sexatoxbridge

The Sunday Times

2023 Prologue: Some things never change…

Except did I fuck pay £4 for this paper. I’m now a cardholding member of Waitrose and get it for free. And I have a car. Other than that it’s basically “new year same hoe.” So onto a story about me reading this paper in uni…

As I perused the Sunday Times today* (namely the magazine supplements) a couple of things caught my eye.

Style: Update (by Shane Watson) “Never Befriend the Help”

“We already know about frenemies (friends who are, on closer inspection, enemies). The fremployee is an employee who you mistake, at your peril for a friend (or a daughter, or an Eliza Doolittle figure) – another toxic relationship guaranteed to end in tears.”

One of the benefits of living in college is that we have cleaners. The woman who cleans my accommodation is a lovely person who I often chat to. I may not pay her directly, but her fees are no doubt included in my rent, therefore this article is vaguely relevant to my relationship with her. I found this article appalling. As if women didn’t have enough reasons to turn against each other, now we have to be wary that those who happen to work for or around us are out to get us?

I wouldn’t call this woman one of my best friends per se, but we have sat down to a cup of tea to talk about boyfriends and what we did over the weekend. We know quite a bit about each other, and she happens to clean my accommodation. What of it? This article degrades our society a couple of decades I feel.

The Sunday Times Magazine: To be or not to be (by Robert Rowland Smith) “Is tweeting bad for the soul?”

“TS Eliot expressly used the word ‘twittering’ a century ago to describe the results of such immersion in the babble of modern life.”

Twitter can be used as a very self-absorbed way of transferring what’s on your mind to the internet with all to see without the filter of thinking it through properly. It is a screen through which you can say whatever you like, and in some cases (like mine) you can do so anonymously without any consequence.

That said, some people on Twitter are genuinely hilarious and I enjoy following them just to see what they’re going to say. I try and keep the Twitter updates as entertaining and relevant as possible. No one cares if you’re at Tesco buying milk (unless it’s chocolate milk and you’re also buying condoms in which case you are the envy of everyone in the line – that’s tweetable, and perhaps blog-worthy as you’ll see eventually).

The Sunday Times Magazine: Cover Story (by Eleanor Mills) They Can’t Stop Putting it About

“Golf, like all professional sport, is an immensely competitive world: every shot, every drive, every putt is ranked.”

Every piece of work I submit is scrutinised. It’s a bit like training. Then exams are like the Masters or the Olympics of academia…the only thing that actually counts (unless you’re a PhD student or researcher).

“If you are a professional athlete, you can’t drink much or take drugs; you watch your weight, sleep well and eat carefully. So what’s left if you’re a young man who wants a kick? Sex. And lots of it.”

Yes, in between revising, sex is a very entertaining outlet for stress and frustration. More so than running or drinking. Not a great excuse for cheating on your wife, but a good distraction from pending exams.

And by “young man” I’m sure they mean “young person.”

“Churchill said of champagne: ‘In victory you deserve it, in defeat you need it.’”

I just like this quote and wanted to make sure I remembered it for later.

All in all, this article reminded me a bit of the hype around yours truly. What’s going on is not a secret from within the golf circle or from within my college walls. Reveal it to the rest of the world though and it’s apparently not what they were expecting. This article did make a good point that Tiger Woods “never expressed any regret for the pain he’d caused his mistresses. It was as if they were toys to be used and discarded, as if the fact they might have feelings too never crossed his mind.” Very interesting…there are people I carelessly write about all over the internet for anyone to read about without a second thought. A bit less extreme than what Mr. Woods did I feel, but still. One must wonder how would these boys feel to know that I’m – ha just kidding, I really couldn’t care less what they would think.

Style: The Trouble With Women (by Stephen, 27, Banker) “They’re All Moan, No Action”

http://women.timesonline.co.uk/tol/life_and_style/women/relationships/article7089598.ece

“Women prefer to moan to everyone around them instead of taking any action or responsibility for themselves.”

Whoa whoa whoa there Mr. Stephen the Banker…I think you might be onto something here. In the most anti-feminist move this century I’m going to go ahead and say that this banker isn’t completely wrong. I had a serious debate with a friend over this article earlier. I use the term “friend” very liberally considering she may hate me after I took Stephen’s side.

To her credit, Briony argued that any generalisations about “the trouble with men and/or women” are degrading to everybody. But to my credit, when Stephen says, “At work I am surrounded by women and their samey conversations: why so-and-so hasn’t called, how fat they feel, what heinous crime their boyfriend has committed…” I can’t help but think, “Testify!” Sorry, Briony. Stephen goes on to say, “I ask: ‘Did you call him?’ ‘No.’ ‘Did you start that diet last summer?’ ‘No.’ ‘Did you mention that the dishwasher needed emptying?’ ‘No.’” I’m simply agreeing that a man can’t know what you want unless you tell him. Men are a lot of things, but one thing they most definitely are not is psychic. Or even vaguely observant most of the time. It’s just science.

I will agree that these kind of sweeping generalisations about women are usually sexist. And that Stephen sounds like a real fun sponge in the office. However, the generalisations women make about men are sexist as well. For example, saying men aren’t psychic. There could be the odd wizard out there who can see into the future, who knows? Saying that all men cheat is another one of those stereotypes which I consider to have a sliver of truth. And by a sliver I mean that most men cheat.

2023 Post Script: *when these posts say “today” or “this week” it is of course referring to events that happened a decade ago now. Just conveniently posting this on a Sunday.

This week I was on Twitter (some things never change…although it’s looking like I might have to finally commit to BlueSky since Twitter is becoming insufferable) talking about how having a cleaner is just part of my mental health budget. A very privileged thing to say, I know, but my ADHD combined with committing to live in a house alone leads to a lot of disorganisation and if I do clean a room it’s usually to the detriment of the rest of the house and then I go into executive dysfunction as I shame spiral into a depressive episode. So I take the money I’m saving on free newspapers and put that towards a weekly hour of cleaning. We exchange Christmas gifts, so I stand by that article being bullshit as I could not live without this woman and I love her.

Also when I started reading my defence for Stephen I was about to be like, “What in the actual hell was I talking about” but then I got to the end and was like

Either I’ve always been very wise or I’ve always been a complete dumbass. Now I’m wondering when that chocolate milk and condoms shopping trip comes up. Remember that well. Ahhh good times.

Post Script on Grazia

If the first post regarding the Grazia article seems like a laundry-list of responses, it’s because it is. It is a lengthy answer to a lengthy prompt:

“Explain why you are having one night stands rather then looking for a relationship (is it because you’re so busy studying you can’t maintain a relationship, does it make you feel good about yourself etc). This bit needs to be anecdote heavy! Tell us about the different men you’ve slept with (like the Rugby Blue). Where do you meet these men?

