Butts, Body Odour and Boyfriends – What’s not to love?

What’s crackalacking Lovers?

I know its been a while so let’s skip the formalities, stretch out our pelvic floor muscles and get straight into the banging details!

Because yes Lovers, you guessed it, Claire has been getting sex on tap. Otherwise known to regular people as a relationship.

But how Claire, how did this happen? The last we heard from you, you were recounting the most horrible of horrible dates to us! Surely you didn’t turn all that around and begin a relationship with the bastard that is now a beautiful flourishing thing?

I sure did Lovers!

Yes, Chester and I resolved our many many differences and I’m happy to say that he is now my future baby daddy…

Just kidding Lovers! Good god it was hard enough kissing Chester let alone entertaining the idea of allowing him to flop around on top of me!

No no, my main man is a whole different breed of man to Chester, that’s for sure. The only thing they have in common is the way we met, which was of course online.

Who is the mystery man? Well here’s the kicker Lover’s, he’s decided that he doesn’t want a fake name to protect his identity (and trust me I had a few awesome one’s lined up, Martinez, Manfred and Mario just to name a few!) So drum roll please, his name is…

Michael! (Oh the urge to name him Michelangelo was so strong Lovers, imagine dating a ninja turtle!)

So let me tell you a bit about the new man. He’s fit, super fit, like so fit he just ran a marathon a few weeks ago (I sat in the stands eating Mars Bars like a dutiful girlfriend. To be fair though I shared the last one with him, so I think it was a pretty big day of achievements for both of us.)

He’s got abs you could grate cheese on (and we eat burritos together so much that the thought often crosses my mind whilst dicing tomatoes.) And he has cute little chicken legs. You know me Lovers, I like my men lean and wiry, and how much more wiry can you get than a dude who runs marathons?

Of course, this level of fitness has its pros and cons, most notably when we do any sort of physical activity outside. I am, as you know Lovers, what the Oxford Dictionary would define as ‘a sweaty bitch.’ Normally this level of sweatiness does not bother me too much. It gives me a nice circumference of free space on public transport (cause ain’t nobody want to rub up against an SB) as well as giving my skin a sweaty sheen that no moisturiser could dream of achieving.

However, this sweaty sheen and scintillating scent, although useful at times, is incredibly annoying when one is trying to both impress and seduce one’s special man friend.

Oh the sweaty mess that is me when I exercise. While on a little trip, Michael decided it would be a great idea to go and see some of the local scenery. Perfect, I thought, we can take some romantic photos, do a little kissy kissy in the sand dunes and then that would lead to some naked activities soon after.

What I did not count on was the 45 minute uphill walk I would have to conquer before getting to said scenery. Oh and did I mention I had a cold at the time?

Picture this Lovers, Michael: the athletic prowess of a god, surging forwards down the path, every stride eating up metres of distance, powering him towards his destination.

Claire: Sweaty, slimy, snotty, every step leaving great puddles on the bitumen as butt sweat cascaded down my legs and overflowed out of my drenched socks. Eyes watering from flu and yet more sweat that had run down from my straggly hair, I blearily tried to keep the man disappearing into the distance in my sights, aware that I would be unable to call out to him if I lose him, so ragged was my breathing.

Ok so maybe I wasn’t that bad, but still it’s definitely demoralising to witness such a gap in fitness capabilities.

But cardiovascular jealousy’s aside, Michael is great. He treats me like I’ve never ever been treated before (he certainly put Chester’s efforts to shame, that’s for sure) and buys me chocolate whenever I’m the least bit upset (so it’s safe to say my own abs won’t be coming in any time soon.) He’s always keen to chat about anything, even girly emotional crap, and the sex is most very pleasing.

I know what you’re thinking Lovers.

Gross, right? I’ve become one of those disgusting couples that holds hands and coochie coo’s each other in the street while innocent people nearby attempt to drink their coffee’s in peace without snorting it back out their nose through sheer disgust at our antics.

But no Lovers, I’m not there yet, even though sometimes I’d like to be! But what’s holding me back? Well I just gave you the answer right there.

My butt.

Seriously Lovers, nothing ruins a romantic moment more than an ill-timed fluff monkey. Long time readers will know that I have struggled with my, shall we say, rectal turbulence for years, navigating my way through the dark depths of the great brown cloud with some difficulty. The only upside of my constant trouser coughs was the fabulous ass I have managed to attain due to holding said air biscuits in through sheer force of will and butt muscle.

It’s not so hard to hide these issues from dates, you only hang out with them for a night here and there. With a little practice and planning you can usually avoiding eating the danger foods or sneak off to another less populated room to release a little back blast when you need to.

But with a boyfriend…

He’s there all the time! Worst of all is that sometimes Michael walks behind me, the worst spot he could possibly choose! It’s like he wants to get crop dusted! There’s been many a time when we’ve been taking a nice stroll down to a park or through the shops or wherever and suddenly I’ll just grab him and pull him into me for a passionate kiss. He thinks I’ve been overcome with need for him and simply must have him now. The reality is if I kept walking I’d almost certainly let something slip out. And what other reason is there for suddenly stopping dead in your tracks?

This relationship is fraught with danger and lies Lovers, danger and lies.

Supposedly I will grow out of this need to shield Michael from my cheek squeaks, and will one day unabashedly and gloriously let my butt trumpet roar out for all to hear. But somehow I don’t think that will happen with me.

Why? Well, for one thing the boy never farts! And I mean never Lovers. He’s some sort of genetic freak! I guess it’s true that opposites attract, it’s certainly so in this case. The other reason? And this is definitely where the danger element comes into play again… With my IBS tendencies there’s just way too much chance of follow through.

And there ain’t no kiss that can bring you back from that Lovers.

Until next time!

Claire XoXo

So Lovers, like what you read? (If you didn’t then don’t read on. Actually if you didn’t then how did you get this far in the first place? Methinks someone is lying to themselves eh?) Anyways there are a few days left of the biggest sex blogging competition in the land and How Many Frogs is a part of it! So by proxy, that means you lovely readers are also a part of it! All you have to do is vote for HMF and see how we stack up against the big boys! Follow the link and vote if you’re a keen bean who likes to read about my bean! You rock my world Lovers.


Terrible Date #321: The man with no plan – Part Two

Hey hey my lovely Lovertons!

How have we all been? I’ve been freezing my balls off, that’s how I’ve been! If you’re reading this somewhere in the northern hemisphere I am officially jealous! But hey, with cold weather comes winter snuggles and doona sex, so I can’t complain too much right?

So, as I sit here, ensconced in layer upon layer of woollen blankets and suspicious smelling sheets, I’ll tell you the thrilling conclusion of my truly horrendous date.

Right, where were we? Ah yes that’s right, Chester had just shot down my attempt to talk about myself as he ‘didn’t feel the need’ to talk about sex.

Aaaaand cue the dog.

As I was sitting there fuming, an adorable greyhound trotted up to us. Dogs can sense pain right? He must have headed straight for me like a beacon once he got a whiff of my immense discomfort.

Good boy.

Sadly, Chess got to him first before I could thank him for his act of charity.

“I fucking love greyhounds!” He exclaimed, sloshing his Jim Beam around manically in his rush to leap towards the poor dog. “I used to work at the greyhound track when I was younger, so I know like, everything about them!”

Of course you do.

Chester proceeded to grab the dog by the head and turn his ear inside out, “See the tattoo? All greyhounds have one!”

That’s great, please release the dog, I thought nervously, looking around furtively for an angry owner charging up to us.

Luckily for us, the dog’s owner was actually a lovely girl, around my age and strangely calm regarding the whole ear grabbing incident. As soon as she approached, Chester hit her with a barrage of questions about the dog, who was now seriously regretting his decision to rescue me. I met his gaze as Chester continued to run his hands all over him, admiring his breeding stock and agility, and both of us silently agreed; run, run as fast as you can.

I was just about to make my excuses and get the hell out of there when suddenly the dog’s owner exclaimed and fell to her knees by the side of her dog. Concerned, I leaned forward, worried she had succumbed to Chester’s bullshit and was overcome enough to faint.

But no, turns out the poor little pooch had been attacked by a ferocious toy poodle and was bleeding from his leg. The cut didn’t look great, but the wound was pretty clean, clean enough for a vet to sew up with no problem that is.

But who need’s professional animal doctors when you’ve got Chester right? He worked at the greyhound track for like, at least three months, so he was totally qualified to fix this situation.

Chester took charge instantly, puffing his chest up like peacock in heat and ordering the owner to go and speak to the offending poodle’s owner.

“Don’t worry,” the apparent new superman assured her, “I’ll take care of everything over here.”

My beer made a sneaky attempt to make its way back up my throat but I swallowed it down with some difficulty.

The owner ran off while Chester made unnerving cooing noises at the dog, making him infinitely more uncomfortable than he already was.

Finally the owner came back, upset that the poodle owner hadn’t given a shit about clawing up her dog.

Bloody poodle owners.

“That mutherfucker!” Cried Chester, startling myself and the owner, not to mention the poor dog who he was still clutching. “If this was my dog I’d fuck that guy up! I’d fucking deck him! I fucking would!”

Fucking stop.

I only just managed to restrain myself from hanging my head in my hands from the sheer shame of it all. The owner was looking at me with a ‘restrain your boyfriend’ look, and I was staring back at her, willing her to understand, ‘he’s not my boyfriend! Please don’t associate me with him!’

But all of that was forgotten when suddenly Chester thrust his sticky can of Jim Beam into my hands and announced, “I’ll fix this. Wait here.”

And then he sprinted off toward the tree line.

Keh? What the hell was happening here? Me and the nice owner exchanged awkward glances as we watched his ramshackle ass disappear into the distance. Now how was I supposed to escape? I couldn’t very well bugger off while he was trying to do the one nice thing he had attempted all day. I groaned inwardly and swigged my beer in frustration, annoyed beyond belief at the knowledge that I would be stuck here for at least another hour.

I exchanged a bit of small talk with the dogs owner, and we were even joined by another greyhound and her owner at one point, but nothing could lift me from the gloom that had settled over me. Now that Chester was trying to do a good thing, I had to stick around and be nice to him. Gah! Why now? Why didn’t I escape when I had the chance?

Ten minutes passed by… then twenty… twenty five… and then just as I was about to yell, “Screw it!” and walk out, I saw Chester sprinting back towards us, plastic bag in hand.

Lord, here we go.

Chester dumped his spoils on the ground and began sorting through them, shoving a bottle of water at me and demanding, “Mix that with equal parts salt, we need to make a saline solution.” I felt like delivering a mock salute and yelling “Yes doctor!” But somehow I managed to restrain myself, instead following his orders and making myself a salty little cocktail.

Once I had completed the task to Chester’s satisfaction, (he seriously checked it three times, including a taste test. What a wanker) he proceeded to wash the dogs leg.

All fine and good yes? I mean sure, normal water would probably have been fine as well but he went the extra mile to make sure the dog wouldn’t get an infection. That’s nice, right?

Until he pulled out the razor.

What the actual fuck are you doing Chester!?

I wanted to scream at him that he wasn’t a vet and spending a little time with some greyhounds does not a doctor make! But no, Chester was in his element, holding the dog steady as he hacked away at its fur with his incredibly incompetent razor. I thought it couldn’t get any worse; but then he opened his mouth, “Fuck! It’s like shaving me pubes!”

Kill me now.

I chanced a glance at the dogs owner who was finally realising Chester was not the magical dog whisperer he claimed to be, but rather a weirdo who enjoyed touching her dog just a little too much. We exchanged pained looks over the dog as Chester continued his shaving frenzy, getting absolutely nowhere.

“Maybe we don’t need to shave his leg?” The owner offered helpfully.

Understatement of the century there lady, this was a greyhound, not a poodle. No shaving necessary. But no, Chester was intent on getting this dog’s drumstick completely bare.

Twenty minutes and much puffing grunting and swearing later, Chester finally gave up.

Bout bloody time hero.

But just as I thought the nightmare was ending for the dog, things got worse! Chester pulled some bandages from his bag of treats, which he was all to eager to tell me the exact price of due to being on the dole. “Nothin’s cheap these days!” He ranted as he prepared the bandages.

