Insignificant Others

There’s something about being at Oxford that makes every man think sex with you is their right. It isn’t: it’s my right. By which I mean that it’s my right to give them the right, a right that I will give away or occasionally lease out to whomsoever I choose. I guess what I’m saying is, I really hate it when men text me, ask for my number, or smile at me. Because that’s what they mean.

So I ran out of fonts to name my men after ticking off my 22nd nationality – Ecuadoreans, if you’re wondering, are nothing to write home about! So I picked spices next. There’s no particular reason, there’s just lots of them. Of course, as soon as I switched, a man came along who was one of the most annoying I’ve ever met. I can’t think of any particularly irritating spice – you know, I’ve never sat down and thought, “tarragon really fucks me off”. So I settled on Wattleseed. Okay?

So I went to Park End’s traffic light party. And, yes, I was wearing hotpants and a bikini top – it is October after all, so the days of G-strings are gone with the September breeze. And, yes, I did pick “green” as my sticker (ironically!). They didn’t tell me how many to take, so I took a round twenty, stuck five on each boob , and arranged the rest into a smiley face on my midriff. A waggish friend tried arranging them into an arrow pointing downwards, but that just made me look like a slut.

So I was under-dressed. What do you expect me to wear, a burka? But that doesn’t give men the license to be lecherous and pathetic. On the way in, one man opened the door for us with an immense grin, and said “evening ladies”. He didn’t say it, but I knew what he meant: “I reserve the right to have sex with each and every one of you” - as though that simple act of opening the door meant he could ask me to drop my knickers there and then. This went on through the night – a “you’ve dropped this” here, a “is this your insulin” there. Men.

So - so far, so demeaning. Of course, after a while, I started to think that no-one was taking me seriously, and also I was bored. So I strode across the room, picked the first man I could find – this was Wattleseed - and kissed him for over a minute. Then I left. Now, any woman would just accept this for the fun it was and move on, yes? Not this person. This male person.

So then I looked across to find him leching and slobbering his way towards me. Like men will always do, he’d misread the signals.

“Hey, I wondered if you maybe wanted a drink or something?”

So I tried to ignore him, to put him out of his childish masculine embarrassment.

“Hey?”

So I ignored him again. A bit annoyed now.

“Hello?”

“LOOK”, I burst out. “I think it’s quite obvious that I have a boyfriend, okay? So please stop coming over to me and REPEATEDLY trying to have sex with me, and don’t you EVER THINK of sending me any texts or phonecalls, because I won’t answer, alright? People like you make me sick. Why can’t you all just take a hint?” The string on my bikini top came undone, but I managed to tie it back together while still glaring at him.

“Okay, I’m sorry if -“

So that was the last straw.

“SECURITY!”, I screamed. Sadly I did it at that point just between tracks where the music’s a little quieter, so all of the room was turned to look at us. A bouncer grabbed him by the neck and marched him out.

“Sorry about that, darlin’”, said the bouncer. But him I did have sex with later, though. You can’t win them all, can you? But it got me thinking. Why is it always the ones we like the least who cling on the most? Well, maybe not always – sometimes the ones that hang on most become your boyfriend, so that’s a big exception there. I suppose what I’m saying is, “Why is it always the ones we like the least who annoy us the most?” And that’s a rhetorical question, as no-one knows the answer.

So later, I picked up “Moby Dick”. It turns out that that book was about something entirely different to what I thought. I was expecting something that, even if not involving actual dicks, I could use as an allegory for my relationships. Turns out I can’t. Except maybe I’m the whale, and all of the men on boats are trying to capture (have sex with) me, and I’m trying to escape (most of them) because I’m not all that into them. But then in Moby Dick the whale kills them all and drags everyone below the sea in a giant whirlpool and everyone dies. Well, maybe that still works.

Don’t try to harpoon me, right? Cos I’m a massive whale.

Until next time,

Belle xo

Cumming Is Free (But Fucks Are Sacred)

Greetings, fellow sex-fanatics (“sexnatics”)! A little bird told me to expect more traffic today than normal. If you're new, you might be interested in The Best Of Belle De Le Oxford. Here's a selection of posts which are better than the other ones, which are also great:

I often told him that Welsh-Mexican was a weird mix of cultures. "Welsh-Mexican is a really weird mix of cultures", I'd tell him. "It's a really weird mix of cultures, Sven."