Why did you decide to write the blog? There’s been a trend for confessional blogging recently, with Belle du Jour and ‘Girl With A One Track Mind’. Do you think we really need another sexcapades blog?

Did you expect it to be so controversial? You’ve been called a ‘closet nympho’ has this been exaggerated?

Do you feel, in this day and age, as a women sleeping around still carries a stigma. Do you feel people have higher expectations of you because you’re an academic – like there’s this strange idea you can’t be intelligent and enjoy sex!

Do you think you’d be treated differently if you were a man writing a blog? Or an average girl who isn’t at Oxbridge (are Oxbridge students expected to behave differently?). Would it be so controversial?

When was the first time you heard someone else mention the ‘Oxbridge blogger’. Did one of your friend mention they’d read ‘this blog’. Do your friends have any idea it’s you? How did you feel when your blog made headline news?

What lengths are you going to keep your identity a secret? Are you worried about your identity being found out by your family and friends? Or any of the men recognising you?”

It’s interesting what words people get caught up with. “Nympho” “Taboo” “Blues” … it’s just semantics. Sex isn’t terribly taboo in itself. When writing the article there was an added sense of hyperbole due to the prompts and assignment set in front of me. In typical student fashion, I even emailed the editor at Grazia about five minutes before the deadline for the article promising that I was almost done and that I would have it to her asap. I was juggling two other essays at the time. I’ve read over it a couple times since…a bit wordy. At least it included two stories about sex even though their article conveniently left those out.

As I approach exams I find myself with less and less time to go out on weekends, but luckily I know a couple boys who like to stay in as well. No lack of blog stories here. Now to decide which to write about next.

Grazia

There was an interview with yours truly in Grazia back in 2010 and they initially requested that I write something myself. Which I did. They left out most of what I wrote (namely the sex, in their article) so here is what I actually wrote:

I enjoy casual sex with men. A lot. I also enjoy life as a student at one of the most prestigious universities in the world. It is unlike anything else. Surrounded by some of the world’s most intelligent and talented students and academics, how could I not be turned on? As a woman I find it absolutely sexy to be in the company of someone who is trying to cure cancer, or who will be representing their country at the London Olympics. I tend to gravitate towards the latter though . . .

My recollection of the Rugby Blue who wanted anal sex is perhaps the most famous of the sex tales I’ve told thus far, but it was nowhere near as comical as my encounters with Rower Blue. The best way to describe the sex with Rower Blue would be ‘wordy’. He would not stop with the pornographic chat. It’s really not for me I’ve found, the whole talking whilst doing it. Despite my reluctance to reciprocate in the dirty talk, Rower Blue simply did not get the hint.

“Ooh, yeah babe, you like that?”

I briefly considered what might happen if I went motionless, looked him straight in the eyes and said, “No. Actually, I’m reconsidering my decision to sleep with you more and more every time you open your mouth. If you would kindly shut up and get on with it, it would be greatly appreciated.”

The only thing more interesting than Rower Blue’s porn chat was his porn positions. However, if my knee is going to be next to my ear I need some warning. A stretch would be nice beforehand if I’m going to be performing gymnastics in bed. Despite what was potentially permanent damage to my hip flexors and the terrible chat, Rower Blue was not bad in bed. Lots of stamina, and once things had heated up and I was feeling more flexible, the different positions were quite enjoyable. He managed to seamlessly shift from one position to the next in what became the most full-body workout sex session I’ve ever had. His rhythm was definitely better than his dialogue. It’s a good thing he was a rower and not the little guy who steers the boat and does the shouting, I can only imagine what kind of motivational banter he’d come out with. “Yes boys! Harder! Harder! Yes! Right there!”

Success at Oxbridge requires a very high degree of selfishness. You need to put your health, your studies, and just yourself in general first if you want to be the best at what you do. I was in a relationship for over a year and it was a massive distraction in that I found myself prioritising it over almost everything else in my life. Going back to being “me” instead of “we” was liberating, and it took an unnecessary element of stress out of my life. It did leave a significant void in the sex department, but that proved easy to fill.

Finding someone to sleep with on a night out in town is like being pennied while out in the pub – inevitable. When it comes to the Blues, get enough Pinkys or Tomahawks in them and they’ll want to shag you in any dark corner they can find. However, on a particular night out, far from the La La Land of the Blues, I met a young gentleman who asked me back to his accommodation after snogging for a solid hour on the dance floor. I kindly obliged and we made our way back to his. When visiting a college which isn’t your own it would be a wise choice to take note of your surroundings, or in my case I should have just left a trail of the contents of my handbag from the entrance to his room. This would have ensured that I wouldn’t be wandering around one of the largest and oldest colleges two hours later trying to find my way out.

We got to his room and immediately onto his bed. I couldn’t help but glance around, as we kissed more and began removing clothes, and notice that his room was significantly larger than mine. Sure, give the low-maintenance boy the big room while I’m stuck in my glorified closet of a room with half my clothes on sale at Oxfam because I didn’t have room for them. I shook off my momentary temper tantrum as he took off his trousers, and five minutes of foreplay and one drunken stumble across the room to grab a condom later we were down to business.

I had a lecture early the next morning, as well as a growing irritation with his room size, so I kissed him goodbye and legged it out the door once we were done. It wasn’t until I was outside and locked out of his building that I realised that I hadn’t a clue where I was. This was before I owned an iPhone, so there was no google mapping my way out of this one. I set about trying to find a break in the brick wall which encased the college, hoping to find a Porter wandering around somewhere, but the best I came across was a section of the wall which was slightly lower than the rest. I heaved myself up and straddled the wall, peering over the side to make sure I wasn’t anywhere near the river. Just pavement, but a considerably longer drop to the other side of the wall. I was running out of options, getting cold, and now straddling a brick wall in a skirt, so I dropped my handbag down onto the pavement and swung my other leg across, dropping (well actually it was more like falling if I’m honest) to the other side.

I titled the blog “Sex at Oxbridge” not only to conceal as much detail as possible about who I actually am, but also to appeal to as many readers as possible. Two universities has to be better than one, right? I certainly never expected it to make it big time outside of the medium of student newspapers. Sex blogs aren’t exactly high on the list of things I believe are lacking in the world, and my intention isn’t to enlighten people to the glories of sex. What I’m doing is in no way unique, and I’m certainly not the only person who enjoys having sex, but I also enjoy writing. When I was younger I had a teacher who began her review of one of my essays with: “To my future Jane Austen…” I have always been encouraged to write, but I’m not sure this is exactly what they meant. One of the most clichéd pieces of advice for writers is to write what you know, and for me that is sex.

