Top Five Most Sexiest Careers – for me based on real science and empirical evidence

Money is not a driver for me, it certainly doesn’t turn me on. I’ve never gone out with someone who had a huge amount or indeed a billionaire – like some books would suggest all girls fantasise about. Just to be clear, I don’t fantasise about it, I am not looking to be saved by someone, in the financial sense, and have all my worries disappear. I think it would make me outrageously uncomfortable. Anyway back to the point. A lot of purported careers that you may have been told are sexy for women or desirable just because they come with a big wage packet aren’t a turn on or certainly aren’t for me. Ditto some others that TV, films and other media have claimed. For example I would not find a doctor attractive at all. AT ALL. I’m not saying I wouldn’t consider it, of course I would but the fact of him being a doctor is a minus point, not a plus, and something to be gotten over. But I’m an equal opportunities ride and I will of course see past a minor thing like that. Case and point; The Cop, possibly my least sexy profession. And I think we can agree that we’re all glad that I did. I’m just saying I wouldn’t hold it against someone for long.

So, here are my top five sexy careers that make me swoon, fantasise (in ways I’m not always proud of) and occasionally make me do things that rational, day-time Abbi wouldn’t. These professions get me into trouble. Some make no sense but I will try to put sense on them. And some, even though in my head I don’t like them, they are on the list because the fact is I have succumbed to the charms of boys in that career, one too many times for comfort.

In ascending order:
No. 5 – DJ
Oh DJs, I hate that I like them. I hate that I have done outrageous things and at the same time I love it too. This is the profession that I know I should stay away from but I have not been able. I have this theory and to be fair to me it has played out well. To be a DJ or at least one that I would consider good, you need a certain presence and certain patience. You need to be able to read a crowd, tease them, give them what they want and also be brave enough to give them what they don’t want or expect and take them somewhere new. And every now and then, when they’re not expecting it, throw in a bit of cheese. This makes me fancy DJs. Now let’s be clear, I’m not up at the box, hanging around like an eejit waiting to get noticed. That only happens after I’ve had said DJ and absolutely want them again. You see why I’m not so thrilled that I find them attractive! But at least I can laugh at myself and my predilections. And it no longer seems a threat, I seem to have grown out of it for now. My favourite DJ would do outlandish things to get me to suck his cock, and I only dying to do it, always appreciated the effort he went to. We were incorrigible but alas we never got to do the one thing that was top of the list; me under the DJ box sucking him off while he played to a full crowd. Yeah, yeah judge away!

 

No. 4 – Journalist/Writer
I love people who are good with words. I adore someone who can convey things in an email just as well as in person, and the person who can make me come with texts…? Sigh.
So anyone who gets to do this for a living is probably my kind of person. Or at least my sex-brain thinks they are. I find it mesmerizingly sexy to be able to be creative all day with words and of course as always it’s intelligence more than anything that turns me on. I equate being able to turn me on with words as being of a superior intelligence. This again has worked out well for me regardless of there being any grain of truth in it. If you can write, have some sense of personal hygiene and can demonstrate even an inkling of your wordsmith-y ways, then I’m probably interested. And Jesus, if you pass me a well written note…. I’d probably follow you anywhere.

 

No. 3 – Dentist
Ok this one is my most goldigger-y and I freely admit that.
I think dentist is an attractive profession because I also have an obsession with my teeth. They’re quite straight and very white; owing to years of orthodontics paid for equally by the state, my parents and emotionally by me. But I would like not to have to pay for the amount of ordinary upkeep-dentistry that I would like to be able to have. I know, what a free loader. But that’s not the only reason. Dentists make a decent living and unlike doctors can pretty much decide their own hours i.e. no 80 hour shifts. And as always, I’d imagine that to gain the qualifications necessary to be a dentist, one would need to be intelligent enough and to be any good at it, quite patient. All these things add up to attractiveness to me: has a brain, is intelligent, has time and means to be getting up to what I fantasise about in the chair. And other places.
*An acquaintance, who I revealed this to at a party one night looked at me blankly and said ‘You could never have a dentist, you wouldn’t be able to get one’. He walked off before explaining why and I was quite put out for the rest of the night, and more than a little insulted. I did corner him later and his explanation was that like gardaí and teachers/nurses, allegedly, dentists only do dentists. Who knew. This could explain their drop back to no. 3 on this list.

 

No. 2 – Computer – things
Now. I’m going to embarrass myself and boys of IT that I have had the pleasure to know. I’m not sure what end of ‘computers’ that I’m strictly drawn to. There’s been localisation, programming, software and other things I don’t really know about. But there’s something about a faux geek that does it for me. Or even a real geek for that matter. Again, knowledge equals sexy to me. And knowledge about stuff I don’t know? Hell yeah. What’s that? You can sort my laptop? You can get my parents’ wifi fixed, you can get the printer working? YOU can RULE the world with this sorcery – or maybe just mine. So this just does it for me. Also, there just seems to be a dark humoured cynicism that seems to go with boys who know IT and I also swoon all over that shit.
This along with NO.5 above is one that I have found through experience rather than decision. Guys I’ve been with who have ‘done computers’ for a living have been great in bed, so much so that I now expect anyone who (in the process of chatting me up) tells me this is their job to be automatically Abbi compliant and I get quite excited and I make it a self-fulfilling prophecy.

 

No. 1 – Architect
Ah. Here it is. My all-time absolute favourite career that I find sexy for oh, so very many reasons. And just to remind you that I’m not proud (or possibly even remotely right) about all of them. I could be categorically wrong about a lot of them because….. I’ve never had an architect (unless we’re counting that one time me and my one and only architect friend were drunk and kissed for like 30 seconds – and we’re not counting that cos she was only teasing me, the big fecking tease) But I’m glad she came up because for as long as I know her, Architect Lady, I’ve been swooning over her and joking that if she was a guy I’d want to marry her. And to her credit she never misses an opportunity to exploit this. Any time she wants me to do something that I’m wavering on she’ll break out the old chestnut that she feels like she might ‘turn’ and that if I don’t go out with her on this occasion it might be some other girl’s arms she falls into. She is only mostly joking about this. But the point is that it is her, her persona and character that I feel defines an architect. Yes she is hands down the most intelligent person I know, her logic is infallible and you can’t beat her in an argument, she’s too calm and sharp witted. She’s knowledgeable and practical while at the same time being creative and artistic. In a guy this translates as: is manly and knows about buildings but has also got a creative design side and might be able to draw and tell the difference between colours.
It’s a stressful job, so I hear, and you need to be calm, organised and persuasive again all traits that are knicker-wettingly swoonsome for me. Now I know I’m not basing this on anything at all tangible and as I’ve said I’ve never actually had an architect and here I am, practically beatifying them. They could all be a bunch of pricks. But then so could any Doctor, Fireman, nurse, or teacher – or whatever profession people fetishize. This is the one I like to think about and fantasise about living with in my glass atrium-ed house with our two dogs. And until I get that fantasy smashed I’ll be in the corner, always thinking about an architect giving it to me. Is that so terrible?

 

Top Five (shocking) Careers that I don’t find attractive
Doctor
Pilot
Sports star (any sport)
Musician
Cop/Fireman/Army – any ‘hero’ or uniform profession

I know, shocking right, as most girls seem to have these as their top fantasies, what can I say. But let me reassure you that I am indeed a chick because I do indeed dig scars.

But just to clarify, your job doesn’t turn me on, what you do for a living isn’t important to me. Who you are is.
I’m not going to drop my knickers for someone just because they tell me they’re an architect – but if I had to think about a profession that seems sexy to me, that’s the one that springs to mind. Or if you do happen to be chatting to me and it is revealed that you’re an architect…? Well actually I’ll probably act too excited and you’ll most likely walk away to chat to someone normal. Which is what I can only assumed has happened every time.