- in which I lose my sex-virginity for the first time!

He handed me a small plastic box, ‘How Babies Are Made: A Book On Tape’ (as read by Alan Carr, foreword by Boris Becker).

- in which I lose my abortion-virginity for the first time!

“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.

- In which a nice man takes me to the Randolph

My first novel: “License to Shag: Shag to Kill – Return to Murder Cove" (A "Choose Your Own Adventure" novel)

- If you are a literary agent, PLEASE read this and make me famous

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.

- My first blogged sex!

And there's a Facebook page and a Twitter feed.

Belle

xo

* * *

“Oh Alan”, I purred. “You were so good.”

“I'm just sorry I kept passing out like that”, said Alan. “It can be such a chore having it two feet long like I do, you know, it's hard to find the blood to keep it up!” A silence fell, and he brushed his foppish black quiff across his face, out of the way of his glasses.

“You know”, he said. “That was some top-class content you delivered there, really in keeping with the spirit of the medium. I'm starting to think you should charge for it.”

“Ask for money?”

“Maybe a subscription model. Say, a fiver for a month's unlimited access.”

“But that's disgusting!”

“How else do you expect to maintain such a high quality of output?”

This worried me for a moment. “I never thought of that”.

“Well, I once had a friend”, said Alan. “She started charging for it, and within a month, sure, she was having sex with 99% fewer people, but she'd almost doubled her profits.”

“She doubled them? How was she making money before?”

“Oh, you know. Writing “Lexus” on her tits. “Burger King”. “Domestos”. Sometimes different ones for different body parts, you'd get a different demographic for each. Public sector job ads on her forehead, for the missionaries. Tequila and Pot Noodle on the buttocks for the ass men. There's a whole branch of the advertising industry devoted to this sort of thing.”

“And that didn't work?”, I said.

“It did, for a while. But then there was an advertising recession. When you're earning a pound for every thousand views, can you afford to take a pay cut?”

Of course not.

“I suppose the problem of generating revenue from content is going to become an increasing concern in this internet-savvy something-for-nothing generation.”

“That's pretty smart.” He gazed at me. He was a much older man, of course, but if one squinted, he looked just a little like Harry Potter. But it was me who had Accio'd his heart – though only after he'd Charmed me, and we'd both had a lot of Potions!

“Hey Alan”, I thought suddenly. “Couldn't all of that stuff we've just said also be applied to newspapers? You know, about making money through -”

“No”, said Alan. “Don't be fucking stupid.”

I sighed. If sometimes I seem bipolar, it's because I am. Not clinically, I mean. What I mean is that sometimes I have good moods, but if you check back later, I might be having a bad one. I have more than one emotion, I suppose is what I'm trying to say. I'm pretty sure that's what “bipolar” means.

“Don't worry”. Alan read my thoughts. “People will know who you are soon. Soon you'll be a household name, like Brooke Magnanti.”

“Who?”

“Belle du Jour”.

“Who?”

“Billie Piper!”

“Oh!”

“Don't worry, I've got a trick up my sleeve.”

Oh, by then I'd told him I was The Oxford Sex Blogger. I probably should've mentioned that.

* * *

I'd been stood next to King's Cross station, next to one of their two McDonald's. In my spare time, I collect Happy Meals. Not the toys, just the meal. I still have a classic 1998 cheeseburger, still in its original wrappings: I can only imagine what it's worth now! I love collecting – my mum always said to never throw anything away, as it “might be worth something”. I was also holding 50 Evening Standards, to drive up their value. People were getting annoyed at my not sharing.

A baying crowd gathered. Two of them begged me for the TV listings. Another one implored that I read the sex column (the irony!). As I jammed myself into a phonebox to avoid a riot, I couldn't help feeling awkward. “You are a strong, confident woman”, I told myself, as my McNuggets started to congeal atop my stack of freesheets.

Suddenly, one man surged through the crowd, clouting any obstacles with his iPad. It was Alan, by the way, so I'm not going to describe him again. He dragged his finger across the screen, and flames shot out; he used it to jet over the angry mob, landing just in front of me. A press and a drag later, a laser fired from the screen, blowing the hinges from the phonebox. As he threw me onto his back and flew us away from the torches, pitchforks and waiting police, the sexual tension was clear.

