G-Spot Misery

I think I may have hit something…

In my unrelenting quest for the G Spot, I may have hit … well, I don’t know what, but it’s something. With my vibe. About ten times. And now my stomach hurts like a motherbitch. I smell a hospital visit. Oh, wait, thinking about it, I have to go see the surgeon about my op tomorrow. Some pre operative stuff.

I’m serious, I think I might vomit now.

So, about that G Spot stuff. I’ve been obsessed with finding it since round New Year. I think I may have found something, because I do squirt. But I don’t orgasm. I don’t feel anything. And it gets very, very messy. If I sound like a total newbie, sex wise, it’s because I am. I only started masturbating about two years ago. I’m still discovering myself. And I’m beginning to think that the G Spot may be too advanced sex 101 for me. I don’t know, I’m such an idiot.

One thing that soothes the pain a bit is MasterChef Australia, currently playing on my telly. The dessert they made looks (like George said) sexy. Matt Preston’s pants are so brightly colored… The challenge for tomorrow is catering a children’s birthday party and the cupcakes they made look stunning. I have a thing for brightly colored desserts. Which I don’t find weird at all. My favorites are Macarons de Paris. Which, voila…

I’m frothing now. Have you ever seen a croquembouche? Now imagine one made from macarons de Paris. That is proper orgasm food. What is orgasm food, you ask? Well, simply, orgasm food is food that gives you a tiny tiny orgasm just thinking about it. Something that makes you seriously froth. I’d love to know what you consider orgasm food.

Signing off for the night, going to watch the poker game on the television.


I’m a big fan of natural beauty. No make up, no frills, just me.

I choose not to wear make up, for two reasons. One is that I don’t think I look good with make up. I don’t look like myself. I don’t want to cover my freckles (just for your information, the girl in the pic is not me, I don’t half look like that) because I love them. I want people to look at my eyes, not the warpaint on my eyes. Most of all, I don’t want that brown-orange hue that most face make up gives me.

Second reason is that I think I might be allergic to it. I shit you not, my eyes water as soon as I put on mascara or eyeshadow. My face glows (and not in a good way) when I put on foundation. In other words, not only do I look like shit, I feel like shit as well.

Saying that I’ve nver worn it would be a blatant lie. Saying that I look good in it would be too. But I have chosen not to. Because I like myself better without make up.

I don’t like being naked. I’ve looked at myself in many a fitting room mirror in various states of nudity. Shame burns my cheeks when I look. Never liked what I saw. Massive sideboobage. Waddle after waddle. Not pretty.

Recently, I tried a little something. I wanted to see myself from the waist down. I wanted to see myself spread open. So, in True Dalide Style, I took down my (very heavy, antique wooden) mirror and placed it between my legs, right in front of me. And then I spread myself.

Finally, I found something I liked about myself. My vagina. My yoni. My cunt. Whatever you want to call it. I call it beautiful. I call it magnificent. I have so much love for this particular part of my body. It gives me the thing I’ve been lacking for so many years: pleasure. Plus, I think it’s really pretty (again, girl in picture, not me).

I can’t define beauty as a whole. I don’t speak for everyone and I don’t intend to. Heck, I can’t even define beauty for myself. Maybe beauty can’t be defined….

I hope you enjoy the pictures included in this post. I can go on about this subject, but I choose to keep this for another post.



Look at that, two posts for the price of one! I have decided to entertain you with a little excerpt (re-worked from my motherlanguage of Dutch) from the novel I’m working on. It’s, as you might have guessed, quite hot.

This takes place near the end of the book. It’s a dream the main character, Elin, has about her best friend Jase. If this sounds awful, that just means it got a little lost in translation. And if the mechanics of the sex are quite off, feel free to tell me, so I can edit this and not look like a fool when the book does eventually come out.


I’m outside Chirocco, lonely, waiting for a cab to come my way. I can’t remember coming here with someone. I see taxi after taxi drive by, all of them occupied. A curse escapes me every time. Suddenly, I feel him standing next to me. His hot breath in my neck. His body tantalisingly close to mine. He turns me around and pulls me back inside.

“What are you up to?” I say, softly.

“You’ll see.” he replies, his voice dark and raw. We walk across the dancefloor, to the storage room at the back. He pulls me inside and locks the door.

“Seriously, mate, what are you up to?” I sai, with a hint of fear in my voice. What the hell is going on?

“You’ll see. Just relax.”

And then he kisses me, hard and fast. Enough to temporarily knock me for six. But then he stops. He’s grinning like a little demon.

