"I can remember when the air was clean and sex was dirty..."

It is a travesty indeed that, despite my enthusiasm and my pure, unadulterated joy at obtaining my driving licence in January, the likelihood of me acquiring my own set of wheels before the age of 25 is becoming increasingly slim. The intention was, initially, to pass my driving test just in the nick of time so as to enjoy an enclosed, heated form of transportation (complete with radio and handy designated areas for coffee cups) over the bitterly cold winter, rather than tottering precariously on the back of Finn’s frost-savaged motorbike. Now, as spring edges ever closer to summer and we all prepare for another 6 months spent passed out in parks or lounging in beer gardens, I feel somewhat bitter about the fact that, despite my greatest efforts and obvious successes, I never did manage to achieve that greatest of goals – furthermore, the changing seasons bring with them the inevitability of a million more unforgiving winters, who knows how many of them spent open to the elements with only a set of ineffective leathers to warm my delicate frame. The fact is that owning a car these days is an endless drain on funds, and I’m in no position to be able to afford even the petrol.

So it was then, that when the family car (The Nerdmobile, as I have eloquently dubbed it) was taken off to the garage for servicing and a courtesy car in the form of a small Fiat Punto was bestowed upon us, I was very excited. ‘I’m gona drive the shit out of it!’ I declared gleefully, and true to my word spent the majority of the weekend happily sitting in traffic jams and singing along to the Rihanna CD in the stereo. But there was one thing in particular that simply had to be indulged whilst I was in possession of the car… a trip up the viewpoint at Old Redding. It’s a well-known spot, overlooking north-west London, frequented by lusty couples and lairy groups of teens alike. Finn and I are no exception, but unfortunately a motorbike does not provide the most suitable of surfaces on which to fuck. Many an evening has been spent sitting on the grass up there, smoking spliffs and growing increasingly uncomfortable (or perhaps just jealous) at the prospect of being surrounded by other people shagging in their cars. Of course, the men who would stalk into the bushes in groups of two or three and return some time later looking dishevelled and victorious only added to the awkwardness, and needless to say, we have concluded that, without a car, we simply cannot enjoy this most charming of places to it’s full extent.

The day Finn and I decided to take advantage of our new toy and head up to the viewpoint was a beautiful, cloudless one. It was also 3 o’ clock in the afternoon by the time I pulled up. The sunshine and the lure of the prospect of perhaps a picnic on the grass in the seldom seen golden rays meant that the carpark was full. Looking to our left, and then to our right, we were dismayed to realise that we were infact parked between one car housing an elderly couple eating triangle sandwiches and another full of boisterous, unruly children. No sex here then. It didn’t take us very long to determine though that the chance of us finding an appropriate space in which to engage in some x-rated activity was not highly probable – infact, the place was crawling with families and old people walking their dogs, neither of whom would have welcomed chancing upon an incongruous couple getting it on in the back seat of a Fiat Punto (the joint probably wouldn’t get smoked either). Thwarted by my idiocy and failure to realise that of course, this was a ridiculous idea, I felt disheartened. All I had wanted to do was to bring my boyfriend up to the infamously grotty spot and fuck his brains out… was that so much to ask?

‘Wanna go for a walk?’ offered Finn. It was clear that a pleasant stroll in the sunshine was not quite what he had in mind, and with a nod and naughty smile we followed in the footsteps of those shifty looking men we had encountered during previous visits and embarked on a wander into the endless mass of greenery that lay before us. Stepping over empty condom wrappers, beer cans and the occasional used needle, I was certain that if we were going to get it on up here then our search for the perfect spot was going to have to be extended beyond the confines of the shrubbery surrounding the car park. It’s true that I was little disenchanted at the fact that what I had once imagined as a magical, ethereal spot was now tainted by the reality that was doggers and drug addicts, and I was determined to recapture the essence of the imaginary wonderland I had conjured up; we ventured ever further into the wilderness and before long I realised, turning back, that we’d travelled so far that the car park had disappeared from view and ahead of us stretched endless, deserted fields. It was here that I decided to abandon hope of finding a good bush – those fields looked exceptionally enticing and, as the old saying goes, the grass is always greener on the other side and I had my eye on a particularly lush looking one across the border or some trees.