“That's quite some iPad”, I said as we crossed Holborn. It was gold-plated, and embossed with the letters 'AR'.

“Thanks”, he said, setting us down with a somersault. “It's a special model. Built in Swiss army knife, doubles as the hoverboard from Back to the Future 2. Fully operational Gaydar. Contains the full digitised personality of Stephen Fry.”

“Can it make phonecalls?”

“No.”

“Why did you save me just then? Why now? Why me?”

“You cannot create scarcity without becoming isolated from this new networked world. Walking on might be the best decision in business terms, but it removes me from the way people the world over now connect with each other.”

I wondered what his cock looked like.

* * *

“Lentil?”, he offered.

“No thanks, I ate.”

He pounced on me again. In stature he was a Berliner, but where it mattered he was pure broadsheet. The liveblog of my heart updated. "10:51pm: Wow!"

I couldn't not tell him. The dam burst like a reservoir. “It was me, I did a sex blog and I called it Belle and nobody knows and -”

“It's alright! Stop. I know, I know.”

“How? How do you?”

“You think this golden iPad is just for flying, making kosher bacon and watching non-Flash videos?”

It was obvious. I could never have kept it hidden forever. As his brown eyes locked on mine, I let relief wash over me. A weight lifted. He was hard once more, and inside me in seconds. And so he beat on, balls against the current, borne back ceaselessly into my ass.

--

The Oxford Sex Blogger is nominated for Digital Journalist of the Year at the Guardian Student Media Awards

S-ex-orcism

Ever since the first time we'd met, he'd always put me on a pedestal.

“Can I get down off this pedestal now?”, I asked him. “I'm not really enjoying it, and you only seem to be using this to look up my dress.”

“I wouldn't call it a pedestal”, he said. “It's really more of an upturned bucket”.

Ever since the first time we'd met, he'd always put me on an upturned bucket.

This was the first time I'd seen him since leaving our relationship. Lots had changed. He'd joined the Nation of Islam, and formed an indie-pop band in London - I now referred to him as “my ex, Jason X, from the xx”.

A week later I was sat across a table with someone I had just met, in an entirely chance meeting.

“All I'm saying is, if you ever meet this fucker, stay the hell away”, she said. “Sure, you might think that when you're deep-throating him, the shit might be able to focus on you for a fleeting second - is that too much to goddam ask? But later you find he's got six sluts in the bathroom – and he's Tweeting two during! When a man asks for anal, always make sure there's mirrors. And when you fly on holiday to LA, the fucking freak dumps you at the airport.”

“Sure thing”, I replied. “It's your turn.”

“Oh. Two pluspowers on Blastoise, plus weakness to water, 120 damage, your Charizard's dead. I win again.”

“Damn”, I said, and kicked over the table. I wasn't angry, those were just the house rules. And then I realised. Her ex. My ex. The ex. Jason X, from the xx, at LAX!

“That cunt!”, I yelled. Two six year-olds looked over and tutted. Sure, he'd told me about her. He'd claimed never to have slept with her, let alone dated her, but the story lingered in the back of my mind.

It explained a lot. All those unscheduled 2am lectures. Those increasingly generic texts to “Baby” (and the ones in two languages. Then the “delete as appropriate” era). That bag of used condoms (He'd lied: there was no such Blue Peter appeal).

And then there was our whole first year. The excuses. His mum's “doctor's appointment”. His mum's “chemotherapy”. His mum's “funeral”. It was one thing after another, with him. Why couldn't he just get his story straight?

Everyone comes with a warning sign. A brief history of some guys I know:

The Ex: A cheater.

Tiger: A cheater.

Gill Sans: He had it written on his face from the start. (For the last three weeks, he actually had “I'M CHEATING ON YOU” written on his face. Sometimes girls just ignore the signs. When I found out, it really hurt. But then, I guess he meant it to hurt. I don't know why else he'd write it there.)

Simplified Arabic (the lobotomised Iraqi): Not a cheater, though he did own books written by other women, and occasionally smiled at waitresses.

So, I traipsed back to The Ex's flat, my mind still brim-filled with thoughts. He put on a Vin Diesel movie. Halfway through he flipped me over and started doing me from behind, keen to put the hot love-kebab of his penis into the longing, hungry mouth that was my vagina. I started thinking aloud.

