A week later, I received another text:

Hey Crystal, would really love to meet up again. There's no reason to be embarrassed by what happened x

And that, my dears, is how you commit every sexual faux pas within two hours. Hats off to you, Garth. And, needless to say, I stopped taking that acting class.

[crystal-chandeliere]

Famous People I Would Do Things To: Brendan Coyle

Let me be clear: I'm talking about young Brendan Coyle as he appears in The Glass Virgin, not Mr Bates in Downton Abbey. Much as I adore Bates, he's way too much of a flirt for my tastes (ooh I'm Bates, watch my eyes twinkle knowingly as I accidentally spatter paint on my face, while I decorate our dream cottage). Now I think of it, I'm surprised by the number of times I've seen The Glass Virgin considering how utterly unimpressive a film it is. If I'm trying to admire Mr Coyle, I have to turn the sound off, both because the titular virgin is so tedious, and because his hyper-masculine stoicism and occasional 'sexy' rage is really old hat and doesn't particularly get me going. I simply enjoy it when he lifts things.

I would be on a walking tour of the stately homes of England, and would be taking a turn about the fields, for my health. All of a sudden, it would begin to rain. Being a hardy woman, I would pay little attention to the inclement weather at first, but a torrential downpour would cause me to seek shelter under a broad oak tree. It is there that I would meet Mr Coyle, also avoiding the deluge. We would greet one another in a reserved manner, slightly breathless, as one often is when one is in a period drama. I would drop something, and utter frustrated exclamations such as "drat" and "oh bother". Mr Coyle would pick up that thing, and hand it to me, with an understanding look. Our hands would brush, as I took the thing from him, and we would both shiver involuntarily. At this point, we would be standing very close, and it would be entirely natural and smooth of me to, gazing up at him with gratitude in my eyes, lean in and smooch his face off.

His enormous hands would hold my waist firmly, as my hands cling to the front of his shirt. The rain would end; a ray of sunshine lighting us up in a picturesque manner. A faraway church bell rings, reminding me of the time, and the event I urgently need to attend. I break away, startled.

"I'm so sorry, I must go. Thank you ever so much..." I call, indicating to the thing he picked up for me, a favour not to be soon forgotten. I pick up my skirts and hurry away. He bows. We will not see each other again.

[crystal-chandeliere]

Erotic Reading

I've been 'out of action', as it were, for a few weeks: busy with work, and not in an entirely sexually functional state. I have been reading absolutely heaps, though, and I know you're all desperate to know my very important opinions on all the trash and otherwise that I've got through.

Lady Chatterly's Lover: DH Lawrence It’s almost embarrassing that I haven’t read this sooner. I actually only remembered it’s been on my reading list forever when I read 25,000 Years of Erotic Freedom and Moore mentioned its role in the British Obscenity Trial. So, I went out and picked up a copy and expected to be thoroughly titillated. I thought the book was fabulous, but shall we discuss the shagging? I was underwhelmed. REALLY. I winced through most of the sex scenes and got the general impression that D H Lawrence didn’t know many women and had certainly never touched one, although I have since discovered that he was in fact married. Really I am most unimpressed, Dave, please step up your game. All this nonsense about women who can’t enjoy sex and women who refuse to enjoy sex, JUST TO BE DIFFICULT (eye roll). Connie finds her lovers ridiculous when she’s not riding the wave of vague orgasmic feelings, and they keep boning in front of the dog. No wonder she’s a whimpery little thing. Definitely worth a read, particularly if you are really into depressing descriptions of the Midlands, or if you fancy unrestricted access into the mind of a very neurotic man, as he tries to simultaneously figure out if you think his penis is silly, and convince you that it isn't at all.  

The Memoirs of Fanny Hill, Woman of Pleasure: John Cleland I got into this thinking Fanny Hill was going to emerge as a total badass. She doesn't. She just has a lot of uncomfortable sex. This is so transparently just Mr Cleland writing his own wank fodder that I couldn't really take it seriously. All power to him for taking the time to put his virgin fantasies down on paper, of course, but really this book is just ridiculous. 