Top 5 Sexiest Places in Dublin – according to me, not science

No 5. 777
This place is a restaurant on George’s Street. There’s no sign outside, it’s just a black shop front and frosted glass. It looks like it’s a sex shop. A dodgy one at that. And that sets the tone for me, that it isn’t what it appears to be, that it’s not trying to get your attention. But they’re dickheads and this is gimmicky. They don’t take bookings and all of this – the looking like a dodgy hole – is affected, there’s obviously something amazing behind the doors, and don’t they just know it. And simultaneously, I don’t care, they can well afford their arrogance because inside, there’s not much that they’re getting wrong and even thoughts of the place, what I’ve done and what I’d like to do there, turn me on. I sometimes masturbate thinking about people I’d like to bring here and what I’d do to make them crazy all night, until I was ready to give them a little bit. (dream on! I’m not going to just tell you!)
You can stop reading now if you haven’t figured out that this first place is mostly, mostly, about my two other turn ons: food and booze.
But food and booze (good booze) make me want to do dirty things.
The food here is sexy, it’s hard to describe so I’ll just go with gourmet Mexican? It’s not like any Mexican you’ve ever had. Then the booze – they allegedly have the biggest tequila menu in Ireland. Who’s gonna check? And it’s dark and sultry and the music is loud and clubby. This isn’t sounding sexy is it? But trust me I’m wet just thinking about the place. They have this big long counter that runs the length of the place. If you’re in a couple you’re seated here (told you they were bastards) but this is perfect. You’re on swivel stools, side by side perfectly placed for far more grabbing and feeling up. You also seem to then be in your own bubble, you can’t hear the people next to you and they can’t hear you. And because of the music, you have to lean in close to talk. The walls are covered in cheesy but well done tattoo art of Latina women in various states of undress and moustachioed men caressing them; and or guns. All in keeping with the ‘Mexican’ theme. Because all Mexicans are of course gun-toting, tattooed, gang members.
So it looks sexy, it sounds sexy, it smells & tastes sexy and it feeeeeels sexy. I have been here a number of times: with the ex, the BFF, the sister and the best bloke mate (that was the least sexy, he wasn’t drinking and so politely I abstained also, when all I wanted was 4 giant margaritas down my neck) But every other time! We had the super-laced, booze-heavy cocktails and just let go. With the ex we leaned in close, whispered filth (probably shouted it) stroked each other (probably put on a very visible show) and drank, ate and seat-danced until they booted us out and he carried me to a taxi where I tried to have sex with him. To his credit he found this (me being a holy disgrace) a turn on and valiantly managed to hold me off until he got me just about in the front door of my house.
With the BFF, we again were seated at the bar, lacing into the frozen ball margaritas and sharing food. We’re mad about each other, this is established and sometimes we might forget other people are there because we’re having such a great time together. This often gets us mistaken for a couple. But it’s not like we could give two shits. The merrier we get the more we tell each other we love each other. There’ll be tight hugs, boob squeezes and a few kisses. I’ll tell her she’s gorgeous, she is by the way, she’ll tell me the same. Sometimes if we think someone is staring we might overdo it. So what? Margaritas and this place will do that to you. And then of course there’s the dancing in the seats. Again, until we’re thrown out.
With the sister it’s more of the same, food sharing, boob squeezing and getting dance-y drunk until I call someone I shouldn’t and she goes home to her boy.

I’m aware that this all makes me sound like a big drunken lush. Or possibly does to some people? But to the ones who know what I mean? The people who are turned on by all their senses getting stimulated and being made to wait for the sex? You’re the people that I’m writing this for. And you know what I mean.
777 is the best place for a date. Not a first date mind? It’s casual dining but it’s in no way cheap (I rarely get out of there with change from €150 for two people, does include a nice tip though). So you want to take someone here that you know is going to enjoy it, someone who properly wants you and someone that you desperately want too. Maybe it’s the after you’ve had sex date? If you’re the kind of person who waits. OR like me, after you’ve met them and they were great in bed. It’s non-confrontational because they seat you side by side and this is far more conducive to a tactile, groping, nudging, knee brushing, cock grabbing kinda time.
I’m gonna end this love letter now, because frankly, it’s a little embarrassing. Last thing I’ll say about it; as sexy as this place makes me feel I’ve not been back there with a boy since the ex, I’m waiting for someone good.

 

 

No. 4 The Vintage Cocktail Club (The VCC)
This is another little gem that looks super dodgy and is actually kinda hard to find. Well, not terribly. The first time I was there I knocked on the door and I swear to god this is what happened; after I knocked, someone opened the door an inch and warily asked me what I wanted, Cocktails! Was my enthusiastic response. And then after a heartbeat’s hesitation where I assume they calculated my response, they said, ok, come on in. As if this was the magic answer and if I’d said ANYTHING else the door might have been shut forever.
The inside again is quite affected but it works well. I don’t know where they got the carpet or the wall paper but it looks like your granny’s’ house from 50 years ago, all brown and paisley and kinda faded. The theme of the place is 1920’s prohibition era, speakeasy. The staff all are gorgeous and wear suits. The cocktails are thankfully amazing and should you so desire, served in a giant bowl. It’s dark, the music is good and it’s on 3 or possibly 4 floors. All of them small and cosy. It’s perfect for secrets, and groping and leaving every concern at the door. Also, like a speakeasy I imagine, there are no windows – I just feel like I could get up to no good in here. I haven’t, but I always desperately want to. I’ve plotted no good, I’ve tempted someone here knowing well what I was doing. This place is custom designed for being saucy and acting saucy. They’re open til all hours anyway – plenty of time to get inspired.
I got deliciously pounded right into the ground one night, after sitting at the bar drinking blackberry & passion fruit concoctions with an ex. Each sip bringing us both closer to the inevitable. I knew exactly what I was doing bringing him here. (I’m pretty sure he knew too)

 

 

No. 3 Lansdowne Road (The Aviva)
Honestly, Thomond Park is actually sexier for me. I’ve been there more often, gotten drunk there more often and been chatted up there more often but this is about Dublin so I’m going with this. Yes, it’s a rugby stadium. Rugby turns me on, insert no fake apology here. It’s not the men that do it for me (well of course it is but not in the way that you think). Generally, a rugby build is too big for me, I prefer GAA player build or a swimmers build if I was to name a shape, which I’m not because I generally fancy everyone, so let’s not focus on that. To get back to the point, it’s not men running around in tight shorts, grabbing each other that is the turn on. Of course it isn’t, I don’t think that actually turns anyone on? It’s what the game ignites in me, that I love. I have a team, which I was born to. It’s where I’m from. My earliest memories are of my Dad bringing me to the rugby on Saturday mornings. I’ve known it as long as I can remember, so it’s an old, well established, deep rooted passion. I couldn’t discard it if I tried. And I think passion is the key here. I love this team, I’ve known them all my life, even when they’re shit, I love them and believe. They’ve broken my heart but they’ve fixed it again and they will always, always be forgiven.
So needless to say but I’m obviously going to say it anyway, I am invested and excited when I get to watch rugby. The adrenaline pumps in my veins, my heart beats out of my chest and I’m sure my pupils are disproportionately dilated. My whole temperature rises, I heat up at my core. But nobody needs me to describe sporting passion to them and that’s not what I’m doing, I’m just explaining, for some who might find it hard to grasp, that I am a genuine fan of this sport. I get properly riled up and this sometimes feels like sexual desire.

I met one of my favourite boys after watching Ireland beat Australia in Lansdowne in some of the most torrential rain I have ever seen. This same boy 6 months later was languishing in my bed after we had done god knows what the night before. It was a Saturday, as I stirred I realised the time (probably about 3 in the afternoon) and that the game was about to start. ‘Apollo, Apollo (for that was his moniker given here) – wake up, the Ireland game is about to start’. Luckily for both of us all we had to do was sit up a bit, as there was a TV at the end of my bed. I couldn’t be more pleased with myself. It was cold outside, we had been wrecking it the night before but right now? I was in my warm bed, naked, lying on the chest of this boy I adored, having just woken up in time to watch the rugby. It was bliss. Apollo loved rugby also, possibly my only beau who did, so he was just as content as me to be where he was. And then Ireland started playing well, better than well – we were cheering every few minutes, it was gonna be a walkover. So my thoughts turned to something else. I told myself if they scored soon I would start, they did. And then, if they went 50 points ahead I was going to climb onto him, they did. He didn’t stop me, I’d been stroking and lightly licking his cock for about 15 minutes. I was excited by the rugby, delighted to be where I was and so wet from having been teasing him. I rode him slowly and ground down onto him so that we were both happy. I could hear more excitement from the screen behind me, I don’t know if he could still see it, I think my eyes were closed. Flashes of that scene from Trainspotting went through my head – when Renton is having sex with Kelly and imagines some goal – I giggle and tell Apollo. I get more excited, this is great sex and I know I’m making more noise, possibly guessing that I’m close, he grabs my wrists and pulls me harder down on to him. Once again I can hear more excitement from behind me and just as I’m coming I can hear the noise – Ireland have scored again! I nearly fall off him laughing but he’s too quick, he has me under him and is pounding me to finish himself before I know what’s happening. Delicious. Ok, so that sex didn’t actually happen atthe game. But I met him there, and the game we were half watching half having sex to was on there. This makes it a sexy place. I won’t retract that.