The grass, of course, was not greener. It just looked that way from far away, and suddenly the metaphor for life made perfect sense to me. That aside, now that we had completed our treacherous hike into the unknown it seemed foolish to be deterred by the ants nests and mud; at least there were no needles here. The field was wondrously, beautifully deserted, and with the hope that it might not stay that way for the duration of our time there nestled snugly in the back of my mind, I strode to the very middle of it and sat down on the grass. There was no need for discretion here. Miles of grass had gone untrod and there was not a human soul in sight, so with a swift kind of fluidity and a disregard for being overheard we got down to it. Infact, the beauty of having sex in wide open spaces is that sound carries like a bitch, and the echoes of our own moans travelling full circle provided a sexy soundtrack to say the least. Despite the fact, as I said to Finn afterwards, that I felt I really should have been more appropriately dressed – perhaps a gingham smock and pigtails would have been apt – the episode was refreshing and invigorating. Even the subsequent skulking around in the undergrowth in search of what definitely, positively HAD to be a dock leave to clean up with didn’t dampen my elation, and our trek back to the car park was a triumphant one.

Upon returning, I eyed the elderly couple still sat in their car feeling complacent that their obvious inconsideration in regards to their choice of parking space hadn’t ruined my fun, and was more than happy, once again, to sit in the traffic jam that ran all the way back to my house.

"When a man goes on a date, he wonders if he is going to get lucky. A woman already knows..."

One night stands – quick, exciting, eyes-on-the-prize-any-holes-a-goal kind of gratification. To be enjoyed and savoured by all. My philosophy on these exhilarating adventures has always been that their purpose and function differs dramatically from your standard relationship sex; to the point where they just seem to be two entirely different activities. Like shoe shopping compared with parachuting. Not that I’ve ever had the great fortune to indulge in the latter, but I can certainly imagine the two being aeons apart. Of course, I will never tire of shopping for those sensual, high-heeled, troves of pleasure for my feet, but the concept of jumping out of a plane at 9,000 ft, hurtling towards the ground with my life in the hands of a flimsy piece of fabric strapped to my back, definitely fills me with a sense of thrill and anticipation far more intense than the prospect of a half price sale in Office. It’s the same with sex. In a relationship, I know what I’m getting and when I’m getting it. I know how I’m going to be fucked and regardless of how spicy my love life is, the fact that it’s going to be by the same man as the last 9 months somewhat dampens the buzz-factor… but introduce the metaphorical idea of a spontaneous, unexpected parachute jump and you’ve got something not unlike a one night stand. The satisfaction of successful conquest and the joyous reliving of the experience in the days that follow is a feeling incomparable to any other. The ever-present sensation of experiencing something new, unexplored and fun is something that relationship sex cannot offer, and perhaps the most significant factor in dividing the two.

Having only endured 3 ‘serious’ relationships in my 19 years, and having slept with over 20 people, I’m going to have to admit that the majority of the notches in my bedpost have been achieved in the form of one night stands (not that this is something which I feel I should be ashamed of – but that’s a different blog). My virginity, predictably, was taken in drunken, one (or two) night only fumble and since then my sexual journey has encountered quite the spectrum of man, environment and circumstance. The blame, as ever, can be placed on the fact that in my experience 16 is far too young to start having sex, and the fact that I suffered through the pretty messy demise of my first relationship in my 17^th summer prompted me to abandon all notions of self respect and go on a bit of a spree. The girls holiday to Turkey in the successive weeks clearly wasn’t the best environment in which to kick-start my newfound singledom, and upon my return to the UK I found that I had adopted a very different take on the concepts surrounding no-strings-sex. Here, I will admit that that summer of free narcotics and married men wasn’t my finest hour – but can thank it for the matured, healthy attitude I have towards sex today, so no regrets there. The morning that I returned home from an impromptu night in Brixton to find two police cars outside my house was a bit of an eye-opener – I was coerced into the living room upon entering the house by a police officer who had obviously somehow been informed of my leaving the club the previous night with an unidentified man, and warned that I must NEVER have sex with black men like that because they will in fact kidnap me and turn me into a big crack-whore. That being a summer of lessons learned, I have heeded the kindly officers advice.