Pin-Up Artist: Ignacio Noe This is sort of foul, but also really enjoyable at the same time. It's a graphic novel about this old painter reminiscing about his (filthy) muses, as his granddaughter shows some hot dude around his exhibition. Everyone bones, sometimes with vegetables, and the drawings are so lewd. The nipples, in particular, are extraordinary. I think my quibbles with this book lie with two things. Firstly, Noe totally undermines the whole issue of consent. A fair few of the stories start with a lady explicitly, repeatedly refusing sex. The protagonist bones them anyway, and after he's done, they decide they're into it. I understand that a lot of people fantasise about being forced, but personally, the way Noe tackles it left a bad taste in my mouth (the protagonist also seems to just hate women, and everyone else, but mostly women). Secondly, all the ladies look the same, and that just struck me as lazy. Let's see some diverse body types, Noe. And not because I'm being politically-correct-gone-mad, but because about 80% of people are dead sexy if you take the time to think about it. I am sick of seeing the same 5% of people define 'sexy' over and over again. Overall, though, I would recommend it if you fancy seeing some very naughty drawings of pin-up girls.  

Husband Hunting 101: Rita Herron This is the worst book I have ever read (it was free in the kindle store). Sample sentence: "I will never, ever let you down, Jenna. Or any little people we have together." Then he stripped their clothes, and when he rose above her and entered her, she knew he'd claimed her forever.  How EMBARRASSING.

I also read a few other books that don't have any sex in them at all, and therefore have no place on this list. 

[crystal-chandeliere]

Famous People I Would Do Things To: Harry Connick Jr

I watched The Wedding Date last week and it's got me hankering for a suave, manly, adult male with minimal facial creasing. As it happens, though, I fancy Harry Connick Jr more than I fancy the guy in that (although, tickle my pickle and rub my nub, I'd have a go on him too), because of his gooey vocals and smooth face (so reminiscent of my old flames, the Thunderbirds). So in terms of suave, manly famous people I'd do naughty things to, HC Jr is ahead of Dermot Mulroney.

I would buy Harry Connick Jr a drink in a bar (I would have an Old Fashioned and he would have a fruity cocktail with a saucy name and a little umbrella). I'd charm him with my wit and je ne sais quoi, then playfully pull him closer with his tie. I'd whisper, very coolly, something to the effect of "let's go back to yours/mine", and we'd go back to his, because he probably has a nicer bathroom than I do.

I'd ask him to run a bubble bath, while I uncorked the champagne. He also has fancier glassware than I do. Then we'd get in the bath, glasses on the side, and soap each other up. I would sit at the end of the bath without the taps, and he wouldn't complain, because he is a gentleman, and no one complains when I'm lathering their chest and making eyes at them.

Then, because I get a bit faint when I stay in the bath too long, I'd get out of the bath, dry myself on one of his huge, soft, fluffy white towels, and lounge on the bed. He is rather wanton with his central heating, so his flat is super warm enough that I don't even need clothes. Then he gives me a full on back massage. While he pops out for cheesecake, I fall asleep in his enormous bed (goose feather duvet and pillows), and when I wake up, we're watching You've Got Mail on the flatscreen at the end of his bed. Harry Connick Jr loves Nora Ephron even more than I do. Obviously.

[crystal-chandeliere]

Gentlemen I Have Fellated: Part Two

I don't think I've ever enjoyed giving someone head as much as I enjoy it with Alban. For one thing, he has a lovely knob; rather more generous in girth than usual, but not alarmingly so. It's very masculine, silly as that sounds: thick and veined, with a large, dark helmet, and a sensitive spot on the underside, right at the top of the shaft. He is also very virile, and our sex life seems to be full of surprises (he surprised me only last night by spunking directly into my mouth from a very impressive distance. Apparently, flies are not what you catch if you leave your mouth hanging open).

He was kneeling over me, one knee on each side of my heaving chest, staring at my nipples and tossing fiercely. We had been boning, but he was feeling dominant, and I knew he wanted to use me, not fuck me. I was perfectly happy to be of service in such a way; he always wanks me off after he's finished, and he's fabulous at it. His breath was quick, and he began to moan. I started frantically tugging with my hand, but he whispered urgently "suck it!". I put it in my mouth, and he came hard, jizz shooting straight up my nose, with an unfamiliarly chemical taste. 