And that’s when I noticed it. Chester had gone out and bought those bandages that are already sticky so you don’t need to hold them in place with any clips.

Smart right?

Not when you don’t get anything to put over the actual cut first!

I watched in horror, mouth agape, as Chester proceeded to place the sticky bandage directly over the torn flap of skin on the dogs leg.


“Yeah, nice and tight, there’s a good boy.” Cooed Chester, oblivious to the moronic action he had just undertaken. The dog’s owner was a little slower on the uptake than me and only after Chess was done bandaging and was giving her the rundown of how often to change them did she ask, “But wont it open the cut back up if I take the bandages off?”

Mental slow clap from me.

“Nah she’ll be right.” Chester said confidently, and offered no further explanation than that.

Finally, finally the dog was free to leave, but God did the poor little guy struggle. Chester had strapped the bandage on so tightly and all over his knee, that the dog could barely walk!

Goodbye dear friend, I thought pityingly as I watched the owner try to get the dog walking as normal, but that little dude wasn’t going anywhere fast until that damn bandage came off.

To top it all off, just as they were leaving the park (after what will I’m sure be remembered as the ‘worst walk ever.’) Chester suddenly sprung up and raced after them. When he caught up to them I noticed them exchange something and then he came strolling back up to me.

I looked at him with high eyebrows, silently questioning his random take-off.

“I just remembered this great vet’s number.” Chester explained, “I figured it would be helpful to give her his number just in case. Plus I gave her my number in case she wants any more advice.”

You’re not a vet! Oh how the words wanted to rip themselves from my mouth. Instead I smiled sanguinely at him and said, “Hmm, maybe it would have been a good idea to give her the vet’s number first.”

“Nah man nah,” Chester retorted, clearly offended. “I just saved her like $300 in vet bills!”

Yeah. Right. Whatever you say Dr Harry.

So anyways, now that all the dog drama had subsided, I was left with nothing else except my beer and Chester’s company.

Kill me now.

Now Lovers, you may be thinking, ‘Ok Claire, it’s time to get out of there. Make your move. Ditch the bastard.” Am I right?

But alas Lovers, no matter how much I dislike someone, I just can’t bring myself to blatantly hurt their feelings! Chester had travelled over two hours to come and see me (by train of course, there was no way he could afford petrol, let alone a car) so it would just be plain mean of me to bugger off after only an hour or so (most of which had been dog time.)

God I hate myself! Why do I have to be so nice?

I screamed these sweet words in my head constantly as I listened to Chester drone on and on about his at best uninteresting and at worst downright disgusting life. Seriously Lovers, he didn’t want to talk about sex but was apparently fine talking about all manner of other bodily functions.


To make things worse, Chester seemed to have quite the temper on him. I had noticed him getting heated about the dog which I suppose was a valid reason, but he tended to go off his nut about quite a few things (mostly political rants. Ew such a turn-off.)

Finally I could take it no more. I had to get out. Now.

So Lovers, what do you think is the best way to get out of a date? Pretend to be sick and make your excuses to leave? Make up some phantom event that you mysteriously forgot until now? Silently will one of your friends to text or call you so you can help them out of their ‘emergency?’ Fake a seizure?

No no Lovers, the best way to get out of a bad date is to do exactly what they don’t expect.

So I kissed him.

Don’t look at me like that Lovers! I had to do it! I was afraid if I told him the truth, (that today was the worst date of my life) he would get angry and start yelling at me! Every excuse I could think of just wouldn’t work and I still felt guilty deep down about him coming such a long distance.

At least by kissing him I could give him a good time in the moment and then let him down gently later (when I was far far away from him and his raised voice tendencies.)

But boy did I pay for that act of kindness.

He tasted sickly sweet like Jim Beam and his beard scratched the shit out of my face. I closed my eyes and pretended I was locking lips with Brad Pitt, Keanu Reeves, Tim Allen, anyone that wasn’t Chester. But then he grabbed the back of my head (in what I think was meant to be a passionate embrace) and mashed my face into his.


Good Lord Lovers! I couldn’t breathe! My arms flailed about wildly as I grasped around for purchase on something I could hit him over the head with. Sadly my beer was out of reach so I just had to sit through my tongue bath and accept the fact that I make bad decisions far too often.

When he finally allowed me to resurface I was gasping for air. Poor old Chester assumed I was panting with barely suppressed passion and lunged in again for another kiss.

This one I managed to dodge.

“Ooh, I’m a lady!” I supplied weakly, attempting to pull off a coy look but probably failing miserably.

“So?” Asked Chester, grinning and reaching for me with is sticky hands.

“So,” I interjected, inching ever so slightly away from him, “a lady never gives it all away on the first date!”

I could see Chester’s disappointment, but after a moment he relaxed and sat back again.

Phew, crisis averted.

“So, you want to grab dinner somewhere?” Chester asked suddenly, surprising me as I surreptitiously tried to pick his beard hair from between my teeth.

Enough was enough.

Time to get those lying pants on.

“Sorry, but I’m helping a friend move tomorrow.” I said apologetically. When I saw his high eyebrows I quickly added, “They’ve only got the moving van for three hours and they’ve hired it from six am. So… early morning tomorrow.”

Again Chester looked disappointed at my statement, but if I was putting my lying pants on then I was pretty sure he could manage to shove his big boy pants on.

Success! Chester finally accepted defeat and ruefully started sweeping his empty cans back into his backpack. I attempted to look anything but triumphant as I watched him pack up, but boy it was hard!

“Well, I guess I’d better be off.” I began, ready to make a dash for the park gates.

“Nah nah,” Chester said quickly, “I’m a gentleman, I’ll walk you to your tram stop.”

What? After all this you decide to be a gentleman now? I groaned inwardly as I outwardly pasted a smile on my face and simpered a thankyou at him.

Polite bastard.

We walked out of the park together, but not before Chester had cracked the last of his Jim Beam’s though. My warnings about street drinking seemed to fall on deaf ears and sadly instigated another rant about how corrupt the system was and how we all deserve rights.

Sweet baby Jesus, would I ever be free?

But finally, that blessed tram appeared on the tracks, signalling my imminent departure from this, the most abhorrent of dates.

Not without one last kiss though right? Not my choice Lovers. Chester, fuelled on by six cans of Jim Beam and the heady scent of dog hair, grabbed me by my shoulders and yanked me forward, crushing my face with his and sealing that damn mouth over mine in some twisted parody of romance.

That tram couldn’t get to me fast enough.

“Bye!” I cried as I jumped onto the tram, trying not to wipe my face free of his spit while he was still in view. As Chester slowly began to recede into the distance, I waved goodbye to him.

And with my other hand I deleted him from Bumble post haste.

Phwoar! What an experience!

Lesson of the day Lovers? Always trust your gut when you think the dude might be a weirdo! The gut never lies!

Until next time you saucy minxes.

Claire xx







Terrible Date #321: The man with no plan

Olah Lovers!

I am having just the worst luck when it comes to all things sexy time! So much for my new years resolution of having a totally banging year! My first sexual foray for the year was a drunken mess and the second go round resulted in that most terrible of afflictions, the dreaded UTI. To top it all off, I was booked in for a nude modelling class the day I got the UTI so I had to reschedule (very lame). Funnily enough that class was rescheduled for this Tuesday just gone. But no Lovers, sadly this will not be a post about how exciting and crazy it was to be in a room full of thirty naked women throwing shapes and striking poses.

Why not? I hear you ask, a distinct tone of disappointment tingeing your usually sweet voice. Well Lovers, there’s many things you need to take with you when preparing to nude it up for ‘art,’ including a robe (fancy word for manky ten year old flannel dressing gown), water and just a touch of confidence. However, there is one thing you most certainly do not want to bring with you under any circumstances.

Your goddam period.

Seriously Lovers! What are the chances of Lady Red showing up right on that day? Not cool reproductive system, not cool.

I know some of you may be thinking, “but Claire, it was just the first day, surely you could have at least tried to get away with it?” And that thought did cross my mind Lovers, it really did, but the other thought that very soon followed was the image of me, arms thrust high in the air, legs gloriously akimbo, and then a drop of something slowly sliding down my leg…

Ain’t nobody got time for that.

So in an attempt to reschedule (again) I called the art peeps to explain the murder scene in my pants. I didn’t really have much hope however as now it looked like I was one of those annoying people who just wimped out on the day. As I expected, they couldn’t rebook me, but they did invite me to come along anyway and just do the class with my underwear on. Pfft, bitch please, I model in front of the mirror with my undies on every day, where’s the excitement in that? No no, if I was going to do this I was going to do it right dangnammit!

Soo, long story short, there was no nude modelling in my life this week (awww). Instead I thought I would regale you all with a truly horrendous date I experienced late last year!

Where to start? Ok well obviously we met on a dating app (where all truly horrendous dates are born) and he seemed really nice. Normal. Had his shit together.

Oh how wrong I was.

Unlike my usual get in get out technique of asking the usual questions and then jumping straight to ‘beers tonight?’ I actually talked to this guy for quite some time. Weeks actually. Our conversations were fun and something I looked forward to during long boring nights of watching shitty tv at home. Finally, finally though we organised a time to meet. Yay!

And that’s when shit hit the fan.

Literally the night before we were due to meet things just went so weird.

His name was Chester.

Now Lovers, at this point in time I had just been accepted for a job at a call centre booking women in for contraception and other appointments. Needless to say I was bloody excited as this was the first real job I had had that had anything even remotely to do with sex.

Woohoo! Bring on the implanon’s and IUD’s!

I communicated this excitement to Chester and, much to my surprise, he seemed even more excited than me!

Nice but slightly… odd.

When I asked him about it I immediately regretted it. He went on this incredibly long, incredibly intense rant about how his mother had had him at 14 and how contraception and terminations should be free and legal and how “we’re all pretty insignificant in this capitalistic society of greed and bullshit anyway.”

Well that’s… nice… I guess?

Seriously Lovers, nothing turns me off faster than politics. Not to mention people who use words like capitalistic society. Double not to mention when those words are communicated through Bumble, a supposedly carefree and light dating app! I mean c’mon dude, surely this is a conversation to have in person?

Anyways, I tried to lighten things up a little and get the conversation back on track to something a little easier, like “can’t wait for tomorrow, see you then!” Rather than the benefits of abortion and unsatisfactory parenting.

Chester did not take the hint. He said he was sorry for the heavy vibe but then literally a second later was like, “actually I’m not. This is reality, it’s real life, get used to it.”

You’re losing me Chess, you’re really losing me!

Then things got even weirder as the way he had phrased his sentence had me all confused and we spent the next ten minutes messaging, “what do you mean?” and then, “no what do you mean?” which made things awkward as ass. In the end I dropped it and told him I’d see him tomorrow. He finally replied with, “ok, looking forward to some wines and maybe a kiss.”

Now Lovers, in a desperate attempt to keep up comradery (and a little light ribbing) I made a joke. I said, “lol better make sure your beard is clean then!” and inserted many winky faces afterwards.

Not the wittiest of repartee, this I know. However, I feel his responses afterwards were a little uncalled for.

“That’s really disrespectful.” He replied

“Lol how so?” Came my response, desperately throwing in a lol anywhere I could to demonstrate my joking nature (which clearly had not been communicated through the initial message.)

But then he just went ridiculous on me.

“Ok, is your pussy shaven?”

Wtf? Too far man, too far.

I didn’t want to go any further so I pumped the breaks and took the blame, saying, “Ok I feel like I’ve upset you. I didn’t mean too it was just a bit of fun. So sorry, my apologies if I’ve offended you.”

All the while I’m thinking, Jesus if this guy can’t take one little joke about a dirty beard we are not going to get along well!

He didn’t reply. I have to admit I was kind of grateful that he didn’t. I had been in quite the good mood before our conversation; Friday night feels, new job, exciting date planned tomorrow, but he had effectively squashed that right out of me and made me feel completely shitty.

The date was cancelled.