“Ah, I see.” I say. I kiss him back, as hard and as passionate as he did. He unzips my dress and bears my breasts. He stops to admire them for a second and kisses them softly. Then, he licks my nipples, first the left one, then the right one. And he kisses me again. I decide to take action and rip his shirt open. Oh my word, his body is amazing! What a man…

“Unbutton your kecks.” I command him. He obliges and drops them to his anckles. Fuckin’ aye, even his cock is gorgeous! He pulls my dress up and my panties down.

‘Is this real? Are we really going to do this?” I say.

“Believe it, babe.” he grins.

“Really? Up against the wall? How dirty!”

“Well, we could do it down on the floor, but I don’t think you really feel like shagging in a puddle of water.”

“Wait, are we really almost naked and negotiating on where we’re going to do this?”

He laughs. “Apparently we are.” he says, before kissing me again. I spread my legs and pull him closer.

“Come and get me, tiger.” I say, grinning cheekily. He obliges again and pushes till he enters me and oh my word, it feels so good.

It’s hot. It’s raw. I cry out as he thrusts deeper into me. His grunts are animalistic. Fuck, I’m not going to last much longer. And I have a feeling that he isn’t going to last either. Electric shocks in my body. I can feel my blood rushing through my veins. I’m aware of him, who he is. It’s Jase who’s fucking me, bare arsed and all. It’s Jase looking at me with lust in his eyes. He wants me. He really wants me. And I want him too. The shocks are coming fast and hard. And then, without warning, I scream out…

And open my eyes. I was dreaming. But what a lovely dream…


I genuinely hope that this is good. It’s a little diffrent from the one that I actually wrote. And yes, it is based on a little fantasy of mine. Hope you liked it.

Zombie Apocalypse …?

It’s Saturday night and after convincing myself I have probably developed a load of diseases I’m now lying in bed and for some reason I have further convinced myself that the zombie apocalypse has started. Here, localised in downtown Dublin.


I live close to the city centre and I can hear what seems like an unprecedented amount of cop cars vaguely in the distance. Not loud like outside on my street or loud enough to wake me if I had been sleeping but just far enough away. My senses are probably heightened by frayed nerves – I haven’t slept well in weeks so every tiny noise seems extra loud. For some reason I think I can hear a faint crowd, like a riot. I’m not sure why this is my first thought or why I’ve jumped straight to zombie apocalypse but I am so convinced that something terrible is going on that I’m rehearsing conversations that I’m going to have when I ring Kevin Street Garda Station (my local cop shop) I am a hairsbreadth away from dialling them. It goes something like this:

Hiya, I appreciate that it’s Saturday night and you work in the emergency services so every Saturday must be misery. But if you could give me two minutes that would be great. So um ..is there any chance that there’s a riot (read: zombie apocalypse but we don’t say that on the phone as we don’t want to sound completely mental. We also don’t want to sound like a jerk as I’m sure most Saturday nights feel like some kind of Groundhog day Armageddon) It’s just that there seems to be an inordinate amount of sirens and helicopters. And I realise that I’m calling from the town end of Dublin 8 which has to be the epicentre of crisscrossing squad cars … but is …it …. Um … unusually busy tonight  ..? Or am I just noticing it because whatever I used to do on Saturday nights it didn’t include being awake and hearing these things..


I don’t get an answer from my practiced convo as, well it’s a practised convo so I just replay it trying to make it sound more plausible and ask myself how much of it would they listen to before telling me to get to fuck and stop wasting their time.

The gardaí remain unbothered by me this night and I don’t make the call.



I don’t even watch the Walking Dead so I don’t know how to prepare myself. But I’m wondering will this be live tweeted by anyone before it gets to my door or will anyone get the chance? Would I get a chance to call my family and tell them to make a run for it – knowing they wouldn’t believe me. I get out my phone anyway to check.


Ironically I start to calm down and come to my senses when I conclude that I’ll probably get eaten by the zombies before I can be taken as fresh meat to be eaten by survivors. And then I calm down to the point where I think it might just be a riot about … I dunno, taxis? Lack of available cheese burgers?  The gay Spar being closed? (What would people in Dublin get riled up about at 2 in the morning?) And I doubt they want to come smashing up windows because of that.


And eventually I realise that I am most likely (probably definitely) having some kind of stress induced panic attack. Albeit a fairly novel one. Not that I’d know I don’t think I’ve had one before, zombie themed or otherwise. But as mentioned I’m not myself of late and while I usually sleep like an innocent, baby log i.e. very fucking well, at the moment it eludes me. So it seems that every little noise is amplified either stopping me from dropping off or waking me if I do manage to.

But that’s all par for the course it seems when someone pulls the wool over your eyes with your own jumper and pushes you out into oncoming traffic. Or in other words, when you find out from Facebook that the guy you were seeing (admittedly casually) turns out to be married. And if you weren’t such a fucking social media snob you’d have found this out ages ago, like maybe the day you met him. And could easily have avoided this whole mess, or at least some of this mess. Definitely though, some mess avoidance could have been attained.