We have yet to discern exactly what he ate that made his spunk taste quite so much like moisturiser, although we did discuss it at length. I blew my nose, and snuggled down. He slid his hand up my inner thigh, but I batted him away. I felt happy, but a little rattled - not in the mood for a wank just yet.

"Well just let me know if you want... anything," he yawned, as he folded himself around me like the world's heaviest cocoon. He has a lovely body, but he's almost a foot taller than me, and about four stone heavier.

And then I threw up. One minute we were enjoying the post-boner spoon, and the next, I was wriggling out from under his enormous leg and leaping away, to noisily vomit, as any lady of class would. That was when he left.

[crystal-chandeliere]

Pete and his Enormous Penis

I met Pete at a house party my flatmate took me to. As it turned out, it was Pete's house, and I had mineswept his half full, abandoned bottle of birthday champagne. I told him I owed him a drink, got his number and, a week later, he joined me at the pub for a quiet one. 

My first date with Pete. Honestly, I just wanted to rub him under the table. No, actually, I wanted him under the table, rubbing me. He's a handsome guy, a little taller than me with foppish hair and the most gorgeously proportioned body since Doryphoros. I wanted to unbutton his shirt and comb his chest hair with a fork. I wanted to rub my cheek on his incredibly soft looking skin and put his fingers in my mouth. You know when you're so horny you can barely continue your conversation in any sort of coherent fashion? It was like that. I was flushing and staring and everything. But I managed, despite myself, and we got along fabulously. He's creatively inclined, which makes conversation rather easier for me, and we sat in that little pub for hours, having a ball and steadily becoming more and more certain of our naughty intentions.

The staff began clearing the place, putting chairs up on clean tables and building stacks of empty glasses. We took the hint, and walked out slowly. Neither of us felt done with the evening. I took the plunge, inviting him to join me at my place "for toast and tea" (I can't say that without giggling, so I think he understood). We walked down the street, both of us drunk and nervous and silly all over, and when we got through the front door, I grabbed each side of his shirt collar and kissed him. And he really took charge from there, which was surprising and refreshing, and really very arousing. He pulled my waist against him and backed me up against the wall where we sort the post. A flurry of letters fell to my feet, which made me laugh. He responded by sliding his hand into my hair and kissing my neck with fervour. We trampled the letters, but none of them were for me (I checked in the morning), and if the neighbours want me to give a fuck, maybe they shouldn't be so bloody loud at ungodly hours of the night. I wriggled out of his arms, took his hand and led him up the stairs.

Pete has the hugest penis I have ever seen in real life. It's enormous. It's about the size of a 50-hour-burning pillar candle. I have a sunglasses case in my room of a similar shape. Or, think of it as most of a bottle of wine. The thick end. Anyway, I was startled when I pulled down his trousers. My god, it's set me all a-quiver just thinking of it now. It's hardly as if I go brain-dead at the sight of a big knob, but the elements of drunkenness and surprise banded together, and elicited a little 'woa-' from me. As I tried to get the hang of wanking off a dick I couldn't get my hand around, I asked, "... Has anyone ever told you you have a massive penis?"

To which he responded with an, "Uh yes I have heard of this." No shit, Crystal. That thing was a beast. Totally fucking conspicuous.

By Jove, what a creature it was. I pulled my dress over my head, kneeling over him, and pushed his open shirt off his shoulders. We were disentangled from all pesky items of clothing, with the exception of my (then brand-spanking-new) gorgeous satin underwear set - it's that beigey colour they call 'nude', but I defy you to find a person with skin that actually matches that shade, with a black trim. I unhooked my bra and it slipped down my arms, landing on his chest. Oh, those pectorals. He had the kind of quietly defined torso that was all muscle, but not creepily solid to touch. I wish I had cast him in plaster before we stopped seeing each other, but we never really got to the point where that would have been casual and okay by him, and not incredibly awkward. How I kissed that glorious, beefy chest.

I unhooked my knickers - I cannot recommend pants that tie at the side enough when it comes to easy removal - and flung them aside, with a move at once carefree and daringly sexual (like everything else I do). He slid a hand between my legs, started rubbing my clit with his thumb. I, resisting the urge to wrap my legs around his head and hump his face like a crazed bunny, asked him if he had a condom - I figured he was pretty big, and he'd probably be more comfortable using his own XXL kind. His penis was...I suppose it was about the size of your average bedside lamp. He reached over the side of the bed and pulled one out of the pocket of his jeans. He rolled it on, sat up and flipped me on my back.