In my head anyways. It was so clear now that we didn’t share any of the same views. I had accepted and even liked the fact that he wore pink a lot (including skinny leg jeans, a pet hate of mine), the fact that he was sensitive enough to walk away from a job where he was being bullied, and the fact that he wore women’s pyjamas because he liked how soft they felt on his skin. I kept telling myself, maybe this is the type of guy I need, someone tuned into their sensitive side, not so manly man like my usual dates.

But after the messages I realised that sensitivity seemed to come at the expense of a sense of humour.

Maybe you think I’m being too harsh Lovers, and in the past guys have labelled me as mean, but in my family, if you can’t take a joke you won’t last long. I’m just prepping them for the future!

So the next day I woke up feeling pretty bummed. I now had no date to look forward too and the guy who I had thought to be some cool, slightly eccentric gent had just turned out to be an annoying political hipster.


You can imagine my surprise when said hipster messaged me asking what time we were meeting for our date.


“I didn’t think we were still having a date after last night.” I replied. May as well be straight up with him, I thought.

“Yeah sorry, I was really tipsy and that subject is always kind of touchy for me. But I’d still really like to catch up. I’ll make it up to you, promise. ”

Hmmm, to believe him or not to believe him? That was the question Lovers.

Fuck it, it’s Saturday, let’s go on a date.

Worst. Choice. Ever.

Chester lived a fair way out of town, and when I say a fair way, I mean it took him two and a half hours to get to where we were meeting.

He was 45 minutes late.


Luckily where we were meeting was a dog park (it was summer, what’s better than watching dogs frolic while you day drink?) so I was able to entertain myself by watching all the pups run around and crash into each other as I sipped my mango beer.

Just when I was about to give up and go home I got a message from Chester saying he was entering the park.

Now you know that feeling you get before a date Lovers? The butterflies in your stomach, the slight tightness in your chest, all smushed together with the wild hope that maybe, just maybe, this will be the last date you ever need to go on?

Yeah, I didn’t feel that this time.

All I felt was the tiny girl that lives in my brain (often named intuition) attempting to jackhammer her way out through my skull, all the while screaming, “you idiot! I’m outta here girlfriend, you deal with this on your own!”

Selfish cow.

I took a long steadying sip of beer and lifted my head to look around.

And then I saw him.

Oh Lovers, it was so much worse than I had imagined. Chester looked nothing like his photos. In fact he looked downright homeless! He had long, scraggly hair that looked like it hadn’t been washed since the invention of shampoo (he had lovely short hair that suited him really well in all his damn photos) and wore a holey shirt with some random band logo on it. He clip clapped towards me in a dodgy looking pair of thongs, with an ancient backpack slung over his shoulder.

Scotty, beam me up now. Now dammit! I don’t want to do this!!

But there would be no beaming, and as I cursed the Star Trek gods to hell, I met Chester with a hug.

Luckily he smelled fine. Phew! Nothing worse than a bit of B.O on a date that’s already going down the shitter.

We exchanged niceties before settling on a bench and cracking open some fresh drinks. Chester had brought a twelve pack of Jim Beam and Cokes doubles. Jesus, how much did he expect to drink?!

I pasted a smile on my face and began to ask Chester about himself. I already knew a lot from our Bumble conversation, but it seemed like he enjoyed saving all the little surprises for me in person. Chester had no job, and no intention of getting one in the near future. Alarm bells starting going off in my head. I don’t need a rich man, not by any stretch of the imagination, but after some of the previous disasters I have dated, I made a solemn promise to myself that I would only date employed men from now on.

Things were not looking great for Chester.

But then he told me about his big dream. Chester was going to be a florist; he’d even enrolled in TAFE course. (However, said TAFE course wasn’t happening until next year as he needed quite some time to “work on himself.” I’m pretty sure that’s man code for “spend most of the day in bed wanking.” But I digress.)

I asked Chester about the course, about his passion for floristry and why he wanted to do it, eager to discover some sense of purpose in this strange man. Was he going to start a business in the end? Travel the world showing off his mad flower skills? Get an apprenticeship at some hip establishment and go from there?

No, none of those.

Chester would do the TAFE course and then, “I dunno, maybe do some shit for friends?”

Wow, what a goal.

I decided to change tack and ask what he did before this, hoping it was just a phase he was going through, an early mid-life crisis if you will.

But no, no luck there either I’m afraid Lovers. Chester had been in quite a few bands. Sounds cool right? Sure, if he had stuck with it at all. He looked at me dolefully and said, “yeah all my mates are pretty big now, touring and recording and shit. But I didn’t. I couldn’t really be bothered. I don’t care though, it’s like whatever.”

Uh huh.

None of this would have really mattered if Chester had had even an ounce of good personality. But he seemed to lack the basic niceties that go with being on a date. There seemed to be no real redeeming qualities in him that I could see. Was I missing something?

All this time ol’ Chess hadn’t asked anything about me, so I thought now would be a good time to fill in the blanks. I tried to tell him about my dreams to become a sexologist, my love for discovering all things fetish and just my general fascination with sex.

Chester however, put a stop to that kind of nasty talk quick smart.

“Look, I like eating pussy and all, but we don’t have to talk about it.”

I hate you.

I’m amazed at this point Chester didn’t see the utter disdain stamped across my face, but he kept on commenting on what a great date we were having.

In what universe was this a great date??

The mind boggles Lovers.

But it gets So. Much. Worse.

Don’t believe me Lovers? Tune in soon for part two of the worst date of 2017!

Claire xx














CBT: Cock and Ball Torture!!

Goodness gracious, great balls of fire!

Well, to be more accurate, great balls on fire. That’s right Lovers, this weekend was my first illuminating (not to mention squirm inducing) CBT class! Yes, I have finally delved into the murky waters of cock and ball torture, swiping pubic clumps of seaweed to the left and right of me as I make my way through the depths, goggles firmly in place.

But what a swim it was!

I arrived at the location a touch early, so was able to take in my surroundings and a few of the other participants who were dead keen to mash some balls into a pulp (all consensually of course!) I had to grin, as the building was exactly the same as I remembered it. How did I remember it, I hear you ask Lovers? Well this was the exact same building that had held all the wonders of The Festival of Really Good Sex. I breathed deep, revelling in that slightly musky, slightly lubricated scent that still hung heavily in the air. Oh yes, this building had seen a thing or two, and today would be no different.

One thing I did notice about my fellow cajone crushing compatriots was the distinct love of a good high impact hair colour. Purples, blue’s and green’s all brushed fluffily past me as we walked through the doors into the den of inequity. I felt quite boring with my mousey brown hair, but all of that was quickly forgotten when we all took a seat around the conspicuous looking massage table. I chatted merrily away to Anna, my new found friend I had discovered through FORGS. We were so engrossed in our conversation in fact (looking at the fantastic new lingerie store Anna had found and was utilising for her next swingers party costume) that we only looked up after hearing the titular snap of a latex glove. Our heads shot up, only to come face to face with an angry mistress, glaring down her nose at us for daring to hold up proceedings with our chatter.

“Sorry!” I squealed, intimidated instantly.

Oh yeah, she was good, that was for certain.

Once we’d been put firmly in our place, Mistress Tokyo began the schooling.

And good god were we schooled Lovers!

The first thing our mistress did was empty out her bag of ‘goodies.’ And when I say goodies I mean every form of pain inducing implement you can think of. Spinal syringes, saline solution, sounds, ball weights, metal chastity belts, piercing needles, a whole range of medieval veterinary equipment and, most worryingly, a surgical stapler.

What had we walked into?!

Here was little old me thinking we’d just learn how to twist the odd nut into a slightly painful position, and now we were getting instructions on how to surgically sterilise our sex toys! Interestingly enough Lovers, if you don’t have enough cash or enough inclination to shell out for your very own autoclave (aka big ass sterilizing machine) you can actually ask your local piercing joint to do it for you! I mean you have to get past the awkward moment of handing over your dirty torture tools, but after that part it’s easy!

So after we realised we would have to get our first aid certificates to carry out some CBT (not a joke, Mistress Tokyo was very clear on this point, even going so far as to tell us all the horrifying things that could go wrong. We’re talking shudder inducing injuries here people) we were allowed to pick what specific tools and methods we would like to torture our ‘volunteer’ with.

After some discussion, it was decided that Mistress Tokyo’s bunny would first be subjected to a ‘twitch,’ before some sounding, saline injections and stapling. That’s right Lovers, I got to see the stapling…. Ouch.

I had to laugh at the crestfallen faces of the few ladies who weren’t able to have their requests fulfilled. One lady was dead keen to see the poor guys wang skewered with every type of needle under the sun. Sadly MT had to inform her that she only had three or four of the right needles and as such, could not give the bloke a good enough stab. Another girl was frothing at the mouth to watch the guy get semi elastrator castrated (yes it’s as scary as it sounds) where basically a teeny tiny rubber band that no penis was ever made to fit through would be snapped onto his skin flute and cut off the circulation to his most treasured appendage.

You can understand why our strapping volunteer chose to decline this particular method of torture. It’s all fun and games until someone loses a body part!

So, once the logistics were out of the way, MT slid on yet another set of gloves (she seriously went through almost an entire box in our two hour session, sorry to all the recyclers out there!)

Now Lovers, I have never been particularly keen on sounding, well, not keen on doing it to someone I like that is. People who piss me off though, oh boy I’d sound them till the cows came home! The thing is I always thought that sounding was painful (and after all, we were in a cock and ball torture class were we not?) It certainly looked painful in every terribly made porno I’d ever watched. You know the one’s. It’s always some poor guy sitting on a badly made bed getting a dildo shoved down his peephole while some busty blonde laughs angrily at him the whole time.

No? Just me? Well trust me Lovers, those videos are out there, you just have to find them. (Ooh it’s like a naughty little scavenger hunt!)

Soooo, you can imagine my surprise when MT’s bunny not only didn’t flinch or wince, but actually seemed to relax! It was a little hard to watch in the beginning, I’ll admit, just because we assumed it would be so painful. That and the fact that occasionally you could see the other end of the sound poking out through his skin like some weird little penis alien. Even Sigourney would have quavered at that sight!

Maybe it didn’t hurt due to the copious amounts of lube MT poured on the thing before she inserted it. The lube was so thick and plentiful it practically added an inch to the sound. Obviously it helped though, as it eased in seemingly without resistance. I couldn’t help myself, “Does it hurt?” I squeaked, afraid if I spoke too loudly I’d upset MT’s concentration and send her hand flying off in a different direction, taking the poor dude’s pork sword with her. Much to my relief though, her measured movements were not affected by my curiosity, and her bunny sighed a contented sigh before he answered me.

“No it doesn’t hurt at all, it’s just a bit of pressure.”

Hmm, interesting… I think now I have a better idea of what sounding would feel like. I reckon it’s like that moment when you have sex for the first time (lord now we’re going back) and you can feel the dude pressing against your hymen? I think that’s it. Obviously that feeling changes as soon as he smashes through your poor little hymey, but the moment before that with the pressure you feel, I think that’s as close to the feeling of sounding as us ladies will get.

Anyways, moving on to the next section… the twitch! So I couldn’t figure out if it sounded scary or cute, but as soon as MT hefted the thing in her hand I knew we were definitely on the scary side.

So here’s a fun fact for you Lovers, a twitch is what vets used to use on horses to distract them while they worked on the horse. Apparently they’d clamp the horse’s tongue or nose (aw poor thing) and the horse would then focus on that pain rather than whatever the vet was doing. Kind of like the whole idea of punching someone in the nose so they don’t think about their broken arm…

Remember, these things were done in the 1800’s people.

Anyways, MT went about clamping the twitch under her bunny’s yogurt slinger and above his profiteroles, firmly locking that bad boy into place with a ferocious twist. As painful as we assumed this would be, once again our fearless bunny barely batted an eyelid. What’s more, MT explained that the twitch was actually quite boring… when used by itself. She went on to describe all manner of secondary tools you could use once you have your bunny firmly clamped. You could attach the other end to some rope and lead your bunny around like the horses of old. You could attach the rope to something just out of reach and get some stretch going on. You could set his pubes on fire (although technically you can do that without the twitch as well.) The list goes on! However, just in case you were wondering Lovers, this is not the tool for ball crushing, as the sneaky little buggers tend to move around too much and are difficult to clamp.

