That bitch has got to go!

I’m back Lovers!

And what a great holiday it was! Sadly, I returned back to quite the different situation.

No job, no money and no sex.

Oh to fly away again!

Still, what does one do when faced with an insurmountable situation? She gets right back up and mounts that bad boy!

So, whilst I strap on my riding chaps, I figured it’d be a great time to bang out another blog to my faithful patient Lovers.

So let’s get straight into it shall we?

Three things happened in quick succession that would ultimately change everything between Callum and myself. First of all, I finally realised it’s not the size of the boat, but the motion of the ocean.

That’s right, I orgasmed with Callum!

Sure, I had to perch myself precariously on the edge of a chair, or couch, or balcony, but if I could get in that certain position, sweet sweet release could be mine!

This improved things dramatically for some time, as I knew exactly how Callum could cheer me up if we had a fight or I was feeling blue, but suddenly, things started to happen that even a roaring O couldn’t fix.

Without warning, Callum lost his other job.

When I asked what had happened I was met with a ridiculous story involving a day old sausage roll that apparently he had eaten without permission. I of course took the logical girl stance and told him that that was not really a fireable offence and he should just go back and talk it out.

But I forgot about that one important thing.

Male pride.

Turns out Callum hadn’t been fired for the sausage roll ‘incident.’ As soon as the boss started chastising him, he effectively flung up his arms in protest and stormed out.

Fucking boys!

He had no backup plan, no savings and no intention of going back.

I tried to support him through what seemed like a really dumbass move, but it was difficult when his rent was due and I was the only one who could help him pay it.

So when Callum suggested that he get himself a housemate I was all for the idea.

I was not however, for the housemate he eventually chose.

Four hundred dollars down and with not a job in sight for Callum, I was starting to question our future. (I know I know, I should have questioned much sooner, but hey love is blind. And apparently broke.)

The day this ‘housemate’ was due to move in, was the day I discovered her identity.

Wait, her?

That’s right, my long time lover, my beautiful boyfriend was officially shacking up with some girl he met through his sister.

And I was funding it.

Situation = Fucked up.

Gretchen, as she will henceforth be known, was not the type of woman you wanted living with your man.

She was thin, fashion savvy and really good at contouring her cheekbones. She may have had no ass but her legs went on for days, especially when she swanned around in shorty shorts.

Honestly I think I have her flaps committed to memory I saw them so often.

But a good girlfriend is not jealous. A good girlfriend supports her man in his efforts to rebuild his fast crumbling life. A good girlfriend is calm, demure and welcoming to new friends and acquaintances entering her boyfriends’ life.

I am not a good girlfriend.

I was over at his house constantly, making sure they were friendly but not ‘too’ friendly, cooking meals to remind Callum how good a cook I was, then paying for takeaway when that cooking went tits up.

But it turned out I needn’t have worried. Although having someone pay half the rent was a relief for Callum (and myself as I was actually the one paying,) Gretchen seemed to be showing some undesirable tendencies.

First of all, she was a vodka sneak, and a shithouse one at that. Within a month, Callum’s half full bottle of vodka was almost gone and tasted suspiciously watery.

We made a toxic punch one Saturday night to get a bit of a buzz while Gretchen was out. It was so intense we could only down a few cups each before we retired for some much needed boozy sex. The next morning the bowl had somehow moved from the fridge to the sink and was decidedly empty.

Bitch had come home at 3am and downed the whole bowl!

She was always around. And Callum tiptoed around her like she owned the place. On our six-month anniversary he led me to his room where I was confronted with candles, champagne and strawberries.

I loved it, and it was just what I needed after fearing that he may have stopped caring about me. Of course all those aphrodisiacs worked their magic on my nether regions and I jumped on him with glee.

Only to be told ‘not tonight’ as little miss Gretchen might hear us and be disturbed.

That was it.

I hated her.

The bitch had officially messed with my sex life, the ultimate insult and highest crime in my book.

She had to go.

Unfortunately, my evil plans to usurp her power over my man were interrupted by the least expected party.

The dentist.

Callum came down with the mother of all toothaches and had to go to an emergency dentist the very day I began hatching my nefarious schemes. Three hundred dollars and a root canal later I was ready to snap.

Callum wasn’t getting a job. He wasn’t saving money by living with Gretchen because the bitch was now always late for rent and he was too terrified to confront her.

I was about to find out why.

Stay tuned for the crazy ending to this messed up relationship. Will I get out alive? Or more importantly, will I get out with any money left in my bank account?