“Have you cheated on me?”, I blurted out.

“What are you talking about?”, he said. “I love you. I'd move halfway round the world for you.”

“But that's exactly the point, isn't it?”, I told him. “Only half. I need some sort of real commitment.”

“But you can't get further than halfway round the world”, he said. “The globe being a spherical object, once you're more than halfway round, you start coming back. In fact, were I to move all the way round the world, that might well end up being no distance at all, which is hardly romantic.” He was trying to talk himself out of it, again. To blind me with science, like so many men I'd come across.

It was then now or never: I decided, while having the sex during xXx, to make Jason X, from the xx, my ex-Ex.

“Fuck you”, I told him. “I just can't believe that, after man after man coming to abuse my trust, I was finally beginning to open my heart to you, when suddenly I find out that you're just as bad as the rest of them. I just don't get it! All of you men, it's like you're all after the same thing, and you just think I'll put up with anything! What do you think I am? Stupid?” After that, I pulled his cock out of me.

I turned around. In a flash of panic, I saw him hurl his BlackBerry behind the cushions. Twitter! I let out a scream of rage. When men want it from behind, always make sure there's mirrors.

Memory Laid

So, then, exams are over, then. You're probably wondering what happened to all of my potentials – or “the font gang”, as I ended up calling them. Well, Comic Sans hit the bottle pretty hard when I rejected him, and ended up getting stretchered off the cobbles after a jump from the Rad Cam roof. Times New Roman (the clock-collecting Italian) got quickly dropped when I realised he was secretly sans-serif, if you know what I'm saying! Wingdings went a bit weird when people accused him of having links to 9/11, but the less said about that the better.

I still remember my first relationship as though it was yesterday. I saw him at school, which in those days I went to almost every day except for weekends. I still remember his name, all these years later, as well as other vague details such as what city he lived in (mine), and the school that he went to. And his eyes, and his hair, both of which he had – though that was hardly unusual for a child of our age and background.

It was all innocent back then. The sun shone, the birds sang. I'd borrow his ruler, he'd peck me on the cheek, I'd give him a handjob on that bit of tarmac behind the caretaker's flat, but nothing more. We were, literally, inseparable. “Oh, [my name]”, one of my teachers told me in an exasperated tone. “You two and your handjobs! Are you never going to learn!”

On the bus, in the street, in the library: these are just three examples of places where we might've been together. Old ladies would look at us, with my hand on his cock and say “bless”. I did 'learn', eventually, and now can't do it without oven gloves for fear of viruses. But try telling that to a six year-old girl with the choice between that and Pythagoras!

I still think about him sometimes. I might see him on Facebook, or he might just pop into my head, and I might let out a long sigh, or spend an afternoon imagining what might have been, or I might write two thousand words about him to fill up a word count for a blog that's meant to be about sex. Sometimes I'll look at pictures: pictures of him with me, pictures of him in black tie, pictures of him without me, pictures of him by a light switch, pictures of him eating some bread, pictures of him holding a bottle in the dark, pictures of him smiling at nothing in particular.

Another thing that made me think of him was when I met and had sex with him two weeks ago.

I still remember it to this day. It was a break between exams, and I'd taken the day off to do my bit for charity, attending the “Lie Around For M.E.” event in Uni. Parks. When I arrived at 12, hardly anyone had bothered showing up. I collapsed on the floor with the other three, and hoped they'd avoid a charity disaster not seen since “Chess against Scabies”, or “Jailbreak for Agoraphobia” (ten of them were found huddled in a nearby phonebox a week later).

Suddenly, walking up from the horizon and towards me, I saw him. I still remember him being exactly how I at that point had still remembered him being. He said my name, laid down beside me, and his eyes searched mine. Absolutely nothing had changed. Is this the same guy whose foreskin I used to tickle while eating Coco Pops and watching Aquila?, I thought out loud.

“What?”, he said.

“Nothing”, I said.

Eight hours and six double vodkas later, it was inevitable. He kissed me, putting his tongue in my mouth in a way that most six-year olds are basically incapable of doing. We took a shower in my room, and then I steered him towards the bed. I decided to put on some music, and fumbled with my alarm clock which is also an iPod. I still remember buying it. (Argos, it was. £27.99. The sun shone, and the birds sang.)