And then the greatest hits of rhetorical questions start playing in your head and you realise that you nearly called the guards cos you thought the fecking zombie apocalypse was happening??? Jesus Christ what has it come to?


And then you fall asleep.

And the world has not been laid to waste by either burger induced riots or zombies. And you remember  with surgical clarity that it was only your world that got consumed by someone, just your own peace of mind that was infected. And you can’t tell anyone cos you feel like a dope.


The End


* The gay Spar is a lovely beacon and widely beloved of late night Dubliners and tourists. I’m not entirely sure why it’s called the gay Spar but it could be to do with an incident that occurred there where an abusive homophobe was refused service and barred for heckling someone. And it’s right by the oldest gay club in Dublin.  It’s also the most beautiful Spar you’ll ever see in your life.

So Long Lemonade

(I’m Feeling Beyoncé’s Lemonade so hard right now …)

Ah lads, where do I start?

Well, I’ve not been feeling great for the past few weeks. So haven’t been posting – I suppose you need to be inspired to do that and I was barely inspired enough to get up before wetting the bed most mornings. Honestly that was the driving factor that saw me pull the duvet covers back from my ever-expanding and neglected body – not pissing the bed. Or shitting it as was the case some mornings. They ain’t great reasons to have a good day, but they certainly are good drivers to have a less rubbish return to bed in the evening.


I have depression. Bad depression that I’ve been sharing a house with for over a decade. It’s the worst housemate I promise. And this is including living with someone who once saw the 1 knife, 1 plate and 1 cup I left from breakfast  – fill the sink with hot water and detergent and wash only their own dishes. (what?? It must have been more work to take them out of the sink, wash their own dishes and then put back mine?) And the two dudes who did not buy hand soap or toilet paper for 3 years ….. I don’t know what went on in their bathrooms before I came on the scene.  But I’d take those anal dish avoiders and soap aversioners than depression any day. (well maybe not any day, I really am very clean and tidy)

I of course digress.

I’ve let things slide here, I’ve not logged on in over a month, nor have I answered or monitored any comments. I lost interest in most things in my life. Just getting up and going to work was the most I managed. The most I strived for. Except for drinking – I managed a good bit of that. Along with tryna keep a sunny side out on Twitter.

I had of course been seeing – or at least sleeping with people. I say people but mostly just the one. We had a nice arrangement, we met up, we had sex, we ate food we watched movies. What was not to like.

I wrote about him here. He was that good.

A bit too good though, so it seems.


The more we did it the better it got. He had dom tendencies, I liked that. He had a massive cock, I liked that even more. But he knew what he was at with his mouth and fingers and his appetites were voracious … or enough that I could see. Clue one, he never really stayed over so maybe he didn’t have as big an appetite as I thought. I wouldn’t know as we didn’t ever spend 24hrs together.


He said from the start that he didn’t want a relationship. That’s fine. He wasn’t my type, I didn’t want that from him either, I was happy with just sex. Sex that started off as quite good but then grew to be fucking mind-blowing. He made me squirt nearly all the time. That’s no mean feat. And I made my self determined to be the one to fit him in my ass, I mentioned his size, well it’s the girth that’s the thing. It is fat, so fucking deliciously fat. And no one had persevered  – or so he told me. Who fucking knows that could have been lies also.


But see. Some people are like little hills that you cycle up. You don’t feel the exertion, you’re not out of breath, you’re not having to stand up off the saddle, you’re just pacing along nicely – and somehow you reach the top. But ….. it’s only when you are facing the other way, and have to go back down that hill that you realise just how steep it was, just how fast your decent is going to be. Just how much of a crash you’re in for if you don’t make it, slow down or handle the brakes right. (If you don’t cycle this is probable a really shit analogy for you …?)

How is that possible? To not notice getting so high? Well it is. And there’s a hill like that in Dublin and when I came down it one day having recently just cycled up it I was shocked at the pace I was flung at. I mean this literally.


But this guy. This guy is the figurative representation of that. I didn’t feel myself doing any exerting to get him to like me. Or make room for him in my life. I didn’t care what he thought of me because I didn’t want to go out with him. I said what I liked, did what I liked, acted how I wanted. I called, texted as much or as little as I felt I wanted or needed to.

No rules, no holding back. And he seemed ok with it.

But we contacted a lot. He worked near me. We had sex during the day at his place of work, once at mine. But mostly it was my house. Clue number two that Abbi did not see.



I don’t know if I have the energy or the will to keep writing this story, or how much good it will do anyone. …  But I’ll try.