I've just remembered now that I've been meaning for ages to learn to put on a condom with my mouth. It seems like a fun gimmick, but I've only tried a few times, and have failed at each attempt. Not that I would have been able to do that with Pete anyway. He was like... two mugs stacked on top of each other. Or the end of a saxophone.

He pushed his saxo-boner into my concert hall and we made sweet, sweet music. Wink. In all seriousness, though, it was a glorious instrument, and the sex was not at all like that episode of SATC where Samantha panics and runs away from her well-endowed gentleman friend (goodness knows how big that man was supposed to be). Pete would hold my legs over his shoulders and put his forehead against mine, and thrust like he was trying to exorcise a demon spirit. And, actually, the first time we boned he pulled out before he came and exorcised his spirit all over my breasts and neck. When we were fucking, he went so utterly deep I can't believe it didn't hurt. What a shag. What a fantastic shag. He always left me breathless, and only a teensy bit chafed.

[crystal-chandeliere]

25,000 Years of Erotic Freedom

Lately Leonard has been sharing with me his passion for Alan Moore, comic book writer and beardy man. I read Moore's essay, 25,000 Years of Erotic Freedom, sweetly bound up as a book with images Moore considers to be emblematic of European erotic culture for the past few millennia. While the essay itself is largely anecdotal (with NO referencing, shame on you Mr Moore), it reads very well, and although it's barely even a whistlestop tour (starting with the Aurignacians and ending up in the early millennium), Moore discusses some truly delicious works of art.

I must share with you my favourite, Pornokrates by Felicien Rops.

"This superb work, begun by Rops in the late 1870s, depicts the spirit of pornography herself, a gorgeous woman seen in profile treading careful from right to left across the image, clad in only boots, gloves, stockings, jewellery, and a drifting sash, topped by a Gainsborough hat. Pale flowers are in her hair, and, similarly pale, there is a blindfold tied across her eyes. Held on a leash as though it were a well-clipped poodle is a lean young pig that seems to lead the sightless beauty in the manner of a guide dog.... A frieze runs in relief along the wall or border's topmost edge, depicting effigies of the fine arts, seated with their parchment, lute or easel and yet hanging down their heads, looking away embarrassed as the goddess of pornography parades there brazenly above them. Similarly, hovering in the air before her as she walks there are three anguished cherubs, tearing at their hair as they regard her lewd display. Behind her blindfold, unaware of how she looks and rightly unconcerned by the controversy she's causing... the voluptuous essence of pornography is calm, serene. She trusts her safety to an animal conventionally seen as the epitome of dirtiness and brutish instinct, this despite its widely mentioned cleanliness and keen intelligence. The goddess walks along her wall, proud and unmindful of the drop to either side, secure in her conviction that she is a thing of loveliness, safe in the knowledge that by following her noble and yet much-despised animal urge she will be led unerringly toward her rightful queenly destiny."

I also rather enjoy St Teresa's Ecstasy, also by Rops, although I don't believe it's discussed in Moore's essay. It's ever so naughty. You can read more about his work here.

[crystal-chandeliere]

Fashion Pubes

I tamper with my body hair to various degrees. I pluck my eyebrows into fabulous arches, and I trim my armpit hair because I would rather be slightly fuzzy (like a kitten) than stubbly (like an old man). I shave my legs when the mood gets me, because a smooth leg is enchanting, although I can't always be bothered. Long gone are the days when, upon having received an 'attending' RSVP from my booty call, I would rush into the shower and shave and tweeze and pluck myself into a Sexy Body. I already have a sexy body, and my booty call can suck it (my booty call is delighted by the prospect of sucking it).

I rarely bother with my pubes. I keep them trimmed, and when I think of it, I remove the stray hairs that crop up unexpectedly outside of my knicker line. I keep myself in a state I wouldn't mind going down on myself (oh, would that I could). 

