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...