The fact that I am a girl at Oxbridge blogging about sex is unique in a few ways. First, a lot of students barely have time to sleep, let alone have a cheeky workout in bed and then get online to write about it. Second, if you are having sex you are not meant to tell everyone about it, and you certainly aren’t meant to publish blogs for the world to see on it. It’s completely taboo for a girl to even admit to masturbating, let alone having casual sex and bragging about it. There’s no stereotype that Oxbridge students don’t enjoy sex, but if you do then Mum’s the word!

Oxford and Cambridge are the oldest institutions in academia, and with that of course comes a stigma and expectations of greatness. As students, we represent a mili-fraction of the global population. I have received responses to my blog from people in Delhi, Malaysia, Australia, Brazil, Ireland, Turkey and Hong Kong. If I can humanise the Oxbridge population to the extent that a student from Monash University writes to me telling me they know exactly how I feel, then I think the only thing I’m blowing the lid off of is the fact that we’re just like anyone else struggling to survive uni, and that we’re trying to have a laugh in the meantime.

At first I doubted the blog would be read by anyone in Oxford or Camrbidge, let alone students around the world. I didn’t think much of the blog getting a mention in a student paper, but once the story was out, the reality that someone might recognise my stories sunk in. After reading the article in The Cambridge Student online from my mobile, I stood motionless on the pavement outside my college, staring into space as students walked past. My heart swelling with anxiety, all I could do was stare at my breath as it crystalised in front of my face. What the hell had I just done? In the course of four days I wrote a story about sex, agreed to let a student paper write about it, and now it was out there for anyone to discover.

I ran home to scour over the blog and the stories to try and sort out whether or not boys I had written about would be able to link me to the story. Did they have the kind of photographic memory I had when it came to these things? I eventually calmed down. Maybe no one will read it, maybe no one will care. The article was written based on a gmail account, an anonymous blog, and a Twitter account. It was nothing more than a blurb in a student paper.

I glanced at the blog mid-afternoon. Two comments. People were reading it! My heart seized for a moment and my mouth went dry as I read, “Well done with the free advert in the Evening Standard.” I quickly googled the blog and there it was. As emails from Andrew, the Cambridge reporter, forwarding requests for my details from larger papers came in, what ensued was a four hour panic attack. I cycled to a small pub that was usually quiet and sat in the corner getting pissed by myself since I had temporarily lost all ability to function socially. In less than a day I had a couple of hundred people following me on Twitter, and as one of the followers phrased it, “Is @SexAtOxbridge the first blogger to have more newspaper features than blogs?”

Since the media explosion around the blog I can honestly say that I have not heard a word from anyone about it. Twitter sends you a message every time someone starts following you and I always find it amusing when a friend of mine pops up on that. I know some of them are reading, but they clearly find it un-newsworthy since it hasn’t been mentioned in the company of my social circle.

This blog was never created with the intention of anyone discovering who I am. It isn’t a cry for attention, just a way to share some funny stories which I wouldn’t otherwise consider proper chat for the college bar. I receive more than enough attention from men in my day-to-day life, so this blog is in no way an attempt to solicit sex with strangers, nor do I ever intend to out myself and become “that girl” around college. The men I’ve slept with may be strangers to the world, but they aren’t some countless list of random shags to me. I can name every man I’ve ever slept with, and would stop to talk to any one of them if I ran into them on the street. I’ve found sex to be a very satisfying and often amusing way of taking a break from the responsibilities of student life, and writing a blog about it has just become a creative outlet for my love of sex when I can’t be bothered to go out on the pull.

Oxbridge Blues: Part 2

The problem with pseudo-celebrities is that they believe that they are entitled to have sex with you because of who they think they are. Ladies and gentlemen, do not be fooled. These are normal people like you and me. Have you ever met an Old Blue? They are draping with self-importance, unaware that literally no one cares about whatever race or match they won twenty years ago. A blue might last forever, but the clout it carries that can help you pull someone who’s otherwise out of your leauge has a very short life span.

Knowing Blues old and young I can say that it is a very fine line between humility and being a completely egocentric cock. Having attended functions with said Blues, I am less than impressed by some of their behaviour. An old blue, mid-piss on the side of a college, turned around and asked if I would like for him to piss on me. No, no I don’t think I would like that. And I’m sure the Pembroke Porters don’t like you having a wee on their college either. Do these men believe that they are immune to the rules of common decency? I might like sex, but I don’t like arseholes, and I am willing to maintain a pretty extensive degree of standards when it comes to who I will and will not sleep with. I may have a lot of sex, but at least I’m not ashamed of the people I’ve slept with. They are for the most part completely decent and amazing people. How can I tell with one-night stands? Well I just can, ok? The vibes were immaculate.

In short, if you wouldn’t tell your best friend about the person you’re about to sleep with, walk away. That’s what I do, I think WWBFT? What Would Best Friend Think? Luckily she often thinks my adventures are brilliant, but if I feel like it’s something I’m not going to want to tell her I bid my prospect adieu. Everyone wakes up next to a “what the hell was I thinking?” kind of person, but we can grow from this. Drink a bit less. My new years resolution was to never drink a VK ever again. Broke that the first week back at uni, but I’m still cutting back, as I’m sure lots of sugar and alcohol can’t be good for you. I like to wake up to a hot guy, not heart palpitations.

Not all Blues are like this, and speaking of waking up next to hot men, and of old Blues, I shall tell you about one of the nicer ones. There was a function recently that brought a few of them to town, and me being out in town that night, happened to run into a group of Blues, new and old. There was a recently graduated Blue that I knew from his time here, but with whom I had never slept with. He was charming, but not overtly. Witty and a bit of a quirk, not to mention previous athletic prowess. He had gone a little soft around the edges after retiring from 6 hours of training, 5 days a week, but was still very handsome and I was fairly certain he would not mistake me for a wall and try to piss on me.

“What’s your poison?” he asked, leaning over my shoulder from behind as I queued at the bar. I could feel his breath on my cheek, he smelled like Giorgio Armani and Stella.

“Sleazy men, apparently.” I said an octave lower than he would be able to hear over the music.

“Sorry?”

“G and T, please.” I smiled at him. He moved past me towards the bar and ordered our drinks. This man was actually far from some of his sleazy counterparts, and I enjoyed our conversation, subsequent dancing, and his inevitable come on.

“Your place or mine?” he said into my ear during an interlude between songs.

“Who said I wanted to sleep with you?” I asked, pulling my head away from his, but keeping the same proximity from our waists down.