I want to eviscerate him but I don’t think I can …. just because, I have no lust for it. Or anything, not even doughnuts right now… (that’s bad)

So I wasn’t talking about him much, so none of my friends really had much detail on him. Until the other day when I was talking about him to my bestmate. She said it sounded like I was starting to like him, I was speaking differently – if you know Sex and The City the TV Show, he was Harry. I had completely undersold him and had seen him as just sex, when all along it was plain that he might have been perfect for me; so we mused.

(awww what dopes we were)

But my bestie is no fool, and she is too fond of me to let anyone into my life without a little (and now de rigueur, let’s admit) internet stalking. (She has a new born that’s still on the boob, she’s had other things to be thinking of so that explains exactly why this didn’t happen sooner).


One Facebook click and she found him. Married. Less than a year from when we had started being in contact with each other. I thought maybe it was a photoshoot …. he was posing for a photographer friend …. ? This is way too shocking, this is funny, there’s an explanation, there’s something . THIS IS NOT REAL. THIS CANNOT BE HAPPENING … Jesus God lord give me something that makes this ok …. something. Oh God please …..


Nope. He’s married. Properly, happily if photos are anything to go by. They’re not by the way, photos are liars.


So, they were screen shot and sent to me, which in turn I sent to him. He is of course so, so, sorry. (please hear that in a Fr.Jack Hackett voice cos that’s how I’m saying it.) He didn’t mean for  ….. and I really cannot be fucked with the fuckery of the rest of that conversation. Either typing it or boring you with having to read what you can already guess cos you’re all over the age of 15 and have heard this fucking horse shit before.


I’m floating. I’m adrift. I’m in the middle of a roaring river of rapids and I have no paddle. I don’t know what to do and I can’t see anything to cling on to around me. No anchor, nothing in my head will land on anything that will make this seem any better. Because there is no better… there is nothing.

Until there is! Well – my brain starts bargaining with me – what if he is planning on leaving her? He did ask me to be patient and go slow? Maybe?





But would you take someone back knowing that? The deceit? The sleight of hand, the artifice? The treacherey …COURSE YOU FUCKING WOULD. All of us would for the right person, so don’t bother lying to yourselves. My life is littered with people who are now in happy relationships that started like this. Some worse than this.


But I knew …. I felt that that was not to be my fate. But I will kill something until I know it’s dead. It’s the 49th rule of war apparently, until you see a dead body the thing is not dead.


So at 4.26am he emails me – I’ve him blocked from everywhere else. And it wakes me as I’m not sleeping heavily – quelle surprise. But I want answers; WHAT HAPPENS NOW. What does he want, where did he think this would go? WHAT THE FUKING HELL DOES HE WANT FROM ME? Well, here you go: He loves her like a best friend, but the passion is gone, he wants kids with her. He is staying with her. He knew before he married her but did it anyway.


I am disgusted. Do what you have to do to get by people I know only too well how fucking hard this life is – but don’t drag me into it. Give me the information to make my own choices. I was not afforded that choice. SHE was not afforded that choice. This is not a judgement on anyone except for removing my right to choose. And god knows I’m fighting hard enough in Ireland for that already. see here


I owe her nothing. I owe him even less but I won’t be exposing him simply because I don’t see the point for me. There is nothing to be gained from it. AND NOT – in case any smart arses want to point out – because I had trusted him enough to tell him about this blog. And so he could of course take me down also.


I’m at a low ebb. I have taken stress leave from work. If anyone knows anything about horses then you know this, if they lie down because of hoof problems it’s good and bad; it’s good that they have lain down, but it means that they probably won’t be getting back up. I have finally taken the stress leave that I needed to take from work but  …. I really cannot see how my hooves will repair. This, this fuckbaggery here? This is just one bit of it that I got a last post and chorus out of. It is not the sole reason for why I need to be off work.


I have a counsellor, a psychiatrist, a psychologist but most importantly I have amazing friends and the world’s greatest sister who is married to a man that I would CHOOSE as a real brother not just a brother in law. I have a lot. I just can’t feel it most days. I just feel the pressure of my bladder and so I rise. And for that alone.


But all this  – it has reminded me how vulnerable I am. How vulnerable it makes my family and so I’m shutting down …. but mostly cos I give up right now. I give up on people. I will not be the fucking side chick again.


But don’t cry for me Argentina – I’m grand. Or I will be. Or won’t, whatever. I’m just a tiny spec on a tinier blue spec in the cosmos and this will mean nothing soon.



It was a blast guys. You, YOU lot made me feel special.

His First Bum Sex

You will never know gratitude more than the gratitude bestowed on you from a well-endowed guy who you’ve had bum sex with! Especially if it’s his first time with anal.