The music flooded the room, and I smiled at how apt it was to our situation:

I told the witch doctor I was in love with you

I told the witch doctor I was in love with you

And then the witch doctor, he told me what to do

What is love? I don't know, but maybe I was in it. It was indeed like some shamanic magic had taken over my heart. I longed for some celestial witch doctor to tell me what to do.

And he said ooh-ee, ooh-ah-ah, ting-tang, walla-walla-bing-bang

Ooh-ee, ooh-ah-ah, ting-tang, walla-walla-bing bang

This bit, I will admit, made less sense. I still remember that.

Jeremy Rogers

7:13 I decide that for this post, I will write down everything that happens to me, and put the time next to every one of my comments. This will help my audience to identify with the author, living as they all do in a universe containing time.

It will serve no other purpose whatsoever.

7:16 I leave the pub for my date. I had been drinking with T, my old friend. He had introduced me to S, his brother. His brother brought along TR and DS.

Later on I saw E=MC^2 and Vague Description Boy. Vague Description Boy I had met once before, with Stereotype Man. I first met Stereotype Man when I was dating A^n+B^n=C^n (where n>2).

A^n+B^n=C^n (where n>2) was a great fuck, but I could never quite figure him out.

7:39 I meet with Jeremy, my date. You might remember Jeremy from my night with Gavin, who I haven't heard from since. Jeremy had spent the whole night wearing dark glasses, which I presumed was because he was blind, and with a wire running into his ear, which I presumed was because he was hard of hearing.

It was hard to see why Gavin had had him for a bodyguard.

"I've got something to tell you", he told me.

"What is it?"

"Gavin, who you met the other night? His name wasn't really Gavin. He was Bilawal Bhutto."

A wave of shock hit me, then a wave of horror, then a wave of revulsion, with flotsam of anger. "Surely you can't mean Bilawal Bhutto, the chairman of the Pakistan Peoples Party, and the eldest child of the late Pakistani politician and former Prime Minister Benazir Bhutto and her husband Asif Ali Zardari, the current President of Pakistan?"

7:40 "Yes", he replied.

Everything fell into place. It all seemed so obvious, now. That nervous quiver in his left eye. The repeated assassination attempts as we walked. That time he said "if I don't love you with all of my soul, my name isn't Bilawal Zardari Bhutto, wait, I mean Gavin Smith".

"Why are you telling me this now?"

"When Bilawal first took on a fake identity, I thought he'd use it for good. Maybe open a Blockbuster account, join The Times' Wine Club. That sort of thing. And when I saw he was using it to get women, I thought, why not? He's his own man. But not with you. Not you."

"Why's that?"

"Because, [my name]

7:42 , I'm falling in love with you".

"You're... what?"

"I knew he was going too far, [my name]. I spent years as a bodyguard - just moving from one body to the next, never caring when I ended up. But then there was you. I took one look at you - your crackling laugh, your glacial eyes, and I knew you had to be mine."

"Could you repeat that?", I said. "I'm trying to get this down."

"I took one look at your crackling laugh-"

"Slow down", I said. "I don't know shorthand."

"Glacial eyes-"

"Eyes, right."

"Knew you were the one."

"Knew, me, one. Cheers."

7:43 He fixed me with a longing gaze. "And what about you?"

I browsed my notes.

"Oh... yeah. That. You too."

7:59 I have a bit to drink by now. £Y'see Jemmy, "I said, "I never liked him anyway. kept talking about being vice-pseident of stuff. I mean yask me, thassjust pretentious. I min the social secretary, the boat club, the social secretary, do I go on about that?"

"No", he said.

"yask me I said", yask me, no."

[At this point my notes from the evening become less legible]

7:74 i mean snolike secret identity all bad I say i mean I runna sex blog on the on the online an it has like nine follows "i saw that" he said "was that the one in the express" i said "no that was the other one, mail wanted interview but then ryan kisiel the journalist stopped replying my emails the fucking cunt

8:ssss i think i should wal you home
fuck you im fine you chauvinist
no i think we shotld
no i done want
o is that my vom, i thought it was his
apogies your holiness


[Here the notes end, except for illegible scribbles and the word "dick" written 81 times. The following is as much as I remember from the rest of the night.]