“So you don’t?” he asked, unsurprised.

“I didn’t say that, I just asked what made you think that.” I said, raising an eyebrow.

He pretended to think for a moment, then looked me in the eyes and said, “Oh, just intuition I suppose,” and then kissed me. The quality of the following ten minutes of kissing on the dance floor was the green light into my bedroom.

“Back to mine, then?” I asked.

“Where’s yours?” I told him. “Ha, no way. We’ll go to where I’m staying, it’s just down the road.”

“Maybe I want to go to mine.”

“Why?”

“Convenience…don’t exactly want to be walking home in this tomorrow morning, do I?” I said, gesturing to my outfit, which would never pass in the day for anything but what it was – being the outfit from the night before, of course.

“Come on, I’ll give you money for a taxi if that’s all you’re worried about.” Hm, sounded familiar. Hopefully he wouldn’t be making any back door propositions.

“Why don’t we just pay for a taxi now?”

“Ah, go on then. If you’re going to be a spoiled brat about it.”

“I am. And what do you mean, ‘go on then’? I’m not paying for this taxi.”

“Then we can walk.”

“Fine, I’ll pay for the taxi.”

He laughed, “Let’s go you nutter, I’ll swing for the ride.” Cue to another infamous taxi-ride snog-fest. I’m sure they aren’t unique to my experiences, but I find myself in the situation quite often.

Time between my door closing and my dress hitting the floor, approximately :21. Decent. “Let’s take a shower,” he said, between kisses as he effortlessly unclasped my bra while simultaneously making his way out of his outfit.

My shower is not made for two people. In fact, it’s barely made for one person. It is, however, rather conducive to a larger than average man with a small woman wrapped around his waist. Go figure.

Just foreplay in the shower, and we saved sex for the bed, which we fell into without drying ourselves, dampening the sheets with moisture and the remnants of the Original Source shower gel we had lathered all over each other.

The sex made up for my previous Blues experience, and I found my tsunami of love (‘not the size of the boat, the motion of the ocean’ reference in case you missed “Oxbridge Blues – Part I”).

Blues are like big, testosterone-filled snowflakes – no two of them are the same. I’m sure they’ll love the reference and comparison to delicate pieces of falling ice. They have, however, confirmed my assertion that older is wiser and generally much better in bed. So if you want to sleep with a Blue, go for an Old Blue I say. Just not one of the obnoxious ones trying to relive their glory days.

2023 Post Script: I pride myself on what an amazing memory I have. Best Friend Tom called me up one day and said, “I figured out what’s wrong with you! Go google hyperthymesia” and it did very much resemble how my photographic memory works. That being said, the entire time I was editing this all I could think was

The Underground Gang

In case it wasn’t clear, the majority of my close friends are male. Some are ex-boyfriends, some were friends turned one-night stands after being out drunk together and getting crazy one night, but most of them are just friends and never have been, and probably never will be, lovers. I enjoy the company of men for a multitude of reasons:

They rarely get jealous

They don’t like to talk about other boys and how much they do or do not like them and whether or not they think that boy likes them back

They like to watch and talk about sports (Six Nations is my Glastonbury)

They more often than not find me attractive, which is always a boost to the self-esteem.

In short, they are not female

I do not have a problem with girls. They usually have a problem with me oddly enough. Because I get along with men better than I generally do with women, and thus surround myself with men, this can often ignite jealousy or resentment in other girls, especially if one of the said men surrounding me is their boyfriend or a boy they would like to make their boyfriend. More often than not, I pose absolutely no threat to these girls, but having been on the other side of the jealous girlfriend equation, I completely understand where they are coming from.

Don’t get me wrong, I have many female acquaintances and a handful of amazing female friends. I am in an exclusively female drinking society and love those girls to bits. However, in terms of genuine relationships with people outside of the drinking and partying realm, that short list is almost exclusively male, with one brilliant and quirky exception. Here is my short list:

Tom (see “Forget Diamonds …”)

Dr. Boy (see “To Love One’s Self“)

I was running out of ways to describe people as Something Boy, and frankly quite bored of it. Scanning my room my eyes fixated on the tube map pinned to my message board. Thus, the remainder of my male posse shall be named after tube stations appropriate to their personalities.

Shoreditch: Because he’s just that kind of guy. But in a less pretentious way.

Heathrow Terminal 3/T3: Because he’s foreign and would be chuffed to be nicknamed after a Terminator movie.

Goodge Street/Goodge: Because it was the goofiest sounding station I could find.

Cockfosters/Foster: Because every time I get on a Picadilly train service that is going towards Cockfosters I have a silent chuckle whenever the posh voice comes on and says “This is a Picadilly line train to (deliberate pause?) Cockfosters.” Likewise, this boy unintentionally makes me laugh with his awkwardness and incessant requests that I sleep with him.

Picadilly/Dill: One of my favourite places in London. One of my favourite boys in Oxbridge.

Briony: the only female on the list, and the best one I know. Neighbor in college, confidant, partner in crime, fellow booze hound. Why Briony? Because looking at her you’d think her name was something posh like that. Also because it would probably annoy her to know that I named her as such in any kind of story.

None of the great eight know that I am the sex blogger. I have slept with none of them, almost slept with one of them, and would probably sleep with four of them. Not at the same time of course…or would I?

The tube stops and I went out Saturday night for a friend’s birthday, and of course to watch the rugby. (Fuck off France! Johnny Wilkinson I love you.) I was the last to arrive, as I am chronically late to everything.

“Alright half-pint?” Goodge asked. More a comment on my size than my drinking ability – I can drink half of them under the table, particularly Shoreditch and Dill. Goodge is ridiculously tall, just accentuating the goofiness, so it was good that he was sitting down and I could bend down to him to kiss him hello. Not so good that I was wearing a dress and nearly flashed the rest of the party (“I see London, I see France …” Dill teased.) Considering our “party” consisted entirely of boys and yours truly, I don’t think they would have minded a peep show. I was wearing tights anyway – a girl’s next best friend after Lads.

I turned to the birthday boy next. “What’s this one? 47?”

“Who invited her?” he asked before pulling me in for a massive hug and pursing his lips out for a birthday kiss. Birthday Boy (BB) isn’t one of the tube posse. We rarely see him due to his course schedule, but it’s always a party when we do see him. And by “party” I mean absolute and total mayhem in celebration of his brief glimpse at the outside of his department walls.

I’ll spare the details of the greetings of each and every boy, as they were all pretty identical. A brief summary though:

Shorditch: You’re blocking the telly.

Dill: Oh-rite babes? (He liked to hype up his East London accent for my entertainment.)