There’s no two ways around it, his cock is pretty big, it’s also really fat. So I have no trouble believing that he hasn’t to date found a cailín willing to attempt it. But if I was able to manage one giant cock up there, I was pretty sure I could manage it again with another. I was adamant that I was going to be the one to take his length up my arse, I wanted to be the girl who did that for him.


Who is this lucky now but unlucky before chap?

He’s been a great lover to date with no agenda not trying to sneakily slip it in all the time (always good when they don’t try this) Seemingly only showing interest in it when I did. In fact he hadn’t really brought it up except to say that he’d never managed it with anyone and would be keen to try it but as if he’d written it off. And just like that he sowed the seed; that I would be placing myself above others if I was the one to do it. To give myself some credit I don’t think this was a very conscious or considered ploy on my part. I just wanted to do it for him. And to give him credit, even if this was a cunning masterplan, it’s always better if I think it was my idea!


Bit of background

My history with anal sex hasn’t been the most illustrious, some terrible mistakes early on have shaped how I view it and approach it. It’s possibly best summed up by likening it to how women in the 50s treated regular sex; I need to really like you, to really trust you and REALLY believe that you’re not going to judge me for wanting and liking your cock in my arse. A lot of guys want anal but they also want to reserve the right to think less of the girl that gives it to them*


Rocky Start

We’ve been at it all night and we’ve had some really fantastic sex, but it’s now the morning and my cunt could maybe do with a break. I’m relaxed, I’ve come a few times and he’s had his fingers in my arse stretching me every now and then too. So I’m very comfortable with how’s he’s treated it. I know that as keen as he is to do it, he is more keen for me to enjoy the experience.


Handing the lube to him I bend over and just tell him to use plenty. He has the lid popped and his hand covered in it before my head hits the pillow. Grabbing my hips he pulls my arse up to him and wriggles two fingers slowly into my arse. It feels tight and slippy and arouses me.

But he has lubed up his other hand and now has his cock primed and ready. This is probably a bit soon, and with hindsight, where we went wrong. He asks if I’m ready and I say I am, because I think I am.

I am not.

While his fingers felt great in there, they are incomparable to his cock and things are too tight and too stretched. This is just pain. He goes slow, very slow, staying close to my ear and whispering encouragement. He is edging ever slightly more in, but at no point does it feel good enough for him to be able to actually fuck me. And when he pushes a fraction to hard I have to stop.


It’s very sore, and I think I’m slightly panicked but I want to keep going. So I remember what I read on another blogger’s website about how she prefers to do anal and I describe this to him.

Ok, according to Girl on the Net, if I curl up on my side, and you spoon me from behind this should make it easier?

Are you sure? I don’t want to hurt you?

Yeah, I’m sure, I want to do this. And if it doesn’t work we can give it a rest and try another time.


Round 2

He lubes up my arse again with his fingers and then his cock and places the tip of it just at the opening. This is now perfect so that I can sort of edge myself down onto it and control it. With the head squeezed just in, I move over and back on it, so that I’m fucking his cock slowly more into me with each stroke.

Gently and gingerly at first but as it starts to feel good I go further getting more of it in. He is lightly holding my hips and leaving all of it to me. Soon it feels like it’s nearly all in and I feel so stretched and tight, I’m really enjoying it, so he starts to move with me, to fuck me a bit harder.


I ask him is it all in and as he says Not. Quite. Yet. He presses hard and shoves the last bit of his throbbing hard on into me. This hurts more than I was expecting but only for a sec and then it feels great to have his huge, pulsating dick in me and thrusting.


My cunt is throbbing and I need something at it. But what comes out of my mouth is: Oh god this is fucking good. And his voice is very different when he responds, yeah it really fucking is! And in it I can hear how elated he is, how much he is enjoying it. I need something at my cunt, I tell him and notably gleefully, he slips a hand around my waist and starts to circle my clit.


With my ass filled and my cunt being played with I am in overload. I push back on him and beg him to fuck me harder, it’s deep in my arse and it feels spectacular; amazingly tight yet sliding with apparent ease now.


The harder we fuck the more I want and with his fingers on my clit it isn’t long before I come. Shouting his name and genuinely fucking thrilled with how this has turned around.

My orgasm in turn brings on his and he says,’Aw fuck yes, I’m gonna come, I’m gonna come, right, deep in your arse’. And he grabs my hips hard for the last final thrust. And I feel him empty himself inside me.



It really was delicious. Possibly the best bum sex I’ve ever had.


And I’m pretty sure he’s been wanking over it ever since (it was only 2 weeks ago though so it’s probably gonna feature highly for a while I think).




*please don’t @ me with any ‘Not all men’ narratives, I know ‘not all men’ do this but enough do that it makes girls wary. Girls = Me

Filthy Alley Sex

Will you order me another milkshake and get the bill, I’m just going to run to the loo.