Ah nuts!

Can’t win ‘em all I guess. Speaking of nuts though, MT went on to divulge possibly one of the most disturbing sexual practices I have ever heard of. Now I’m not one to get queasy easily at such things, but holy Jesus this was heavy!

Ever heard of lychee play Lovers?

On first hearing I thought it must be like when your lychee’s get stuck at the bottom of your cocktail and you have to wield your straw as a sword and try and stab the slippery little suckers.

Alas, I was wrong.

Lychee play is where your torturer (hopefully a highly trained medical professional who just happens to moonlight as a mistress in her downtime) cuts open your ballsack with a scalpel and removes your testicle! That’s right Lovers, we’re practically talking surgery! So once she has taken your little man from its cosy home, she then plays with it, squeezing it, tugging it and anything else she can get away with while still keeping it attached to your body. Then once she’s had her fun (and if you’re into hopefully you’ve had your fun too) she pops it back into its little hidey-hole and sews that bad boy up.

What the actual fuck?!

Even MT was put off by lychee play. Apparently she witnessed the act in Japan while she was learning from a famous Japanese mistress (now that’s the type of work experience I could get into!) and afterwards she had to go have a little lie down. I don’t blame her one bit. It takes a certain person to cut a man open with a smile on your face. The man in question that was cut open bloody loved it though, even filming the episode so he could watch it again and again!

I really must visit this Japan place, the people sound most… intriguing.

So, once we’d all recovered from the shock of lychee play it was on to some saline injections! Woop woop! MT was quick to tell us that she was only injecting 30mls of saline at this time.

I’m sorry, only?

30mls seems like a hell of a lot of anything to get injected into your ballsack! MT assured us that this amount was miniscule however, and regaled us with the story of the time she hooked a bunny up to a drip and got a whole litre in there. I don’t quite know what was more interesting, her story or the blissful look of satisfaction on her face as she told us.

I’d say it was a tie.

We all sat and watched, mouths slightly open as MT loaded up her syringes with 10mls of saline each. She carefully probed around her bunny’s love spuds for a good fleshy bit of skin, before ever so delicately sliding in the needle.

The intake of breath around the room was audible as we all sucked in air through our teeth, anticipating the bunny’s pain for him. Suffice to say the first needle did seem to sting a little. But after the first one he seemed to quite enjoy that burning sensation. As MT was slowly filling her bunny’s giggle berries with saline, she told us all about the things you should never do. Apparently you can actually go too far with CBT (after what we’d seen and heard already I wasn’t sure just how much further it was possible to go!) But of course, where there’s a will there’s a way, and some boys are willing to go a long way.

Anyone keen on skewering?

Yes Lovers, it really is as painful as it sounds. The act of skewering involves stabbing an implement through the testicles (you heard right Lovers, straight through) and the out the other side. MT flat our refuses to do it. In fact, she refuses to do any sort of CBT that involves puncturing the actual testicles.

That’s a pretty fair boundary I’d say.

However, what was interesting was the multitude of other things that were permissible in the crazy world of CBT. As much as we all flinched when she mentioned it, MT assured us that nailing someone’s sweetmeats to a piece of wood (or any sort of surface for that matter) is quite the normal practice in the CBT community. As long as you make sure the nail doesn’t go through their actual nuts at all you’re good to go! Another lady in MT’s circle has quite the curious speciality.

She sews peoples buttholes shut.

But whyyyyy?

Aren’t people’s kinks and fetishes so interesting? What makes someone think, ‘God, today I’m just really in the mood for…something. But what? Ooh! I’ll sew my but closed! That’ll hit the spot.” Love it.

Anyways, once bunny’s bean bags had been syringed sufficiently, MT took a step back to let us all have a cheeky squiz. Turns out 30mls really isn’t that much! I honestly couldn’t see where the saline was supposed to be. I had expected to see big bulges but there was nothing but a few pinpricks of blood to mark the trauma that had just occurred to his poor little swingers.

But if I thought that was traumatic, I was about to get quite the shock.

From the bag of goodies, MT pulled one of her most prized possessions. The surgical stapler.

Dum, Dum, DUM!

So up until this point Lovers, our volunteer bunny really hadn’t seemed to be in too much bother. He’d been twitched, sounded and syringed, but nary a painful peep had he made.

Boy was that about to change.

MT readied her stapler, poised over his quivering (and thanks to the saline, now slightly plump) sack. She looked deep into his eyes, and then they began to breathe. Deep inhalations together, followed by blissful (not to mention loud) exhalations brought them together as one. A wild look of glee came into MT’s eyes as she sucked a deep breath of air in through her nose and lowered the staple gun.


Oh boy did her bunny feel that staple! For a guy who had been relatively quiet the whole time, the howl that emanated from that massage table was intense! MT didn’t let up though, she went in for another staple,


And another.


And then quite a few more.

Click, click CLICK!

Fifteen staples Lovers, fifteen! Now if that wasn’t enough to make you squirm, what she did next is sure to get you going. After massacring his balls with staples, MT grabbed them tightly and squeezed.


Dayum, did he wail!

I could hear the next class arriving outside and had to giggle at the thought of what they could hear out there.

But inside the room it was all eyes on balls. Not only was it an amazing thing to watch, but the theatrics of MT made it so much more of an experience. I say theatrics, but she wasn’t doing it for us, she wasn’t playing to the crowd or anything. Well I don’t think so anyway. It just seemed like their natural relationship, MT and her bunny. You just intrinsically knew that they were in it together, giving and receiving the pain, but both gaining so much from their separate roles. He wanted it. She wanted to do it. We wanted to watch. It was pure unadulterated sensation.

MT twisted, she tugged and she squeezed, all the while eliciting painful yelps and groans from her bunny until blood began to ooze out of his tortured little teabags, . She grinned maniacally and held her finger to his mouth, getting him to lick the blood from her glove.

He was loving it.

And then all too soon the writhing and screaming was over. We all sat back in our seats, mentally exhausted from the two hour experience we had all just been through.

MT then retrieved another dangerous looking tool from her ‘sack’ and began to pull the staples out with a gentleness that stood out in stark comparison to the torture she had inflicted on her bunny mere moments ago. In an almost singsong voice she numbered every staple as she removed it, dropping them into an empty bottle beside her as she did so. Part of it was probably for our benefit, but I think the main reason she was counting was to make sure she got all of them out.

I assume there’s nothing worse than getting home to find a rogue staple still wedged betwixt your tender folds.

After she’d finished, MT made sure her bunny was alright, and they breathed their way back into the present moment, both of them still panting a little from their exertions.

Slowly but surely we filed out of the room. And although we hadn’t spoken to each other, all of us now had one thing in common; the image of a screaming bunny thrashing around on a massage table burned forever into our brains.

Until next time Lovers!

Claire xx


“What is this new Devilry?” – The sweet agony of a UTI

Oh sweet Jesus Lovers. You think they’re just horror stories. You think it will never happen to you. You live without fear in complete ignorance.

Until it hits you.

Good God in heaven above! The exquisitely extreme pain of the untreated UTI! Am I right ladies? You have one naughty night (or in this case morning) and you’re left paying for it with your vocal chords as you choke back screams in the work toilets.

Bloody loving the unisex loo’s now… not.

Sorry boys, but those muffled groans emanating from stall two was me. Apologies all round.

But ladies, you know where I’m coming from, yes?

I’ll tell you how my nightmare that eventually landed me hunched over in the toilet wishing fervently for refrigerated toilet paper first started.

So I’ve been having a bit of fun with this dude Miguel from Tinder (where else) and last time we had sex it was just godawful. But after copious amounts of beer we were able to talk candidly about the experience and he assured me it was not his best work.

So me being the forgiving (and still incredibly single) girl that I am, I thought I’d give him another crack.

I held off for the night, as last time the booze was a big downfall for both of us. So although he was quite disappointed when I turned off the light with nothing more than a coy, “night night,” he was certainly a happy chappy when his offer of, “sooo, you wanna do something?” was taken up with a giggle and a yes.

So we had the sex, it was better, yay for me.

Miguel had things to do, people to see, the whole spiel, so he was off after a few post coital cuddles.

Here’s where I went so so wrong Lovers.

Normally like clockwork, every time anyone goes spelunking in the bat cave, I pee straight after they have resurfaced.

No snuggles, no kisses, get off me so I can rinse the mince.

This time though, this time, stupid me decided that the bed was just so comfy and I was just so sleepy that cleansing wee’s weren’t necessary.

Surely nothing would come from just one little sleep in?

Oh how wrong I was.

On Monday at work I noticed I had to run to the toilet quite a few times in the morning. I even walked to the public toilets on my break so that my workmates wouldn’t think I was pregnant or something.

At first I thought it was just the three coffee’s I had had in quick succession that had gotten the old bladder working overtime.

But then came the burning…


That was basically my experience every time I had to pee after 4pm. And that was a lot.

The worst part of it all was that I couldn’t go to a doctor because my stupid university has introduced this new rule of 100% attendance. Do they not know uni students?!

So anyways, with razor blades nestles betwixt my sweaty thighs, I hobbled to uni and attempted to sit through an incredibly serious counselling class.

While everyone was discussing deep issues and throwing around big words like ‘transference’ and ‘cognitive distortions,’ I was desperately trying not to piss my pants. Did I mention that UTI’s have this awesome double symptom? Not only do you get to hear your poor little panty hamster take on the voice of Gollum and shriek, “it burns us!’ every time you pee, you also have the insistent urge to pee all the goddam time!

And you know what every doctor’s advice is? Make sure you drink plenty of water! Honestly Lovers, every time I heard that advice my eyes would swell with tears and my flaps would shrivel with fear.

More water? There had to be a better way!

After my seemingly endless class finished, I elbowed my way past the security guard trying to close the doors at Chemist Warehouse, a mumbled cry of, “it’s an emergency” trailing in my wake.

I didn’t stop running until I slammed into the Prescriptions In desk. I looked up and groaned inwardly.

Of course, the one time I needed to disclose intimate details about my frigging urinary tract, there just happens to be an incredibly attractive chemist on call to help me.

Oh well, couldn’t get much worse I guess.

I launched into my story, inadvertently bending forward in my low cut dress so he got a good view of the twins.

Stop it Claire! Sex is what got you into this mess in the first place!

“I’m really hoping you can help me,” I panted breathlessly (breathless from the short run through the chemist, not sexy panting, trust me.)

He raised a perfectly manicured eyebrow, reminding me to pick up tweezers while I was here. “What can I help you with?”

“I’m pretty sure I have a UTI,” I whispered. Sadly, although his eyebrows were perfect it turns out his ears must have been full of wax because he didn’t hear me the first two times I said it. Finally I threw caution to the wind and practically yelled at the poor guy, “I have a UTI!”

After he wiped my spit from his face he nodded knowingly and gave me a sympathetic smile.

Urgh, stop it man, you’re wasting your undeniable charm. Even Brad Pitt wouldn’t have a chance with me at this particular moment.

“Is there anything I can take until I get to the doctors?” I pleaded, looking deep into his sincere blue eyes.

“There’s nothing to cure a UTI unfortunately, just antibiotics.”

As he saw my face fall and my eyes start to fill with tears he quickly added, ”but we do have something which could stop the burning!”

I take it back, I would sleep with this beautifully besmocked man in a heartbeat if he opened his medicine cabinet for me.

Saucy chemist man led me to the aisle that everyone avoids, or if absolutely necessary scuttles past and swipes things off the shelves before anyone notices them. You know the one Lovers, filled with gastrostop, haemorrhoid cream and a myriad of constipation remedies. It’s the aisle you’re destined to run into ex-boyfriend’s, bosses, or just anyone you really don’t want to see at a chemist at 9pm.

I was pointed in the direction of some concoction called Ural (so original) and my chemist angel advised me to go for the cranberry flavour as that was ‘extra strong.” I resisted the urge to hug him and instead grabbed a box and raced to the counter. The sooner I got home and took this crap the sooner the madness could stop!

Here’s a note to all the pharmacists out there making new and exciting remedies. If there’s one thing I hate more than unimaginative names for medicine, it’s the phrase on the pack that reads, “a pleasantly flavoured effervescent drink.”

