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.


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