Birthday Bonking

Olah Lovers!

Everybody has had bad sex. It’s just a fact of life. It’s what makes us really appreciate the good sex when we finally get it. It’s the reason so many relationships that should be dead in the water long ago linger on. The sex is so amazing we just can’t let go. And why should we? Sex is an amazing thing to have when done right, and I don’t just mean when everything goes in the right holes, because half the time that’s just luck and good lubricant.

So when a break-up occurs, and the sex comes to a sudden and unwelcome stop, we go searching for something to… fill the void so to speak.

Now, lets get something straight. There are rebounds, and then there is something else entirely. Every now and then, us girls get that itch. It’s an itch that can usually be scratched by a well chosen vibrator, but occasionally even the most well made of mechanical toys can’t do the trick. As Carrie Bradshaw once said in one memorable episode of Sex and the City “I need to feel the weight of a man on me.”

Don’t we all. I’m sorry, but useful as that little buzzing friend you have stowed in your bedside draw is, there are times when you just need to scratch your hands down a guys back as he’s on top of you. You need to feel his stubble graze your chest as he does oh so naughty things to you with his tongue. You love to grab his hair and pull just hard enough to make him grind faster. You just need a good hard session between the sheets. You don’t want to make love, you don’t even want to make conversation. Man. Woman. Sex. That’s it. That’s all she wrote.

Sadly, it is in this state of mind that we make our worst mistakes. Our dreams of the perfect man go flying out the window as we search for the biggest bulge. Horrible pick up lines become mecca from heaven as you realise someone might be game enough to show you a good time. I’m going to go out on a limb here and say most women will do one of two things. The lucky ones will call that special someone in our phone, the guy saved under “Big Balls” or “Fingerlickin Good” and ask the two questions that matter most, “Are you still single?” and “Are you free tonight?” If he answers these correctly you pull on your least worn out underwear, have a quick manicure of the lady garden (you’re not marrying him, so why go to too much trouble?) and race out the door, condom/s in hand.

The other half of us who aren’t so lucky to have a backup will get dressed to the nines, start at the trendiest wine bar in town, and end up five hours later at some local dive, searching for anyone who’s not throwing up or pissing off the balcony. Once said man is secured only one question is needed “Your place or mine?” And if your lucky enough to be conscious when you arrive at the chosen destination, drunken romps will ensue.

So with one option you know exactly what you’re getting. Good clean fun. You’ve had sex with him before and it was good, so you’re headed back for second, third or fourth helpings. No one gets hurt, you get your sex, and he gets to say it wasn’t a total waste of a weekend.

The other option though, is a far riskier game. For one, you’re a little or maybe a lot drunk, so nothing feels quite as amazing as it would if you were sober. I mean when you drink you get crazy horny, but the sensation factor drops considerably. That means you always need to find someone of ample size, or he’s barely going to graze the sides. You play a sort of sex roulette with this option. Is he too drunk to get it up? Is he terrible in bed? Does he have a bed? (Although I must say if you need to ask that question you may be picking up the wrong guys.)

There’s the awkward decision to stay then night or sneak out as soon as he falls asleep. The uncomfortable chance meeting of his room mates, who usually just look you up and down with a raised eyebrow and occasionally a wink. And then of course there’s the walk of shame. Heels in hand, panda eyes squinting in the morning sun as you wait for either a taxi to pick you up or a truck to run you over, anything to get rid of the hangover.

I had a particularly cringe-worthy experience on my 25th birthday. It had been a long, long, long times between sessions and I was chomping at the bit for a slice of birthday action. I mean, how often do you turn a quarter of a century? I had to bring in this birthday in style, that was for sure.

I was just finishing up a gruelingly intense bar tending course in Sydney and I was officially a certified bartender. (a job I decided to take on for all the men I would supposedly meet. I bartended for six months, didn’t get a single number and yet went home sticky every night.)

Myself and one of my classmates decided to celebrate in style with a bit of fancy club hopping. Things were going well and I was certainly liquored up, but sadly no male attention. Admittedly I was having a great time dancing with Amy, but I felt I needed to validate this great occasion with either a cake or a cock. And at three in the morning patisseries were sadly closed. Speaking of closing, the club was due to close in just under two hours. Now was the time. I threw back another slippery nipple and trotted onto the dance floor, scanning the room for my unwitting victim.

Suddenly I spotted him. Youngish, maybe early twenties, lean build and a tattoo of some sort of dragon on his left arm. Yes, he would do nicely.

He was standing just in front of the girls toilets so I suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to pee. I sauntered over to him and was just opening my mouth to say something when I realised I actually did have to pee. So I winked at him instead and grazed past him seductively. Well I attempted seductive but looking back I think I actually pushed him out of the way rather than slid past him gracefully. He certainly wouldn’t have stumbled over if it was a gentle graze.

After a quick bathroom break I checked myself in the mirror, bent over and pulled my boobs up as far as they would go (nowhere apparently) and with a toss of my hair I walked out.

And that’s when she threw up on my leg.

I turned around to see some drunk girl on the floor, the remains of her Sloe Screw Against the Wall plastered all over her hair, mouth and nose.

Good god! How was I ever going to get laid with this shit all over my leg? My fuzzy mind started brainstorming ideas of how to wash it off fast. I could have just splashed water from the basin on my leg and dried up under the dryer, but that would be too slow. What if my sex man had gone? So I did the unthinkable.

Just a side note, not at all proud of this moment, but hey desperate and drunk times…

I locked myself in a cubicle, took off my shoe, plunged my leg into the toilet and flushed.

It certainly did the trick, plus I found twenty cents at the bottom of the bowl (score) I toweled off with some toilet paper and ran out the door, hoping my man was still around.

And was he? Looks like you’ll have to stay tuned to find out 😉 Don’t worry he definitely was, you just get to hear the sordid birthday sex details.

Until tomorrow Lovers!

Claire xx

Best songs to bonk to: In the air tonight

Phil Collins

Best used: To try and time your orgasms for when the drums come in. Bloody difficult but great fun.

Is the first time the worst time?

Blurgh, it’s not good Lovers,

Last night, I watched Twilight. By Choice.

And it was awful as usual, but then I watched the second one, which was worse! But you know what Lovers? I’m just so in love with the idea of being in love with someone that much. Seriously, for me to sit through five hours of Kristen Stewart I’ve got to be pretty in love with the notion, right? Don’t worry, I followed it up with Shawshank Redemption to remind myself of what good movies look like.