T3: Hullo. (read: Dutch)

Foster: Hey there miss.

Foster is the biggest sweetheart of the group, and it is a common goal of the group to get Mr. Foster laid. He isn’t unattractive, so it’s puzzling as to why we’re usually unsuccessful in this quest. Often being the nearest single lady at hand, it’s commonly suggested that, should we fail to find someone else, it’s on me to get the job done. Ta, fellas. In an effort to help Foster, I’ve tried to figure out just what it is that puts me off of him. It’s just a vibe. A very distinct “I do not want to sleep with this boy” vibe. Poor Foster, I do love him…as a friend (cringing men everywhere).

Shoreditch is the kind of boy, who when drunk, will constantly say, “If we were both single…pffffffff…man. We would be AH-MAZING together.” Sure, Shoreditch. I always laugh, which to him means “Yes, we would have fantastic, wild sex together. I want you!” To me, I am literally just laughing at him, and the notion of sex together.

T3 is foreign and loves to dance like a Neil from the Inbetweeners. As his English improves, so does his entertainment value.

Then there’s Dill. He has the hot geek look going. Rumouredly has a girlfriend who we rarely see, but when we do she’s a good laugh. We think their relationship may be make-believe.

My romantic detachment from these boys makes our pub sessions much more enjoyable I must say. Less enjoyable for Foster, but he’ll live.

We took turns buying rounds for the group and BB and by the end of the match we were rowdier than anyone intended to be that early in the night and were over emotional after England’s loss, cursing at the telly and throwing beer everywhere.

We involuntarily left the pub after leaving them with broken glass and spilt beer to clean up, and took Hurricane Tube down the road to a college bar that had cheap drinks and a dart board with which to arm ourselves with sharp objects to drunkenly flail into the air.

Briony had come to meet us at the college bar we were in and sat drinking her diet coke and vodka, having what was probably one giant awkward conversation in the corner with Foster. Separately they are fantastic conversationalists, but together they manage to click into some kind of socially inept mode in which he unsuccessfully propositions her and she shoots him down, yet keeps talking to him, thus encouraging him to proposition time and again. It’s a vicious, and rather awkward circle.

The amount of lager I have consumed at this point could be enough to kill a Welshman and I am too drunk to even incoherently text Shag Buddy to meet me at mine. Goodge takes away my dart-playing rights and I ceremoniously take away my own drinking rights by pouring my Stella into Foster’s Guinness. I overhear Dill on the phone to his girlfriend telling her to come over.

“B! Let’s DOOO ONE!” I slur to Briony.

It isn’t that I dislike Dill’s girlfriend, we would probably be friends under different circumstances, but she looks at me the way I use to look at girls I thought were after my boyfriend. I am not after Dill in the least. We do have a rather banter-rific relationship at the moment, but nothing else. Nothing like him drunkenly kissing me and then telling me he has feelings for me and then apologising endlessly for it. No, nothing like that … Taxiiiiii!

2023 UPDATE: I eventually ended up sleeping with two of the eight of these friends. Four of them are married and I was only invited to one of the weddings. Unsurprisingly it was Briony’s, where I was a bridesmaid. I think in hindsight I was too judgmental about female friendships. Briony has ended up being one of the greatest relationships of my life and I am so grateful for her. I lost a lot of my male friendships due to their insecure partners, but I wouldn’t have done anything differently. In one case it was completely valid, and the situation didn’t bode well for the group as a whole, so I take partial responsibility for that. I take half of the responsibility for that since it took two of us to make that colossal mistake. They’re still together, which is fuckin wild given at the time of writing this a decade ago we all thought it was a fake relationship but so it goes! There’s a lot I didn’t include in these initial posts for the sake of trying to keep things vague and anonymous, but there’s a pretty insane story with this group which involves half of us eventually living together, which I’ll be adding that to later posts. As well as an updated commentary on every post. I kind of want to cringe into another dimension with some of the things I published back then, but what’s done is done! And I can only add some post scripts that hopefully clarify some of the awkward bullshit I used to say.

Forget Diamonds

“Where did you end up the other night then?” I had been expecting this call since the morning after the other night. It was my best friend, a boy we shall refer to as Tom (formerly known as Lad Boy, but he hated that name so I let him pick a new one and he went with something even lamer).

“I ended up staying with your friend, T.”

Tom laughed into the phone. “Ahh, that’s brilliant. So you managed to find a place to stay then?” We had been a bit far out from my college and I had been whinging about the taxi fare home all evening. “Go out on the pulllll,” T suggested. “That’s what I’m going to do!”

“Yeah, alright then,” I said jokingly, and then Tom introduced me to his friend, T. T was not the kind of guy who immediately catches my attention. He was carrying on about three different conversations at once, and had been speaking to Lad Boy for about two minutes with me sitting there before he reached his hand out to introduce himself.

“I’m sorry, we haven’t met.”

“No, we haven’t.”

“I’m T.” (Obviously he didn’t introduce himself as “T” – I rarely trust men who only use a letter for their name. Unless their name is Jay – but for the sake of the blog, his name is T.)

“(My name here), nice to meet you.”

“Likewise.”

And that was the extent of our conversation until approximately an hour later when he would come to the table with a tray of shots and offer me one. “Would you like a shot?”

“Yes, please” was all that was exchanged, bar the Sambuca (or “death in a glass” as I call it.)

I spent most of the night with Tom, doing shots and yelling over the music to each other. People would occasionally join in the conversation, but would be bored quickly with our incessant recalling of other nights we’d been out partying, and our outrageous demands that the DJ plug in my iPhone and play my music. I hate people like us.

Eventually we paired off to other conversations and other groups of friends, and somewhere between me deciding to walk to the next club and him jumping in a taxi full of girls, Lad Boy and I were separated.

Jump to half an hour later where I’m talking with Extreme-Sports Boy, another one of my good male friends (I haven’t slept with him, nor Tom). T comes up to us to say goodbye – mostly to ES Boy, he barely knows me.

“Aww, don’t go!” I drunkenly demand. I hate the point in the night where people start to leave. It has quite the domino effect, and I was keen to keep this particular party going.

“I’ll be right back, why don’t you two talk to each other?” ES Boy said, putting a hand on each of our shoulders and pushing us towards each other.

“Wait, no! Don’t leave me!” I yelled to ES Boy, but to no avail. He had disappeared into the sea of fellow clubbers, leaving me with this shot-buying stranger.

His conversational matchmaking failed, unless by “talk to each other” he meant “makeout with each other,” in which case the match was successfully made.