Pleasantly flavoured my ass! It was basically bicarb soda died pink in an effort to masquerade as ‘cranberry.’ If I was a cranberry I would be very offended at this point. If it’s going to taste like crap, just say it. Don’t lure me into a false sense of security with your ‘pleasantly flavoured’ shit! I would much prefer if on the box was written, “although difficult to consume due to it’s truly terrible taste, this product should help to alleviate those pesky UTI symptoms, such as the sensation of pissing glass.”

Now that’s a brand of Ural that I would buy!

So anyways I choked back the jizz juice (literally have tasted sprog that tasted better than this concoction) and waited for the magic to take effect.

It did not.

Not for the entire goddam night! I spent the night alternating between sending prayers to the UTI Gods above (they’re totally a thing you know) and reading Ural comment threads on pregnancy websites (because as it turns out our mother’s not only have to squeeze us out of their juice box, they then get punished for it by contracting UTI’s. Talk about unfair.)

Anyways long story short, twenty minutes or so of pleasure on a Sunday morning officially cost me a night’s sleep, a day at work, my pride (why, why did he have to be so attractive?) and quite a large chunk of my sanity.

Moral of the story? Always pee after sex! It’s not an old wives tale ladies! If that bastard wants to snuggle you make him wait!

I’ve had UTI’s before but boy oh boy nothing could compare to this monster! It might even be enough to put me off sex!

Lol, just kidding Lovers! See you next time.

Claire xx

Anti-Pickup line of the week: Don’t bother, I have a UTI.

(Always a guaranteed mood killer ladies. Try it out next time instead of the old headache maneuver.)

The Festival of Really Good Sex! – Finale

Hey hey Lovers!

I’m back! So it’s time to finally, finally finish the Festival of Really Good Sex! Then we can get onto a whole new year of shenanigans! And I really do mean shenanigans people, one of my first dates of the year was so bad it involved an injured dog! (And no Lovers, that is most certainly not a euphemism.)

So, before all that, where were we? Ah yes, I’d just discovered the shockingly scintillating world of electro-sex.

What an education!

After all that wild new information, I felt it was time to head back to familiar territory.

The Art of Fellatio!

Now Lovers, I consider myself to be quite the proficient snorkeler when it comes to giving Big Jim and the Twins a bath. However, as I always say, when it comes to sex you can never know enough! Therefore, when I saw the art of fellatio (or penilingus for the more feminist followers among us) on offer, I jumped at the chance to improve my snake charming skills.

As I walked into the room, I was delighted not only by the sight of men in the class, but also the enormous pile of rather oversized carrots resting conspicuously on a table in the corner.

Maybe it’s selfish of me, but I don’t just give away blow jobs willy nilly to any Tom, Dick or Harry (although funnily enough I have blown the love whistle of a Tom, a Richard and a Harry, so perhaps that’s not the best expression to use in this case!) No no, when it comes to yaffling the yogurt cannon, my boys need to earn it!

Now don’t get me wrong Lovers; I’m not as hard assed as I sound. When I say earn it, it usually just involves buying me some form of alcoholic beverage, so it’s not as if I’m making them drop and give me fifty for the privilege of booking a meeting with Mr One Eye.

So when I walked in and saw boys in the class I immediately said to myself, no freebies Claire, they gotta work it if they want to squirt it. I nodded to myself resolutely and settled myself down on a cushion, thrilled to see my foot fetish partner park herself next to me soon after.

Our teacher glided into the room and instantly she just oozed sex (in the good way, not the wet wipe alternative). Her name was Isla and she was studying to be a sexologist. I instantly leaned forward and set my ears to record. If this chick was studying the course that I had worked for more than three years to get into then I wanted to hear every word she had to say!

Blonde, buxom and just an all-round babe, Isla drew every man’s eyes instantly to her. Basically you couldn’t ask for a more appropriate teacher to educate us in the art of spit-shining the baseball bat. As she walked around the room handing out carrots to her eager students, we all fell under her saucy spell. It probably helped that she had to bend over a lot and her incredible boobs threatened to topple out of her shirt each time, but I think that was just an added bonus.

Carrots successfully distributed, she glided back to the front of the room, hips swaying provocatively as she went, seemingly unaware of the effect she was having on us mere mortals left clutching our carrots uselessly.

Turning around to face us with a smile as glorious as her ass, Isla produced a piece of paper that would become the mouth-to-junk resuscitation bible for many of us. Twenty three, that’s right Lovers, no less than twenty three techniques for a good face frosting were listed on that page. Isla handed them around and I watched as people eagerly scanned the page from top to bottom, thirsty for information on how to get to that cream filling they so craved.

Isla smirked, knowing with certainty that the room was hers for the taking. She had sucked us in with the sex appeal, and now she was about to blow us away with technique. Quite the appropriate description for such a class I must say.

We started simple with The Bob, the classic fellatio move; creating a vacuum by pursing your lips, then gliding up and down the shaft.

Simple, yes? Well sure, if I hadn’t been so eager to grab the first carrot I saw, which just happened to be quite the big boy. I considered whittling down my appendage by taking a few cheeky nibbles but decided that would be counter-productive. I was here to learn about how to please my man at any size, so I may as well just accept my girthy practice model and roll with it. Plus I probably would have given all the men surrounding me permanent nightmares if they saw me gnawing away on my member.

So I sucked it up (literally) and tried to adjust my little mouth around my well endowed veggie man. We moved on to a few more basics such as The Ice Cream Cone (licking the shaft like it’s the tastiest rainbow paddle-pop you’ve ever tasted, and uh-oh the temperature’s rising and that bad boy is melting!) and the Hand Extension, where your hand is an extension of your mouth (that one’s fairly self explanatory to be honest.) After some time working on perfecting the basics, Isla deemed us ready to progress to the harder moves.

I’ve always been a bit of an uncoordinated dipstick, and as it turns out my mouth and tongue are just as useless at performing complicated moves! I tried and tried to master Roll Out the Red Carpet, where you push the tip of your tongue to the roof of your mouth, then allow your tongue to ‘unravel’ as the lucky love rod enters your mouth, but sadly…no luck.

My tongue was more of a flop out rather than a roll and I ended up just getting a lot of spit on well…everything. This was quite confronting when we had to do all twenty three moves staring into the eyes of the person opposite. You ever tried giving head to a root vegetable while staring straight into a girls eyes who you have just finished foot spanking?

Tricky. Very tricky.

The spit issue didn’t help much as I was constantly drooling all over my carrot and anything else in close range while I tried to compete in the tongue Olympics some of the moves required.

Luckily for me, Isla gave us a great piece of advice mere moments before I was ready to snap my slobbery carrot in half and give up.

“Sex is messy,” she said, her voice like velvet on freshly shaved legs. “Sex is dirty and smelly and gross. The sooner you accept that. The sooner you will be able to really enjoy it.”

And she is so right Lovers. Every time I have shitty sex I start to think about all the gross stuff. All the squelchy sounds and weird smells and just the general ick of what we’re doing. I’m fortunate in the fact that I only start focusing on these things after I have realised the dude who’s flailing about on top of me is just useless, rather than at the outset of my naked trysts. When I’m having a good time, a queef is an opportunity to giggle; the squish of lube on skin is sensual rather than slimy, and the slap slap slap of balls on my ass is an ecstatic rhythm to time my orgasm to.

It’s all about perception.

With that in mind I stared down my carrot, determination glowing in my eyes as I took in that orange skin and rough texture. Watch out boy, I thought to myself, you’re in for a wild ride.

With renewed vigour, we continued to work through the twenty-three moves, from The Corn; nibbling the sides of the wang as if you’re eating corn, to the Self Induced Turkey Slap (if I have to explain that one Lovers you’re probably reading the wrong type of blog.)

One move that got me a little conflicted (ooh feelings, dum dum dum!) Was the Self Induced Gagging. Isla raved about the move, noting that she committed so fully to it that occasionally she came quite close to a bit of method acting, having to swallow down a touch of the old vom as it snuck up on her.

I know this move is very popular in the porn world and hey sometimes we all feel like channelling Madison Ivy or Jesse James, but what about when it’s just you and the dude you’re keen on and this is the first time you’ve knelt at his pubic alter to get a little closer to the Big Man?

Is it too much? Do they know you’re faking it? Would they even like it if you tried to bring porn so vividly into their experience? It’s all speculation I suppose, but I would be so devastated if I was halfway through the performance of a lifetime, spit flying everywhere, moaning like a gloriously wanton whore as I turkey slapped myself and pretended to choke down his boomstick, and he tapped me on the head and said, “can you tone it down a little?”

Hmm, that could be quite the mood killer.

I think the main thing the class taught me was that every style is different, whether you’re a Tea Bagger, a Hummer, a Zig Zagger or any other myriad type of blow jobber, as long as you (and he) have fun and enjoy yourself, then that will be the best type of fellatio.

We finished the class with some more practice and the room was quiet except for the odd crunch and squeal of ‘oh God no!’ as someone accidentally bit the tip off their unfortunate carrot. Then the single men in the room were asked if they wanted to volunteer themselves for ‘practice.’

Pfft, is a frog’s ass watertight?

I’ve never seen fifteen men scramble to their feet so quickly and thrust their arms in the air. The only thing that could have topped it is if they cried, “I volunteer as tribute!”

I smiled as one of the girls whose unfortunate carrot had received a sudden circumcision walked over to one of the gentleman and offered her services. From his constant wide eyes I would say that that was the most terrifying blow job of his life.

One thing I’ll always cherish and never forget (apart from watching Isla reduce a man to a whimpering puddle through the mere work of her mouth and tongue) was the men as they left the room, rubbing their faces and whinging, “my jaw is so sore!”

Welcome to my world boys!

As Samantha Jones likes to say, “They don’t call it a job for nothing!”

Until next time Lovers xx


Best Bonking (or more accurately blow-job song): Lollipop

By: Lil Wayne

Just do it. Lil Wayne will serenade you about how much he loves it when his woman mouth holsters his nightstick while you give a bloody brilliant blow job at the same time. It’s like art imitating life! Naww how romantic for Valentine’s Day!


The Festival of Really Good Sex! – Part Five

What’s crackalacking Lovers?

Oh how I’ve missed our time together! Unfortunately (or as my parents and society keeps telling me) university comes first!

Pfft, lame ass society, who needs it? Just leave me with the kinksters and the swingers and I’ll be happy as a clam! Sadly, clam times will have to wait until certain Bachelor degrees are completed, but until then, let’s dive back into the sexy splendor that was the Festival of Really Good Sex shall we?

Ok, it’s time for… Electrosex!

That’s right Lovers, break out the extension cords, things are about to get static!

So, as you can imagine, I had eagerly been awaiting this particular session all day, intrigued beyond compare as to how this strange new (well, new to me anyway) sexual practice took place.

Truth be told I was also slightly nervous. After all I had only just finished sliding around in deliciously slippery Nuru, remnants of which I could still feel in certain crevices and cracks of my body.

Was it really a good  idea to add electricity to the mix?

But I needn’t have worried. Unlike the other classes, which were mostly hands on (pun intended) this class was much more sit, watch and be amazed. Or should I say shocked? Sigh, there’s just way too many electricity puns to fit into one little post.

Our delightful (and might I add delicious) teachers were the owners of Eagle Leather, only one of the best leather, kink and all things sexual store in the state. I was humbled that they took time out of their day to come and educate us novices on how to not accidentally kill ourselves with tens machines and electric butt plugs. (Now that would be a hard one to explain to the parents.)

Anyways, our educators consisted of one busty leather clad blonde named Pepper and one casually dressed guy named BJ. Pepper looked incredible. Both myself and my wet hairless friend from Nuru lusted after her outfit as soon as we clapped eyes on her, heedless of how long it had actually taken her to get into it. (Apparently there’s quite a process including copious amounts of talcum powder to get a body into said leather body suit.) But once she was in, damn! The outfit was topped off with black heels and a deadly looking black corset. At one point we both snuck over to ask if we could purchase such an outfit at her store. Our minds were racing, chock full of all the naughty scenarios we could enact dressed in such attire.