It got me to thinking though, if Bella was so lucky with her first ‘love’, why can’t we all be? The first guy I ever said ‘I love you ‘ to was a complete fucktard. As I later found out he was a fucktard who couldn’t even fuck. So I guess he was just a tard. And that’s just pathetic. But I like to think, if I started with someone this bad, it can only get better right? I have to find my Edward eventually, yes? Or is it all just a really badly scripted movie where vampires sparkle and K.Stew is considered sexy? Well, you read on a decide…

So, it was the beginning of the year. The New Years parties had come and gone, and like all others out there I was making my resolutions for the year. Lose five kilo’s, learn how to cook, always stop at three pieces of cake, not five and most importantly, find a nice boyfriend. (Who is preferably a great cook, personal trainer and cake Nazi) Work was a total breeze. I liked everyone there except the bosses (Because really, who get’s along with wankers? It’s genetically impossible) Unfortunately there was a hard lesson to be learnt in that, even if you don’t like them, you should pretend to. I did not learn this lesson quickly and so after another tongue lashing, I was sitting morosely in the lunchroom, playing Domino’s with a block of Dairy Milk. All of us had different shifts; therefore I usually had lunch alone. But lately a certain gentleman had been going out of his way to eat with me. I just thought he had a thyroid problem and had to have two lunches everyday, but it turned out there was a method to his lunch madness. As another chocolate Domino tumbled over and had to be punished by being eaten, he slipped a note across the table.

I giggled, chocolate bubbles escaping out the corner of my mouth. After hastily sucking them back in I picked up the note and read it.
It simply said “I Like You.”      I didn’t know what to say. Nobody had ever been so upfront like this. Even when I had been asked out before it was done with hesitancy and a little “Lets see how it goes huh?” I knew my lunch break was almost up and I was out of chocolate to stuff in my mouth to try and stall with, so I said the first thing that came to mind.

“Thank you.”

And then I got up and walked out. Idiot, idiot, idiot. I was completely shaken. The truth was, I had never felt liked by anyone of the male persuasion before. I mean, apart from my two day debacle of a relationship in high school. Certainly nobody had ever looked me in the eye and said (or written) I like you. Three little words. The runner up to the big Love trophy. I ran to the sink and buried myself in dishes so deep I didn’t resurface for five hours. It was tempting to go up to him and wave my pruney fingers in his face and ask “ How do you like me now?” but no, it wasn’t the time for jokes. I spent the next two days avoiding him, trying to sort myself out. The question was, did I actually like him back? Or was I just flattered by his protestation of like? Looking back now, I know it was the flattered option, but these are the mistakes we have to make so that we can learn not to be such dumbasses in the future. Finally he cornered me in the cool room and asked if I was ever going to respond to his note. All reason left me then, and I jumped wildly into the unknown, with a burst of “I like you too!” And then he kissed me. Sweet, but disappointing. Absolutely no tongue, no open mouth at all. I suddenly began to think, oh dear, what have I gotten myself into here?

His name was Charlie and he was from the wonderfully exotic land of Cambodia. Yes, he struggled with the English language at times, but he was kind, sweet and clearly liked me quite a bit. Our first date was oh so romantic. We went clubbing, Boo yah! I found out then that he smoked, which was a big downer, but on the upside he helped me experience my first cigarette. I didn’t think there was much to smoking, but apparently I do it wrong. He was very disappointed, and I couldn’t get the taste of ass out of my mouth, (which is exactly the after taste cigarettes leave you with) so that put a slight dampener on things. But then like a true gentleman, he bought me some mints and promised I would never have to smoke again. Now that’s what I call like. Later on in the night I let him kiss me (with tongue, thank god!) and allowed him to get a feel of my eighteen-year-old bottom, which was thankfully still in fairly good condition. After refusing a lovely offer to come back to a hotel room with him, we hopped in a taxi and went home. Separately, of course. I had experience a very awkward taxi share experience a few months earlier and didn’t feel like repeating that particular moment ( I’ll fill you in on that story soon) I was very clear with Charlie straight up, plus of course my house was a total shambles.

Things really started to heat up at work. The cool room was our own private domain (as it was one of the only places without security camera’s) and we took full advantage of it. You’ll never know the feeling of kissing the person you like with the smell of mud cake and muffins lingering in the air. There is nothing like it. (Note: I have tried to recreate this feeling with a boy, some cakes and a fridge, but it just doesn’t work. Unless you have a really big fridge, both of your heads don’t fit, plus you have to stoop over the whole time. It’s just not worth it.)

Of course we only ever kissed in there. I was a lady, and a very innocent one at that. So when the opportunity came for me to housesit in a house all on my own, I was very reluctant to let Charlie come stay the night. Where would he sleep? Would he be a bed hog? Oh god, is he going to make me touch it? (Yes he tried, but I never got near it without squealing in embarrassment. I never even saw it. Could be for the best actually) I invited him over on a work night so we would have to go to bed early and there would be no time for…shenanigans, as my Mother would say. I cooked lasagne and to his credit he tried to eat it. I gave most of it to the dog, who ate it only under coercion. And then after doing the dishes, it was time for bed. I was super nervous. I put on my pyjamas while he got down to his underwear. I nodded in satisfaction as I saw not tighty whities but rather classy navy blue Y- fronts. I got into bed and gave him a quick kiss good night before turning off the light.

And that’s when I got the tongue in my ear.
This is just a note to the guys here, but trust me when I say, you will be hard pressed to find ANY girl who enjoys a slobbery tongue shoved into her ear. The worst part is we can hear you breathing all the way down into our brain. Imagine a friend of yours giving you a wet willy with double the saliva and a wind machine. It feels a little something like that. That said though, keep up the earlobe stuff, we go crazy for that.
Anyway, there I was, my eardrum slowly filling up with saliva, inch by inch.
I wasn’t exactly sure of a way to get him off me without hurting his feelings or ripping his tongue out with my bare hands, so in the end I just turned my head and gave him a kiss, praying he hadn’t picked up any wax while he was in there. We made out for a while and then I decided it was time for sleep. Apparently in Cambodia a woman’s decision making rights don’t really count for much. I had to make out with him for a good hour, and while he was a good kisser, it was difficult to keep my eyes open, not to mention the fact that he kept trying to tug my shorts down. Finally we came to an arrangement. I could either keep my bra on, or my top on. Of course being the prude I was at that time I kept my top firmly on and slid my bra out of my sleeve. I let him touch my boobs for an exact sixty seconds before I burst out laughing. I’m very ticklish in the nipular area, a fact I did not know until that moment. Eventually we both slipped into sleep, and I remained virginal for another night.
It was not to last long though.
After racing each other to work I told the girls of my raunchy sleep over. They were as usual full of the usual questions “How long did it last? Is it big? Is he a grower or a shower? Is it more wide or long? What’s his favourite position? Could you fit it all into your mouth?” Of course I had no idea how to answer any of these questions and had to fess up about the G rated nature of my night. After suffering through the judgmental looks and muffled sniggers, I asked them how long they had waited before they had slept with their boyfriends. The secretary answered with a no nonsense “First date.” While the apprentice waited a month. The other shop girl waited two weeks but she considered blowjobs a form of sex so I couldn’t really take her word for it. After the talk I began thinking. Charlie and I had been going out for about a month now, and while things were going well, he was getting rather impatient in the bedroom. I practically had to start duct-taping my shorts on whenever he stayed the night and he had the wiliest wandering hands I had ever seen. Maybe I was being too much of a nun. If the other girls jumped into bed so quickly then maybe it was just the done thing. Maybe it was more of a “let’s get it over with” more than a magical moment between two people in love. Perhaps “making love” was just a figment of my imagination and sex was all there was. Charlie was sweet and always went out of his way to bring me something back from the restaurant he also worked at, and though I had never met his family or been to his house, we still had something some people would call special. Besides, he said he liked me, and in my book that put him sky-high above all others.