You just had one?

I know. But get me another one.

Friday Night

I walk off to the loo not explaining myself. It’s about 11 on a busy Friday night at the end of the summer. It’s actually warm in Dublin and we’ve just had the best burgers in the city. We stroll up the street and stop outside the bar that we were in earlier. I hand him the vanilla milkshake, point to the bench and tell him I’ll be right back. He doesn’t argue or say anything, he’s along for the ride.


I get us two Jameson and Baileys and return to him. Asking him to remove the lid of the milkshake I dump the two drinks in and give it a stir with the straw.

It is the perfect strength and utterly delicious.



We stroll across to where he works to collect my bag. I haven’t been there at night and access is down a lane around the side. He puts a key in somewhere I can’t see and a metal shutter rises automatically.


It’s very dark and what little light comes in from the street leaves again as the shutter comes back down. It’s a filthy, narrow alley. There’s bits of discarded shop ware and weeds and the surface is uneven. We’re in a slice between two tall buildings, high up about 3 stories there are lights on and they give some outline to things – but there’s no escaping it, we’re in a grotty alley. And it is turning me on. We’ve had a few drinks and we’re topping that up with our illicit milkshake, I haven’t seen him in a week and he’s promised to fuck me at his work. But we don’t make it inside, I want it here, out in this dark, dingy, lane.


I am so amused at how perfect it is, I’m laughing at its almost movie-like perfection. He stands behind me amused at my amusement, kisses my neck and starts to point out just how filthy this yard is.


And there’s no going back.



I want it now

I take his hand and push it down my jeans, he removes it and sticks his fingers in my mouth to wet them – then returns them to inside my knickers.

The alley is just wide enough to fit a car in, and his is parked here. He turns me to him kiss him and I do for a second before I go put the drink on the boot of the car, it’s too good to drop or knock over. I turn back to him laughing and kiss him again before I pull his belt open and squat down. I can’t kneel, I’d be likely to catch some knee disease but squatting works fine. A fat, hard cock falls towards my mouth and I get my mouth around it.


I don’t care

The windows are open above us, occasionally a shadow passes across one, but it’s a few stories up. I don’t care, I want him to make noise. He moans as I get his cock really wet. I let him slip it right back my throat too and hold it there til I choke just a little. I take it out of my mouth and stand up. Two steps and I can reach the milkshake on the car, I take a sip and hold it in my mouth.


Again I drop to a squat and I slide his dick into my cold, milkshake filled mouth and then I hear him properly moan. Fuck that’s good! Fuck that’s so good.



I suck it until it’s just my warm mouth again. He holds the side of my face and gently fucks it. The light from the above windows is landing right on my face and I look up, I can’t see him but he can see me. He can see his cock sliding in and out of my mouth and one last time he pushes it all the way back my throat until I swallow it. I keep it there until I can’t breath and then I cough it out, and he looks down as my spit trails from his cock to my lips.



He is still watching this as I wipe my mouth and rub it back onto his cock. Without letting go I stand up turn around and get his cock between my thighs and rub it against my wet lips. He spits on his hand and adds it to slickness. And now his cock slides into me and I squeeze to keep it in.



He slowly thrusts into me and I start to make noise, I am so greedy for this right now but I don’t want it to be over too soon. Still standing I bend over even further so he can slide into me even easier. And then I stop and squat down again to suck his dick, tasting myself all over him, licking every bit of myself off his shaft.



He pulls me up and pushes me forward so I can lean against the car and then he starts to fuck me good and hard. His hand reaches around and starts to circle my clit as he pounds me from behind. More, harder I shout and he does, never losing his concentration on my clit.



My cunt is tightening on his dick and I can feel myself almost there and I cry this out. Which in turn elicits a panicked response of how he needs to get a condom on.



This slows us down and brings us both back from the edge. He rolls one on and slides back into me, my hands wide apart, leaning on the car with my jeans and knickers at my knees. Working me with deep thrusts I get his hand back to my clit and in minutes I’m about to come. A shouting, almost drunk, cock crushing orgasm.



I brace myself as he grabs my hips and fucks me as hard as he can to get himself there, it takes seconds. And he makes the most noise he’s made so far as he shoots into me with a low, satisfied roar.




We didn’t even make it inside. This alley might as well be made of diamonds it twinkles so brightly for me!

Dancing On My Own

These words feel huge.

Like I’m a tiny spec trying to hold something enormous; probably only visible to me.


When I’m sad I can’t tolerate the complication that is you

I can’t contemplate it.

