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 pt 2: The Welsh-Mexican

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."

His grandparents on the Mexican side had fled to Wales as teenagers - stricken by the Great Fajita Famine of 1912, which reduced the economy of a great nation to nacho hats and cocaine. The Welsh side had farmed there for generations, in abject poverty until Sven's father (the first to be educated) suggested milking animals other than pigs.

His father and mother were married in the spring of '83, and met only moments later, consummating the marriage atop her father's largest shed, as is the Welsh tradition. From then until now, the rest is history.

Two months in, Sven and I were dining in London's swanky Chinatown ("if you can find a more authentic Chinese, you're in a different Chinatown"). Our relationship was at a crossroads; the kind where I could either go forward, or back. Forwards would mean losing my virginity to Sven. Backwards meant not losing it, and staying in the same place. I gazed into Sven's eyes, as they peered out from beneath his sombrero.

"We've got nothing in common", he said.

And I said, "What about Breakfast at Tiffany's?"

He said, "I think I remember the film. And as I recall, we both... kinda liked it."

And I said, "Well, that's one thing we've got."

I'd gotten through to him. Within seconds he'd thrown down his burrito - how he'd snuck it inside I'll never know - asked for the bill, paid, waited for change, and got it. We dashed outside, and he kissed me passionately. I bathed in the scent of leek and tequila. He was the one.

It was all I could do not to undress him then and there. The next minutes flew past in a blur. Next, I was on a bed. He was undressing me, by taking off my clothing one piece at a time. He kissed me, panting. "My first time", I thought. He breathed sweet nothings into my ear.

"You know, Tiffany's wasn't the only film we watched", he whispered at me.

"What others?", I asked him, begging for more with my eyes.

He undid my bra, and kissed my breasts.

"Patch Adams?", he said.

My skin quivered with anticipation.

"I don't think it was Patch Adams", I said.

He stripped me naked, and drove me wild with his hands.

"The one where Robin Williams plays a quirky outsider unwilling to conform to the rules of his strait-laced superiors?", he said.

I gasped at what he could do to me with just a fingertip.

"I think you mean Dead Poets' Society", I said.

He slipped his boxers off.

"It wasn't Dead Poets' Society", he answered.

I gazed into his eyes. I wanted him more than anything; I wanted us to connect, for me to surround him entirely, for us to intermingle and become one.

"Mrs Doubtfire?", I suggested.

He was rock hard, eager to please me. He wasn't wearing a condom, as it was my first time.

"No, not that either", he said. I grew wetter in my longing.

"One Hour Photo? Bicentennial Man?", I pleaded. "Jack?"

He entered me, and I could feel his hardness inside. My first time!

"No, Jack was the kid with the ageing disease", he replied. I gasped.

"Hook!", I cried. "Hook!" I could feel the pleasure welling up inside of me.

"Nowhere near", he whimpered. "Hook was the middle-aged Peter Pan returning to Neverland. Which, though critically mauled, was nominated for a number of Osc-ah-ah-ahhhhhhhhhh".

I could tell he was close.

"I suppose the conclusion we've reached here is that Robin Williams has had a cinema career of little to no variety", he screamed.

"Yes!", I yelled. "Yes!"

"Eureka!", he yelled. "Good..."

"Good what, darling? What's good?", I asked.

"Good... MORNING VIETNAM!!!"

With that, we collapsed into each other's tired arms.

I guess having "good morning Vietnam" screamed in your face as your boyfriend ejaculates when you're losing your virginity might not be what you'd call classically romantic, but at least it wasn't "JUMANJI". For a first time, I couldn't have asked for more.

Sadly, Sven's back in Wales studying for a PhD. But I'll never forget watching some of the finest Robin Williams movies of my life with him, and some of the best sex I've ever had.

===============

Just a quick thanks to all the fans of this blog - at the time of writing, my last two posts have had 21 comments overall, while that Sex at Oxbridge imitator's only had 20! Cheers to you all for making my blog more popular, and therefore better than hers!

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...

Around the World in Eighty Lays: An Introduction

I'm absolutely thrilled by the amount of attention this is getting already. When I started this anonymous blog about sex at the world's most famous university, started a Twitter feed pointing everyone to it and offered interviews to the major student papers, I never dreamt it would get this popular! But now a week later, with four followers - that's almost one per post!

