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

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

Until it hits you.

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

Bloody loving the unisex loo’s now… not.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Here’s where I went so so wrong Lovers.

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

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

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

Surely nothing would come from just one little sleep in?

Oh how wrong I was.

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

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

But then came the burning…


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

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

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

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

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

More water? There had to be a better way!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It did not.

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

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

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

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

Lol, just kidding Lovers! See you next time.

Claire xx

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

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

The Festival of Really Good Sex! – Finale

Hey hey Lovers!

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

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

What an education!

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

The Art of Fellatio!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tricky. Very tricky.

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

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

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

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

It’s all about perception.

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

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

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

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

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

Hmm, that could be quite the mood killer.

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

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

Pfft, is a frog’s ass watertight?

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

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

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

Welcome to my world boys!

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

Until next time Lovers xx


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

By: Lil Wayne

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