Yesterday, a Doing Things mood struck me. I rearranged my furniture, and then I plucked my pubes into a heart shape. I plucked because I wouldn't have been able to wax them so niftily myself, and I will never ever again shave my fanny. No, absolutely not.

I think it really looks quite good, but it's not quite perfect. The heart reaches out quite far, and doesn't dip too much in the middle. I think that when I can be bothered, I will shorten the round bits of the heart so it looks less like an arrow, or a spade.

Perhaps fashion pube art will really take off, sort of like how fashion nail art did. Oh, I do hope so. Somehow, a Brazilian seems so cheerless, while a dinosaur silhouette would be utterly top drawer.

[crystal-chandeliere]

Gentlemen I Have Fellated: Part One

Leonard wasn’t particularly bothered about getting head when we first started fucking. I remember one of our first nights together, I must have been sucking him off for twenty minutes before the neck ache got to me and wanker’s claw set in. I sat up and wailed at him, “Is this not good for you?!” and he jumped, startled by the swift transition between Glorious Blow Job and Ruffled Lover.

I was partly confused because I wanted us to enjoy each other, and if he wasn’t enjoying it, why hadn’t he stopped me? And partly just despondent because I’ve always received excellent feedback on my fellating abilities. As it turned out, he just didn’t tend to come from blow jobs. Of course, that wasn't the end of that. I always used to tell him: I love giving head. I'd say: I want to go down on you. I'd ask him to tell me what he wanted.

Every now and again, on a lazy morning when neither of us had to be anywhere, he'd very tentatively and politely tell me that he might quite like a blow job, please. And I would laugh, and kiss him all over his chest, and nuzzle my face into his stomach, and pleasure him, rather softly and sweetly and slowly, which was the way he liked it. Once, feeling rather miserable myself, I slipped under the covers without warning, and began to suck on him, almost as though his penis were a sort of pacifier. We both enjoyed that; he could tell I took comfort from it.

But despite these occasional forays into fellatio, he remained rather underwhelmed. It was pleasant for him, but he'd generally rather fuck. And fuck we did.

He liked to give me head, starting so slowly and building up the pressure so gradually that it felt like we were there forever. Really, he spoiled me rotten, and by the time I'd come, he would be so ragingly horny he'd have to push me down and rut me right there like some desperate animal. I always loved that (I loved everything we did in bed together, except for when he would tease me by blowing raspberries on my neck - HOW APPALLING). I would lie underneath him afterwards, stroking his head with my hands, and his feet with mine.

One day, when we'd been together for a while, he murmured at me with a tone that indicated he was going to tell me something he felt uncomfortable about. Praying inside that he wasn't going to ask me if I wanted to take the relationship further, and how did I feel about children, I uttered a noncommittal 'mmmhmm?'

"That thing you do where you stroke my feet just after I've come. It feels... amazing".

This rather tickled me. "Does it?" I drew my toe from the balls of his foot to his heel, and he quivered all over and moaned.

"Uuuuugh that feels really good."

KA-CHING. This, my sweetlings, is where my adventure in intimate mouth-to-Leonard touching really took off. Although fate had bestowed upon Leonard a general apathy towards getting head, he had also been given incredibly sexually sensitive feet. We exchanged a few sexts, coyly exploring the matter (see: A Guide to Sexting, template one), and I looked up a few erotic foot massage videos online (not that they taught me anything, but it's the thought that counts). The next time Leonard came round, I asked him if I could try going down on his feet, to which he replied with an enthusiastic "YEAH!!"

I have only ever sucked on one pair of feet, but I really didn't find it too challenging. Rather thrilling, really; it is delicious to know that you're truly pleasuring someone. Especially someone who services you so marvellously. I would run my tongue along the base of his foot, following the arch. I would kiss all down the top of his foot; the gentlest of love bites, never leaving a mark. I did suck on his toes, and he went wild for it. While I attended one foot with my mouth, I would rub the other with my hand. All the while, he would moan and arch his back, and gasp. Sex is at its best when you let your partner give you what you really, really want.

Oh - and he came, every time.