But with this level of exposure comes the risk of getting caught out. For example: for the past week, I've had the Daily Express on my doorstep. And, on the occasions when I've taken it in to read, I've realised that they're the kind of paper that would really take an interest.

Of course, by now, questions are flying thick and fast. People say:

"Belle,

Given that you're not an actual prostitute and so don't have a job from which to draw a regular supply of sex tales, don't you see this blog rapidly declining into a tedious collection of Oxbridge stereotypes, in lieu of any actual details of, like, sex?

Don't you think that by insisting you'd never be paid for sex, unlike Belle du Jour, then accepting payment from magazines on the back of this - ie, having lots of sex - you're blurring a whole lot of moral boundaries?

Don't you see a risk that the blog will start to dominate you, and soon when you'll drag a man home for sex, you'll try to tell yourself that it's all for you - but there'll be a nagging pull at the back of your mind telling you that this is for the fans, not you - no, this isn't what you want at all?

What about when he's inside you, and you long just to feel pleasure, but your mind keeps suggesting similies - 'like a horse? No. Like a mattress? No. Like a bear? That'll do. Put that in paragraph 2. Move the semicolon.'

Don't you think that now the glare of media attention has dulled and moved away, it's time to admit that you can't keep this going, that the Oxford name won't just paper over mediocrity, and that there's simply better hobbies one can have? And if not, how are you going to force life into this dead horse - how are you going to keep people interested? What fresh gimmick can you dream up to keep your desperate grip on this retreating limelight?"

Well, if you're thinking the answer to that last one is, 'list each of my various conquests by nationality with a smattering of cultural stereotypes thrown in', you won't be disappointed! More soon!

Belle,

xo

William, it was merely rutting

His knife and fork clattered around the plate. He seemed genuinely nervous. We had broken up three months before, and there'd been silence until this – an invitation to Quod, out of the blue.

“I’ve got something to tell you”, he said. I let him talk.

And talk he did. “You’re pregnant.”

“I’m… what?”

“Pregnant. About three months gone, now.”

“How could this have happened?”

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

“Oh.” I fumbled for something to say. “Is it mine?”

He nodded, grimly.

“How did you find out?”

“You remember when I told you I needed that urine sample? For that urology dissertation I told you I was doing?”

“British Urine Through The Ages, 1919-2009: A Comparative Study? Sure.” It had seemed odd at the time. William studied geography.

“Yeah. Didn’t exist.”

It was all starting to fit together. Mostly.

“Wait - then why did you ask for Juliet’s urine, too?”

“Plausibility.”

“And Karen’s –“

“Look, does it matter?”, he snapped. I suppose it didn’t.

Needless to say, it was the scariest moment of my romantic life. I was starting to regret believing him, when he’d said he was allergic to condoms (“no, not just latex. Condoms”).

It all ended well enough. I flew home for an abortion; the clinic was on a busy street with an animal testing lab on one side, and the American Embassy on the other. Confused protesters stood dazed, wondering what to aim at. In the clinic itself, Dr. Bradbury looked puzzled.

“There’s nothing there”, he told me. “You’re not pregnant.”

Relief was tempered with concern. I wasn’t about to take risks.

“Could you do it anyway?”, I asked.

As a private doctor, he cheerfully obliged. I go back once a month now, just in case. As I’ve said ever since, it’s like a colonic for the womb!

Anyhow, since then, I’ve become an expert on contraception. Here’s my guide.

The Belle dú l’Oxford Guide To Contraception

1. The rhythm method

As a girl, I was brought up in a Catholic school. This is the only one they recommend; as they put it, if you are going to shag your way through 20 men outside of marriage, this is the least sinful way in which to do it.

2. Condoms

As I’ve always said, the more, the better! Three or four is best, in case some break. If they start to slip, try adding adhesive to the lower layers! Do not add adhesive to the top layer.

Catholics also recommend this, as if you use a condom, it’s not technically sex.

3. Withdrawal

The only 100% reliable method of contraception, withdrawal is the best way of keeping sperms out of you entirely, by politely asking the man to leave halfway through.

Remember – if none of you enjoyed it, it probably worked!

Which one of them you choose is up to you. My friend Helen at home likes to be safe, and “doubles up” – she gets the man to wear a condom, and withdraw before orgasm! It’s crafty moves like that that’ll ensure she never gets pregnant again.