T was a fantastic kisser, and any and all concern that he was somewhat of a stranger flew out the window. If Tom and ES Boy deemed him worthy enough to be their friend, I certainly saw him as worthy of a snog. My desire to keep our party together and dance at the club until closing time soon transformed into a desire to get T into bed. Apparently the feeling was mutual, as after a bit of dancing and kissing on the dance floor he stopped, grabbed my hands and said, “I’m going home, would you like to come?”

We hailed a taxi and the majority of our foreplay for the evening ensued in the backseat. I do feel bad for the taxi drivers who get me as a passenger sometimes. But better than someone who gets sick in the taxi, no?

From taxi (which T paid for, naturally), to front door, to bedroom, to bed is a bit of a blur. I had lost all articles of clothing except my knickers by the time we were in bed though, but even those only saw minimal sheet time.

T was a perfect example of how kissing directly correlates to abilities in bed. He is quite possibly the best kisser I’ve ever had: gentle but firm; not too much tongue; soft lips. I could make out with that boy forever. We kissed for most of the time we were getting it on as well, which made things even better. We had sex twice and then passed out in each other’s arms.

“Are you too hot?” I asked as I began to doze off with my head on his chest and my arms wrapped around his body.

“No, this is perfect. I’m like a baby, I can sleep anywhere.” I momentarily paused to wonder if babies could actually sleep anywhere. Dogs, maybe. But babies? I wouldn’t think that you would want your baby sleeping just anywhere. “The baby’s tired? … Yeah, just put him down anywhere.” These are the thoughts that run through my mind as I lie naked, falling asleep on an attractive man.

T might be able to sleep anywhere, but I for one am a nightmare to sleep with (no pun intended. Is that even a pun?) I steal the covers, roll around, occasionally I’ve been known to talk in my sleep. If I fall asleep on my back I’ll snore loudly. I woke up, sprawled out like a starfish next to T. It was cold that morning, so I rolled over and got back into position on T’s chest, as he hadn’t moved at all. This must have been T-speak for “let’s have sex again” because he wrapped his arm around me, kissed me on the forehead and started stroking my arm. My hand slipped down onto his hip bone and I mindlessly ran my fingers up and down his side as I lay there half asleep. Approximately a minute later he was situated on top of me and some of the best morning sex I’ve ever ensued.

After another couple hours sleep or so, we both got a bit restless and eventually turned to talk to each other.

“Morning,” he said.

“Hi there.”

“Sleep well?”

“Mhmm.”

“Where do you live then?” I told him. “Fucking hell, that’s miles away.”

“I know, why do you think I came home with you? No way was I going to make it all the way back there last night.”

He laughed, “I hope it was worth it.”

“Definitely.”

“I suppose you want a lift home then?”

“Yes pleeeaase.”

“What do I get for being your personal taxi service?”

“Petrol money?” I asked earnestly, then smiled and pulled him on top of me.

Back to the telephone conversation with Tom:

“So you went home with T? Did anything happen?”

“Not really.” I don’t know why I felt the need to lie to Tom. I usually tell him about guys I pull, but seeing as it was one of his friends, it felt a bit more awkward than usual.

“Did you kiss him?” he asked, and I could hear him smiling over the phone.

“Yes.”

“Did you sleep with him?” he didn’t sound like he was smiling anymore.

“… Nnno …”

“Why did you say it like that?”

“Well I didn’t sleep with him in the sexual sense, but we did share a bed.”

“Oh!” he was back to his original tone and we carried on with banter as usual, dropping the T thing.

I suspected Tom knew that I had slept with T, but we didn’t talk about it often. If I mentioned I was going towards T’s part of town, Lad Boy would always tease, “To see T??”

“No, you bell end.”

Tom is the closest thing to a boyfriend I have at the moment. A boyfriend without benefits is basically what he is. He’s a pretty stereotypical lad’s lad, but he deems me to be a “ladette” which I hate immensely, but I suppose water does seek its own level. He drinks out of his shoe, gets belligerently drunk, and goes for cute little blondes. I foresee a future as a Banker Wanker, or maybe he’ll work for the Treasury, or be PM. Whatever he does, he will be one successful lad, and I’ll be happy to watch him become the Lad of Lads as one of his best mates. Regardless, I think it’s probably best to steer clear of his mates from here on out. Excluding T of course. I mean, I’ve already slept with him. The damage is done. Besides, I have a date with him next week.

To Love One’s Self

I don’t like to sleep with the men I date. Rather, I like to engage in date-like situations with friend and then go off to sleep with a fuck buddy. It’s much less complicated than a relationship and it keeps things simple. I had an ideal night about two weeks ago:

18:30 Cycling home from the library I realised I was hungry and lack of food in the fridge meant that I’d have to go shopping. Option B was to just duck into a pub to grab a bite.

18:35 I’m in a pub alone. Walking in to a room mostly dominated by men is always a self-esteem booster as most of them will stare a bit, some smile, a couple may even say hello as you walk by. The gestures are always returned with a smile, or if they’re cute, a return “hello.”

18:37 Order a pint of Aspall and the soup of the day. Go find a well-lit corner to sit and read in while I wait for my food.

18:45 Food comes, but am now writing about sex so I push the soup aside and let it cool while I scribble on about-

***

Cut to me taking a break in this story to maniacally tear my room apart to find this notebook. There are now clothes strewn about everywhere, my bed is perpendicular to where it had been and shelves have been annihilated. Didn’t find the paper in any of the obscure places I thought I may have hidden it, but I did find a condom that a guy I slept with a couple weeks ago left behind and it expired in 09-2009. What a knob. Good thing we used my condoms.

I eventually recovered the scribbling. It was in my backpack where I stuffed it after the dinner-for-one I’m writing about.

Sometimes I really wonder about myself …

***

-while I scribble on about exactly what I’m ranting about right now. Here is the first sentence:

“As odd as it may sound, I would rather go out to eat in a restaurant by myself than with a date.”

This is very true. I went out on a date the other night and inadvertently ordered something that cannot be gracefully eaten with a knife and a fork.

“Just use your hands,” he suggested.

Yes, but then it’s all over my hands and I don’t really like touching food (neurotic, I know), and it has onions and garlic in it so it’s going to make my breath smell bad, and I want to sleep with this person tonight so garlic breath would be a disaster. This entire train of thought occurred while he sat waiting for me to pick up my food. I eventually offered it to him, saying I wasn’t hungry. He declined, but luckily men aren’t like women and self-conscious of their eating so he happily finished his meal while I consumed the better half of our bottle of Chardonnay. (The sex later that night was fantastic in case you were wondering.)

But, THAT is why I enjoy eating by myself. I can sit there and be as neurotic as I like with my eating habits and not worry about coriander in my teeth or bad breath.