Sadly our hopes were dashed when she informed us the ensemble had set her back around $800.

Apparently being sexy is quite the investment.

I think she noticed our faces drop, as she hurriedly went on to divulge a 50% off sale in the next week. It was very sweet of her, but $400 to two uni students was still about $375 more than we’d hoped (ok dreamed, we knew it was never going to be cheap.)

Slightly dejected, but fervently calculating the cost of two minute noodles for the rest of our lives, we sat back down again to observe the master at work.

BJ was a great presenter. He was funny, down to earth and most importantly, he really knew his stuff.

The first thing he did was to completely terrify us. In the nicest way of course. You see as it turns out, people don’t enjoy spending a lot of money on legitimate sex toys, preferring to make their own and experiment. This is all well and good if you’re just throwing a condom on a cucumber, but as BJ quickly informed us, mixing electricity and pubes often equates to disastrous consequences (not to mention bald patches.)

One of his ‘friends’ an electrician no less, connected some wires to his nipples and flicked the switch… effectively ridding himself of said nipples. Apparently now he just has two little black craters where his poor nips used to be.

I crossed my legs and sat up straighter, keen not to miss some vital step or detail that would leave me singed or sans hair.

As it turned out, there was quite an art and a method to this whole electrosex thing. It’s all about circuits. Both Pepper and BJ urged us to never ever complete a circuit above the waist, as this brings the electricity dangerously close to the heart. Pepper angrily conveyed her experience of the most recent SEXPO exhibition, where electrosex stall holders would run up to people and invite them to try the product. This would be all well and good, explained Pepper, if they weren’t asking people to hold one part of the circuit in one hand and the other part in the opposite hand, effectively creating a circuit directly across the persons chest.

It was a bit concerning that even some of the people selling this stuff didn’t know how to use it. I was so glad we had teachers who seemed well informed to say the least.

So without further ado, BJ pulled out the first toy.

A clear glass butt-plug.

You could sense everyone leaning infinitesimally forward, eager to get a better look at this strange new toy.

BJ explained the many ways we could utilise such a toy. If you were a guy having some solo fun you would use it with a urethral sound (you know, the skinny long piece that goes up your pee hole. Ouch.)

Anyways, if you used the butt plug on it’s own it won’t work (electrically that is.) Sure you can just use it as a regular boring plug, but if you wanted the zing of electricity, you needed the sound to create the circuit. As BJ told us, the circuit created a buzz of electricity that circulated from the guys butt, through his pelvis, penis and balls.

Sounds good if you’re a guy hey?

But what about us girls?

Never fear ladies! There are in fact, two ways we can utilise said butt plug. First, if you want to have partner sex, one goes in your butt, the other goes in your partners butt and then you guys become the circuit!

I thought that was pretty cool and actually quite romantic. Pepper’s leather suit came into play during this demonstration, as the less skin exposed, the more intense and centred the current of electricity. Pepper showed us the zip located in the crotch of her suit, explaining how all the electricity would stay around her muff if she and BJ remained fully clothed. As soon as you get naked, you lose the intensity, as the current moves around other parts of your body.

Fascinating stuff.

Pepper ad BJ then decided it was time for a real demonstration. So, as I said, there were two ways to use a butt plug, the other way is to hook it up to your very own battery operated power box (yay, fun without plug ins required!) Very handy if the power goes out I’m sure.

To our suprise Pepper got down on all fours facing away from us and unzipped her crotch zip, exposing her amazing ass (seriously it was so perfect it looked almost plastic!) BJ hooked up the butt plug and squirted some lube onto his finger. With an apologetic glance down at Pepper he eased his finger into her ass, explaining to us that they normally did four hour workshops rather than two, so he would have to rush Pepper’s warm up a little.

I felt bad for her. She was about to have a plug rammed up her ass and this was the part they were going to rush? Luckily BJ seemed to be genuinely concerned for her comfort. Again, I was struck how even the most “gross” or “dirty” things could be so romantic in my eyes. This demonstration was definitely neither of those things to me and I felt a twinge of sympathy for the people who weren’t open minded enough to attend with me, as they were missing such a fascinating and intimate exchange.

Once Pepper was primed, BJ slowly slid the plug in and turned his power pack on. We watched on, enthralled as the plug began to pulse lightly.

“As you can see,” began BJ “the plug effectively fucks the person as it pulses.”

You definitely couldn’t disagree with the man as he turned the dials up and up. The plugs thrusting action became more and more obvious and Pepper let out a few soft noises.

“Are you enjoying that Pepper?” Someone asked hesitantly from the crowd, as if reading the very same thoughts that had entered my mind.

“Normally I would have come by now,” answered Pepper, a  little breathlessly, “it’s just a little more difficult with a crowd.”

We all nodded understandingly, awed by her actions and stamina.

Then, all of a sudden, the plug popped out and fell onto the ground.

A soft “aww” went through the crowd as we thought it had merely fallen out accidentally. Boy were we wrong.

About a second after the plug popped out, Pepper had the most incredible orgasm, squirting explosively before collapsing onto her stomach, and having what I could only describe as a seizure.

Now I understood why they laid down a tarp before hand. That girl had some distance.

We were all shell shocked, completely silenced by the amazing orgasm experienced right in front of us. BJ smiled and walked up to Pepper, her body slowly stopping it’s frenzied convulsions.

“So you see,” BJ started, crouching down beside her, “it’s quite an intense feeling.” Our mouths dropped open as he reached over and twiddled a few fingers into her soaking vag, sending her into violent spasms again.

Good god, and I thought my orgasms could be good. Teach me how to do that!

As it turned out, my thoughts on the romantic manner of the class were bang on, as Pepper and BJ were in fact boyfriend and girlfriend.

Oh my god. Cutest. Couple. Ever.

Once Pepper had cleaned herself up a little it was time for us to have a go! Nothing as extreme as what we had witnessed (much to the disappointment of some people) but instead the plug was placed in the crook of our elbows (after it had been cleaned, obviously.)

Ooh, that’s another romantic thing about electrosex! (Wow, there’s a sentence I never thought I’d say.) The toys are monogamous. Because they have all sorts of plugs and holes and stuff, it makes them difficult to clean. Obviously you still give them a wipe down but you can never get them as pristine as your regular vibe. I liked it. If you were going to make such an investment in something (the buttplug alone was $400 with the powerpack another cheeky $400) then it should be with someone you love and trust, or at the very least who you fuck regularly.

The actual sensation of the electricity was not what I expected. At first it just felt like a regular vibrator, but as they slowly turned it up it got much more intense. The closest thing I can liken it to is when you go to pop a mint in your mouth, but as you tip the tin up into your mouth you accidentally get five of the bastards instead of one. I think that powerful cool burn is the sensation closest to it, although really, don’t take my word for it, try it for yourself!

So that’s electrosex Lovers! So cool right? I swear, one Powerball and I’m rigging my place up with power-points galore!

What’s next I hear you ask? Well that would be the last class of the festival: The Art of Fellatio!

Excited? You should be.

Claire XX

Ok Lovers, instead of the usual pickup line or bonking song, today it’s all about what you can do for me! The Kinkly Sex Blogging Superheroes competition is happening again and it’s time to vote! I mean obviously I hope you vote for me but hey, no judgement if you go for one of the others (there are like 380 to choose from, so no pressure.) But if you like catching up with me and hearing about my sexcapades, then vote for me! Let’s see if we can keep that coveted spot 84 in the top 100! Just go to the link below and vote away! Love you long time Lovers XX







The Festival of Really Good Sex! – Part Four

Hidey ho Lovers!

I hope you’re all doing well on this, my most favouritist of days, Hump Day! (Yes I know favouritist is not a word and yes, secretly Friday is my actual favourite, but doesn’t Hump day just get you so in the mood for fun?) Well, it certainly works for me Lovers! I’ve just spent the last twenty minutes casting lines on Tinder. Let’s hope someone bites! (Preferably a gentle nibble in that sensitive spot between my neck and shoulder, but I’m not fussy.)

Until then, how about I finish off my tale of super slippery sexiness? (Just a note here Lovers, if you haven’t read the last post yet I advise you to do so before you continue. You will be so confused otherwise! Wait, how did she get naked? Why is everyone slippery? What on Earth is that?)

So, now that we’re all up to date, let’s dive back in!

After I had sufficiently soaked up enough Nuru from my squirming on the tarp I felt a gentle tap on my shoulder. I looked up to see both my group members staring off to the side, transfixed.

“Look, just look,” said Darren breathlessly.

I looked up just as he said and the breath was literally stolen from my lungs.

There, right in front of my eyes was a mass of roiling, slippery, entwined bodies. I hadn’t even noticed people begin to clump together, so ensconced in my own little group was I. But now it was all I could do to look away for even a moment!

Shrieks of delight rang out as the group began to slide over each, effortlessly making it from one side of the room to the other atop the churning crowd beneath them.

I watched, mouth agape, as people literally dove into the mass of people as if it were a swimming pool. The most incredible part of it was when they would disappear from sight and resurface metres away, having ridden the slippery wave of people as far as the Nuru would allow.

I began to worry when individuals didn’t resurface for some time, fearing they may have actually drowned in the slick, stirring mass of people (not a bad way to go, as it happens) but then they would always reappear, laughing hysterically (if not a little breathlessly) and preparing to dive back into the fray once more.

Darren readied himself to jump in and I instinctively grabbed his arm and said, “wait, don’t go!”

He looked at me quizzically and asked, “why not?”

I paused, trying to think of some excuse to make him stay on the edge with me.

But that’s when it hit me.

I was holding Darren back because I was too nervous to dive in myself. Pfft, what a wuss!

There was no way I was going to admit I was apprehensive out loud though.

No no Lovers. I have a tendency to think about sexual encounters the same as any dangerous situation. Play it cool, wear lots of deodorant and never, never let them sense your fear.

There was only one thing for it, I had to make the leap myself and hope for the best.

I sent a quick prayer to the sex gods, knowing there was a more than average chance that my slide across the room could well leave me face first in a slippery ass crack, and leapt into the throng.

Only to come to a grinding halt two people in.

That’s the thing about Nuru bodygliding Lovers, you actually have to be coated in the stuff for it to work!

As it turns out, my skin (much like my minge) was ravenously soaking up the Nuru as fast as it was being applied!

Gah! How was I supposed to slide around if the damn gel kept drying up? Luckily my very helpful boys noticed my conundrum and motioned over one of the volunteers doling out the Nuru.

They quickly explained my ‘situation’ and before I knew it I was saturated in an entire bottle of the stuff!

“Go, go!” Cried the boys encouragingly and once more I flung myself into the crowd.

This time was much more successful. I giggled uncontrollably as I effortlessly slid over faces, stomachs, feet and all manner of body parts. My main fear was crushing some poor man’s wang as I flew past, as almost all the boys were raised to at least half mast (it may not have been a ‘sexual’ experience per say, but you show me a straight guy who can stay soft in a room with thirty naked women and I’ll eat my hat!) Luckily no men were injured in my first foray into the crowd, however I landed with a smack against the wall.

It’s ok, I broke the impact with my kneecaps.


Once I recovered somewhat from my little tête-à-tête with the wall I was able to take stock of my situation. I was right in the thick of the action now, and I let my mind go blank as I tried to soak up everything I was seeing and feeling, imprinting the images on my Nuru glazed brain.

It wasn’t long before I was joined by Anna, one of the girls I had gotten to know pretty well over the course of the day. She slid across five or ten people with a grace I envied before coming to rest beside me with a cute little squelch.

“Guess what?” She whispered in a conspiritual voice.

“What?” I asked breathlessly as a middle-aged woman slid shrieking across my stomach.

“I’m wet!” She exclaimed.

For a moment I was puzzled, and opened my mouth to agree that yes we were all indeed, wet, when suddenly I grasped her meaning.

The bitch was completely turned on!

Of course I didn’t blame her, the guy she had met at the festival was basically every woman’s wet dream and he had been slithering his gorgeous bod all over her for the past hour. I was just jealous of her abilities.

A quick check of my own lady garden revealed not a hint of salad dressing betwixt my leaves, even with the crazy amount of penis being thrust into my face.