 

 

No. 2 The Memorial Gardens
These are a hidden gem in Dublin. I’d been living in this city 10 years before someone brought me here. It was the electrician with the super-hot name. It was in the summer in that amazing fantastical time when it’s actually warm, better than warm, it’s hot. He wouldn’t tell me where we were going just told me to meet him at Heuston Station and we’d walk to where he intended bringing me. A short walk from there is this little oasis that you can’t believe exists. It’s a park and some wild land and a river. It’s so close to everything but seems miles away. And it’s so close to the Phoenix Park too, but in my opinion it’s infinitely better. So we sat near the river and drank red wine and lay on a big picnic blanket and got merry and kissed and groped each other, it was gorgeous. I’d never been here and he was incredulous at this and then after possibly two bottles he announces ‘You’ve never been here, which means you don’t know’ – I don’t know about what? ‘The rose garden – they’ve got this stunning and elaborate rose garden’. So we lay there and drank more wine until we were out and then it was time to see the rose garden. And it did not disappoint, it was genuinely magical. I think I skipped around it as he watched me bemused. He was leaning against a tier smiling at me when I sauntered up to him and nudged his legs apart so I could stand between them. I draped my arms around him and kissed him below his ear before whispering into it ‘Thank  you for this, thank you for bringing me here’. And then I kissed him, slowly, languidly and I felt him get hard. Not one to miss a trick he traced his hand up my thigh under my very short skirt. Then he stopped, I don’t know if he was teasing or testing, to see if I was ok with this in public. I was fine with it. The sun was going down and there was nothing I wanted more than for him to be touching me. So I touched his hand and moved it up further never taking my mouth off his. I was soaking by the time he slid his fingers into me and started doing the thing he did so well. He was so good with them, so deft and he could always get me off like that. I started to make noise, or at least my breath started to catch. He had two fingers in me and a thumb circling my clit, I had to bite his neck to stop from gasping. Every now and then as I moved my head, I caught sight of him, wholly bemused with the power he was wielding over me or possibly awestruck that I would let this happen – I don’t know, I didn’t know him that well at that point. He would look at me with the crooked smile and then go back to kissing me always maintaining the right pressure with his hands. I’m sure he was getting off on this. But then maybe reading it wrong or just being a gentleman (and he certainly was) as I was nuzzled into his neck trying to stifle my noises he casually mentions that a tourist couple has entered the garden at the further end. I hate this, it doesn’t turn me on, I derive no pleasure from the ‘excitement’ of possibly getting caught. ‘They’re not coming this way though’ he adds, so I let him continue. I’m so close, I want to come so badly, I need to. But having gauged my reaction correctly from the first bit of info he duly tells me that they’re coming closer, and asks me do I want him to stop. No, I don’t but I think you have to. As a consolation prize, to myself, as he slides his fingers out of me I catch his hand and take them in my mouth, sucking as much of the delicious taste off as I can.
His place isn’t far from here. So we stroll as fast as our drunk and wanton bodies will take us to his house so we can finish each other off.

 

 

No. 1 My couch
I know, I know. This is a cheat and I really should have Whelan’s listed here as I seem to have an outrageous track record in that place not to mention the time I had a girl there. But I don’t care if these are sexy places you can realistically visit or just places I find sexy. So my couch is the number one sexy place in Dublin. For me. And I’m not even a tiny bit contrite about that. Any guy who’s had the pleasure would agree.
And it has some hot competition from the bed and the kitchen table but really, this is a one horse race.
The couch is leather and L shaped. Big enough for anything you would like to be getting up to on it. And of course, wipe clean. It’s also out in the floor, not pushed up against a wall; which means that it is the perfect height for being bent over while giving stability to both partners. And of course there’s the arm of it, perfect also for bending me over it and spanking me or whatever you would want to do to me. It has close proximity to the giant cushions so I can get on my knees and stay there for ages while bestowing some maddeningly long fellatio on you until I am ready to straddle you. Either reverse cowgirl, and who doesn’t like that. Or facing you, gripping the back of the couch so I can grind right down on to you or hover tantalisingly, just on the tip. I can also kneel on the couch, facing over the back of it so you can take me from behind, with the option of kneeling behind me or standing so you can get in right and deep. This couch was custom designed for me. Actually it was, it’s bespoke but I had no idea what I was doing when I ordered it, clearly some part of my brain did though. I remember one occasion, when I was being taken by The Cop, I’m kneeling on the couch bending over it, he’s behind me, one leg kneeling and one upright, pounding me into oblivion. As this continues I go further and further over the edge of the couch so that my hands are touching the floor. But he keeps going, fucking me furiously being completely encouraged by me, I go too far though, I lose my grip and suddenly I’m in danger of going over, we both are. I’m going and I’m taking him with me! But we don’t, he obviously catches me.
I have lay here for hours watching movies. I have lay here getting myself off. I have lay here sick, sad, tired, happy and horny. I have written most of my posts here on this couch. I adore this thing and it is the very, sexiest place in Dublin. It’s good for everything.

 

 

No science was abused or incorrectly invoked in the writing of this post.

The Worst Sex Ever

I’m not sure who was the best sex ever, it’s hard to say isn’t it? Different people are good at different things and some are the best at one type of sex and some are the best at another. It depends on how it made you feel or what it brought out in you. Some are dirtier, kinkier or more intimate and in love. But there’s loads that make up my favourites and best.
What is way easier to identify is the worst sex ever and to tell you why.
This will not make for easy reading and it will make you uncomfortable, you have been warned so stop reading now if you feel this may upset you. Because hands down the worst sex ever is the sex with no consent. This is the account of the sex I didn’t agree to have but that happened anyway. So if you think you can cope with what that might entail, please read on because this is without doubt the bravest piece I’ve written to date.

The world isn’t black and white and I think it’s very difficult for people to understand situations when there isn’t a clear cut villain, where the protagonist isn’t 100% evil. Which is wholly at odds with reality when we think about it, because nobody is 100% good or bad we’re all human and we all do bad things we’re not proud of. I’m not saying this as a way of justifying appalling acts I’m just setting the background; that as humans we need people to be ‘monsters’ or we can’t believe them capable of horrendous or even just deeply unpleasant acts. When there are very few monsters out there but there are tonnes of monstrous acts.
Please try to remember that.

I know a lot of you will be unable to relate to this. I’m pretty sure nobody will like it. Worse than that I suspect most of you won’t believe me. But that’s how it continues to happen.
I’ve told all the girls close to me – never had to explain it. I’ve told a few boys and regretted that almost entirely, because they all believed it was my own fault.

How many times have I been raped? I’m not entirely sure. Because I’m not sure I would call any of them rape. It was never brutal and it was always someone I knew. That sounds bad when really it was only one that did any real damage, the others were more about over insistent boyfriends who thought it was their right – which is still very difficult for me to come to terms with given how rarely I turned either of them down. It was just a case of lying there and letting them get on with it. Being furious that they weren’t listening to me and being too tired to fight.
Actually that does still make it sound quite bad when it wasn’t. I knew and (yes actually) had loved both these guys each time. Both times it happened I was too drunk or tired to enjoy sex and wasn’t in the mood. But they insisted on continuing – seemingly oblivious to how much I was not at all participating in the sex.
The first guy, I was quite young, I was 19, he was my first proper boyfriend – it actually happened twice with him. Once we were camping, there was a storm, it had taken us all day to get there and we were tired and miserable. The very last thing I wanted was sex but he insisted; I was a spoil sport and selfish because we’d never been camping before and he wanted to have sex in a tent. He got quite rough with me and eventually emotionally blackmailed me enough so that I just turned around and let him. It was not enjoyable. The next time he did it we were at home in our own bed. We had been out for the night and it was very late. I just wanted to go to sleep. But we were giggling falling into bed and he picked me up and threw me onto it. I thought he was joking when the held my hands over my head and said he was going to have me. But he didn’t stop. I laughed and said ‘Hey, hey – get my dress off first, come on, I’m wrecked let’s get into bed’. So he let me up for a second but when he realised I just wanted to go to sleep he went back to holding me down. Holding me down was something we did all the time, to each other. But this was different. He wanted sex and I think because this was only the second time I ever turned him down it seemed to spur something in him and he didn’t want to be told no. This is the unpleasant bit because he used my own sense of self so horribly against me. ‘But you love sex, you never turn me down, of course you want it, I know you want it. I KNOW you want it’.
Just because I love sex does not mean that I am at your beck and call for it whenever you like. I don’t want it every minute of every day and I am certainly not obliged to always give it to you just because we happen to be in a relationship. And you DON’T know I want it, unless I tell you. Either with actual words coming from my mouth or with encouraging noises and body language. These are pretty fucking easy to spot. As are the ones telling you that I do not want it.
And so he held me down and had sex with me. I protested for quite a while and he acted like I was playing. He was quite drunk and stubborn and I could see that he didn’t even register me. It was very unpleasant and disturbing to see that in the boy who professed to love me.
I did take it up with him the next day, I was furious and I had bruises. I think it was how he laughed it off and claimed that he didn’t remember the general air of what was I making such a big deal about it for ….
It was the end for me. Not that day, probably not that month but I realised something and I knew I had to get out.
The second guy was recent. I’m a grown up girl now, I can’t be making the same excuses. But that’s exactly what I did I’m afraid. It was almost exactly the same, where my needs and requests and then downright pleas were just being ignored. Again we were in a committed and loving relationship. But sometimes he wanted the sex more than me. Ironically, I actually wanted the sex this night, I truly did but we came home drunk and loud and my housemate at the time was in bed. I was so conscious of waking her and was trying to impress this upon him. He was not having any of this. We started to have sex but I wanted to stop – the bed was making too much noise, we were making too much noise, I wasn’t comfortable I wasn’t enjoying it. I said this, I told him it would be better in the morning, could we not just wait. But who did I think I was stopping in the middle, did I realise what I had done to him, did I at all comprehend how selfish that was, that I couldn’t possibly leave him with a hard on, that was too unfair altogether. I tried logic and reason; hey? I was horny too, I was wet and ready too but sometimes, things aren’t possible and I was only asking him to wait a few hours. But I suppose what I didn’t understand and he so kindly educated me on, it’s not the same thing. He didn’t get off me he kept going. I tried pushing him off, to no avail. And then I got really worried that my housemate could hear us arguing about having sex and I couldn’t bear that thought so I stopped and hoped he’d finish soon. He didn’t but my brain did finally kick in and I told him I had to pee. I then hid in the bathroom long enough for him to lose his erection or fall asleep.
The threat of peeing on him being the only thing that stopped him, not any of my declarations that I wasn’t enjoying any of it???
But as a grown up girl I was absolutely not going to let that lie. I was livid the next morning and not going to let this go without comment. I mustered all the patience I could to try to explain how awful the situation had made me feel the night before and how behaviour like this wasn’t ok. Why was I being patient? Because I loved him, I wanted him to understand what he did and most of all? You are far more likely to get someone to listen to you if you’re calm and non-accusatory, even if you have loads to accuse them of.
But the outcome was the same he was sorry, why didn’t I make it more clear to him (?), he was so drunk, he didn’t mean it, was I sure I told him I wasn’t enjoying it (??) But why exactly did I not want the sex (WTF??) – Could I explain that a bit better, he asked? I gave up.
It was lost on him. He actually didn’t believe it of himself?
And that’s the crux of this, he didn’t believe himself capable of what he had done, and I think that maybe a lot of guys don’t. So where is this sense of entitlement coming from?

