Who wants to fuck the pretty people?

Hey hey Lovers!

Apologies for the long absence, but honestly, things have been so slooow! Now don’t get me wrong Lovers, I’m still getting my daily dose of man wherever I can, it’s just fewer and farther between than I’d like. I particularly enjoy my flirt sessions with my local baker. We don’t say anything out of the ordinary, but the eye fucking is off the charts! We say hello, I ask for my order, which he dutifully grabs in a very speedy and efficient manner, then he tells me the total. And then our hands touch, and we glance into each others eyes. And boom! I can see him naked, covered from head to toe in flour, beckoning me over with a dangerous looking rolling pin. His teeny tiny apron only just covers his own very impressive… utensil. I stroll over to him, slamming an oven door shut as I do so.

“I love the smell of baking bread in the morning.” I say huskily, as the flour has made its way into my throat and I’m attempting to breathe normally.

He whips off the apron, revealing his enticing baguette and simply says

“Wanna bite?”

And then we fuck.

A lot.

Like all night.

No, wait, he’s a baker, so it would be all morning. That’s even better; once we’re done he can make me brunch.

So as you can see Lovers, the sex drought continues and my rampant one-track mind continues to run riot whenever confronted with any half decent male.

I toy with the idea of asking him out, but I love my bread too much to jeopardise the best supplier of cheesymite scrolls in town (for those not in Australia, a cheesymite scroll is a delicious twine of Vegemite, cheese and bread… Sorry, I just drooled on the keyboard.)

But fear not Lovers, I have exciting news! September is sex month! Not officially or anything but my calendar is filling up fast with sexy saucy events! First off there’s Ozkinkfest, which I’m very excited to revisit now that I’m not so much of a ‘newbie.’ I’m keen to check out the latest tools of the trade and add to my collection.

Then there’s the Saints and Sinners Ball! Squee!

As some of you will remember I attended the Disney themed S and S ball last year and it was freaking amazing! (If you’d like to read about it and orgasm vicariously just look for any of my blogs from last year with Disney themes in the title.)

This time the theme is “Oceans of Sin”. Oh yeah baby, I’m going to get me a sailor!

And a pirate!

And a merman!

And all manner of sexy sea creatures!

My costume is almost ready (I’m going as a sexy sailor girl with badass (temporary) tattoos) and the excitement is palpable!

On another note, I’ll tell you one thing I’ve discovered recently Lovers, something that makes me very very mad.

In my search for swingers parties I have come across many different establishments, clubs and seedy men trying to start an orgy. The seedy men you expect, and a few of the clubs seem very cool and more importantly, very legit. But what I found disturbing were the “VIP” clubs.

Urgh it’s rant time Lovers.

These clubs, these ‘special’ establishments apparently ‘pride themselves’ on having the best group of people to have your fun with. They screen everyone who shows interest in their events. The screening I have no problem with, it’s important to have at least a phone conversation with all the attendees at small events so you don’t have massive creeps lining the walls. However, these places go too far.

They want photos.

They want muscles.

They want skinny bitches.

They want everything waxed.

I’m not joking Lovers, these are the requirements!

One club even went so far as to state the dress sizes they accepted! If you are a lady who wants to swing at this establishment, you cannot be any bigger than a size fourteen.


Who are these wankers to decide what is classed as ‘sexy?’ I know many a size sixteen or heavier girl who can outsexy the pants off me and my size twelve frame. But don’t worry ladies, the boys have guidelines too.

This is an actual abstract from one of the establishments.

“Guys must be seen to be “currently” either slim or athletic or muscular, have no love handles and no excessive body hair. Please note: no breathing in.”

The fuck? No love handles? What if I wanted a little jiggly wiggly action with my man’s dangly janglies? What counts as ‘excessive body hair?’ Is there a chart or something?

Inconsiderate bastards.

Oh but it gets worse Lovers. If they don’t think your semi naked photo is legit, they’ll ask you for more.

“If we feel you don’t fit the age or physical requirement, then you will be asked to send us a current full body (briefs on is fine) photo, holding the current days paper with the date showing.”

Does that sound suspiciously like a mug shot to anyone else? I hate this place. It just seems to go against everything I have learnt so far in the swinging community. I slammed my laptop shut when I read the last part of their ‘screening’ process.

“Please remember if a venue doesn’t have a ‘genuine’ screening process, then expect to be confronted by anyone, any age, any size when you turn up at their parties.”

