Having escaped from the inadequate fellow discussed in the previous instalment, I eagerly awaited a renaissance in the bedroom arena. After weeks of submitting to the selfish tendencies of a man, I felt myself entitled to pursue the satisfaction of my own sexual appetite. I threw myself into my new-found freedom with gusto.
I acquired a date with yet another seemingly prominent man and had high hopes for his sexual prowess. Mike, 22, GSOH and drop-dead gorgeous seemed the perfect recipient for my newly liberated sexual energy. Not being your traditional no-kiss-til-the-third-date kind of a girl (if, in fact, any of those do still exist), we ended up back at his Fulford residence after the first evening together.
He dimmed the lights, poured us a glass of wine each and stuck on some Kenny G, leading me to believe some serious romance was in the pipeline. Contrary to my expectations, however, he whipped out what I believe is commonly referred to in trashy romance novels (and KFC reviews) as his throbbing member, and declared, “I know it’s pretty, baby, but it’s not just for looking at”. He then tenderly enquired as to the prominence of my gag reflex.
After assuring him this was long gone, I got down to what I assumed to be the first bout of foreplay. I was, therefore, a little surprised when he expelled his population paste into my mouth after mere minutes. It was thus that I discovered a novel, if rather unpleasant, third way between spit and swallow. As jets of ejaculate spurted from my nostrils, there followed an awkward pause as I realised that sex isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. At least he was gentleman enough to lend me his hankey.
My sexual ambitions once again thwarted, I began to ponder whether there is a happy – and gratifying – medium between the routine of relationship-bound sex and the high potential for embarrassment implicit in casual sex. As I traipsed home, sniffling, I determined not to let such a minor setback put me off. I must admit, however, that this particular episode has made a minor dent in my sexual idealism.
When did sex stop being fun? I remember the halcyon days when sex was about more than bodily fluids, alarming noises and penile abnormality. Perhaps I’ve simply matured over the course of my university career. Sex in Toffs and being walked in on by cleaners just doesn’t cut it in the excitement stakes anymore. I’ve come to the conclusion that I should, perhaps, broaden my carnal horizons. Older men? Other women? Both at the same time? I’ve resolved to explore these options and will report back next time.