Unintentionally of course, the intentional thrusting was to be saved for other classes later in the day.

But there wasn’t much time to dwell on lubricant inadequacies, as the surging crowd quickly enveloped me once more.

I lay there, doing as everyone else did, (which basically meant just stroking everything in front of me as it appeared then disappeared,) when suddenly the smoothest pair of legs I had ever laid hands on came within my grasp.

“Good god woman,” I gasped, “how did your legs get so smooth?”

As it turned out, the follicly challenged pins belonged to Anna, but in the knot of people they could have belonged to anyone.

Damn, was there nothing this girl couldn’t do?

As I continued to stroke the hairless unicorn’s legs I questioned her about how she achieved such a magnificent result.

We were chatting about the wonders of laser hair removal when suddenly a voice issued from the other side of the room, “but how many sessions did you do?”

Before we knew it the voice was closely followed by an extremely excited woman, eagerly clawing her way across five men in order to join the conversation.

Geez, even in a room full of fifty naked people; boobs, butts and wangs in every direction, you can always trust girls to chat about beauty regimes.

It’s clearly a built in quality.

By the time the conversation drew to a close we realised we had monopolised a good portion of the women in the room, much to the chagrin of the waiting naked men.


We all giggled and pushed ourselves outwards, allowing the Nuru to redistribute us wherever it saw fit.

I ended up sliding right into a scene from Dante’s Inferno, as one of the more adventurous men stood, raised his arms and cried, “come to me, Devil children!”

You just had to laugh; the situation was so absurd!

However, my laughing soon stopped when I realised the predicament I was in. I had let myself become so loose, so relaxed, that my limbs simply flailed where they liked.

Usually they slid off other body parts with ease, but this time, the heel of my foot was… stuck.

And warm.

I realised what had happened the same time the unfortunate woman did, and I slowly and carefully retracted my foot from her vagina, issuing heartfelt apologies as I did so.

I wouldn’t say the act of penetrating someone with my foot was on my sexual bucket list, but I guess I can officially tick it off now.

Huzzah for new experiences!

Although seriously though if the woman involved ever reads this I am really very sorry and hopefully my heel didn’t cause damage or incite an intense foot fetish.

I’ll say this at the end now Lovers, if you’re planning on partaking in bodygliding, prepare yourself.

Have a shower, cut your nails and if there’s time, rub your feet in coconut oil. You never know where they’ll end up…

Claire xx

Pickup line of the week: If I flip this coin, what are the chances of me getting head tonight?





The Festival of Really Good Sex! Part Three

Olah Lovers!

And how are we all this fine afternoon? I’ll tell you how I am, damn smelly that’s what! Nothing like having the gas shut off for three days to really put a dampener on your showering routine. Seriously Lovers, I tried hopping in for a cheeky rinse yesterday and my arm started to turn blue after only twenty seconds! Sure, part of that is my terrible circulation, but the other half of it would be the fact that it’s fricking freezing!

So, now that you’re all aware of my pungent predicament, I think it’s time we move on, yes?

Back to FORGS!

Now where exactly did we leave off? Ah that’s right, erotic rope! That must mean foot worship is next!

Strap yourself in Lovers, this could get wild!

Well, that’s what I thought anyway, but as it turned out the foot pampering class was rather G-rated.

I walked into the room, ready for some foot action, and was greeted by a cute kids paddling pool. (It didn’t exactly scream sex to me.)Volunteers were in the process of filling it with water (warm water, thankfully). It was obvious the organisers didn’t expect many participants, as there were only about ten chairs set up around the pool. By the time class was ready to start however, there were at least twenty of us. (I guess people weren’t keen on the other workshop, as it involved ‘erotic dancing’. Not my cup of tea at all. I prefer to dance one of two ways, either alone or drunk.)

Anyways, the twenty of us stood around the pool as Mistress Minx and Kinta began to explain the whole idea of foot worship. I was glad it was these two running the workshop again. I really enjoyed their sexy vibe and they made the whole room feel closer. Which is kind of ironic because boy did we have to get close to fit into that kiddy pool! Although it was supposed to be a ‘cleansing ritual’ full of lingering silences and attention to small sensations, it turned into a bit of a squeal fest as we all clung to each other, desperately trying not to fall over.

It may not have been what Kinta and Minx were after, but it was still fun, and that’s what counts, right?

After the squealing and giggling had subsided, it was time to pick a partner. Now Lovers, I have no issues with feet, they don’t disgust me in any way, and I have had many shoved in my face over the years (mainly by my big sister in order to gross me out with her ingrown toe-nail. It really was truly disgusting.) So if I can put up with that, a stranger’s foot poses no problem for me. Perhaps it was lucky for my partner that I am so open to all types of feet, as the poor girl had lost both her big toenails after a hiking trip.

And when I say lost, I mean they were still there, they were just brown and dead.

Delicious, huh?

But hey, I was just happy to have a partner I could have a laugh and a chat with. I got to go first in the receiver role and my god was it great! Basically I got my feet massaged with yummy smelling oils by a pretty girl for twenty minutes. What’s not to love? I didn’t really see the sexual side of it so much at that point, but I definitely remembered how much I adore a good foot massage.

Sadly, my twenty minutes came to an end all too soon and then it was my partners turn. We moved away from the pool as it was now time to rub coconut oil onto each others feet. I studiously rubbed away (no pun intended) and was relieved to hear the sighs of contentment coming from my partner.

Oh yeah, I’ve still got it.

So up to this point in class it had basically just been nice foot massages for everyone involved, but as I said, there wasn’t much of a sexual side to it. That was until it was time for the demonstration. We sat in a coconut glazed circle and watched on with awe as Mistress Minx and Kinta showed us how foot play was really done.

It was fascinating Lovers! I’ve never really been turned on by feet, or by watching other people get their feet on, but after this I definitely have an appreciation for it.

They took turns in giving and receiving, and demonstrated just how sexy a foot could be. When these guys massaged each other’s feet, there was a such a sensuality to it, as if magic powers could be coaxed from the sole of a foot if stroked correctly.

Then there was the toe sucking. As erotic and cool to watch as it was, my partner and I both looked at each other and gave just the slightest shake of the head. No toe sucking for us today. I was secretly relieved she wasn’t into it either. Even after a bath and a rub down I wasn’t confident that my feet would be tasty enough too go into some poor girls mouth. And her toenails made it a definite ‘no’ for me chowing down at toe-time.

However, what we were interested in was the foot torture. Oh I know it sounds intense and scary Lovers, but you’d be amazed at how much the sole of your foot can take! Kinta laid out an assortment of paddles, whips, brushes and all manner of utensils for us to experiment with. Watching the demonstration, we were taught to use the one to five system in order to figure out how much pain the receiver was in.

Eager to begin, I decided to deal out the punishment first. I chose my weapon; the good old school ruler. With my hands placed safely over her toes (never hit people on their toes Lovers, that’s where doctor’s visits come in) I got to it, slapping her firmly on the ball of her foot. At least, I thought it was firm.

“How’s that?” I asked, peering around to see what finger she would hold up. She turned to me and held up one finger (luckily it wasn’t the bird.)

“Just one?” I asked incredulously.

“Yeah I can barely feel it.” She scoffed.

Barely felt it? Well, I thought, there’s only one way to remedy that! I proceeded to punish her foot with wild abandon, slapping and smacking that bad boy until even Akon would have been proud of me. Before long two then three fingers promptly popped up, letting me know my smacking had been successful.

Woohoo, champion smacker right here!

We had previously agreed that we would only go up to three as far as the pain threshold was concerned, so it was time to try something else. And boy did I try something else Lovers! I slapped her with whips, rubber mallets, foam mallets, hair brushes and basically anything I could get my hands on. It was actually a hell of a lot of fun!

Then it was my turn.

As I had done previously, my partner started out tentatively, slapping me lightly on the heel of my foot, inducing me to snort and hold up one lousy finger. Once again, as I had, she went to town on me, smacking me until I could hear her panting with exertion. I must admit there was a strange satisfaction to it. In my head I was thinking, “yeah hit me harder, do it, do it! Is that all you’ve got? I’m such a badass!”

That is until she hit me really hard and the voice transformed into “oh god please don’t hurt me, I’ve still got such a life to live! Mercy, mercy!”

So all in all foot fetish was great fun. I must say, there really is something genuinely sexy about paying so much attention to a part of the body that doesn’t start with a p or a v.

I’m still not exactly sure how to work it into any type of regular foreplay though. I can’t imagine kissing down a guys chest, past his bellybutton down to his inner thighs and then breathing, “turn over baby, I’m going to give your feet such a smack.”

Hmmm, might be a bit niche for most of my men.

Still, it’s nice to have a good assortment of play in the foreplay bank.

Now Lover’s we get to what so many of you have been waiting for; Nuru Bodygliding!

But what is this bodygliding you speak of Claire? I hear you ask with trepidation. Well Lover’s it’s an experience and a half, I can tell you that now! So, you keen to keep reading?

I thought so.

Well, I’ll start off by saying that you should never, ever go into a bodygliding session straight after a big lunch washed down by a pint of Coke.

Which is exactly what I did.

What? I was really hungry and the burger place across the road was calling me all day, plus adding double bacon was only a $1 extra. What else was I supposed to do, just ignore the bacon? Pfft, not an option Lovers.

So, I waddled back into the building, adequately stuffed with bacon and beef, only to remember that this next workshop was ‘clothing optional’ which pretty much always meant ‘everybody will be butt naked.”


Still, I couldn’t take the bacon back, so I just had to work with it. I gingerly sat down on the tarp that now covered the full length of the room (yes you read that right Lovers, tarp, like from Bunnings, now replaced all carpet in the room. Quite an intimidating sight for a newbie I must say.) The more I sat there the more nervous I became. Did I really want to get naked with all these people? I mean, there was nobody I particularly disliked, but I really wasn’t in the zone to have sex with anyone. I was here to learn, not get laid (although I wasn’t averse to that happening if the moment was right. I’m still human after all.)

Just as I was considering the possibility of running, the leader of the group began to talk. His words instantly calmed me.

“Now guys, just so you know, this is not a sexual experience.”

Calmed me yes, but also confused the bejesus out of me. You’re saying that getting naked, on a tarp, with fifty strangers is not sexual? Dude, what could be more sexual than that?

He went on to explain, “you’ll find that this experience will be more childlike. You’ll find yourself regressing back. Usually with a lot of laughing and squealing.” He added with a wink.

Hmm, childhood regression? Sounds… weird.

But as they say sometimes you’ve just got to chuck it in the fuck bucket and move on, so that’s just what I did.

I was here. I was going to have this experience. No turning back (apart from regression of course.)

We were told to pair up or get into groups of three for the first part of the session, and I grabbed onto Darren, my erotic rope partner lightning fast. We may not have known each other that well, but I knew him more than anyone else in that room. We were then joined by a nice middle-aged bloke in need of a group. We of course accepted, being the nice polite people we are.

But that’s when I realised what would be happening. It was going to be a Claire sandwich.

No turning back, no turning back, no turning back. I repeated the mantra in my head as everyone began to strip off. I closed my eyes, gave myself a mental kick up the ass and whipped my shirt off before I could change my mind. Then my pants. Then my bra.

The undies stayed on.

As I’ve stated before Lovers, I am not endowed with the moistest of muffs and find it difficult to become sufficiently lubricated much of the time. However, what my lubeless love tunnel lacks in putting out the good stuff, it certainly makes up for in the opposite manner. In other words, if I took my undies off on a tarp smeared with Nuru, my muffin would suck that stuff up like a creepy crawly on crack.

So, the undies remained firmly in place.

Now that everyone was naked (sans for me and a few other ladies in g-bangers) it was time to begin. We were instructed to massage each other (without any oils or anything, this was just the warmup.) I tentatively reached towards the boys, who sat cross-legged in front of me, and started massaging their legs, just above the knee.

Below the knee felt way too PG for what we were about to do, but going straight to the upper thigh was a bit forward. Apparently in my head there was a certain decorous way one should approach these things.