*JUST on the off chance that anyone wants to make a trite comment about alcohol and the Irish, I’ll just inform you that neither of these boys was indeed Irish. So park that one for yourselves.

So I wasn’t broken or damaged or turned off sex by either of these boys. I was just saddened. I wasn’t robbed of my sense of safety or my ability to love and adore any further boys. I was just surplus to their needs when they felt they had the right to my body.
The language I’m using sort of implies that I’ve absolved them of any real wrong doing, which I suppose I am. And so I’m perpetuating the problem. Which isn’t really what I mean to do. I’m just separating it from the bigger issues while highlighting just how insidious it is. To reiterate I was furious with both of them but I didn’t at all think I had done anything wrong or had brought it on myself.

We might as well move on to the one that did. The one that still does and the ripples of repercussions it has caused throughout my life. The details aren’t gory and I fully expect to get vilified for this.
He was a friend of my sister’s boyfriend – not really in our circle but we did cross over. One night all my friends had gone home and at the very end of the night this guy says he’s having a party – I’m not ready to stop, I want a party. My sister and her boy leave and assure me that this guy will look after me. How ominous.
The party is way Northside. I’m Southside – so it’s a bit further than I would normally have gone. I have no idea why I went – I think I just didn’t want to go home?
So the party is ok but The Guy is making all my drinks and handing them to me. He sometimes sits beside me but he doesn’t at all come on to me. Not once, not even a hint. There is nothing going on between us. But I feel quite drunk, I’m not having that much fun (they’re taking turns playing a didgeridoo FFS) so I think it’s time to end the night, I’ve certainly had enough. I say to him ‘I’m wrecked, and really quite drunk now, is there somewhere I can crash because I think I’m about to pass out’. You can crash in my bed was his response. So he shows me where it was and I climbed in. A while later, not and inordinate amount of time but certainly not straight away; enough time for me to nearly fall asleep and be sure he had no intentions, he arrives in and climbs in beside me. I think he’s going to go to sleep – all signs point to it. Or so I thought.
I am quite drunk and I am sleepy so my responses to what happened aren’t the sharpest, just to put my hands up and admit that.
He had climbed in behind me and without saying anything at all he lifted up my dress and went to pull my knickers down. No arms slipped around me, no intro, no words at all. So I kind of laugh, I’m not sure I can believe this is happening and I ask him what he’s doing. He didn’t answer or I don’t recall one, he continued to try to get his hands into my knickers. So I repeated myself, this time a bit more insistently, I remember what I said because it seems so stupid now but it made the most sense then with the internal dialogue that was going on in my head. I was incredulous that any guy would make this as a first move – nothing had happened with us prior to this. No kissing, or hand holding or knee stroking – there had been no indication that either of us was into each other or up for this throughout the whole night. The only leg he had to stand on was that I had come to the party with him. So my response? I said what made the most sense to me at the time, given what was going through my mind, I said ‘What are you doing, you haven’t even kissed me’. And his response? ‘Well turn around so that I can kiss you’. Now this was hardly the point. Actually I don’t want to, I want to go to sleep but as I turn around to say this he kissed me. I let that happen for a few seconds but realised I really wasn’t into this as I had correctly presumed initially. So I asked him to stop. I’m not sure of his response. I know I repeated myself and gathered as much of my energy and logic as I could, bearing in mind just how incapacitated I was, and I said this ‘John*, I’m really drunk so very drunk, too drunk to make this decision, can we not? I’m not capable of doing this. But talk to me in the morning. I’m sure I’ll be up for it then’. ‘Seriously, John, I’m too drunk for this’. And so he stopped for a while. I’d be drifting off and it would start again. This could have gone on for 3 hours it could have gone on for 30 mins I have no way to gauge it but it was awful; every time I was falling asleep he started again. This was going to be relentless and I was so tired and I had no idea where I was in the city. I was exhausted and I knew I couldn’t fight him off all night so I chose the lesser of two evils. Sometimes in life you can’t stop the awful thing from happening to you but you can choose to make it less worse. I let him get on with it. I gave in. I’d rather have had some choice in the decision rather than not knowing what he was going to do if I did fall asleep. So I thought I’d get it over and done with.
Don’t ask me why I didn’t just leave the house, this situation is not about logic and I openly admitted I was not in any fit state. It seems like the most logical thing right now. But it wasn’t at 5am in the morning when I had no money and no idea where I was.

So I’m sure I passed out after, I don’t remember.
The next morning, or at least when it was bright, the torture started. There were loads of people in the house and I was mortified and wanted to leave. He wasn’t in the room when I woke. But as I sat there trying to figure out how to leave, where I was and if I had enough money for a cab home, he arrived in with some toast for me. I ate it sheepishly and asked if he could call me a cab. He said some people (I didn’t know) were driving to town soon and they’d give me a lift. I pushed him on this but he said it was very far and not to be silly, a cab would cost loads.
I know there was some perfunctory enquiry into how I was, where I said I was fine but that last night shouldn’t have happened – that’s as much as I was able to articulate about how displeased I was. ‘Why, was his blithe response, you’re single right?’ No actually, I’m not, was my less then accurate response. Which was met with the most disingenuous ‘Oh Shit’ I ever heard uttered in my life. ‘As if you give a shit’ was all the retort I managed and he left the room.
I got myself together and confirmed that of course I did not have enough cash in my bag to get home. So I joined the people in the sitting room and asked if anyone could give me the number of a cab company (the days before Hailo). I wanted as far away from this place as I could pay for, even if that didn’t happen to be all the way home. Again I was fobbed off with promises that someone was leaving soon, it was very far, sit down, relax and join the group.

I was young, not as confident of myself as I am now and I was ashamed and guilty. I thought it was my fault for getting so drunk and so I didn’t want to make a fuss. So I sat down and tried to relax, interminably waiting for this lift that never seemed to be ready to leave. A third time I asked for a cab company and then I got the impression that people were annoyed with me because I was pressuring them to be ready to leave before they wanted to. This was socially excruciating.
Eventually the lift transpired and I got away. The Guy didn’t kiss me goodbye or ask for my number. I was disgusted. Of course I wanted neither but I might have felt a bit less that thoroughly used.
I went home and told no one. Not a soul. I beat the shit out of myself for it and spent an award winning amount of time hating myself for being so stupid because I categorically believed that it was all my fault.
But that all went on in my head, with no one else being any the wiser. Blaming and hating myself with an unshakeable sense of feeling dirty. While outwardly I got on with it and was not noticeably damaged so that anyone could see. And I rarely had to see him – this was going to be fine.

Skip to 3 years later and I’m having a birthday party. My sister is helping and she suggests inviting The Guy and his side of the friend group and I involuntarily spit out ‘Not him’. Sure it was pointless trying to keep the secret in then. I told her and she of course understood and promised not to tell her boy. Except that she did.
With hindsight that was always going to happen, she was upset and she was going to need to talk about it. But I knew he was never going to understand.
This is when it gets properly terrible. Of course her boy cannot conceive of anyone doing this, let alone his mate. This isn’t a real thing? I must be mistaken there’s just absolutely no way this, whatever I ‘Think’ happened, happened. Nope. No way.
This causes untold tension and she’s caught between us. I don’t want to talk about it, I just don’t want to be in The Guy’s company and don’t understand why we can’t leave it at that. HE, my sister’s boy, doesn’t understand why we all can’t sit down and have a chat about it and just, you know, clear this all up. Christ.
Again with hindsight, I do appreciate where he’s coming from, he’s a good guy and he genuinely thinks that I’ve gotten something wrong and that a big chat will clear it up. But he’s wrong because he’s coming from a start point of not believing that this ever happens.