With this in mind, the next time he came over I was as jittery as a schoolgirl. I didn’t want to ruin the moment by cooking and giving him a dose of food poisoning, so we bought the ultimate aphrodisiac for dinner.                            Kentucky Fried Chicken.

Nothing like a little grease and chicken salt to loosen you up. We watched T.V for a couple of hours but I couldn’t concentrate. I kept trying to imagine would it would be like, what it would feel like. Would there be lots of blood? What if I didn’t like it? What if it didn’t fit? Could I be as bad at sex as I was at smoking? Does sex smell? Eventually Charlie suggested we turn in. I nodded and forced my shaky legs towards the bedroom. This time when his hands wandered down to my shorts I let him take them off. I could practically hear the smile on his face. If I was as jittery as a schoolgirl, he was as horny as a teenager. The shorts came off, followed by the bra (under the shirt of course. We may be about to have sex but that didn’t mean he had to see everything) I gingerly asked if he had any…stuff. For some reason I couldn’t force the word condom out of my mouth. It felt like such a dirty word. He laughed at me and said he did, but what was I afraid of, that I would get pregnant? I may have yelled hell yes a little too loud, because he scuttled off to get that condom faster than I’d ever seen him move.

Unfortunately this gave me time alone to think. I started to freak out a little; maybe this was too fast, what if he wanted to get married? No, I told myself, get a grip; we’re just doing it, that’s it. He returned with a twelve pack in hand and graciously let me pick the colour. He also graciously offered to let me put it on. I declined the offer. I looked away while he did it; it was just too gross to think about. I could hear the snap of plastic on skin and all thoughts that I might secretly be into dominatrix ventures instantly left my head. The heady smell of strawberry latex filled the small room, and I tried to keep my breathing shallow so I wouldn’t inhale too much. I had heard stories of girls allergic to latex and I certainly didn’t want to be breathing it in if I was one of them. Then it was on for young and old. It all happened rather quickly actually (thank god) Charlie climbed on top of me and within a couple of seconds I felt a little something happening down there. I was shocked. I thought he would have at least asked for permission! Also, I was alarmed at how little I could feel. Wasn’t it supposed to hurt? Surely I should be feeling a little of that ecstasy written about so often in Mills and Boon novels? But my loins weren’t on fire with burning passion for my lover’s firm shaft of manhood, they were barely lukewarm. And that’s when I realised it was his hand down there. I shot up, asking if there was something wrong, had I not done it right? All I got back was a smile. I frowned in response and slumped back onto the pillows in annoyance. He must have known it was my first time. He was supposed to be teaching me things, so I could become all saucy and seductive like all the girls at work.

And then he was face to face with me, and I knew this was the moment. I was about to become a woman. I may still have the breasts of a teenager but I would come of age in all other ways.

When I say Charlie was small I am not saying it to be spiteful. In fact, I am grateful that he was, it would have hurt a hell of a lot more if he was huge. And when I say he was quick, well that was another small mercy. It was not a good first experience. We were two people who just happened to be joined at quite an intimate juncture and that was where the similarities ended. He flopped around on me like some fish out of water, while I tried to stay as still as possible so he could get the job done. He kept yelling “Yes Yes!” so I assumed he was enjoying it. I was so bored. Occasionally he would flick me a quick glance, I assume it was to check I was still alive, after all, nobody wants to be that guy who did the dead chick. Finally he did a series of acrobatic flops and let out a very definite YES! Before collapsing on top of me in a sweaty heap.
I felt awful. That was it? That was sex? All this time what I’d been waiting and saving myself was just that? If they wanted teenagers to not have sex they should have taped us and shown that to them, it’d be guaranteed to put them of for life. I was vaguely aware of Charlie pawing at my chest and I snapped out of my thoughts just in time for him to ask me how it was. How do you answer that question? The only thing you can say to boost a mans ego, that’s what. I looked him dead in the eye, crossed my fingers behind my back and said, “That was the best sex I have ever had.” Technically it wasn’t a lie. After all I had nothing to compare it to so maybe it would be the best ever. It was enough to satisfy him, and he rolled onto his back, a smug smile etched across his face. It was enough to send me into a tailspin.

I had to get out of there. I told him I had to pee and ran straight to the lounge room where I threw myself onto the couch and sobbed silently.
Where was the romance? Where was the lip biting excruciatingly wonderful bliss? As the Black Eyed Peas so often said, “where was the love?” I couldn’t understand it. Maybe I had built my expectations up too high but that meaningless, awkward and at times what felt like an attempt at the hokey pokey (pun intended) disaster was not what I was prepared for. Oh the unfairness of it all! I lay on the couch for around twenty minutes before Charlie realised I either had chronic diarrhoea or something was wrong. Eventually he found me, snuggled against a beautifully embroidered cushion, which was now beautifully smothered in my saliva, snot and tears. Then he did something great.

Without a word, he picked me up and carried me back to bed. I got to lie down next to him and rest my head on his chest. It was exactly what I needed.
So maybe the first time sucked, but who cared? There was always next time, although deep down a little part of me wanted next time to be sometime next year…

The following morning I of course relayed my sexploits to the ladies over morning tea. They were very impressed but also a little shocked. “ You say he just, flopped around?” they asked with puzzled faces. When I replied yes they then asked things like “Did you try spooning sex then? Or what about doggy? Guys love doggy! Maybe he was just nervous.” It was at this moment that I realised I might have left out one crucial detail to them. I gingerly placed my hot chocolate with seven marshmallows crammed into it on the table, and after taking a deep breath, explained to them that last night had been particularly important because I had lost my V plates.