The boys reciprocated and we fondled each others arms and legs for little while, just trying to ease into things and get comfortable. That was until the group next to us motioned for us to copy their style. They were doing a massage train of nakedness. The first guy sat with his legs crossed, enjoying a massage from the girl who sat directly behind him, her legs encircling his waist. She too was being massaged by the guy directly behind her, who seemed to be ignoring the whole ‘non-sexual’ aspect by focusing all his attention on her love puppies.

Subtle dude, very subtle.

My two group members looked at me for approval, their eyes shining with delight and excitement. It would have been like saying no to your new puppy. Your new puppy with two penises sure, but still cute all the same.

So I got up and clambered in between them with all the grace of a lopsided flamingo. In other words, I got up, them toppled onto them as I lost my footing on the slippery tarp.

No chance of sexiness here boys.

We were doing the train massage thing for about ten minutes and I was just starting to get a little bored when all of a sudden a volunteer appeared next to us with a wine bottle.

Geez, it’s a bit late to offer up some Dutch courage now mate, I thought to myself grumpily, but then he motioned for us to hold out our hands.

With just a touch of trepidation, I did as he asked…. And then the games began!

Oh Lovers, the oohey, gooey, stickiness of this stuff was just amazing! And to top it all off? It was warm! We gleefully cupped our palms together, greedy to receive as much of the Nuru gel as we could. When the gel had been described to us, I hadn’t been all that keen, as the stuff was apparently made from seaweed. But as our leader had advised us, it was completely odourless and evaporated like water.

Well, sort of like water. Think really really thick water. But warm. Like soup.

Soup water. Yeah, think warm soupy water.

I’m really not selling this stuff well am I?

Ok let me tell you how things progressed after the initial excitement. We cupped the Nuru in our hands reverently, admiring its texture and the delicious feel of it before quickly slapping it onto each other before it slipped through our fingers. We started just on each others backs before adventuring around to more… juicy parts.

There was no touching of the wangs you dirty bastards!

No no, it was more chests, inner thighs, butts and all those areas. In an instant though, the frolicking turned forlorn as we realised we were out of gel! What to do now? Luckily one of those handy volunteers was always available to top us up whenever our smiles turned upside down. There was one moment however, when we ran out of the sacred fun-gel and all the volunteers were on the other side of the room. To my surprise, one of my boys let out a whoop of excitement and splattered himself face down on the tarp, before rolling over onto his back, effectively marinating himself in Nuru that had slipped off our bodies and onto the tarp.

He was like a happy little chicken breast, basted and ready for the pan.

“Try it! You’ve just got too!” He laughed.

And he was right, I just did.

After I had sufficiently soaked up enough Nuru from my squirming on the tarp I felt a gentle tap on my shoulder. I looked up to see both my group members staring off to the side, transfixed.

“Look, just look,” said Darren breathlessly.

I looked up just as he said and my breath was literally stolen from my lungs.

What did I see Lovers? Find out next time!



Pickup line of the week: Is your name Google? Cause you have everything I’m searching for!

Talk about unsafe sex!


Woah Lovers, what a Friday night I had!

That’s right Lovers, we’re going to take a teensy break from FORGS and focus on something that happened just the other night.

So what happened? I hear you ask with bated breath. Well it’s more a case of what didn’t happen, and how the not happening of it caused all sorts of other happenings to occur.

Confused yet? Me too, but don’t worry Lovers, we’ll get through it together!

So, Friday rolled around as usual, and although I was aware that yet another Saints and Sinners swingers ball was upon us, I was content in the fact that this month I would be sitting out the action.

Instead, I had the delightful prospect of a Friday night with Beet to look forward to.

Remember Beet? This was the guy I was most excited about second dating a few weeks ago. And oh my lord Lovers, the sex we had! It was incredible! Not only did I finally find my orgasm again, but it was just so connected and, I hate to say it… special.

Eww I think I’m catching feelings!

I thought maybe the first time was amazing because I was pretty tipsy, but after having amazingly orgasmic morning sex the next day, I knew I was on to something good. No, not good, great!

Phoar I just can’t get enough of him Lovers! Every time we have sex it’s like… so… you know… indescribable!

The best thing is I’m not alone in my opinion, Beet thinks the sex is pretty amazeballs as well.

So, happy days, right Lovers?


My only qualm with the boy is his delicious body (and mind, I’m not completely shallow) isn’t available often enough! Still, the waiting is what keeps it exciting I suppose. Nothing like a little anticipation to heighten the senses.

Anyways, as I said, I was looking forward to a quiet night of sexy time and party pies, (what more could a girl want) when I get a text from the man himself.

Turns out my quiet night of nakedness was not to be. I’d still be getting naked, but I’d be doing it in front of one thousand other people.

That’s right Lover’s, Beet had gone and bought us tickets to Saints and Sinners! And the best part? He bought mine as a birthday present!

How romantic!

I spent the remainder of the afternoon whipping around sex stores in the city trying to cobble together an outfit that was both goth/rocker/punk (the theme for the night) and also a decent amount of sexy.

Mission accomplished.

Beet came to my house before the party for some pre-drinks and pre-sex (no point going to a sex party without unleashing the turtle a few times first right?) and as usual we both came ferociously, gasping and laughing at the force of our orgasms.

After a few more beers and some last minute outfit changes, we were off.

I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but for some reason I was nervous. This was the third time I’d been to S and S, I said to myself sternly, why on earth should I be nervous? Maybe it was the fact that we were meeting some of the FORGS gang at the party? No that couldn’t be it, I’d seen them all naked and more, what else did I need to know to implicitly trust and like them?

Then it hit me. Ah shit.


Fuck fuck fuck!

This was the reason I never went with people I actually cared about! How was I going to feel when Beet left me and headed off to join a sexy threesome? We weren’t anything. We weren’t dating, and from what I could gather Beet had no intentions of making me his ‘special gal,’ so why was I getting all riled up?

Gah, those goddam feelings.

Son of a bitch.

I took a deep breath and resolved to drink much wine and have much sex, starting with Beet. May was well get him started off with some good sex before he headed into the fray.

But that was certainly not what happened Lovers.

As soon as we entered I felt that now familiar thrill of being with ‘my people.’ Everything was out and free (quite literally in some cases) and everyone was smiling. I took Beet’s hand and led him on a tour of the venue, pointing out my favourite spots and activities as I did so. After the tour we grabbed a drink and headed onto the dance floor.

Beet’s eyes were bugging out of his head trying to take in all the sights and sounds he was being assaulted with.

I smiled mischievously and slid my hand down into his underwear.

Round two maybe? I think so.

Beet’s pork sword disagreed.

There was no movement at this particular station, so I figured it was time for a scene change.

I steered Beet toward the bean bag section, eager to relax him and help him get into the groove of the night.

But after several attempts at bean bag head, it was pretty obvious that Beet Junior was not feeling the vibe.

You may think I was disappointed at this point Lovers. You’re at a sex party, and he’s not having sex with you? Jipped! But actually my Lovelies, what we did instead was better.

Maybe it’s just my dodgy romantic side coming out, but instead of having crazy wild bean bag sex we talked, we fondled, we kissed, long and slow.

It was so nice Lovers!

Eventually we detached from each other long enough to change floors, and that’s when we bumped into the FORGS crew. Yay!

The night got even better from then on. It was so great to see them again, and of course everyone’s costumes were on point.

We headed to the dance floor and danced and danced and danced. There was much coupe swapping happening, but for some reason I didn’t take part. As I said before, Beet and I are not a couple, we aren’t dating, exclusive or anything of the sort, but when the offer came to make out with a few dudes… I just didn’t feel like it. The only person I wanted to kiss was Beet.

Urgh, how sad is that?

Then again, Beet didn’t make out with anyone either… Hmm, was he too nervous to pash someone? Or was he actually enjoying hanging out with me?

So confusing!

Anyways we carried on the dancing until the drag queen hosting the night kicked us off stage to start the best-dressed competition. And guess who jumped on stage?


Well, I say jumped on stage, he was sort of pushed, but still once he was up there he totally owned it. The contestants had to do a little dance on the pole to show off their outfits (or lack thereof) and my my my did Beet work that pole like a runaway!

I was so proud of him for getting up there and giving it a crack (not to mention showing a little crack at the same time.) He didn’t win, but I gave him a celebratory blowjob anyway.

It was the least I could do.

After his tryst on stage Beet felt ready to have a go in the Grope box. And you know what Lovers? So did I.

What an experience!

As soon as I jumped in about eight hands plunged through the holes to get at me. I giggled uncontrollably as the hands touched and stroked me everywhere. And I mean everywhere Lovers. There was one quite persistent hand who set up camp in the old nether regions, but I kept my legs firmly closed, so all he got was the front page.

A guy popped his head into the box and asked if I was ok, which was very sweet of him… The first two times. After that I was just like, dude, let a bitch get felt up in peace orright?

I didn’t say that, (manners people) but it was quite irritating. I got in this box myself, I can get out just as easily if I feel violated. Although really, why get in the box if you don’t want a little violation hey?

After eventually extricating myself from the hands Spud and I decided to go downstairs to the ‘orgy room’ and try out those beanbags again. After trying and failing to breathe life into his skin flute for a good twenty minutes, Beet pulled me up and gave me a kiss.

Then we did something I haven’t done since I was eighteen.

We had dry sex.

Oh I know it sounds very clinical when you say it like that, but my god, I forgot how much of a turn on a good old dry hump could be.

There we were, sat in the middle of a pile of naked, writhing bodies, the smell of latex condoms and Heineken thick in the air, and yet all I was focused on was Beet.

I was on top of him so it was me in control, grinding deliciously up and down against him. It didn’t matter if he was hard or not, we were both so turned on and into it that it felt like we were having sex anyway.

And the kissing! Ah, the amazing things a tongue can do! The whole experience reminded me of how great it can be to not have sex.

So it was safe to say that we’d sampled pretty much all of what the party had to offer. Beet was a little frustrated that he hadn’t been able to tick ‘having sex in public’ of his list, but he still said he had an amazing time. We left at around 3am, happy, tired and more than a little horny.

Imagine if we had of stayed just half an hour longer.

It’s a strange feeling Lovers, when a ‘secret’ sex party, becomes common knowledge. Oh sure, you tell your friends, your colleagues and occasionally your family if you want to freak them out, but you never really expect your sexual exploits to make it onto television.

That’s right Lovers, this month’s ball made the news. For all the wrong reasons.

Just half an hour after we left around thirty police stormed the club and shot a guy, while he was having sex with his woman! The details are still sketchy and there’s so much controversy surrounding the whole thing, but supposedly the cops got an anonymous tip off that a guy in the club had a gun. The police say when they yelled at the guy he pulled the gun and aimed it at them, but others say he was too busy having sex to do anything.

I don’t know what happened so I won’t comment on that but I do remember the girl. I only remember her because I admired her outfit many times throughout the night (she was dressed as Harley Quinn and her man was the Joker). I just feel so awful for her that a fun night out with her man ended in such a horrible manner. The worst part is, now her picture is splashed all over the tv and she’s known as a girl that goes to ‘those type of parties.’

Which of course there is nothing wrong with, but sadly society doesn’t see it this way. Already a few people I told have reacted negatively, saying things like, “well Claire, if you hang out with those type of people, dodgy things are going to happen.”

Urgh, people’s narrow-mindedness really shits me Lovers.

I for one, will not let things like this stop me from hanging out with these supposed ‘dodgy’ people, and neither should you.

I had to giggle at the news casters descriptions of what the couple were doing though. Some noted the couple were ‘initiating in intimate relations’ whilst others said they were ‘in a compromising position.’ Dear god people, they were having sex, it’s not a crime to say it!

Anyways Lovers, that’s me done for another post. I guess what I’ve learned from something like this happening is that events like these really are more special when only the ‘dodgy’ people know about them. The general public can’t wrap their minds around this ‘sex is fun’ concept, so for this reason, lets all take a lesson from Gandalf.

“Keep it secret! Keep it safe!”

Claire xx

P.S Just a thought. Earlier in the night there was a male strip show. They were dressed as Police… anybody think maybe the Joker thought it was all just a fun roleplay? “Ooh you got me guys, I’m not going down without a fight!”

That would totally suck if it was true.