[crystal-chandeliere]

Wedding Sex

Sex at weddings is the best because if you aren’t discovered, you get a great shag, and if you are, you will either ruin a boring person’s day, or become a timeless dinner party anecdote. And call me childish, but I think it’s all the more fun for knowing that you’re fingerbanging the uptight, colour-coordinated, I-already-made-a-list-of-gifts-I-want* wedding tradition - the wedding tradition that we all know is about materialism, not love (I almost understand - I do believe that feeling smug is better than feeling anything else, even drunk - but I doubt I would spend £15,000 on a party I wasn’t supposed to pass out at). Then again, I’ve never been to the wedding of someone I actually liked. Free from the duties of friendship, I’m doing my part simply by buying a gift and not turning up in a big white dress.

*I am all for helping the young couple just starting out in life. However, if one is already getting a life companion and possibly an extra income for the household, and if one has already been living with said life companion quite comfortably, possibly for a number of years, does one really need a butter dish as well?

Alban took me to a wedding in February. It was the wedding of an ex-girlfriend; of course, he wanted to have a lady on his arm so as not to lose face, and of course, when we got to the reception I stationed myself at the bar and he spun away into a crowd of old friends. I was expecting exactly that, and spent much of the evening chatting with a skiving waiter, who, before leaving, dropped a paper napkin with his number on it into my lap with great panache. I, with much less style and poise, dropped it into a puddle on my way home as I fumbled with my stupidly tiny handbag, and have yet to determine exactly what the blurred figures say.

What is there really to say about wedding receptions? They look like so much fun on telly; Four Weddings and a Funeral really set up some grand expectations. All I ever do at them is drink, and nibble, and fend off the kind of mindless chit chat I think some people only bring out at these events - the events you’re not supposed to leave - just to annoy me. No wonder I'm a rude drunk, when I only get really drunk to numb myself to the impact of boring people.

Fortunately for me, Alban returned before I had to make the transition from champagne to whiskey. Worn out by the whirlwind of old memories catching up with the present, he ground to a halt in front of me and leant on me heavily.

"Are you alright? How are you?" he asks, knowing he should to be polite, but aware I've been quite contentedly flirting about. He's petting my hair, looking about the room, looking for reassurance. I make soothing noises and gently remove his hands, giving one a squeeze as he sits down on the bar stool next to me.

"I can't believe she's married," he muffles, head falling into his hands. He whimpers, to make me laugh.

"Oh sweetheart. Don't be sad. Do you want to go somewhere quiet?"

I stroke the back of his head, and we both know what I'm asking. He's not really sad anyway, just tired - like little children are when they've been up too long. I think a lot of the time he just says things he thinks he ought to for the sake of the moment.

He perks up, and pulls me towards him, hands on my waist. A naughty little smile emerges, as he stares at my nipples, totally undisguised between the thin fabric of my dress. Sometimes I get off on going braless even though I have a tad too much jiggle to get away with it.

"Hello... Where's quiet?"

                                                      * * *

It was a very posh bathroom - a large, disabled bathroom - that I pulled him into, with flowers and a soap dish with gold legs, and everything was coral, because coral says ‘I am posh and I don’t suit most of you’, and it says ‘grandmothers’, and these are apparently the things that swanky hotel chains want to convey to their clientele. Heads up, ladies and gentlemen: if you're at a large wedding, this cliche could not be easier to live through. If your mother isn't present, NO ONE will notice you're missing.

I pushed him up against the door, shutting and locking it with one hand as I fumbled for the light cord (savvily avoiding pulling the emergency-help cord by accident and ruining all the fun). His hands were trying to reach at my flimsy underwear beneath my dress; I pulled it up and he brought it over my head and tossed it into the corner, as I kicked off my shoes. I tugged at his belt, more as a prompt than anything else - I still find belts and buttons and zippers infinitely challenging after a drink - as I slipped my hand into my pants, charged with that equal desperation to come and the unwillingness to ever have to stop. He hooked each thumb around my knickers and pulled them down, and, hands on my waist, pushed me down with them. He sat me on the closed loo seat - moved my legs apart - got down on his knees and nuzzled his face into my cunt, gently teasing me open. Long, slow strokes up to my clit made me throw my shoulders back and shiver - he always goes on for so long I don't think I can stand it, one time my foot seized up in anticipation, I was so tense. He began to apply more pressure, go faster, go harder.