That’s what makes it fun you morons! I don’t know about you Lovers, but I would take the ‘unscreened’ S and S ball any day over some wanky club full of tossers who just want to stare at themselves in the mirror as they fuck you.

The thing I loved about S and S was it’s inclusivity, its absolute disregard for society’s view of what is attractive or not. Women who would normally be judged as ‘fat and unsexy’ were nymph like creatures of the night. Sex goddesses in their natural habitat, some as naked as the day they were born. There were couples in their seventies, their frail bodies grinding so fast and so hot on the dance floor you were afraid they were either going to break a hip or combust! And all I could think was “geez I hope I’m that happy when I’m seventy.”

Screw the fancy pants ‘pretty people’ clubs; us outcasts have got to stick together.

Aye aye captain!



Pickup line of the week: Was your mother a beaver? Cause daaaaaaaamn girl!

Small Penis Humiliation: Method Acting

Ahoy there Lovers!

Ok Lovers, who didn’t cross their fingers? That’s right, teeny tiny penis man bailed at the last minute!


Yes, it was most definitely a saddening blow when I realised there would be no tormenting of the miniscule wang for me. I texted Paul on Friday morning, eager to suss out the details of our meeting so I could squeeze in some more research (and maybe memorise some choice humiliation lines.)

However my eagerness was met with a cold bucket of water, thrown by a man not only in possession of the most microscopic member, but terrible Internet dating scruples.

I asked Pail if he was still ‘up’ for the night (the pun game is strong with this one.) He replied that no, he wasn’t and we would have to reschedule for the weekend.

Keh? Reschedule? Subs aren’t allowed to reschedule bitch!

I informed petite pork sword Paul that I was in fact, busy the entire weekend and only this night would suit.

I smirked to myself as I got into character. Pfft, trying to change nights on me little man? I don’t think so!

Paul’s reply both surprised and enraged me.

“I kind of just want to jump straight into it babe.”

Excuse me? You want me to forgo all my safety procedures and just allow you into my house so we can ‘jump straight into’ golden showers, pegging and chastity cages?

I don’t think so Mr!

I replied as calmly as possible, while my brain screamed at him and his ignorance of my situation. I was doing him a favour by going out on a limb for him, a latex covered, slightly lubed up limb, and he was trying to push me even further?

What a little bitch.

“Sorry babe, but that’s not the way it works. We meet in a bar for a drink so I can screen you for crazy. Then if all goes well we can get into the fun stuff.”

He replied with a sullen “Ok, fine.”

Geez if he wanted me to think he was a pathetic little winky he was certainly hitting all the right buttons. Talk about method acting!

I decided to give him five days to reschedule. If he didn’t, I would delete him.

Of course I deleted him.

The little wiener never talked to me again, just as I suspected.

The truth is, I’m not sure if Paul was an experienced hand at kink and SPH, or if he was just a newbie with big fantasies. The idea that we could just ‘jump straight into it’ makes me think he wasn’t very experienced. In my own limited involvement with kink, the psychological build up is half the fun. Jumping straight in would be like a guy ramming in balls deep without even a kiss!

And we all know how much fun that is…not.

Another disappointment this week was the swingers party. Sadly Lovers I was not able to attend! Trust me, I’m just as devastated as you my lovelies. But unfortunately, one can never predict when the icy hand of the flu will trickle its moist phlegm down your back.

I seriously doubt sixty couples arriving for some sexy time would appreciate me and my sexy cough barking all over them.

But never fear Lovers! We will regroup and sally forth once more into the fray!

But until then I’ll tell you about my most recent of disastrous Tinder dates. Remember Paul? (The other Paul. Not SPH Paul. Yes, I’m aware I need to think of more fake names.) Country boy Paul, the Paul who stood me up three times.

Yeah, that Paul.

Ok so now we’ve established which Paul we’re talking about (wow how many times can I say Paul in one paragraph?) we’ll get to what happened when I actually met him.

What a douche.

A few weeks after I’d deleted him on Tinder, I was flicking through my Bumble account when who should flash up? Paul of course.

I reluctantly started chatting with him again. I just couldn’t pass up meeting someone who knew where my hometown was. Literally nobody knows it so the chance to reminisce about the old place was too much of a temptation to resist.