Claire xx

Pickup line of the week: I don’t care if they’re real, they’re magnificent.

Don’t forget the Facebook page!










“Argh! That’s my ass!”

Guten Tag Lovers!

Why am I greeting you in this most formal of German salutations? Because last night I got down to my German roots. Or rather, my German root went down on me. Shall we take a little break from the Callum saga and focus on the now for a moment?

I knew you’d say yes. That’s why I love you.

So, the Tinder pool has been a little shallow lately. Even when I do meet guys I like, they’re either still hung up on past girlfriends (blech,) live over an hour away (no car means no good,) or are only living in Australia until their visa runs out (and I’m not looking for an insta-husband, that’s for sure.)

So when I met Marcus last night, I had little hope that anything would come of it. Especially as while I was walking to the date I had just been called a slut by one of my other Tinder matches. After all the “hi, how are you chit chat, the conversation went a little like this:

Me: So how are you finding Tinder?

Douche: Tinder is crap.

Me: How so?

Douche: Too many fake sluts.

Me: That’s a bugger, met anyone nice yet?

Douche: Nah. Prove me wrong?

Me: Challenge accepted! Want to catch up for a beer sometime?

Douche: Sure, come to mine.

Me: One thing I’ve learned from Tinder and CSI is never meet at someone’s house! I could meet you out sometime.

Douche: How did you learn that?

Me: Very creepy men.

Douche: But I’m not up for some friendly meeting only.

Me: What do you mean?

Douche: I want to have sex with you.

Me: Well cheers for that, I enjoy sex too but I’m looking for a bit more. Plus I thought you didn’t like sluts? Bit confused aren’t you?

Douche: So am I. Sluts I refer to as selfish girls, girls who have sex with a new guy every week or those who wear revealing skirts at clubs. Not girls who have sex with one guy every few months.

I didn’t reply to this, as the guy was coming across as not only a complete ass-hat, but somebody who really didn’t seem to grasp the meaning of the word slut. The next day I got this.

Douche: Fuck you slut.

Me: Excuse me?

Douche: Sorry, auto correct. Are you a slut?

Me: Probably yes in your warped definition. Me and every other girl who doesn’t come running to your house to sleep with you.

Douche: Do you like anal?

And that’s the point I not only deleted him but reported his delusional ass to Tinder. You’re welcome ladies.

So you can understand how low my expectations were of this newest date. Did all men on Tinder come with terms and conditions that seemed impossible to follow?

I steeled myself, cleared my mind of Sir Douche-Bag and walked into the bar to meet Marcus.

Huh, not too shabby Mr Marcus, not too shabby at all.

Marcus was blond, lean and about my height. I mentally high fived myself for deciding not to wear heels. We grabbed a drink and got to chatting. Marcus was a country boy who had just moved to the big city for a bit more excitement.

Enter me.

After the usual boring talk about family, jobs and all the other mundane topics, it was time to get down to my favourite topic. Let’s all say it together now Lovers,


I knew pretty quickly that as nice as Marcus was, he wasn’t dating material as he was still pining for his ex. As a rule I never get romantically involved with boys who pine. It always ends badly, and usually just for me. However, I never said anything about not getting involved sexually…

Marcus was a fairly innocent boy, having only pounded the punani pavement with four girls before me. I shocked and awed him with tales of what goes on in the big city, from my sex party shenanigans to the kinkiest kink I discovered at Kinkfest. Needless to say he was terrified.

But very intrigued.

I decided the usual bar crawl was not the way I wanted to run this particular night. He had paid for the last two beers and as usual I didn’t want him to think I was just using him to get my daily yeast infusion. So I got him up and walked him to my local park, stopping at the bottle shop on the way for a cheeky six pack. We sat in the park, drinking beer and talking sex, watching as night owls walked their excited dogs round and round the path.

That’s when I decided to test out his kissing skills.

Oh dear, no no no.

Sadly he was all suction! As soon as our mouths locked he had my bottom lip between his teeth and there was no escape! I couldn’t twist my head to angle out of it or even use my tongue to kiss back.

Luckily Marcus was gracious in defeat as I informed him of his less than perfect kissing style. I showed him a much more enjoyable method for both parties, and to my delight the student picked it up almost instantly.

After a fairly lengthy snog session we resumed the sex chats, and that is when things got interesting. Marcus was regaling one of his sexploits, and to demonstrate his chosen point, he put his hand on my stomach to show ‘just how far it was in.’

He had put his hand above my bellybutton! How big was this dude?

Never one to leave any pants mystery unsolved, I whisked him home so we could ‘watch a movie.’