Well the shit hit the fan then, I can tell you! They were amazed, awed even that I could last as long as eighteen before finally unlocking the old chastity belt.
None of them had known I was still a virgin. I could talk the talk, but the truth was, until that night I had never walked the lube smeared walk. It was then that I realised I may have just made a big mistake. I asked the girls how long they had been with the boyfriends they actually lost it to before they finally had ‘relations’ and oh how their answers upset me. They ranged from three months to a year.

My world started to spin a little and I had to lay my head on the table. I’d done it; I’d really done it. And not because I was in love with someone, but because I thought it was what everyone did. I couldn’t believe it. I had been peer pressured into sex. And horrible sex at that. The girls tried to console me, but how do you get that first experience back? The truth is, you can’t. From that moment on, Charlie would be my first. There was nothing I could do to change it and I just had to make the best of a bad situation.

Not bad eh? I suppose it could have been a lot worse. What about you lovers? What was your first time like? Were you the sickeningly sweet school sweethearts? Or were you the three thrusts on a pool table girl? Either way I can tell you from experience, that if you put your mind to it, you can have the most mind blowing sex ever. And if you’re not having it now, might be time to either change things up, or look for a new Edward.

Claire xx

Pick up line of the day: Are your parents retarded? Cause you sure are special!

(Wrong I know but very creative to say the least!)

The Juiciness Continues!

Happy Monday Lovers!

Morning sex anyone? I’m more of a fan of the midnight monkey business, but these days the most action I get is when my cat sits on my face to wake me up. Yes Lovers, I’m in a drought. It is summer time in my vast, dry pantaloons and I yearn for a man to bring the rain! Luckily, part two of my interesting date may get a little damp. Read on if you dare…

Ok, where were we? Ah yes, with excitement literally dripping down my legs (and a little dripping down his too I’m sure) we darted out of the adult store. Giggling like idiots we crossed the road and put some distance between us and the scene of the crime.

“What now?” laughed Tim a little breathlessly.

My head was still spinning a little from our wild escape but I managed to blurt out “More beer?”

“Yes please!” he cried, and we skipped our way over to the nearest establishment.

Again I ordered some food to try and settle my swirling head but again Mr Gobble McEateverything demolished most of it before I could demurely pop anything into my mouth. I didn’t know why I was bothering being demure anymore, that’s usually saved for the part of the date before you put the guys penis in your mouth, and we were well past that.

It was then that I got a call from a friend. She was at a nearby restaurant and insisted it would be terribly rude of us not to drop in for a quick hello.

Not one to be rude in any situation I obliged, and we trotted up the street to the address. Not without stopping first for two bottles of wine of course, because what is dinner without a little refreshment?

We burst through the doors, frightening the life out of the tiny Chinese lady behind the counter, not to mention her dog. (If I had been sober at this moment I may have questioned a dog in a restaurant, but at that particular moment it was the most normal thing in the world.) After scrounging through my purse for treats and coming up with nothing except a half sucked Chupa Chup, I broke it off and threw it to the dog, just hoping he liked watermelon.

Seats were pulled up and Tim and I sat, chatted and did all the humdrum Sunday night dinner rituals, but inside, we were both itching to get into a cab and onto each other as fast as possible.

Luckily by that point we were drinking at the speed of light, so within half an hour our wine was gone.


With a quick wink and a wave to the girls I headed outside with Tim and jumped in the first yellow car we saw, thank god it was a taxi.

Tim lived in a slightly rundown but fairly charming federation house with his two room-mates. His two female room-mates. Did I mention one was a lesbian?

Now don’t jump the gun Lovers, it didn’t get that crazy. The only carpet I got near was the one I sat on as I patted her sausage.

That’s her dog’s name people! Dirty minded bastards.

After sitting for a while with Sausage on my lap I started to feel the beginnings of something unpleasant.

Five minutes later I was face down in the slightly run down but fairly charming toilet, trying to convince them I had food poisoning in between the incredibly audible heaving sounds I was producing.

Thirty minutes later I was in Tim’s bed with a glass of water in one hand and about sixteen mints in the other.

When Tim finally came in after saying goodnight to the girls (and probably taking bets on whether I’d pass out before he got any.) he slid into bed next to me and gave me a little kiss on the forehead.


Then it was fucking time.

Off came the dress, away went the bra and snap went the knickers. Boom, jeans shot down, shirt went up and boxers disappeared.


He was between my legs like a shot, I didn’t even get a chance for a ‘yes hello we’re definitely going to do it now’ kiss. Doesn’t everyone get one of those?

Ooh but he was good. I’m not usually a fan of the old cunnilingus but he kept me conscious and that in itself was no mean feat. He was very good with his hands I must say. If I had to guess I would say he had played the piano in his early years, he certainly had a good range!

After he had sufficiently greased the pan, it was time to pour in the batter (pun intended obviously) After the quick condom conversation that everybody so adores,

Me: “You got one?”

Him: “Yeah I think so.”

“Well get it!”

“You sure?”

“Yes, I think with your colouring and my hair our babies would be a crime against humanity.”

“Oh my god just get it!”

We finally got the show started. I don’t know if it was the booze or the drought doing the thinking but I had never enjoyed boring sex so much before!

He was doing plain old missionary, your standard in and out formation, barely any speed or force behind it, but man I was going nuts! He had to put his hand over my mouth twice to shut me up but hey who cares when you’re having that much fun?

Of course he could have just kissed me instead of burying his face in my neck the whole time.

Eventually his thrusts slowed to a halt and I asked the obligatory question,

“Did you come?”

He shook his head and blamed the alcohol. I didn’t mind one bit, just meant more action later. And boy was there more action. Once at 2am and again at 4am. Needless to say I woke up desperate for a pee. You can’t poke someone’s bladder that many times and just expect it to keep quiet.

After a quick dash to the bathroom and a failed attempt at stealth trying to hide from the judgy lesbian and friend (there is now a small Claire shaped dent in his hallway wall, but you didn’t hear it from me.) I darted back into Tim’s room and jumped under the covers.

“Morning.” He mumbled sleepily

“Ditto.” I replied, my hangover slowly starting to make itself known.

Tim opened his mouth to say something, but there was no way my brain could handle sentences at that moment. I grabbed his balls and mouthed “handjob?” at him.