He held me firmly as he lapped; my legs were over his shoulders, his hands under the small of my back. I had one foot on the door handle, and one hand holding onto the safety handrail for support. It's almost funny that a safety handle was present, before you remember that we were already rather taking the piss by being very definitely able-bodied in the disabled bathroom. He gripped the flesh of my hips, his tongue darting as I pushed against him, stiffened all over and came. The familiar weight sinking to the pit of my stomach; my feet going up in flames. I used to fuck a guy whose feet were so sensitive he would come if I stroked them while were were boning. It was a thrilling power to hold over someone, but I digress.

I caught my breath, and he sat back, resting on his elbows with that satisfied smile the big O so often seems to inspire in a man. He pulled down the unzipped trousers I'd neglected, pulled down his boxers and I climbed over him on all fours, grabbing my dress and putting it under his head, to cushion him. He slid inside me with ease, and I started rocking backwards and forwards, hands firmly planted on his chest, the ring finger of my right hand grazing his nipple over and over, in time with my hips. I moved my hand up to his neck, my thumb against his collar bone, thrusting with ever more force. I thought of a text I'd sent him: "I'm going to ride you like a motherfucking stallion". I was joking in tone, of course, but not in intent. I really did.

I slowed, feeling the burn in my thighs. Quicker than I'd expected, he sat up and moved me off him - I leant against the wall - and he knelt up and started masturbating over me. He had this look of utter concentration on his face as he stared at me, at my breasts and stomach and splayed legs. I reached up, stroking the back of his thigh, breathing heavily. He exhaled and threw his head back; he came on my tits, paused, and then spread his spunk across my chest with his hand. He laughed, I smiled. We cleaned ourselves up and left. We spent the rest of the reception shooting each other knowing looks. And no one noticed a damn thing.

So there you have it, my little loves. It is possible. Weddings CAN be fun. But only if you get lucky.

[crystal-chandeliere]

A Lesson in Sexting

To begin with, 'sexting' is a rather vague term. I don't send photos, for the following reasons:

1) Much as I adore a rogue penis or breast, I find absolutely nothing appealing about a disembodied human part. Same goes for photos of disembodied human parts. It doesn't turn me on, and if it something doesn't turn me on, I never, ever bother doing it.

2) The art of the selfie is an embarrassing one.

A photo-based sext has finite potential. No matter which way you look at it, it's still a photo of a breast (or otherwise). Words, on the other hand, tap into the imagination, and the imagination need know no bounds.

There are no rules when it comes to sexting, much as there are no rules to general conversation, although certain guidelines are worth considering:

It is prudent to only sext people you know well; ideally people you are 'seeing' (whatever that means)

Don't hold back. A boring sext stamps on the libido, and no one likes a flaccid libido.

If you send an overenthusiastic sext, follow it up with four or five more. My record for consecutively sent, unanswered sexts is seventeen. And you know what? Those seventeen sexts were followed up by a spectacular shag. Unanswered sext overload implies you're just being deadpan, because OF COURSE no one would REALLY send that many sexts to someone who wasn't replying. Failing that, say your friends were messing with your phone.

Sexts do not always have to be truthful ("I just spunked so much I'm literally swimming in it"), but they can be a casual way to indicate to your sextee what you are or aren't into when in the boudoir ("I want to blindfold you and straddle your face").

I generally stick to three templates when sexting a lover or friend, although sometimes it's fun to break the mould with a simple "hubba hubba" or perhaps a saucy, nonsensical poem.

TEMPLATE NUMBER 1: "I WANT TO..."

"I want to" can easily be replaced with "I'm going to" here, for the more direct sexter. Often, using a totally non-sexual activity as your example can create an excellent effect.

"I want to stuff you with peppers and roast you and eat you"

"I want to smack your little bum and rub it with cream"

"I'm going to ride you like a pony, around and around"

TEMPLATE NUMBER 2: "I AM..."

There is the most variety within this template; one can describe a mood, situation or simply oneself.

"I'm having a wank, getting a bit tired. Come and finish me off?"

"I'm at work... naked"

"I am very sexy"

TEMPLATE NUMBER 3: "GUESS WHAT..?"

This is the simplest of the three, and is, unlike the other two, only really fun if you play truthfully.

"Guess what I have in my vagina?"