19:08 I finish the soup and write a bit more before heading back to college where I’m meeting up with Doctor Boy. Or, Dr. B as I shall now call him.

Back-story on the Doc: At an event where there was copious amounts of unlimited alcohol, Dr. B and I attached at the lips for the later half of the night. When the event ended we hailed a taxi and with complete disregard for the driver, continued to make out for the duration of the ride. Dr. B wanted to stop and get chips but I didn’t really fancy cleaning up smashed potatoes from my floor in the morning so I directed the driver to my front door.

Sometimes, and probably often for Dr. B, boys get so drunk that they cannot shag. This night was one of those times. We woke up naked with lots of wrapped condoms strewn about, unused. I’m usually up for morning sex – but it didn’t seem that Dr. B was going to be able to get up in any sense of the word, as he was in an absolute state. This, quite frankly, was fine with me as I had consumed my share of alcohol the previous night and was quite hungover myself.

This encounter was on the brink of the end of term so we parted ways for a decent stretch of time. I went home for the summer holiday and came back with a boyfriend. Once I dumped that boyfriend the Dr had a girlfriend, and still does. We enjoy each other’s company though, so we frequently get together for a drink and some awkward sexual tension.

20:01 Drop off my backpack with the notepad so snooping doctors don’t find it.

20:04 Meet Dr. B in the college bar, get some pints, go situate ourselves in front of the telly.

20:05 I’m bored of football. Conversation moves to the night we hooked up.

20:06 We’ve recalled all the details, or rather lack of details to remember.

20:07 “Have you dumped your girlfriend yet?”

“Ha, no not yet.”

20:08 I text a Boy I’ve been sleeping with. He says to come over.

20:09 I call a cab.

Just kidding, I finished watching the football, had a few more pints, and talked nonsense with the doctor some more. He is an incredibly charming and guywith whom I will gladly jump in the sack with once he’s single. Considering how much we talk about eventually hooking up though, not sure I’d ever date him. I certainly wouldn’t want my boyfriend making plans for after our inevitable breakup while we were still together. And how do I know they’ll inevitably breakup? Because he starts a lot of sentences with “when I’m single again…” Also, they haven’t even announced the relationship on facebook. That’s not a real relationship. If you’re relationship status doesn’t link you to your significant other and you are looking for “Whatever I Can Get” you aren’t what can legally be described as a boyfriend. Or at least not a boyfriend I would want.

22:00 Dr. B and I have walked to a pub and I’m on my fourth pint. He’s on his sixth. The pub is in the direction of where I’m eventually going, so as long as I’m en route to sex it’s all good. I told the Other Boy I’d be at his around 10 or so, more the “or so” than 10 it seems.

22:47 I’m close enough to the Other Boy’s house that I bid Dr. B adieu and make my way towards Shagville, population soon to be 2.

23:01 That pub was much further away from his house than I thought. I’m bad with distances.

23:05 I get to Other Boy’s house. (He doesn’t have many distinguishing qualities to make an interesting name out of. Shag Buddy isn’t that appropriate – we’re not really friends. SB is better than OB though.) He tries to start some sort of banal conversation but this quickly turns to kissing as I lose layers of clothing.

23:07 We’re both completely naked and in bed. The reason I keep calling SB is because he’s pretty decent in bed. Not the best sex I’ve ever had, but it’s fun, and he constantly tells me how gorgeous I am.

23:09 We’re having sex. Sometimes I’m just not into foreplay. Actually I’m usually quite keen to get to business. SB has good stamina as well, so it wasn’t as if it was going to be over quickly.

23:29 We take a breather.

23:30 SB is putting on another condom. He positions himself above me, stops for a second and says, “You are fucking gorgeous.”

23:51 We fall asleep. I’m the little spoon. I like the smell of his deodorant, and my arm will inevitably smell like it after having him wrapped around me all night.

2:37 I need to go to the bathroom. Try to carefully peel his arm off of me and quietly crawl out of bed.

“Are you okay?” he asks in a very coherent voice, as if he hadn’t been snoring in my ear five minutes earlier.

“Yeah, yeah. Just need the toilet.” I kiss him and he falls back to sleep. I slip my dress on and make my way upstairs. In the bathroom as I’m washing my hands his housemate barges in and immediately has a look of shock on his face. I’m guessing he did not know I was in the house, or that his housemate was sleeping with me (I met SB through this particular housemate).

“Uh, sorry! Sorry.”

“It’s okay, I was done,” and luckily dressed. “See you later.”

“Yeah, uh, bye?”

I headed downstairs and slipped back under SB’s arm, dress still on. I don’t like to sleep naked when I’m staying with a boy. I also don’t like to be watched while I dress, so best to be halfway dressed before you get up.

7:00 One of our alarms goes off. I need to be somewhere by ten and he has to write an essay.

7:00.5 We are making out and he is pushing the hem of my dress up above my waist.

7:01 Repeat of 23:30 last night.

7:18 We’re asleep again. The dress is still on.

8:00 Another alarm goes off. It is ignored.

9:00 Alarm no. 3 goes off, we have sex again.

9:32 I realise I have 28 minutes to get across town.

9:33 I realise that I am going to miss my 10 am lecture.

9:34 The dress is off and on the floor.

9:44 We are asleep, all alarms are turned off.

12:00 We wake up. Serious debate over whether we should get to work or have one more go at it. He’s out of condoms so it’s the former. I get dressed and he walks me to the door and kisses me goodbye.

“See you soon.”

“If you’re lucky,” I say over my shoulder as I walk out the door.

Thus ended the perfect night. Dinner with an attractive, smart, funny, intelligent person – I’m really my own best company. Beers and footie with Dr. Boy who has great banter and makes me laugh. Then sex with a boy who adores me and is good in bed.

This isn’t to say I never sleep with men I go out on dates with. That would make me, to be blunt, a complete bitch if I did that. I do like the boys I date, but when you start sleeping with someone you’re consistently hanging out with, a lot of complications arise. Too many for my busy schedule. Thus, I go out with male friends quite frequently in what could be considered a “date-like” situation, but we take turns buying rounds, talk about sports, talk about other girls, talk about school – if I were a man the relationship would be described as a “Bromance.”

It’s as if my dating life and sex life are two separate things sometimes. It’s rare that I’ve found someone I want to date AND sleep with. Don’t get me wrong, most of the male friends I hang out with would sleep with me given the opportunity, but it’s not their number one agenda. Or maybe it is. I don’t know. Either way, I have many functioning relationships with men my age that don’t involve sex. I’ve had one-night stands with some friends, and guess what? We’re still friends. Some of them even have girlfriends now that I’m friends with (we keep the one-night-stand-thing on the downlow though).