He grinned and nodded, putting his hands behind his head in readiness.

After twenty minutes the only thing that seemed close to exploding was my head. My arm was killing and I’d swapped arms so much I could medal at the ambidextrous wanking Olympics (if only they existed)

Finally I had to pull the old, you should wank yourself off, it’s so sexy to watch.

It wasn’t really, it just meant I could have a rest and close my eyes when he wasn’t watching.

But dear God, I was not expecting what was to happen next.

When people use the expression “When I come, I come with the thunder” I just laugh it off. With Tim, it was true.

Sweet baby Jesus, it was everywhere! Great spurts of joy juice went flying across the sheets, slathered his chest, even reached his face! I could only gape with my mouth open as his pristine black sheets were festooned with thousands upon thousands of hapless swimmers.

But the noises, the noises were the icing on the cake.

Imagine if you will, quite intense constipation, suddenly followed by explosive diarrhoea. I know it’s graphic, but just imagine the noises you would make when confronted with such a situation. Starting off as a sort of deep grunt, then spiralling into a surprised squealish noise as it all comes free. Now picture your eyes bugging out and your body taut and repeat the grunting and surprised noises four to five times.

What has been seen can not be unseen.

After I towelled myself off on one of his old shirts, the hunt was on for my clothes. Strangely enough my undies were under his pillow. That’s… different.

We ran for the tram and just made it. I was exhausted. Hours of bonking followed by an unexpected shower had really taken it out of me.

As the tram rumbled along Tim chatted away merrily. God he was loud, why was he talking so loud? I nodded and smiled my way through the conversation, counting the stops till my station.

Suddenly I was very hot. Sweat beaded my brow as I fervently swallowed in rapid succession. All the while Tim was gabbing away next to me, oblivious to my situation. Finally my station was in sight. I didn’t even wait for the tram to stop before I practically leapt out the door, a quick bye and thanks for the sex on my lips.

I ran to the station bathrooms and knelt on the urine soaked floor. Hell I was already covered in jizz why not add a couple of the other food groups while I was at it.

But nothing happened. I sat and sat but it seemed to pass. With a sigh of relief I stood up, brushed the toilet paper from my knees and walked to my train platform.

My train pulled up and I sauntered on, hungover but pride still in tact. I took a seat and picked up a discarded paper. And that’s when it happened. I heard the announcement as if from a dream. “Doors closing” she was saying. I heard the beep, beep, beep as the doors started to slide shut. But I had to get off. Now.

I scrambled up, hand over my already filling mouth and shot through the doors just as they were about to close.

Bin, bin I need a goddam bin! I looked left and right but of course all the bins in the station had been taken away due to terrorist threats. Dammit! I hate terrorists! There was nothing for it. I had to empty my stomach and I had to empty it now. I stumbled to what looked like a secluded part of the platform and sunk down. As soon as I took my hand away, the awfulness unfolded. I gagged, I choked, I vomited all over the ground. Then to make it worse, the only thing I had to wipe my mouth with was the Liquorland receipt from the night before.

Low point reached right about there.

Until I turned to my left, and to my horror realised I had just thrown up right in front of all the commuters coming down the packed escalators.

Oh dear me.

So Lovers, my advice to you is, if you are going to have a one night stand, plan ahead and make a note of the nearest vessel you can safely and privately throw up in to your hearts content, because nobody wants to slip in vomit on a Monday morning.

Claire xx

Great banging tune: Boom Boom Boom Boom


Best used: Any and every time, it’s Vengaboys!

The Juicy Deets

Why hello there my Lovelies!

It’s been a few days I know, but so much has happened! Just wait until you hear the shenanigans I landed myself in!

Ok so where to start? Ah yes, the walk.

Now there is a little something you need to know about me folks, and that is that I am about the clumsiest girl you’re ever likely to meet. If there is something to trip on, I’ll make a beeline for it. If the floor says non slip, I will prove that sign wrong. My ass is consistently in the air as I fly face first into hedges, onto roads and over confused small children. These days I always make sure I’m wearing nice under-wear as the chances of people seeing it are almost one hundred percent.

So, I was walking to my online date, doing the usual thoughts of ‘Please don’t be hideous, please don’t be hideous.’ Closely followed by ‘Please don’t think I’m hideous, please don’t think I’m hideous.’ When I get a text from said hopefully not hideous man. He is almost at the venue. I smile, relief flooding through me. There is nothing worse when on an online date than sitting alone at a table for two chugging back your third beer. Usually be the second beer you get know you’ve been stood up so the third beer is necessary to make the walk home seem less pathetic. Sadly when you hit the sixth you don’t so much walk as roll home.

But that was not to be today! I walked into the pub, confidant and happy, and that’s when I tripped over absolutely nothing and went flying into the wall.

As my face smacked into the polished marble with a resounding thwack, my only thought was ‘God, I hope he’s upstairs already and didn’t see that.’

As usual though, God was at lunch and it was just his dumb receptionist who got the message. So of course, when I turned around to assess the damage, there was my date, witness to the crime of inherent uncoordination committed by yours truly.

“Uhhh, Tim?” I asked cautiously, trying to subtly check my cheek for blood as I did so.

“That’s me,” he said with a smile “You ok?”

I let out a half snort half grunt, trying to sound nonchalant “Oh, you know me, I’m fine.”

Except he didn’t know me, and my swollen cheek seemed to be mocking my detached performance.

“Shall we go upstairs?” I spluttered, anything to take the attention off my face.

He obliged and we spent the next six floors huffing and puffing our way upstairs. By the time we reached the roof I was in desperate need of a beer or three. Which is exactly what I had. Three pints. In one hour. On an empty stomach.

To be honest I did order some fries to try and soak it all up but Mr ‘my mum just made me an amazing casserole and I’m so full’ decided to scoff over half of them.

After three pints my initial reaction of ‘meh he’s ok’ had skyrocketed to ‘we are so having sex in the next twenty minutes.’

So when Tim suggested we moved onto another bar I had the perfect idea. Sure an adult store is not a bar per-say. They don’t serve drinks and there are no bar snacks, but there are ladies, music and private booths. Plus they supply tissues, which I must say most bars these days are sadly lacking.

I dragged him into one of the seedy porn viewing booths, hoping he had a spare two dollar coin or two on him.

It must have been fate because he just happened to have three! We popped them into the machine and away we went. Like a gentleman he let me pick the porn we were to watch. I picked a bit of MILF action because no guy I’ve ever met has said no to that. I sat on his lap, innocent as could be and we watched in silence for a few moments. It was only when he realised that I was causing a slight wet patch on his jeans that he finally made a move.