This gets worse.

One night, when another friend is talking about how sound The Guy is, I stupidly reveal that I don’t like him. I give her scant details about why but nothing accusatory. I couldn’t help it, I just couldn’t hear her talk about him like that. Unfortunately she then told him that I felt he was a creep. Which is not at all what I said or was trying to say. And so he takes it upon himself to email me AT WORK accusing me of telling people that he raped me?
I threw up.
Then told him to get off my work email and that I would respond to him on my personal email later.
Which I duly did because I’m a fucking decent human being. Even though I absolutely just wanted to tell him go fuck himself.
I still have it as I stopped using that mail there and then.
I told him I hadn’t accused him of anything but that I wasn’t happy with the way things had happened that night. That he had been pushy and insistent and ignored me when I said no twice. I asked him did he hear me say yes at all? I told him he took advantage of a girl too drunk to look after herself.
His response was that I had some vivid memory as he didn’t remember any of that. And so I couldn’t have been that drunk. He also assumed I was cool because I hung around the next day to chat and hang out. With strength I didn’t think I had I managed to respond to that without breaking anything. Yes I hung around and chatted but to everyone BUT you. And only because no one would give me the number of a cab which I asked for more than once. I had no actual way of getting out of there. That was the end of the correspondence, he wasn’t winning with me.

But emailing me at my place of work wasn’t enough. He cornered my sister, literally, up against a wall and tried to lobby his case as to why I wasn’t cool with him. While her boyfriend sat there and let him. And this is what was so terribly awful and damaging; everyone knowing (because he was telling them) everyone acting like I was the problem and there being a split in the friends. My sister and her boy fought over it all the time and I got blamed for it.

I had kept this to myself for 3 years.

I tried so hard to logic my way out of it. I tried so hard to rationalise it and tell myself he didn’t know what he was doing, don’t hold it against him, he was drunk and he wouldn’t usually do this. He’s not going to do it to anyone else.

But he knows he did it and I know he does too. Because I caught him out. I was of course very upset with the friend who had supposedly told him what I had said. But when I confronted her about this the details she had were very different to the details he used in his big accusatory email. I never gave her the full details so she couldn’t have given them to him. He knew them because he was there and he remembered.

Now I know I’m not supposed to say what I’m about to but I’m going to anyway. I’m not calling it rape. Admittedly there was no consent given but I let it happen. I didn’t fight hard enough and I didn’t scream. And I’m well aware that I’m not supposed to use those words or let guys like him off so easily. But the truth is, he didn’t set out to hurt me, or I don’t believe he did. He didn’t go out on a night intending to rape someone. But he did act appallingly and thoroughly took advantage of a drunk girl. And his social handling of the situation afterwards? Makes me think of him as an utter dickhead and a creep of the highest order. But not someone that deserves to go to prison and not someone who needs to be on any sex offenders list.
So why am I telling you all this? Because it’s still a very shitty thing to do to another human being. And it’s going on everywhere. Let there be no confusion about this, I dislike this guy intensely. I hate that he told everyone, that it nearly broke me and my sister up. That her boy still blames me but is too smart to bring it up anymore. I hate that he made me feel ashamed of myself and I hate that he got off scot free.

I hate that I now know that I can’t ever tell another boyfriend because I don’t want to know if he’ll react the same as all the others and tell me it was all my own fault.

So no, I wasn’t punched in the face or stabbed. I wasn’t restrained or internally damaged. I got off lightly but this issue isn’t gone and I guarantee you nearly every girl has a story like it. Or worse.
And I suspect if the first two read this piece they wouldn’t even recognise themselves. Never believing themselves capable.

Now, if you want to get in touch to tell me it’s my own fault and ask what the hell am I complaining about – then you’ve missed the point entirely about consent, so don’t really expect a response.
And either way you can’t possibly make me feel any worse or stupid or used than the experience did.

The Tricks I Pull to Make Myself Feel Better

I am so drunk trying to post this for the morning. It’s full of grammar and spelling mistakes – but I couldn’t not post it. Yesterday’s was horrible.

Happy Halloween.

Abbi xxxx

 

 

 

 

I’ve had this in my head for a bit, it’s in my head nearly all day these days simply because I’m not myself lately. I’m an average girl, with possibly an above average interest in sex.

But I’m susceptible to insecurities, probably more so than most and that could explain my need to share here? I’m off the point. The point being that at sometimes I look better than at others. If I’ve been working out and eating properly I feel better about myself and more confident. But at times when I take the foot off the pedal or you know, go on holiday for 4 weeks and live on red meat and butter, then it has an obvious effect on my body and therefore on my confidence.
But unlike an average girl (I think and I’m happy to be corrected on this?) I do the opposite of what you’d expect. (yes, thank you before you say it I know what I actually should be doing is putting down the Kerrygold and getting to the gym) But what I do is pull every trick I can to remind me that I’m not half as awful looking as I think I am and even if I was, I would still be attractive.
I am now going to give away a few of my secrets.

First thing I do when I don’t feel great about my body? Buy sexy underwear (possibly a little bigger). Get some gorgeous and super flattering saucy knicks, bra and any other matching bits I can get for less than €30 (I need to do this a lot so I’ve had to curb the limit, spending real money is for when I feel great)
Then put it on, take a nice pic of myself and possibly show Twitter.
This wasn’t always easy to do but it’s getting easier. Trust me, that camera is absolutely my friend. I am way handier with it than I am with anything else. You get to see the best of me not the worst, and it does exist.
(If I’m very pleased with what the underwear has done, I might have to show my appreciation and get some release. With myself. In case that wasn’t clear)

Trick two.
I will get out every top that showcases, highlights or otherwise draws attention to my boobs – and wear them every day. It’s not massive, my rack, it’s really not. But that’s great because it means I can wear really low cut tops and sometimes go without a bra. And I can get away with this. But the reason I draw attention to my boobs? Because it’s all about deflection! I don’t want you to notice the bits I hate so I will make damn sure you only see what I want you to see. Guaranteed no one’s looking at my muffin top when the ladies are on show, pretty sure no one even notices.

Trick three
This might not work for everyone but I am very lucky to have been bestowed, from my mother, a pretty ok set of pins. I love them possibly more than the tits? It’s a tough call. But … when the insecurities creep in they do eventually make me think I’m delusional about the legs. This usually stems from thinking the thighs have let me down (they have, that’s where the weight goes). But all I need to do it stick on a short skirt and some killer high heels and I will forget about this soonenough. Again, I have to force myself to do this. But I’ve learned it’s always a good idea.

The last thing I do, because it’s not always available to me is the one thing that I want more than the others. As soon as I don’t love my body; I want to be naked. I want to be naked and having sex with someone who really wants to sleep with me. Someone who’s had me before and that I know is into me. Properly.
Ok, not naked, naked but with just some great underwear.
There’s nothing that makes me feel better about myself or more powerful than when I stand in front of a partner, trussed up in a load of spectacular underwear, and I see their reaction and desire to rip it off me. Nothing makes me feel better than that. Well, that coupled with getting on my knees, in the right position so that he can see the right bits of me; where I can get the best leverage and hear him tell me how fucking amazing I look as I suck his cock. How amazing it feels to have my mouth around it. To hear ‘Oh God yeah, lick those balls’ ever before he asks me to. I want to make him lose himself as I lick every millimetre of his thighs, shaft, balls – right through to his perineum and back to his asshole. I want to kneel with my tits pushed up, and my ass leaning back – showcasing the widest part of my hips and making my arse look great. All nicely covered but looking good. I want to get in under his balls and lick and suck them, while he has his hand on his cock looking down at me, telling me that he fucking loves my filthy mouth and what it does to him. I want to look up at him from under his balls, my mouth dripping with my own spit and see him enjoying this. And that will make me feel better. That will remind of what I do actually already know but that insecurity makes me forget: that I am attractive and worth sleeping with, not just because of how I look but because of what I can do. That I have the power to make somebody else feel great. And that’s one of the best feelings in the world.

So I’ll get back to an acceptable level of fitness, of course I will, I always do. But in the meantime I really hope I can get my hands or mouth on an appreciative cock.

In Case You Didn’t Catch it The First Time

In case anyone missed it when it was published for me by the fantastic GirlOnTheNet – I’m cheekily publishing it again here with a bit of editing.

And late. Even though I do have a fairly decent story about me and dangerous sex and pissing off the BFF – but 40hrs of  – well, god knows what I picked up – means I didn’t have the wherewithal to type it. So you’re just getting this. I know, I suck and I owe you.

Here are some of my favourite and not so favourite words for some common things.

Everyone calls their parts different things, at different times with different people. I know most girls don’t like the words I like but I’m not speaking for most girls, I’m speaking for me.
My favourite two words for my holiest of holies are pussy and cunt. There is no way to mistake the sexual in those two, it oozes from them. And if I’m talking about sex then I want powerful sex words to use.
They’re actually the only two I like.