It’s hard to have a relationship with someone you weren’t friends with to begin with. I was dumped by someone recently who asked, “Can we go back to being friends?”

I will admit, I did not react kindly.

“We weren’t friends before, so no, we cannot go ‘back’ to something we never were.” Like Lady GaGa says, “I don’t wanna be friends!” That’s just not a natural progression for me. If we were friends to begin with, things will generally go back to friendship with time.

The breakdown: I go on dates with myself, sleep with people I have no intention of dating, whether they’re friends or someone I’ve just met. I have serious relationships with men, they just don’t involve sex. It would sound insane if it didn’t work so well.

Around the World Part IIb: West Deutschland

As I began writing about West German Boy (West Bub), I realised that he’s a lot like East Bub and considered writing about some other nationality first, like an Australian, or the Czech Boy. However, this would require my chapters to go: I, IIa, III, IIb. My OCD won’t allow for such a break in numerical sequence.

Every German man reading my descriptions of a handsome, funny guy who is good in bed will naturally assume I’m talking about them, so I’m not worried about this particular German recognising himself. That’s one of the best things about Germans though, their confidence and assertiveness. West Bub simply came up and kissed me in the middle of a club one night. Bold, but effective.

The kissing incident wasn’t the first encounter we had, of course. We met earlier that night at a Christmas party. If I’m completely honest, it was not love at first sight. Or even lust at first sight. It was definitely entertained at first sight though. West Bub was, in school terms, the class clown. Loud, drunk, and hilarious, he made everyone laugh. He was centre of attention, which doesn’t always suit me, as I like to be centre of attention, but it wasn’t long before we were both the centre of attention, dancing and making out in front of everyone in the club we had stumbled into after the party. Him: big, German, and wearing a Santa hat, and me: wearing a headband with mistletoe attached to it, were quite a sight on our own – but together we were one hot mess.

Eventually it was time to evacuate the dance floor and make our public displays of affection a little more private. Since it was December, and therefore about ten degrees too cold for the outfit I was wearing, West Bub hailed us a taxi back to mine. Having decorated my room with Christmas lights, the room had a festive ambiance, despite us having ditched our headwear. When I suggested we put on Christmas music he enthusiastically agreed and now every time I hear “All I Want for Christmas is You” I can’t help but be a little turned on.

How it never came up in conversation before the next morning is beyond me, but West Bub is not at my uni. He was just visiting a friend, so should we ever wish to sleep together again it would require a bit of travel on one of our parts. Luckily for me, West Bub enjoys traveling. And now he always has a bed to sleep in when he’s in town … as long as he agrees to wear the santa hat again.

Around the World Part IIa: Ostdeutschland

My favourite men are Germans. Always entertaining, and often attractive, Germans are the perfect men. The Germans I knew had a limited grasp on the English language, which I found endearing and entirely sexy. Their humour makes no sense to me, but they always seem to make me laugh. I have slept with two German men, one from the East and one from the West. In no particular order I will tell you the story of both, beginning with East Boy, or as google translates it, Ost Bub.

The biggest person I have ever slept with in terms of pure mass was from East Germany. He had a stereotypical German name that should have been accompanied by lederhosen and a stein to drink out beer out of. He had the biggest smile you’ve ever seen and his laugh would fill the room. We met through mutual friends, as you do, and often ended up in a group together at the pub on Fridays. After a particularly long afternoon in the pub, Ost Bub offered to walk me home. By the time we got back to my college, we had exhausted all the English he knew, so when we got to the gates of my college he said, “So, now we kiss?” Who could refuse an offer like that? Even his chat up lines were adorably and unintentionally hilarious. When things started to heat up he asked, “You can show me your room maybe?”

“Yeah, maybe.” I said, teasingly. He didn’t understand and immediately got the look of a puppy that had just been kicked in the face. “No, I mean yes. Um, let’s go to my room, yes?” I had begun unintentionally speaking like him, ending statements with unnecessary questions, but it didn’t matter, he was big and German and the best thing to happen to me that term.

I’m not sure how Ost Bub fit into his college accommodation, because he certainly did not fit into mine. Almost banging his head on the doorway, he had to duck his way into my room. It was even more entertaining trying to fit the two of us on my single bed. We eventually managed, and as I laid on top of him, it felt oddly similar to lying on my entire mattress. He wasn’t fat by any means, just massive. I was afraid he might actually crush me, so I stayed on top.

After removing some layers he said, “I have a condom in my bag, do you want it?”

1. One of the ONLY boys I had met at uni thus far with the common sense to carry a condom with them

2. Also no, I don’t want it. That’s yours, you can have it. Please wear it now though.

The sex with Ost Bub was as amazing as everything else we did together. Also hilarious. I’m not very tall, so the logistics of sleeping with someone almost a foot and a half taller than me made for some entertaining moments.

Sadly, Ost Bub is back in Deutchland working on his PhD. But I’ll never forget some of the funniest pub sessions and some of the greatest sex of my life.

Around the World Part I: Italy

Lizzie McGuire gave me unrealistic expectations…

The Oxbridge community consists of a variety of people from all around the world. A commonly mentioned fact from my blog is that I have slept with nine nationalities. I have therefore decided to dedicate part of this blog to those various foreigners. 

Today, the Italian Stallion.

When in Rome … get back on a plane to wherever the hell you came from.

Actually I’ve been to Italy and it was lovely. Sleeping with an Italian, however, left much to be desired. I think it was my choice of Italian, as I have no doubt that as a race they are probably fantastic lovers. Behind every stereotype is a stereotype, so I’m sure I just got the anomaly of the group.

In general, if someone is bad at kissing it’s game over. I should have stuck to those standards once Italian Boy attempted to devour my face. He was very attractive though, and I was curious to see how his enthusiasm would translate in the bedroom. Not so well as it turns out, mainly because it involved a lot more snogging. I couldn’t really focus on the sex because I was too busy trying to avoid his mouth by turning my head side to side in feigned enjoyment.

“Italian Stallions” perhaps refers to their stamina, which to his credit, and my dread, he had lots of. Luckily at some point I was able to maneuver myself into a position which made kissing difficult, if not impossible. The experience was exponentially better without the kissing, and I welcomed the break to subtly wipe the excess moisture off my face from his enthusiastic use of tongue when kissing.

After finishing significantly better than we started, it was time to escape before he got any ideas about further making out and sexual adventures. Once was enough, and luckily we were in his room so I didn’t have to have that awkward, “Right, could you leave now?” conversation that inevitably comes if I take someone back to mine.

Needless to say, I avoided the kiss goodbye. “Arrivederci” sufficed.