He turned me around to face him and we had our very sexy first kiss. It’s hard not to be sexy when you have two (or three) people groaning enthusiastically behind you on screen.

Suddenly my hands were everywhere. Well when I say everywhere I mean specifically his fly, underwear and what was underneath.

This is always my favourite part about meeting a new guy, the unveiling. Is it big? Small? Curved? Purple? Or even a strange shade of beige?

I love the reveal, even if it’s slightly disappointing.

Tim was… different. He was circumcised, slightly bowed and a little thin. Not small but no baby’s arm either.

Being medium size can actually be very convenient. Blowjobs for example are such a breeze! He was balls deep in my mouth on only the second head bob. Normally with the big boys you really have to work up to it. Plus your jaw get so sore! I was quite happy that he wasn’t overly endowed.

So there I was, bobbing away merrily with Sam and his best friends Mum getting it on behind me, when I got a lovely surprise of a hand underneath my dress.

I put my head up, Tim’s penis popping out of my mouth like a lollipop.

“Wait, I haven’t shaved properly!” I giggled. I mean sure I’d done the obligatory sweep with the razor but nothing fancy and there were certainly some patchy areas.

“I don’t care, trust me.” He said huskily into my ear.

With a happy little sigh I let his fingers do the walking and it wasn’t long before it was me needing the tissues.

“Have you got a condom?” he asked breathily.

I didn’t. I didn’t know whether to be upset or relieved. I mean after all this was a pretty crazy thing to be doing with a guy I just met. What would my saintly sixteen year old think? Was I being a total slut? Was this going to bite me on the ass? On the other hand my repressed sixteen year old was on the loud speaker screaming at me to have fun and not think. I think she secretly wanted him to bite me on the ass, dirty bitch.

Luckily my decision of what to do next was made for me as a loud knock on the door announced that our six dollars worth of porn was up.

With a lot of fumbling buttons and straightening of seams we fell out of the booth, giggling and horny for more.

But what did we do next? Well my gorgeous Lovers, that is for next time!

I can’t wait to fill you all in on the rest of the juicy details!

Until then,

Claire xx

Pickup line of the day: Is your Dad a baker?

Cause you got a nice set of buns!

How could I forget?

Sorry Lovers almost forgot today’s sign off! Today it’s alternative words.

Penis = One Eyed Yogurt Slinger              Intercourse = Sink the sausage                Breasts = Bibble Chunks

Try slipping those into your next conversation! 😉

Claire xx

How do dates work again?

Hey there Lovers!

I know I promised a full run through of the date I had today but I’m definitely still processing! What I will run you through though is my usual date preparation, and please don’t hesitate to let me know if you go through this trial every time too! It’s good to stick together sisters! (And of course brothers) 😉

The thrill of the first date is not a feeling that can be easily replicated. There’s the message or phone call from that special someone confirming that indeed, tonight is the night. You struggle to get through work, see sawing from unbridled glee to sheer terror. You take more than your fair share of toilet breaks, prompting your workmates to inquire about the state of your bowels and if it’s contagious, which then practically forces you to tell them every detail about your special night. On the bright side, you receive quite a few helpful tips. On the down side, when eight girls are telling you their personal dating secrets, it’s very difficult to pick which one to use. Lunch is almost impossible, as your stomach churns with nerves, and your brain reminds you of that teeny tiny dress your hoping to squeeze into for tonight. You push around lettuce leaves, practising the most elegant way of eating a salad coated in French dressing. You discover there is, in fact no way to get an entire lettuce leaf in your mouth without spillage. After a few star jumps for good measure you are again chained to your desk, biting your nails constantly and googling pick up lines.

But finally, that clock ticks to five o’clock, and you run full pelt out of the office, just to get those extra few seconds of preparation time. He’s picking you up at seven, so by the time you get home that’s only an hour and forty-five minutes to get ready! Subtract shower time and you’ve barely got an hour left.

You throw open your wardrobe, swearing once again that you will go shopping this weekend as you have absolutely nothing to wear. After finally deciding on your least worst outfit you jump in the shower and lather, rinse, repeat. You shave everything, and some things twice. You rub on all your sexy bath oils, making you smell like a cross between fruit salad and macadamia nuts. You have a side thought about the fact he may be horribly allergic to nuts and scrub frantically to remove all traces from your skin. You hop out of the shower, barely stopping to dry yourself before skidding down the hallway to your room. The outfit is thrown on, assessed in the mirror and fails miserably. You call your best friend and you both agonise over outfits, trying on at least six in the process before finally deciding that the first outfit actually did look the best. Now time for the hair. There’s no time for straightening, so it’s pulled up into a neat bun. After realising you look like a somewhat constipated ballet teacher you pull it into a plait, which, although attractive, makes you look remarkably similar to a German beer Fraulein. Frustrated and running out of time you pull out your arsenal of clips and pins and arrange your unruly curls into a semi decent blob on the back of your head. The clock continues to tick as you smear on foundation, eyeliner and mascara. With five minutes to go the perfume choice must be made.

You spray a little on your neck, your wrists, your boobs and just for good measure, a teensy spritz between the legs. You’re no hussy, but what if he just happens to trip and lands smack between your thighs? He might get an eyeful, but the only thing he’ll be getting a nose-ful of on your watch is Gucci by Gucci. Finally, you hear that oh so terrifying crunch of tyres on gravel as he pulls into your driveway. A little scream escapes you lips and you run around the house, certain you’ve forgotten something but not entirely sure what. You slip on the tiles and fall face first into the mirror, jolting your memory. Lipstick! Hearing his tentative footsteps approach you hastily smear on an extra coating, then follow with lip gloss just to make your mouth pop. Seeing a speck on our teeth you dive over the bed for the tissues, hoping you haven’t creased your dress in the process.
He’s at the door and you can practically hear his arm reaching up to knock as you frantically scrub at your pink teeth.
The knock sounds and an even smaller scream bursts out of you. You do it a couple more times just in case he heard. Better for him to think your house is full of mice than realise it was you. Final mirror check and you’re headed towards the door. You can see his silhouette through the frosted glass and your heart jumps up into your throat. How drunk were you when you met? Could he be completely wrong for you? Could he be absolutely grotesque? Could he be distantly related? Shudder inducing thoughts indeed, but there’s no more time to think. The door opens, and there he is.
This is everyone’s first date preparation right? Or maybe it’s just me…

It’s date time!!

Hey Lovers, big news!!