I’m sure it started with Don Draper (not the actual, but a guy who was like him, all confidence). He only had to look at me and talk to me to get me wet. One time he had me laid out on the bed, utterly exposed he was kneeling at the edge of the bed, he had my legs wrapped around him. But he was entirely in control. He wouldn’t even let me sit up. He looked directly at me and softly told me to be quiet. This immediately got me breathing fast, then he licked his thumb, and rubbed it up the lips, then put his thumb in his mouth, leaned down and whispered “I love this cunt” I gasped, he again, calmly, told me to be quiet or he’d stop. With his wet thumb he rubbed it again up the lips and I started to buck at this point, he held me still with one arm. Looked me directly in the eye and smelled his thumb and said “This is the best smelling cunt in the world, and I own it. I’m going to do exactly what I want to it”. It was him, how he was, the way he looked at my pussy and the way he got me so excited with the power of one word. That was it, I loved it ever since. But only said like that, only in the context of sex. I don’t even think he knew what he did that day. I don’t think he even cared, he was just doing what he wanted and I was almost incidental to that. He was in control, worshipping it getting the reactions he wanted.
From then on all he had to do was whisper in my ear, anywhere that we were, that he wanted my cunt, that he loved the smell of my cunt… anything with that word and it brought me straight back. So I love that word, I think more people should be aware of how sexy it is and get the pleasure from it, it’s the last really taboo word.
Pussy is another one that girls seem to hate. I know most feminists, who would be ok with cunt, still don’t like this one. But I do. It seem so guttural, so common so, well, dirty and obvious. I just like it. I think it’s powerful and it can’t really be used in any other context than, sex. You’re not going to the doctor to talk about your pussy? And it’s a little tamer than cunt. You need descriptions for different excitement levels and these serve the purpose.
I don’t think I mind vagina, I just think it’s terribly unsexy. Again that’s what you say in a clinic. Even if discussing with my partner after the fact and he said “Is your vagina ok, I think I was a little rough”. Nope, don’t care for that at all. I did like that one guy used to refer to it as my ‘va-jean’. It was cute and it worked. Obviously not during sex, but general enquiries into its well-being “So, you got waxed yesterday, how’s your ‘va-jean’, ready for action?” Perfect. (you could spell it’ vag-jean’ I suppose, or ‘vag-gene’ but for ease of pronunciation, I went with the above)

 

 

Fanny – I’m not mad on this. It’s a word from childhood and the American understanding for it as ‘bum’ has it ruined for me. Either way, it’s not one I choose to use or hear used referring to me. But I do concede that it serves a purpose that I have as yet find an alternative for. I need a non threatening word for it for daily use and I suppose I’ll accept fanny without wincing but it’s a reluctant acceptance.

 

 

 

Now box, I hate. Just because I can’t understand how anyone thought it was a good description for something so warm, soft, inviting and categorically not angular. It makes no sense and my very rational mind is both confused and insulted by the term. It baffles me.

 

 

I can never settle on a word for my rack that I’m entirely comfortable with. I’m ok with tits, boobs, breasts. But each seem weird in the wrong context. I know that I do hate boobies, seems too childish, the same with titties. I may have to investigate this further? (on careful consideration, I’ve gone for tits)

 

 

While we’re on that I don’t think I ever say mickey either, it just seems the wrong end of comical. I think if I was insulting someone I might say it “Big swinging mickey, I’ve had better”. Which really is the end of any disparaging review and can’t really be topped.

 

 

Dick and cock are my equivalent to pussy and cunt, respectively. I love cock – read that however you want to. It’s meant every way. It’s my favourite word for my favourite part of a man. I do like dick every now and then, I need variety. And I don’t think I’ve come across anyone that’s taken umbrage to their member being called either of those things?
I don’t think I ever use the word lad, again unless in a somewhat comical way “And I walked in the kitchen and there he was with his lad out”
And tool is only for insults, really isn’t it?
I have been known to refer to a particularly big penis as a weapon, I can’t take credit for this, I robbed it from a friend who used it when recommending someone.

 

Slut, well I’m not mad about this either. I applaud girls who can use it and own it and refer to themselves as that. But for every girl who’s out there claiming it back I feel there’s a thousand ready to use it against the rest of us as some kind of insult. I will most certainly come back to this one.

 

This list could be endless.

Hostel Sex! – No, scratch that, Hostel Orgasms

I’m on holidays. I’m traveling around South America with the BFF. We have 3 weeks to see some cool stuff, spend ALL our money and make life threatening food decisions.
I have been here before.
Some things you yearn to do again but never get to. Some things you do. They’re never the same. Sometimes for the better and sometimes not.
Anyway.
The first time I was in South America I was traveling with my sister. I had a great time and I loved, and still do love, staying in hostels. It’s so much easier and natural to meet and approach people – get advice and have a more rounded experience. I feel.
But it does offer up some issues. How do you have sex in dorms?
Well there’s toilets, there’s the lucky time you hook up with someone who has a private room. And there’s just not caring who’s in the room and what they might hear or think they see under the covers. I have experience of all three.
You travel for long enough, you meet someone you fancy crazy enough and I promise you even the most chaste of you will go for it. It’s widely done and after a while you’ll just be less shocked by it enough to be able to do it yourself. But there are rules – somewhat. You wait til the dorm is pretty empty (generally in the middle of the day). Or everyone is pretty drunk and would be less likely to care. Or you hang up towels around your bunk (if you’re on the bottom). And you try not to scream the place down. You can’t get away with this kinda craic every night but it will be tolerated on a once off basis from your room mates.
But that’s not what I want to talk about. No.
In the 7-9 months that I lived in hostels I did have an amount of sex. Not as much as you’d think given that every night was essentially Saturday night. But not once – yes try to grasp this, not once did I come. Now worse than this, for anyone already putting 2+2 together, that means I did not come AT ALL for the whole time I was away. (which then included when I was living in Oz)
The longer it went on the more of a psychological barrier went up in my head. So not even with myself was I able to make it happen. It was truly not a great sex time for me.
Well – it was, there were more than a few lovely boys who I had very lovely times with – it certainly wasn’t any of their faults that I didn’t manage it. But it did start to bother me. I’m not at all sure what was causing it but almost a full year without a release is a disgustingly long time I can tell you. Disgusting and frustrating. (Ironically it was an Argentinean boy in Dublin who finally managed it)
So, here I am now, once again living in hostels. I have managed sex once. With a super hot Australian who is ridiculously pretty and funny and nice and decent. But I was too drunk to remember much of it. For this I am ashamed. What a waste.
I remember flashbacks of him being decent, of checking on my friend making sure she was ok given that we’d taken over the room. And the next day he came to see us off. Unprecedentedly polite I thought.
But whatever I know about that night, I know this; I definitely didn’t come. Damn it. It’s back.

So I have moved on to the next city and the next hostel as I have been writing this.Try as I might I can’t get the thought of the wasted night out of my head. So I am thinking, fantasizing and longing too much for sex on our long bus journeys. I can’t really remember the details of the Australian so the mind gaps are being filled by someone I’ve had and someone I WANT to have. The other thing to note (again another shameful admission is on the way) is that I seem to have left the ONLY book I brought with me on the fecking plane from Ireland. Feck sake. I didn’t notice this initially because I was having too much fun to be reading. So what am I to do? Well dear reader, I have to resort to the only thing that’s on the Kindle app (yeah, every person in the world now travels with a laptop/tablet and or a Kindle/Kobo. No one brings books) What is this lofty tome that is languishing on my phone app Kindle? It’s the second book in the Fifty Shades series. I downloaded it because I wanted to see if it was better than the first (I’m nothing if not thorough in my research) and it kind of is better but again, nothing that I could call challenging or stimulating. And I still think she could have fit all the key points from this one into the first one and it might have made for a better book.
So, that’s what I’m left to read. It’s lashing tropical rain here and we’re sitting around for the day. I’m reading that. And thinking of real sex and of real boys. And to my utter surprise I can feel some affect. I ignore it. I leave it. I hold off. I keep reading – thoughts of Boy 1 (who I’ve had) and Boy 2 (who I desperately want to have) swim in my head. I let it build and then without really deciding I get up and go to the loo in the dorm. I know there’s no one there and no one is due back.. I lock the door , lean against the wall, face first as if someone is taking me from behind. I know from the first touch that it’s going to work. I know that it’s going to be ok that I will be done in less than two minutes and I fight the thoughts of Boy 1 over Boy 2 – neither are who I should be thinking of …… and graciously my subconscious offers up something delicious from the book, of all places. The though is of a solid silver butt plug, cold and deliciously smooth, being pressed, deep into me. And I come, hard and gloriously and quietly. I double over with the weight of the release and I am so sated.
i taste my fingers afterwards, they are exquisite. I want to keep licking them. But if I go back outside doing that I’m afraid I’ll draw attention or worse – it might be smelt by others. So I stand there for another moment or two longer and then reluctantly wash my hands.