"I'm sorry that woman was such a bastard", said Jeremy. "Everything you did in there was hilarious, and people just need more of a sense of humour over vomit. In addition, I agree that you are certainly more talented than that other, Sex at Oxbridge blogger, not to mention more attractive than both her, and all other sex bloggers."

"I daresay I agree", I replied. "May I add that your walking me home is most magnaimous. The streets of Oxford are grim so late, and there's a fair chance one may encounter trouble!"

We went home. He took out his penis. It was big. I have always said that with penises, the larger the better, with no upper limit. Thus a six inch penis is better than a three-incher, with a twelve-incher better than both. This is true regardless of the sexual experience or technique of the holder.

As the saying goes, "it's the size of the boat".

We had sex four times.

(PS It turns out that Jeremy is a stinking liar and nothing he said was true. Maybe I'll explain why somewhere. But this is lies, all lies, and ONLY A MORON WOULD TAKE ANYTHING WRITTEN HERE AS FACT.)

Around The World In 80 Lays pt 1: Lithuanian, I think, not sure though

In case you were wondering, I've not actually slept with 80 nationalities! This gives me some work to do, as my actual number is 4, across three men (two passports means they count twice). If this feature lasts 4 months, with 76 nationalities to go, that's just under five a week. Each time I'm about to make love, I'll ask to see their passport, and tick them off the list. Sound simple?

Not really. It's not until you start hunting foreigners for sex that you realise how few Oxford has. I traipsed from OCA meeting to Oxford Union bar and back again - nothing. A few hours and an unsuccessful Cowley house party later, I was on my way home drowning in melancholy, when a car pulled up alongside the kerb, travelling almost at a crawl.

The window rolled down. "Sex?", he asked.

I was deep in depression at that point, so I kept walking. He persevered, crawling with me.

"You. Sex me?" I blushed. I'm always attracted to a persistent man, it shows confidence. But there was something special about his broken English which I found almost endearing; I found myself indulging in one quick glance. He was dark-skinned, his hair slicked back, his fingernails dirty. And suddenly, I realised.

This was a foreign man!

"Oh my god!", I exclaimed. "You've no idea how long I've been looking for you!"

"How much?", he asked.

The urge to correct his grammar was near unbearable, but I resisted. "About three hours now!", I replied. "Anyway, your place or mine?"

"Car", he said. "Car."

I suppose that made sense: anyone who's spent any time in Oxford will know that the parking situation is ludicrous, especially on Sundays. As much as I prefer my own bed, I'm a flexible girl. If he needs to go home to park, why not go along with it?

I climbed into the passenger seat. I soon realised I'd misjudged - clearly my beau lived some way out of town! But right in the middle of his shortcut through a disused industrial estate, his Ford Focus ground to a halt. "What a place to run out of fuel!", I thought.

Still, I've always been a girl to make the best out of a bad situation.

"C'mere, big boy", I whispered in his ear. "I want you." He took out his wallet.

"How much?", he asked me.

"THIS much", I said, holding out my arms as far as they could go.

He removed a fifty pound note, and tried to hand it to me. Perhaps in his country they gave girls the money for drinks, instead of buying them themselves.

"You don't have to impress me here!", I told him. I handed it back. It seems he misunderstood, because he took out another twenty. As I've learned, sometimes language barriers can be awkward. I switched to the only language men understand, and undid his flies.

Eight minutes and eleven orgasms later, the intercourse was concluded. He was rough, even violent at times - it was like he'd read my kinky little mind! But as the post-coital fug cleared from over me, I realised that there was something I'd been forgetting all along.

"Can I see your passport?", I asked him.

Suddenly, his mood changed. "Out!", he yelled. "Out!"

I obliged, and he slammed the door shut behind me - though of course, like any gentleman, he threw my cab fare out to me first. I don't think I'll be seeing him again, which is a shame - but then, were I to find real lasting love and emotional fulfilment, what on earth would I blog about?

As the cab drove me back, I thought a little about female empowerment. Just fifty years ago, a girl taking the initiative like I'd just done would've been unthinkable! I'm so glad I live in 2010, with feminism having come as far as it has.

I still feel a bit guilty, though. The cab fare he threw me was too much - way too much. And he never gave me his address. How am I supposed to pay him back now?

Nevertheless, 75 to go...

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.

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.