First date of the year tomorrow! Catchups over a beer in a girly bar, definitely wearing the sexy knickers 😉 More details after the big event! No pressure dude but I haven’t had any action in quite some time, things could get handsy…

Claire xx

Pickup line of the day:  Sit on my face, I’ll guess your weight.

First Kiss Freakout Part 2

Hey Hey Lovers!

So did you sleep well last night? Did you partake in any under-the-cover adventures of your own? Here’s hoping 😉

So tonight we pick up where we left off. What happened with the ultimately doomed first love affair? And why the hell couldn’t I kiss properly? Read on if you dare and discover the fateful outcome…

After two Mars Bars, one Twix, three bags of chips, a curly wurly and several hours of kissing lessons into my hand and the crook of my elbow later, I felt ready to face the world again. Also, I didn’t have a choice, as the dinner bell was ringing and that is one bell that can NOT be ignored. I dragged myself to the dining room, dreading the sight of my so-called soul mate. I sat down with a sigh, slumping down behind my “beef stroganoff” aka leftovers. But suprisingly, the idea of eating yesterday’s slops didn’t appeal to me. I just couldn’t get my churning stomach to quiet down it’s yowling. Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, a boy approached me, letter in hand. I groaned, thinking how weird would be spelt in Mandarin. He dropped the letter at my table just long enough to get a good look down one of my roommate’s top and scampered off. I opened the letter with a heavy heart, but at the sight of that illegible note, I felt a flutter of life in the old thing. I looked over at his table and saw him looking at me with that intense stalker stare, and suddenly all was right in the world again. He even attempted a wink. Unfortunately for him it came off as more of an eyelash flutter, for which he was beaten for later, as the boys in his house did not appreciate the finer things in life such as flirting.

So, everything was back to normal. I was in Lovetown, population two and things were great with a capital G. Until about two hours later. Things just suddenly got so complicated. We were innocently texting each other, occasionally saying things as naughty as “Kissing you wasn’t as weird as I made it out to be” which sent shivers of delight down my teenage spine, when suddenly his texts got less and less frequent. After a half hour wait I broke the rule of all mobile relationships and called him. He was surprised to say the least, and I admit, we hadn’t discussed going as far as phone conversations, but I needed questions answered. I tried to ask him about his home life, what he did on the holidays, how many brothers and sisters he had. He replied with ridiculous answers containing details about an eleven-room mansion his uncle owned, and how he wasn’t sure he had any siblings but was doing his upmost in a rigorous search across the globe to find them so they could all be re-united.

Now, I’m not a smart girl, and I will be the first to put my hand up to claim a prize in the gullible stakes, but this was a bit far even for me. I was willing to believe that his nose surgeon had also worked on Michael Jackson and that he was waiting for the state to pay him out five hundred thousand for “undisclosed reasons” but a mansion? Unknown lost relatives? Bitch please. I then asked him why he had learnt Mandarin when he was so clearly a pasty white Caucasian boy. Were his missing siblings in deepest darkest Asia and he hoped to blend in? He replied saying there were some things that must remain a mystery.
It was at that point I lost it. I must give him points for patience as he sat on the other end of the line and listened to me call him every name in my seventeen year old vocabulary. I doubt many of them affected him though, considering Wank Face, Knob Jockey and Toss Pot aren’t exactly the wittiest of insults. Or it could have been that he was bored and I called him, meaning I was paying for the call.

Needless to say, things were frosty at the dining table in the morning. Every time he looked at me I would bury my face in my porridge. Unfortunately on one of these occasions I buried myself a little too low and had to suffer the indignity of having oats scraped from my forehead by a caring friend. During the school day I made the heart wrenching decision that it had to end. I couldn’t be with a man who I didn’t trust, who wouldn’t tell me his innermost secrets and even worse, wouldn’t translate his oh so romantic love letters for me! (If only I had known about Google translate!) So I wrote him a little letter of my own. I didn’t have a lot of time during school to do it, what with drama class and my free period, so I penned my break up letter in the class that matters least, Maths. I’ve blocked most of that letter out but I believe the gist of it went something like this

If you cannot be honest with me now, I don’t believe we will be a compatible match in years to come. As the ball is coming up and it is a known fact that couples that go together are destined to be married, I choose to go without you. In fact, I choose to break up with you. I hope you and your plastic nose will find much happiness and hopefully your lost relatives (who I think we both know don’t exist!) can be found. So in the words of your Chinese neighbours (Japan that is) Sayonara! XOXO Kat.

So it wasn’t the searing hurtful letter that I had wanted to write, but even though our relationship had ended, I didn’t want him to be so scarred that he could never again even think of dating, let alone kiss another girl. (Safe to say I had a pretty high opinion of myself back then.)

I marched up to him after school, barely controlled tears in my eyes, and thrust the letter into his hand. Well that’s what I had planned to do; except he thought I was going in for a hug. He moved left, I ducked right, and horror of horrors my hand brushed his THING! (Yes, up until the age of eighteen that is what I referred to it as. Don’t judge people, we all have issues.) After walking me to the drink fountains so I could wash my hand vigorously, I (properly and very slowly) handed him the note.

And then I ran.
Breakups are hard to do, especially if you are the one doing the breaking, and I felt just horrible.
Then the regret started trickling in, what if I’d done the wrong thing? What if he really DID have family in China and I was the Moleface who didn’t believe him? What if we were destined to get married in Bali on the beach with shell horns playing softly in the background and I was throwing it all away? Oh God!
I ran back down the path, ready to take all those nasty things I had written back. Visions of our happy little family flashed through my head with each step (a boy, twin girls, another boy and a sausage dog called Buns) until finally there he was, right where I had left him. I smiled, he probably was so crushed he couldn’t even walk for fear his legs wouldn’t support him. And if that wasn’t love I didn’t know what was. I opened my mouth to apologize, to take him back, and to maybe try kissing again if he was really that into it, but I never got the chance. He looked at me and said,

“ I’m glad you came back, your Maths homework was folded up with the letter. (Pause for effect) By the way, thanks, I was trying to figure out how to get out of this, we really just don’t get on do we?”

Corsages danced in front of my eyes, mocking me with their festive white petals as Buns sank his teeth into them an ripped them savagely apart. I slumped to the floor and watched as he walked away, my plastic nosed night in five hundred thousand dollar armour. It was the end of my first real relationship. I had put all my efforts into making us work and somehow it wasn’t enough. I held back tears and sniffed up the snot threatening to drip onto my top lip. As I walked slowly back to my dorm I re-lived all of our moments together, the good, the bad and the weird. It was all over, everything we had built together now lay shattered on the dining room floor. I sighed, realising it would be the relationship I held all others up to, that it would have to be someone pretty special to top this guy.