I’m traveling with one of the only people who knows me AND reads these posts. I hope she’s not upset when she comes across this one. She can probably tell which day it was!

Goldilocks and the Three Rides

So, it’s back to reality here. And I’m mostly glad to be back. To be in my own bed which is always clad in good linen and smells of Lenor. Not to mention being much more spacious than any of the single beds that I had while I was away. But there really is nothing like your own bed, the comfort and familiarity and the release.
So on holidays I was Goldilocks and the 3 rides and ultimately learned 3 lessons that I will now share.

Lesson 1: Cher was right, we should have all listened to her sooner
Lesson 2: GOTN was right, is right and doles out very handy advice
Lesson 3: The BFF is a tolerant and lovely person who doesn’t hold grudges
(These will all become clear, I promise)

The first encounter I was too drunk to remember any of it, I couldn’t tell you anything about it except that we were definitely careful and I might have told him I was a sex blogger – what a fucking idiot I am. Oh and I got a UTI from it also. Relax, those of you out there not versed in these things; UTI’s or the most common one, Cystitis, is an infection caused by soft tissue damage. It’s not caught or given. It’s …. Inflicted. Draw your own conclusions because I have none. Really, make anything up, it could have happened.
So ensued an agonising 26 hr bus journey and a lovely trip to the chemist to explain in my really shitty Spanish what the problem was. Thank god the pharmacist was lovely and this was South America, they hand over the good drugs straight away i.e. strong painkillers and antibiotics. All in all a very high price to pay for some sex that I essentially don’t remember. You think I would have learned my lesson but I don’t think I did.

 

 

The second was an unmitigated disaster. I did my best to salvage it but there was nothing to be done. I’m not sure whose fault that was? I suspect there were drink issues, that’s what was declared anyway and there might have been condom issues too. That’s ok, it happens. There are loads of other things that can be done and more fun to be had…? No?
No, it would seem was the answer here. I’m sure I was patient, I know I paid a lot of attention to a lot of places and was encouraging and put in some back work. I can’t say I felt that much or any of that was reciprocated. There also seemed to have been a bit of a miscommunication regarding one other thing? I think I know how it happened but I’m not sure how it got so out of hand…? So when we had been kissing in the bar, out on the terrace, basically everywhere, at one point he was at my neck; we were in company and he was kind of absentmindedly nipping it but I came to my senses and sort of yelped ‘Don’t dare mark me!’. Everyone laughed, he reassured me that he wouldn’t. I turned to him and privately said that he could mark me anywhere that wouldn’t be seen, just not my neck or anywhere highly visible. Somehow, this seemed to have translated into: Please leave as many bruises on my body and you possibly can, either by squeezing too hard or just outright biting me. I bruise like a peach, I really do. Any tiny little grab of my arm will leave a mark. This works out well with most partners where I will find discreet little finger marks on my inner thighs or if I’m lucky a well-placed and not noticed when administered, little bite. This was none of those. I’m sure I noticed some roughness at the time but the bruises that came up? It looked like I had been kicked down some stairs.
Ok to be fair, I had knocked myself up a bit, the lower leg bruises were mostly my own doing. But them added to the ones ALL OVER my torso and the giant set on my left breast? Sigh…. Once again I was all injured and had nothing to show for it. Literally all pain and no gain.
But I feel like I should have seen this coming. I should have known. How, I hear you ask? Well, while the kissing was good and it went on for two nights before the non-sex happened (I was too drunk the first night) there was no actual spark. I enjoyed the attention, I loved joking with this guy, he was funny and clever and we were like kids chasing each other around. I was having a great night the first night. And an even better night the second, knowing that it was definitely going to end in sex and we were both (so I thought) taking it easy on the booze. I was busy playing beer pong and giant jenga, he would occasionally run up behind me, grab me and swing me round – what was not to love? I think I love someone being all over me when I’m into them. The kissing was good, he was a good kisser. But. And here is lesson number one that was learned too late; it didn’t ignite anything, there was no pull in the belly, no tingle happening. And you should feel that as soon as someone touches you, it’s an indication of actual chemistry and of how things might play out later.
I think I got my person-crush and my actual crush mixed up. I think I just really liked this guy as a person. I’d say he felt the same about me. That’s my guess anyway. I don’t really have anything else to go on.

 

 

 

So then there was the third bowl of porridge that was just right.
It’s Sunday night, me and the BFF are not finding the crazy parties everyone has told us about in Bolivia. Regardless of that we are dragged to a club any way in a last ditch effort to find some craic. We’ve had a dodgy taxi ride to the ‘club’ and for some reason we’re ushered in without paying? We have no idea what’s going on neither of us is looking our best. The music is rubbish, no one from the hostel seems to have followed us here as arranged. We’re on our first drink when two young fellas approach us and ask us to dance. They’re very pretty and they’re clearly a lot younger but they speak spectacular English and are very polite. I love polite.
I tell my suitor that I can’t dance to this music, he laughs, agrees that it’s a bit heavy while simultaneously having taken my hands and gotten me off my seat. He now has me standing and facing away from the BFF and the rest of the group that had finally arrived. This is a key move apparently, separate your target from the herd.
So I’m standing and he has my hands in his, he leans in closer, to chat in my ear. He says the music will change soon and there will be something better to dance to. I want so badly not to be a big fucking cliché, it’s why I let him take my hands and get me off the stool, I wanted to dance with him, to be polite and not be so, so, fucking Irish. And then – this happened. I suddenly get all self-conscious, I remember that I actually can’t dance and that I’m fairly sober. (ok, I can dance but not with a partner. I can lap dance, I can dance by myself, I can hold my own, but with a partner? Leading? Terror strikes me. And when I realised what kind of dancing he meant? Well I immediately became a walking cliché.) I giggle (god I hate myself) and I tell him again that I can’t dance to this, he says he’ll show me, I make it worse and say ‘I think I need 4 more drinks’ Let’s have them, he replies and goes to get me a drink, which I of course refuse to let him buy me. I’d be odd like that.
But we are chatting and the harder I try not to be a stereotype the more I become it. He again asks about the dancing and I, to my utter shame, tell him that I’m Irish and we can’t dance unless we’re drunk. He looks at me like I’m stupid, I know he’s heard me and that he understands me, so I ask him what he knows about Ireland and shockingly the first 5 things he says include neither booze nor potatoes. Despite myself, I’m impressed. At this point, or possibly before that, his friend had pointed out how fit my suitor was by subtlety pulling up his shirt and announcing that this, his totally ripped torso, was because of Cross Fit training. This does not have the desired effect, both me and the BFF burst out laughing. Because this, as a tactic is fucking ridiculous to us. We are of course impressed, but what are we supposed to do with that? It’s like walking up to a guy and flashing your tits. I decide at this point, conclusively that there is nothing going on with this guy and me. He is way to pretty and I am wholly intimidated by his physical perfection. I can’t understand why he is still trying to score me? I think maybe it’s a bet, or cos I’m a tourist and that’s what they’re into on this night? Or maybe cos I’m blonde?
What I know is that no matter what the truth is, I can’t get naked in front of this guy. I would not enjoy myself as my own fucked up mind has no intention of letting me. That’s right readers, I am writing this guy off because he is too hot.
But I’m not impolite. I of course keep chatting, he’s pretty funny and after he talks me into dancing (not actually together but kind of near each other, as you would on any normal dancefloor, not a big intimidating South American one). And as we’re laughing about something (I think it was my name – which is hilarious here) he asks for my number. This makes me spit my drink out laughing. ‘What do you want my number for! So you can go ahead and not call me?! Stop it now, I’m a tourist and I’ll be gone in 3 days’. This stops him in his tracks and he laughs himself and says it’s a reflex action and of course I’m right. And then he drops in the line that possibly hooks me. ‘You’re so much fun to actually talk to’. OH yeah? How’s that – is my sceptical response. ‘Because the extent of the conversations I have with girls my own age is how good the latest iPhone is’. I know this is a line, but he’s absolutely barking up the right tree with me.
I laugh my head off and swear to keep my international politics convo up to speed. I think it’s here that he grabs one hand and slips the other around my waist. There is a natural gap between my top and my pants so his hand was fully skin on skin, at the small of my back and I felt it then. Right when his skin connected with mine I could feel it. He pulls me in close and rests his mouth on the nape of my neck but doesn’t kiss me. It’s as if I haven’t given him permission, which I haven’t, and he is waiting for it? We keep talking, this keeps happening and eventually he does kiss my neck, briefly. I’m clearly not giving any signals away because he doesn’t act on it. But now I really want him to. The electricity when he touches me is so delicious.
I’m so terribly aware that the BFF is not having a great time and I do keep trying to turn back to her and see how she is. I’ve sworn that we are leaving after this drink and I did mean it. I tell him this and he ups his game and he kisses me. And here it is, the categorical proof that Cher was right, it is, and always has been, in his kiss. This. THIS here is what I should have felt before I went and slept with anyone else. I should be feeling this taught, obvious, punch of genuine desire that is washing over me. THIS is real chemistry and I know it, I recognise it it’s my fucking barometer and it RARELY sends me wrong so what the hell had I been playing at with the other two guys?? Why had I been ignoring my own internal signs? And of course, why was I ignoring the sage Cher advice? Never wise.
I’m hooked. I want this guy, I want him so badly. I can feel that he’d be good, the senses are on fire and my need is off the Richter scale. I have mostly gotten over being intimidated but there’s still no way I’m going to sleep with him. He does try to persuade me – fleetingly, with the requests that he come back with me. HA! Does he realise that I’m staying in a hostel! So he switches tack and tries to persuade me to go with him – that is categorically not happening. The BFF says she doesn’t mind staying, I know she does and I don’t want to stay. It’s time to go, what the hell would I be doing with this 22 year old anyway.
So I make my excuses and try to leave. He kisses me again and I devour each one that he gives. He kisses my neck and whispers to me. And then boldly takes my hand and puts it on his cock. It’s a brave move but he obviously has the measure of me, I loved it. But it wasn’t enough to get me to stay. He throws this in at the end – he says he doesn’t have to leave til 5pm the next day and I should give him my number so we can meet up tomorrow afternoon, because even if nothing happens he wants to see me again. So I give him my number because I suppose I’m an optimist and hoped that maybe something would happen? And because this guy was hilarious and way cleverer than me and I enjoyed his company and his audacity immensely.