When I’m happy, when work and family and the rest of life is going well, I can tolerate it. I can see you and not wonder what the deficit is. Not wonder what this is, not wonder why I let myself be pulled ever further towards drowning, sure why would I? Don’t I think I can swim.

I can’t swim



But in actuality, I am the definition of that Robyn song; I’m in the corner watching you kiss her…

I’m giving it my all, but I’m not the girl you’re taking home…


I keep dancing on my own.




The lust of my life got married last month. Not to me, I might point out. And I was struggling to reconcile how I felt about it. I still don’t know, but I love this song, it makes me happy because at least Robyn knows, she gets it. 

Here it is, if you’ve been living under a rock and don’t know it:

Super Amazing Robyn Track

And that white boy, bleeding heart, cover can get fucked.

Sex and Your Career – where’s the line?

I know I told you all about the last time I had sex during work hours – that was great. But this is more the figurative sense; when is it ok for your sex life to cross over into your work realm. Or is it ever?


I got a LinkedIn ‘connection’ request from an old beau this week. We ceased contact over 2 years ago. And it ended civilly but not well. There has been absolutely no contact since, which to be honest I was a bit surprised about. I had held some notions that he would see the error of his ways and duly get in touch to express his contrition. Alas and thankfully, he did not. More on that anon.


So Monday morning I see a message from yet another name I don’t know ..but hold up, I do. I vaguely recognise the person’s name then who the company is! I know them too. It takes a good two minutes before I figure out it’s him (his pic is not that flattering or fair to how he actually looks)

But I have no idea what’s going on. Why would he contact me like this? What did he hope to achieve? And then I got annoyed because this really isn’t appropriate. There are only 3 reasons I can think of, why he would try to contact me on a career social media platform:

He was drunk & for some reason updating his profile

He has deleted my number but is super desperate to find me

He is genuinely trying to connect with me (because of who I work for) & thinks this is ok


1.                  He was drunk & for some reason updating his profile

I’m not sure about you guys but hitting up LinkedIn when I’ve had a few is not top of my things to do when I’m drunk and bored. Texting exes, check. Trolling Twitter, convincing my mates to give me a boob pic for Twitter, saying wildly inappropriate things on Twitter; check, check and extra check. But somehow, even for him, I doubt this was the case. I think this is low on the possibilities.

0.5 out of 10


2.                  He has deleted my number but is super desperate to find me

Again I think we might have to also add the caveat of ‘With or without alcohol’ to this. Cos either are plausible. OK, so I’m not that easy to find. Or real me isn’t. I’m not on social media and because I’m not an old person you can’t look me up in the phone book. So, if by some weird turn of fate he was trying to get back in touch…. This might be the only way?

But honestly, would anyone do that? I really doubt it. 2 out of 10

BUT would a drunk person do that… much more likely.

4 out of 10


3.                  He is genuinely trying to connect with me because of who I work for

This was the last thing that I considered, and only because someone on Twitter suggested it. I spend so much time feeling like a dope that I never consider myself a networking possibility for someone else.

Maybe he genuinely thought it would be a way to get an introduction to my company? Not in the area I work in, but given our respective positions, I would certainly know who he should talk to. Was he looking for those names? Did he think I would give him some introductions?

Oh God. The audacity.

I still can’t believe that someone would have the neck to contact an ex-lover looking for a favour in a business sense. Maybe a beau that they still looked on favourably, or one that it ended well with ….?

Would you do it?

I wouldn’t but I fear the plausibility here is nearing 5.5 out of 10



Where are the juicy details

I feel I should give you a brief run-down of our short lived dalliance and why I am so utterly opposed to helping this guy out. There are two sides to every story but who gives a shit you’re well aware that this is my side.

Our time together ended one Saturday morning after breakfast when he said ‘This isn’t a relationship Abbi, that’s not what this is. I’m not looking for a relationship. I have to focus on my career right now’. (I did not make that up)

For some additional background; we’d been seeing each other for a bit. Proper dates, dinner, theatre, drinks, brunch. I’d met some of his friends, he’d met some of mine. On the morning of the above statements he had brought me to a 5km race I had agreed to do with work, waited for me and brought me home again. And in case you need me to spell that out – I was happy to run the risk of him possibly meeting my colleagues and or boss. Happy because I thought we were seeing each other.

I’m not sure where I got this crazy notion that we were seeing each other. Yup, I fabricated it. In my crazy lady mind.


Add to that the fact that we had not had sex. So I’m not sure what he thought it was but it certainly wasn’t fuck buddies cos I think you have to fuck for that to be the case. (open to correction on this?)


To row back a bit

There was of course a reason why we hadn’t. We had, I thought, agreed that we were exclusive and as he wasn’t proving great with condoms and I was on the pill, we agreed to both get tested. I was tested he had to wait for an appointment and then wait again for the results. In the interim we’d been having a great time. And I thought we had loads in common; dark sense of humour, low tolerance for eejits, hatred of weddings, similar familial background. On paper it was perfect.