We arranged to meet at a local pub and the date was set. I was not confidant however, due to his track record of cancelling at the very last minute.

Much to my surprise though, he texted me to tell me he was on his way and should be on time.


I was of course a little late. It was only fair to make him wait just a little after the dick move he’d pulled a few weeks ago.

I walked into the bar and looked around, searching for men sitting alone. Then I saw him. He looked good. Remarkably good actually. Wow, what a cutie.

“Paul?” I asked, excited to get my drank on and touch him inappropriately.


Goddamit! It wasn’t him! The yes came from a hunched figure sitting in the corner opposite him.

I tried to hide my disappointment as Paul butted out his cigarette (eww he smoked) and shambled towards me.

After taking one last glance at the gorgeous man waiting for his incredibly lucky date, I slid into a booth with Paul.

Urgh, it was not good Lovers.

The man looked like a thirty year old but behaved like an eighteen year old. We talked about bad Tinder dates to break the ice and boy he did not come off well! His crowning moment of idiocy would have to be the proud manner in which he announced he had slept with a midget.

“What was her name?” I asked pointedly.

“I dunno, midget girl I guess,” he guffawed idiotically.


Whenever I made a joke that he enjoyed, he would slap both his hands on his thighs and jump up and down like some joyful toddler.

It was quite disconcerting to say the least.

He then went on the tell me all about his favourite game. Insulting women in bars for money.

“Yeah it’s great,” he gushed “ You go up to some random chicks and say something like, did it hurt when you fell from heaven? Good thing you landed on your face!”

Cue his weird laughter and knee slapping.

“That’s horrible.” I said, completely expressionless as I wondered which of the Gods I had pissed off to deserve this date.

“Nah it’s ok, I bought them a drink later.” He said, affronted.

“Did you apologise?”

“Nah no way!” he laughed.

God give me strength, I prayed to myself.

I ordered a pizza so I had something to distract myself with but to my dismay they were ‘out’ of pizzas. Honestly how can you be out of pizzas when that’s the only thing on the menu?

Clearly it was not my night.

Paul suggested we go somewhere else to eat. My brain screamed at me to get out, but my stomach was squealing a different tune.

That tune was dumplings.

We headed towards the dumpling restaurant and as we walked Paul rolled another cigarette. This was my only chance for a slightly smokey free kiss.

Note: I know you’re probably all thinking, “why in God’s name would you want to kiss this wanker?” And you’re right Lovers, he was a complete wanker. But I’m testing a theory. Girls like bad boys right? Aka: Wankers. Why? Maybe it’s because they are the best kissers, the best in bed, the best in all things sexual. Therefore I figure it’s my duty to kiss everyone I go on a date with, whether they be a gentleman or a douche. Then I can prove the theory! Or disprove it, either way. Safe to say Paul fell well and truly into the douche category.

I grabbed him and pinned him to the wall aggressively. I had no time for romantic crap.

“I think we should make out before you light that disgusting thing.” I said

He laughed and I leaned in.

The bastard dodged me!

Huh, that’s a first, I thought. It didn’t really bother me, which was no surprise. If I had actually liked the guy it would have been a sore blow but I was feeling nothing but passive aggressive towards him.

I shrugged and we continued on for dumplings.

After dinner we walked towards home together as we lived in a similar area (such a shame he was a tool. He was perfectly placed for a handy friends with benefits deal.)

We reached the corner and I said jokingly “Well I’d invite you home but you’re clearly not interested.”

He laughed, hard, confirming my hypothesis that he was in fact, not interested.

I stuck my hand out for a handshake and he looked at it quizzically.

“Oh come on, don’t I at least get a hug?”

I sighed inwardly and stepped forward to embrace him. As his arms went around me he truly sunk to a new low, as he squealed “Titties!”

Good god man, how have you ever lured a woman into bed?

If that was what he uttered during a hug, I shudder to imagine what he screams during sex.

I laughed awkwardly and walked fast in the opposite direction, keen to get home and scrub the memory of the night out of my brain.

After a lengthy shower and many many loofahs, I emerged from the bathroom only to find a message from Paul. It read: Hey, thanks for tonight. You know that’s the first time I’ve ever not accepted an invitation home. I’m kind of surprised at myself!”

I deleted him faster than you can say man-child and returned to the shower to continue scrubbing.

Claire xx

Pickup line of the week: Well, here I am. What are your other two wishes?