 

 

My phone is dead. I charge it the next morning and there’s 4 texts from him. He’s managing to pull off cheese and still be funny e.g. ‘hope you and your boy’s name and potato accent slept well’. So I respond. And I waste a morning like this. Eventually the BFF tells me to just go and meet him, she’s only on for movies and reading today (it’s chilly enough in Bolivia).
He meets me outside the hostel. Rips the piss out of me for staying in an Irish Hostel, fair enough, and then tells me I sound way more Irish this morning, but not to worry, I’m still comprehensible – very cheeky. It’s still not clear what it is we’re actually going to do? So we take a stroll, he points out some cultural features and gives me a bit of background to Bolivia that I didn’t know. And all the while his arm is around me and he is intermittently kissing me? I don’t know what to make of him but he makes me laugh and his knowledge of what seems like the whole of Europe, including Ireland, is putting me to shame. He’s just short of saying something in Irish to me. But he seems as delighted to be with me as I am to be with him. And so he suggests we go to his friend’s house. I’m not mad about this idea. I don’t know this city, I don’t really speak the language and of course I could be murdered. Or worse, just tortured and never found again. You know the things that go through your head, while simultaneously your loins are working overdrive to try and come up with some way to justify actually doing this.
I’ll cut to the chase, because this isn’t a suspense thriller, I went with him. I didn’t get murdered. And so brings us to lesson 2. I read, probably not that long ago, but for some reason I can’t find it readily now, a top tip for getting the sex while possibly being in a dodgy situation somewhat safely. GOTN suggests that you ask the guy for his wallet or some other valuables which you then hide until you are ready to leave. If the guy happily hands them over, then it might be a barometer of his intentions. Obviously this works way better with say, his car keys being hidden somewhere in my house which he wouldn’t be able to readily find, should he need a quick getaway after, you know, murdering me. But god, I wanted this guy and this nugget was what my loin-to-brain minions came up with. So I asked him for his wallet and he handed it to me laughing, no hesitation.
Off we went to a rather swanky suburb of La Paz. I was still nervous but I was genuinely having a lot of fun.
I think it’s now time to confess what I did. The BFF’s phone wasn’t working in this country, stupid Meteor BUT her wifi was and we were able to Whatsapp. I promised to stay in regular touch and not to go anywhere without telling her. But as soon as I stepped outside the hostel into the beaming smile of Cross Fit boy – I absolutely forgot this fact. Forgot that her phone wasn’t actually working.
To add to this, as soon as I was outside the walls of the hostel, sure my wifi no longer worked. So all my (normal text) messages were not getting to her. At first I thought she was busy watching a movie. Then I thought she was ignoring me because she didn’t want to hear what I was getting up to. And then I started to worry myself. The young fella offered to call her, but to no avail. If I had have stopped and thought for more than 2 seconds I could have asked him to Whatsapp her. Or I could have texted anyone at home and asked them to tell her I was ok. But I didn’t stop to think, I was absolutely cunt blind. It’s pretty serious, it’s the worst kind.
More chase cutting to. We’re in his friend’s house, he sits down and pulls me on top of him and starts kissing my neck. My breath is gone straight away. I rub myself up and down his crotch as he reaches around for my tits. This feels amazing and we’ve barely done anything. I know I’m wet and he utters the only Spanish that comes from his lips. My last boyfriend was Spanish, I know the filthy words and I know what he’s just called me – I am so turned on by it. But I don’t tell him.
I’m still kind of scared, I don’t really know where I am, it’s the middle of the day and I am stone cold sober and about to get naked in front of what is possibly the fittest man I’ve ever been with. Ok, I’m terrified. I don’t have a tan, I’m covered in bruises and fecking mosquito bite scars. But there’s no way I’m going to stop, I know if I can just get over myself this could be great.
And then it starts. The things he does, the only move he could make to make all this ok; he started talking like I was some goddess and that he was lucky to have me there? And even better, he highlighted all the things that I can possibly believe might be hot about me. In order this is how it went. I pull my clothes off and he freaks out for my underwear ‘Holy shit, look at this lingerie, what the hell’ I go to kiss him and he won’t let me, he holds me at arm’s length and takes another look. Then he grabs me and pulls me into him. He then starts to compliment my tits ‘These feel amazing, ok get this bra off I need to see them’. Perfect. When I pull the bra off he then goes on about the nipples, how hard they are, how you could hang something off them. Well spotted, you could. I can believe all of this. And he’s touching me everywhere, complimenting my skin, stroking me. And key to all of this, he’s rock solid. And he’s not standing there expecting to be worshiped even though his body is worship-able. He’s just getting on with it and so am I. I joke that he looks ridiculous, that he’s not real, that it’s painted on or something. It’s fun, he’s fun. Neither of us is hung up on anything. He goes to take my knicks off and I stop him, I’ve been traveling for 3 weeks, I’m not freshly waxed. His response is perfect ‘What? Shut up! and get them off, I don’t give a fuck and I want to eat that now’. (Boys even if you do care, it’s always so great when you just say you don’t.) And he did eat it, oh so very well stopping to let me taste it every time I asked, which was often because I love that.
And when I suck his cock he freaks out, I give it everything, every trick I know and it works. I lick all the way from his balls up and back down. Then I take all of it in my mouth, right down until I gag on it and then a little bit further. I get it so wet and stay at this until he can barely take it. He is sitting on the bed, legs spread, back against the wall. I’m between his legs, on my knees, bent forward angled so I can get the best leverage while I work his shaft but also so my hips look their widest. This doesn’t go unnoticed. ‘I cannot believe your ass for a white girl, your hips are unbelievable’ this again I can tolerate to hear because I love my hips. And then I go in for the deepest of deep throats. He tells me he doesn’t think that’s ever happened before and he loves it.
I have to say we’re both having a great time.
This is how it’s supposed to be. Both parties doing the best they can to make sure the other is having a great time.
He makes me come with his mouth and his hands, and we have sex three times. I make him come twice with my mouth, both times.
And in between we lie and chat and laugh and it’s so easy. He kisses my face and runs his hands over my skin. I admire his, and tell him he should give me one of his flaws, to point one out – he stands up and gives a lame one about his chest. I kneel up and punch him, he picks me up and wrestles me back onto the bed and it starts again. This is the most fun and the least pressure I’ve felt in months.

 

But I still haven’t heard from the BFF and I’m anxious now. So he says he’s going to bring me back to the hostel. I tell him there’s no need, as long as he tells the taxi driver where to bring me, I’ll be fine. He looks at me perplexed and says ‘But I want to bring you back’. The cab takes forever to come and when it does I insist that I’m ok to go back by myself. He looks at me really unsure but I think common sense wins out. He kisses me again like I’m the best thing he’s ever tasted and then puts me in the cab. I’m not in the door of the hostel when there’s a text from him checking that I got there safely.

This is possibly the most perfect one night stand I have ever had.

I’ve learned to listen to my body, wait to feel the pang of desire. Not to write someone off just cos I think they’re too hot for me – it’s almost as insulting as writing someone off because you don’t think they’re hot enough. Chemistry is chemistry regardless of physicality, when it’s there you’ll just feel it. I slept with this guy not because of his super-hot body but in spite of it. Because really, how we look is the smallest part of real attraction.

And the last lesson? Well while I was trying to get back to the hostel, fearing that the film I was actually in, had the twist where I didn’t get killed as expected, but that the BFF did. That she got murdered in the hostel (can I say that word enough times) and it was all a ruse when she was the one in danger all along. But she wasn’t dead. Or kidnapped. Just annoyed and worried about me – and had been for about 4 hrs. To her credit she didn’t give me a hard time and I was genuinely very sorry.