Hot Fuzz actually, great film.

Twenty minutes in, I couldn’t take it anymore and let my hand casually slip to his trouser snake.

Whoa, this guy might mean business!

I quickly had him de-pantsed and laying there only in his underwear. It was reveal time! Honestly the feeling you get whipping off a man’s undies for the first time is just like when you peel the plastic off your new phone. Deliciously satisfying and with full knowledge that once they’re off, you can’t unsee what has been observed.

Dear God in heaven, I’ve unearthed a monster!

My mouth went dry as I contemplated how in the hell I was going to fit that whopper into my mouth. No wonder he had such problems with girls using teeth on him! Unless you could pop them out there was never going to be enough room in one woman’s mouth for both teeth and that gargantuan cock!

I shook my head and set my jaw. I had never been intimidated by a todger before, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to let this one put me off my game now. Even if it did look like it needed it’s own phone number. Jesus!

So we began the foreplay, a little for him, and a lot for me. Granted at that point Marcus probably thought I was a bit of a selfish lover, but I knew if he didn’t preheat this oven good and proper he would barely fit a carrot in, let alone the whole roast.

Finally the time came, and after choosing a condom from my box of fun (generic and unflavoured, aw how boring,) Marcus slipped it on and began his plundering of my dungeon.

It wasn’t nearly as bad as I thought it would be.

To start with.

He slid the great dane that was his cock into my lunch box and his first words were “Ooh, you’re so nice and tight baby.”

Yeah well that happens when you’re trying to squeeze a watermelon into a fruit loop buddy.

He started off fairly slow, (thank god) so I could get used to the feel of a giant Toblerone being inserted into my pink canoe (turns out it takes a while to get used to.) Eventually I got into the rhythm and started enjoying myself. But then he would change angles without warning. Each time I had to not only hide my shock but start all over again as he rearranged my internal organs.

All this had taken place on the couch in the lounge room before Marcus decided it was time to take it to the bedroom. I was a little reluctant as that meant he had to take it out and put it back in again, a process that I had only just managed to survive the first time, but I eventually agreed.

What could go wrong in the bedroom?

I dimmed the lights and we jumped into bed, immediately picking up where we left off. Once I was laying fairly flat it was quite nice. It’s just an acquired taste, I told myself, eager to enjoy the experience as much as possible. Marcus started to speed up, and I kissed him hard, enjoying his pump action motion.

Until disaster struck.

In the midst of the his furious thrusting Marcus made the fatal error of pulling out a little too far before re-inserting. And he missed.

Oh yes Lovers, he missed.

And what else is in the general facility of the old bearded clam? What would you generally run into if you took a wrong turn out of the tampon tunnel?

That’s right, ass town, population one.


Oh my god Lovers the pain, the agony! He slammed into my poor little patooty with all the force of a runaway freight train! I yelped in agony and Marcus quickly rolled off me.

“Ooh that would have hurt.” he said sympathetically.

I just nodded, unable to form words as my tattered ass screamed for mercy. There was only one thing for it. I ran out and sought refuge in the toilet. Two tears slipped out as I stuffed toilet paper up my butt to numb the incredibly intense pain (from my eyes, not my butt obviously. That would be another problem entirely.)

I sat there for a few minutes, waiting for the stinging to subside and cursing all men to hell. Once I took the toilet paper off my ass I wasn’t shocked at all to see blood. In fact I would have been suprised if there hadn’t been blood, after the walloping my poor badonkadonk had suffered.

Staggering back to the bedroom, I confirmed Marcus’ fears that ‘no there would not be any more sex tonight’ and we returned to the lounge to finish the movie.

Argh even sitting down was painful! So when Marcus tried to put the moves on again in the hope that I had magically healed within the hour, I sent him a withering glare that was enough to shrivel his balls back into his body.

As I am a benevolent lover however, I did grant him a blowjob of the finest quality and he ended his night sponging sprog from his shoulders.

I ended the night contemplating how much toilet paper I could stuff in my underwear before he noticed.

Turns out not much.

So there you go Lovers, sex injuries happen to the best of us!

This will be my last post for a little while as I’m off on holidays tomorrow. Hopefully my ‘injury’ doesn’t hamper my ability to have fun. Although I may have to rethink going horse riding (shudder.)

But as usual the Facebook page is always there for you to peruse, and if I meet any holiday potentials, I’ll definitely be updating it 😉 Just visit to get your daily dose of frogs!

Until next time Lovers

Claire xx

Pickup line of the week: Does that stain have a story?