To say I was upset when he told me it wasn’t a relationship would be disingenuous because I really wasn’t. I was furious. Furious that he thought I would hold him back in his career, furious that he thought I wanted more than what we already did. Furious that I had waited WEEKS for his cock and was now not getting it.

But mostly furious that he didn’t think I was worth going out with. HOW FUCKING DARE HE! If he wasn’t sure about my worth then I was certainly assured of his and it was getting precisely zero more of my time.



And now?

I don’t think anyone would claim that there was any cordiality owed to him. While I’m well past what happened, I would be disinclined to acquiesce to assisting him.

It’s so funny how I was so initially convinced that he would get in touch, that he would realise how fucking awesome I was ….. but he didn’t. He spend so much time telling me how much he hated being single that I was sure he would miss  me and get back in touch. But weeks passed and I got over it and deleted his number.



But the truth is, much like his statement that fateful morning, I don’t understand and have no idea why he would try to connect with me now. But I do feel it’s wholly inappropriate. I don’t and never did know him in a professional capacity and I don’t think it’s right that anyone should cross that line and expect a warm reception. Work and private life are delicate eco systems that shouldn’t be infected with casual acquaintances. It’s almost impossible for me to imagine infringing on anyone’s career like this. By either contacting them on their work email, or showing up on work premises or calling them on a work number. Not unless you are a serious partner – let’s say of over 2years – then I don’t think there’s any justification for it.


To be fair, he didn’t actually ring me at my desk so this is the lightest of infringements I suppose but still. It’s unprecedented.

And if it had ended better I might be more inclinded to see this in a fabourable light. But I didn’t and I don’t.


So, what will I do?

Oh I’m a dickhead who likes drama for her own amusement – I’m going to accept and see if he has anything to say. Either way it should be amusing.

But I think the sad reality is he’s probably one of those people who just likes collecting connections and there will be no more intrigue to it than that. I’ll accept and there will be no more communiation.

Last Night A Dicking Saved My Life

Sex stops me from wanting to end it all

I don’t say that flippantly, it keeps me alive. And on one occasion it saved my life.

This is very hard for most people to understand. I know this and expect this. Less easy to understand is how I explain this to people in my life who don’t yet grasp it. People who know my duels with mental health. People who know that when all hope is fading then my interest will always be piqued by the salacious.

It’s a physical release that immediately relieves tension, no one needs me to spell out how that can be beneficial. But it is more than that for me, it sends badly needed endorphins or serotonin to my very damaged brain, that quells the erupting despair and salves an ache that is ever present in my mind. Two admittedly very useful things that I’m sure are not my experience alone. But there is also one more thing it does which I’m less sure people will connect with. When I have sex, I don’t hate myself. I get a break from my eternal monologue which tells me I’m useless at everything.

Which one is me?

Whether it’s respite from my real self or whether it’s where I get to be the real me, I’m not sure. But I like the version of me that exists when I have sex. When I’m having sex I don’t worry about anything else, I don’t feel fear or failure or dejection – I feel peace.

I feel accomplished and skilful and comfortable that I know what I am doing. And so much of my time is taken up with feeling the opposite of those things. Most of my colleagues would be surprised to hear how riddled with doubt I am given my frequency for walking round like I own the fucking place.

The lies I tell

But the biggest and most common lies I tell are ‘I know what I’m doing’ and ‘I’m ok’. It’s rare that either of these is true. And that can get to you. Thinking and feeling you’re useless and pretending you’re ok, a person only has so much in reserve to fight that. My stocks are frequently low. And the only thing that is guaranteed to alleviate that is a good seeing to.

It wipes my slate clean, gives me the tiny respite from being the terrible me. And that good version of me, the me that I like, well getting to be her helps me to survive. Or even want to survive.


People joke that I’m so lascivious and are always waiting for a brazen quip from me. But more than once it’s been asked if I thought I had a sex addiction’* or what is my “obsessive” interest in sex, why am I always dating, is it really good for me.

Almost all valid questions when put in context of when I’ve been hurt or disappointed. It’s not hard for me to understand where these questions come from. I put myself out there and get knocked down accordingly; you could say I bring it on myself. But when compared to the alternative? I’m not sure they would continue to ask why I seek this out, why it’s important to me.

Sometimes it’s the only thing.



*Sigh, in case you’re also wondering, I’m not a sex addict, I won’t just sleep with anyone, anywhere at any cost. I just really like a good ride.

Please don’t advise me on how to manage my mental health, how I do is not open for discussion, just please accept that I do manage it and it does involve professionals.