Honestly, guess.

[crystal-chandeliere]

Leonard: The Beginning

The last man I pined for was a drip. Gorgeous cheekbones, although he kept shaving off his beard, and that made him look disturbingly like a little boy, but not worth my time. As the song goes, "if you don't want to fuck me, baby, fuck off".

If I'm being honest, I was actually more like that man from The Office who says "if you don't want to date me, that's fine, I get that, but you're wrong and I hate you", but it was a different time in my life, and that time has long since passed. I have not pined in FOREVER. Let us move on and forget.

I met Leonard ('s penis) when I had been moping after this other gentleman for an embarrassingly long time (particularly embarrassing when one considers the fleeting nature of our affair). I was on a local radio show at the time, where we discussed my love life in a weekly segment. Eventually my co-host grew sick of the endless updates on my romantic non-event, and one day bluntly said to me, "You know Leonard? You fancy him, don't you? You should have sex with him."

I did know Leonard, and I did fancy him. And yes, dear reader, I did have sex with him.

Perhaps I learnt this lesson rather late in life, but it was a valuable one nevertheless: when you don't give a whit about someone, you don't need to have any qualms about hitting on them. If they are utterly repulsed, you haven't lost anything! Although, that probably means you're repulsive. Still, it's better to know these things.

So the next time I saw Leonard, I asked him for a drink. Being a staunch believer in the power of pants, I wore some rather naughty underwear which, as it turned out, he never got to see. Not that afternoon, anyway. The liberation from giving a fuck had me on top form; I was funny (NB gentlemen, I am always funny), I was sexy (NB gentlemen, I am always sexy), I was interesting and profound (NB gentlemen, etc). I touched his arm a lot, and his knee. I twinkled. We left the pub and walked round a local landscape garden. I wiggled my assets in an excellent moment of convenient-stair-placement as he walked behind me (the combination of my thong and VERY tight dress gave an impressive rear view). And yet I was not ravished by Leonard that day. Nor was I ravished on the next. This, I now know, is exactly what happens when you don't ask for what you want. We flirted and dallied around each other for about two weeks, and I weighed up the pros and cons of my gaining another friend.

I don't need any more friends, you see. I already have so many.

(See above NB about being funny, sexy, interesting etc.)

He came to see a play I was involved with. I lived nearby, and he'd brought wine - so we adjourned to chez Chandeliere and drank wine. It was one of those miraculous nights when you don't get red wine teeth, and Al Green happens to come on the stereo, and everyone takes their socks off without really thinking about it. Nothing is more horrifying than fucking someone - doing it really dirty and hot - and realising afterwards that they had their socks on THE WHOLE TIME.

We finished the wine - I was sitting on my bed and I said, "Come and sit next to me." I like to be physically near people I'm talking to, if they don't appall me. He did as I asked, and there was that pause - the quietly thrilling one when you know you're going to lean in. The pause where you skip a beat wondering if your vulva is still in the tidy condition you left it in. The pause full of potential, before you find out they're toothy, or they kiss like they're actually trying to eat you.

Leonard didn't kiss like he was trying to eat me (he still doesn't). I remember he was wearing a very starchy shirt; the buttons were stiff, but my shirt was off in a second. The delicious feeling of bare skin on skin... the skin you don't usually share. Pressing my torso up against his was a gift of trust: I believe in fucking you.

He pushed me down on my back - gently - and started kissing me across my collarbone, down the side of my breast, along the slight swell of my stomach. He ran his tongue up towards my ribcage. He knew what he was doing, and he knew what I wanted. And then he gave me the best head I had ever had.

When someone wants you - when they really want you - they devour you. There's no wasted time, no half-hearted stocking-filler caresses. I have always loved the sight of a man between my thighs, my legs over their shoulders like the sweetest burden. He pushed back at me, pushed me up until I was supporting myself only with my upper back, him bearing down on me, eyes flicking towards my face with a mad gaze.

I think it takes a real writer, not just a horny lady with a mild labial complaint, to adequately describe the blissful relief of the orgasm. Needless to say, I came hard, and I fucked him harder.

Afterwards, he curled around my back, legs against mine, kissing my neck and shoulders, grazing my skin with his beard. It's one of my favourite feelings in the world.