Saturday, 27 February 2010

Gavin' it off

I could tell he was a charmer from the start. “Come back with me, and I’ll take you to whole new realms of pleasure”, he told me. “You’re the sexiest girl I’ve set eyes on.”

“I bet you say that to all the girls.”

"Of course not, Tanya”. It wasn’t my name, but it’s not like it affected his point.

We made towards the door, and a well-built, charming man opened it for me. Like Gavin, he looked Indian, or something like that. He and I exchanged handshakes.

“[My name]”, I told him. He cast a glance towards Gavin. “And this is… Jeremy.”, Gavin said. “Yes. Jeremy. Is it alright if he comes home with us?”

Now, sure, I’m an adventurous girl, and I’ll try most things once, though nothing overly disgusting, like handjobs. But being watched? ‘I’ll leave that to the exhibitionists and the porn stars’, I thought. ‘As a sex-blogger, I’m entirely different.’

So, I politely declined. On the way home, I swore I could see Jeremy behind us, keeping around forty paces behind, dressed in a balaclava and keeping to strategic observation positions, but I dismissed it.

At any rate, Gavin didn’t notice.

As it happened, Gavin lived in the Randolph! As his door swang shut behind us, he ran his hands through my hair. “Now I will make you my wife”, he told me.

“Oh, Gavin.”

“Call me Bilawal.”

“Bilawal? I thought you said your name was Gavin?”

“Bilawal is my nickname. Now kiss me, my darling.”

I let him kiss me. “I knew you didn’t look like a Gavin”, I told him.

“Yes. Yes.” He moved his hands further down.

“Maybe a Nigel, or a Derek. Not a Gavin.”

He undressed me slowly, and pushed a sheaf of paper into my hands. “Sign this.”

“What is it?”

“It’s a consent form”, he replied. “It proves legally that you’re willing to do this.” I smiled. It’s not often you see a man with such a commitment to feminism.

My vision was blurred by then, and I groped for a pen. My eyes caught a few of the words. I mumbled. “Disco… closure? Juris… what’s this word?”

“Never mind that”, he murmured. “Just sign it, and we can make love.” Like me, he seemed quite the romantic.

“Why so many pages?”

“It also incorporates a standard liability waiver and non-disclosure agreement”

He wasn’t making any sense by then. I asked what he meant.

“It means you can’t tell anyone. Like, the papers.”

“The papers?”

“Well, 'anyone' includes the papers, right?” It was good logic. We made love, and it was good. Many people badmouth the Indian men, but he gave me many orgasms, some with his penis, and some with hands.

Yes, Gavin was a man who knew how to treat a woman. As he came, I wondered when I’d get to meet his mother, but thought I might be getting ahead of things.

I woke up, and it was nine a.m.. Gavin was gone, and so were all traces of him. Dazed, I stumbled over to the door, in time to hear a knock.

It was Jeremy, in dark black glasses.

“I’ll walk you home”, he said.

To Be Continued. . .

Friday, 26 February 2010

Hockey "Blue"

It was 3am, and the force of our passion swept the door open. He forced me against the wall, kissing me on the mouth with both his lips, inserting his tongue into it as he did so.

“Are you over 16?”, he panted.

“Of course, baby”, I breathed. “If that’s OK with you.” I rooted through my bag for my provisional driver’s license, but the heat of his eyes told me that wasn’t necessary.

He unzipped. He was hung like a donkey, and stacked like a gorilla. I cast my eagle eyes upon him, and he stared back doggedly at my pussy and great tits. I went hoarse.

Then he entered me, with his penis in the usual way. And when we made love, it was like two hairy box kites, entangled romantically in the breeze, the coloured fabric and inner mesh of our limbs being dashed together by the winds of our attraction, except that one of the kites had a cock (though it was, aptly, in my "box"!).

Also, he was wearing a condom, which I didn’t mention earlier as it didn’t fit into the narrative. I don’t know when he put it on; I know it was definitely before, I just don’t know how long before.

I think it was probably right before; he might have had it on all night, but many girls would think that presumptuous. Not me, as long as it is changed regularly and cared for appropriately, but each to their own.

A lot of people ask me, “what’s your favourite position”, meaning in sex. I’ve thought long and hard about this, and of the two, I think I prefer “on top”. This leaves my hands free for other things, such as tickling, or origami.

I’m a fan of both, though, and often I like to do two or three minutes of each. I bought an egg timer for that; it didn’t work that night, as it was dark, but during the day it can prove to be a real timesaver. It also works for Boggle.

“Oh”, he said, in the ‘I am pleasured’ sense.

“Oh”, I agreed, throwing in an “oooh”, to push the point home.

“[my name]”, he cried, coming pleasantly and in good time. Then there was a silence, a sort of awkward, embarrassed pause.

“I have to…”, he started. “I have this thing. I can’t…”

Many girls get offended by this, but I don’t. He’s done, why can’t he do what he likes? He threw on his jacket, and walked out into the night, and I remained. The next morning I let myself out of his flat, and walked home.

Wednesday, 10 February 2010

University of Sexford

Oxford. The city of dreaming spires. Dreaming, I so often think, like so many cocks, erect cocks, pointing into the open air. Pointing into what, you might ask? Knowledge. Knowledge, hanging there, like an intellectual vagina. A big vagina, you might say, to hold all those spires in at once? Almost as big as mine.

There’s a stereotype of Oxford, one of gown-clad cyclists in libraries having very little sex whatsoever. For the men, this is wholly correct. Is it for the women?

No. Yet, can we talk about it? No. Like anywhere else, being a woman who enjoys sex gets you called all sorts – names like “jezebel”, or “harlot”, or “fornicator” which you just don’t see applied to men even now.

So stay tuned, as I’m about to expose to you the shocking, sexy truths of one Oxford girl’s sexual exploits (“sexualploits”)! Given that I have a lot of sex now, it might surprise you to know that when I first came to Oxford, I was a virgin. More on that, and my first time, later on. I won’t say who it was, or even give a first name – as Hertford’s a small college – but let’s just call him “the Welsh-Mexican one”.

Needless to say, four men (and a box set of Sex and The City) later, I’ve certainly gained some experience! Statistically speaking, that’s over two nationalities (English ones seem to have the biggest dicks, if you were wondering, with Welsh-Mexicans second).

I'd now describe myself, literally, as a rabid nymphomaniac. My only aim is to show that people’s stereotypes of Oxford aren’t always right. I don’t do this for notoriety, or fame – as though that’s what anyone wants, when they publish a sex-blog to thousands of people online!

I’d hate people to find out who I am – the embarrassment would kill me, not to mention my family, unless it was as part of a magazine deal for at least two thousand pounds.

So I’ll be remaining anonymous – there’s some things you tell people, and some you just have to keep private. Now stick around, as I tell you everything about giving random blowjobs to virtual strangers.