It was the best two days of my life.

Ah young love! Well that’s enough of that chapter of my life, time to get to the saucy stuff! That’s right, virgin territory 😉 But tomorrow night I think it’s time to divulge the details of one of my more recent dates, just so you can see if I’ve changed at all in the last ten years.

Until then Lovers…

Claire xx

Great Bonking Song: All I want for Christmas – Mariah Carey

Best For: Fun, giggly Sunday afternoon sex

First Kiss Freakout

Hello again Lovers!

Thanks for returning for the second installment of this crazy little journey called love (and sometimes just called lust) As promised, below are the sordid, sultry and downright sad details of my very first kiss.

Enjoy 😉

Now I was what you would call a late bloomer. I never had a boyfriend in high school (except the time when my crush got pushed into me and kind of fell onto my lips. (Re-lived that moment for years. Seriously) But then at the tender age of seventeen I was finally asked out! You can imagine what this feels like for a girl with blue and purple braces. I had hit the ultimate high, dating nirvana if you will. It didn’t matter to me that he was not the most attractive boy in the world, or that he used to tell me he was an orphan and his nose was plastic from where it got smashed in by a brick. It didn’t even matter that most of his love letters to me were in Mandarin. And this to a girl who barely grasps English. Oh and touch of Piglatin. By the by, Mandarin is not the most romantic of languages, so if your thinking about going bilingual to meet a fella, I suggest Spanish or French, they’re just a touch more elegant.

Anyway, there I was, floating on my little cloud of euphoria, scribbling his name in my file, picking out my wedding dress and getting the girls ready for bridesmaid duty. Just generally living the life of one half of a loved up couple. And then the day came, that all important day, when a girl becomes a woman, when all imaginings fall away and it all becomes very real; the first kiss.

There we were, the rain was coming down, but we were snuggled up under the veranda. I could see other couples ensconced in their own hidey-holes, making babies with their mouths, and I couldn’t wait to try it. But frustratingly, my only thought was, what if we get caught? At co–ed boarding schools there are very strict rules when it comes to all things fun, and that includes NO KISSING. In fact, if students are caught kissing they will be segregated and made to keep at least six meters apart at all times for three days. I couldn’t fathom how I would survive without him for that long. There is only so much you can do with a framed picture and I wanted to do so much more, maybe even get to second base!         So, when the pivotal moment came, and he leaned in towards me, mouth slightly ajar, tongue already partially extended, ready for the ravishing, all I could think of was, oh goodness I hope the principal isn’t around! When my darling finally made contact, my eyes were wide open, searching left and right. The oval maybe? No the principal wouldn’t hang out there. Oh maybe he’s in the dining room watching us without us knowing! No he wouldn’t do that, oh my god what if there are cameras! My breath came short and sharp, which I can only assume my lover took as innocent teen excitement, as he increased pressure, movement and saliva. As concerned and distracted as I was, I found this whole kissing thing rather easy. Open your mouth, try to sound out the alphabet with your tongue while he does the same, occasionally slurp up excess saliva for hygiene’s sake and generally twist your head around opposite to his.
My hands were planted firmly on the ground, ready for a quick escape, lest I spot any house parents. The concrete was cold, and as he continued to hunt around in my mouth for whatever he was looking for, I started to concentrate more and more on the numbing tingly-ness that was beginning to take over my bony bottom. Eventually he called off the search party, inhaled deeply and pulled away. I smiled at him, my beloved, covered in saliva, MY saliva. That must mean something, I thought as I wiped his efforts off my chin, nose and neck. I gazed into his eyes, waiting for him to profess his undying love to me, for him to tell me that we will run away together and elope somewhere oh so very exotic, like where those Komodo dragons live. He looked at me, that firm tense gaze that I adored so much, licked his lips in anticipation of what he was about to divulge and said, “Well that was weird.”

My world shattered. Weird?! He was calling our first moment of passion weird!? How was I ever going to tell our grandkids that grandpa was a douchebag? I felt the weight of the world crash down on me. All those dreams I held dear were now just memories of what could of been. I pushed back my tears with a melodramatic wave of my hand. He asked if there was something wrong and I gave him my best withering look. Unfortunately with watery eyes it just looked like I was squinting at him. I slid away from him, flicking my dress over my ankles as I did. Someone like him did not deserve the delicious sight of where my foot met my calf! With his silence clamoring in my ears I stormed off back to my house, into the waiting arms of my 32 housemates.


Will it last? Will he ever see my ankle ever again? Or will I never recover from this most tragic of events? I’m sure you know the answers to all three of these questions but isn’t it so much more fun to read along? Stay tuned for the epic finale of First Kiss Freakout!

Claire xx

Pickup line of the day: If I was a fly I’d be all over you, ’cause you da shit.

This is me!

Hey Lovers,

Thanks for your company. Today is a little bit of a show and tell version of me. Who am I? I’m sure as shit not Spiderman, that’s for damn sure. My name is Claire. I’m a country girl who used to be absolutely terrified of boys, men and scarecrows who showed male like tendencies.

I’ve changed since then, trust me. From a prude who was the only virgin at boarding school (more about that later) I now own and have read over twenty dedicated sex bibles. From “The Sex Diaries” by Bettina Arndt to “The Sexy Book of Sexy Sex” by Kristen Schaal and Rich Blomquist (A hilarious read if you’ve got a casual sunday arvo to waste) I tear through these books, relishing every new sex position, handy tip  and interesting fact. After all, a well read girl is a sexy girl, particularly if she has just polished off “Good Porn for Women” on the train ride home. Now that is a good way to get some great attention ladies, just try not to hold these books aloft on pension day. Safe to say most Nanna’s of the world do not appreciate quite detailed instructions on how to use a swordfish as a sex toy (pictures included)

But my life doesn’t revolve around sex (completely) Sure I have just enrolled in what feels like a lifelong uni course to become an established sexologist, but there is more to me than just my dirty dirty mind.

I crave a beautiful relationship. After all I am 26, and although my wild oats aren’t germinating just yet, settling down with a man (preferably) is the end goal. Which is sort of what this blog is about. My dating ups and downs. Even though it usually takes going down to get something up 😉

I’ll start from the beginning, just so you can see how this strange strange journey began, and just maybe we’ll have a little fun along the way. I’m on three dating websites, on the lookout for “the one” or at least someone who’s pork sword doesn’t smell like stale corn chips (apparently that’s not normal)

So stay tuned, because the stories only get weirder!

Next time it’s back to school for the first kiss (not a great experience)

Claire xx