Unfortunately, the aforementioned sense of triumph and achievement was seldom achieved during that particular summer – mainly due to the fact that I was on a massive rebound and, in hindsight, clearly on some kind of warped mission to regain any self-esteem lost amidst the break up. The old saying, ‘The best way to get over someone is to get under someone else’ can be adaptable, and in all honesty it wasn’t until I settled into my next relationship and was consumed by the horrors of that one that the ‘getting over’ part really came into play. These one night stands were a learning curve, and for the most part, pretty damn un-ejoyable – the exception being the rich ones. Try as we might to be un-materialistic and humble, we will always be reluctantly impressed by people with shit loads of money. And true to my word, the night spent with ‘Mr Money’ (as we cleverly dubbed him at the time) in his top-floor central London apartment was fondly recalled to friends for a good week or so afterward – not hastily forgotten in a flurry of embarrassment the following morning. Being standard procedure I’m not going to pretend that I can effectively remember any part of the actual meeting of this man in the Soho club, but waking up to a view over Tottenham Court Road in an immaculate, vast apartment with a sexy American heir (or something) was probably one of the finer examples of that summers conquests. The fact that he didn’t kick me out immediately, offered me breakfast, asked me to visit the National Portrait Gallery with him that day and even lent me two quid for a bus back to Camden combined to form the makings of a truly successful one night stand - even if the walk of shame back through Oxford Street at 11am on a Saturday morning, make-up smeared and 6-inchers in hand, was particularly horrendous. At some point during the night I had divulged that I was in fact only 17, and although pretty shocked even this didn’t seem to deter him … perhaps I should have gone to the Gallery with him that day, I might have been living it up in Maryland Estate by now!

My idea’s an notions have evolved now, and I relish the thought that as long as I’m in control, I can feel just as pleased with myself for successfully getting in someone’s pants on a night out as the next lairy geezer with an axe to grind and a point to prove. After recently being approached by one conquests' girlfriend and being assured that ‘He doesn’t love you, you know’, I was more certain than ever that the act of engaging in entirely emotion-free sex is massively empowering and fun. Some of my closest friends are people that I had once categorised under the ‘Casual Fuck’ heading, and even now can call upon the memories (or lack thereof) to provide sufficient lollage material. The long and short of it is that we all love a bit of sex, and sometimes we can’t help but tire of complicating the fundamentals with all the tribulations that come with relationships. And that’s where one night stands come in – where pre-conceptions and obligations don’t matter, and we’re all in it for the same thing.

"Sex alleviates tension. Love causes it..."

Old people are not fun. Drunk old people, reminiscing about their ‘wild’ university adventures involving stolen shopping trolleys and sherry, are even less fun. And rich drunk old people who insist on wearing monocles and talking like the queen on helium are the worst kind of company you could possibly imagine. So, when my mother offered Finn and I her spare tickets to The National Liberal Club’s annual Christmas Dinner, she was understandably surprised when we not only accepted, but began excitedly planning our outfits and the finer details of the evening endeavours - right down to how much free wine we were planning on consuming in the first half an hour of arriving.

I knew the drill. I’d been with my family every year since I was 11 and quite frankly, the novelty of dining amongst the esteemed upper classes of London’s political elite had worn off as soon as I realised that I would never have as much money as them and that Nick Clegg is prick. This time round though, my reasons for wanting to attend were far less innocent than wanting to wear a pretty dress and sit at a table with assigned name plaques. The prospect of having to participate in an hours worth of Christmas carolling alongside and under-rehearsed choir of bumbling welsh pensioners and indulge my fathers work friends’ penchants for ogling my tits for the duration of the evening did little to deter me, and armed with a pre-rolled spliff and a pair of not-so-subtle hold-ups and suspender belt underneath my elegant red dress, Finn and I boarded the Bakerloo Line for what would inevitably be a lavishly eventful evening.

You’ve read about this most prestigious of places before. Finn’s recollection of the exulted ‘Club’ in the second instalment of our blog paid a fine homage to the grandeur and luxury of the place, and this time we were going back to corrupt and contaminate it’s opulence in the only way we know how – by fucking in it. The fact that we had somehow resorted to the rather indecorous activity of having sex on a train after our previous visit to The Club had somewhat lowered the quality of the evenings proceedings - consequently, we were determined that on this occasion we would keep the extravagant standards well maintained by making use of the ideal little room we’d discovered, hidden away up a winding staircase by some seldom-used ‘lavatorial facilities’ (as the sign on the door read).

Our plan was immaculate. My mothers highly verbal detection of the lacy tops of my hold ups minutes after removing my coat was admittedly a little embarrassing, and for a fleeting moment I wondered if she somehow had clocked our naughty little conspiracy. But of course, she hadn’t. As far as she was concerned, the evening would consist of ushering her well-behaved, eloquent daughter and her polite other half around a room full of 60-something-year-old Cambridge graduates, desperately trying to convince herself that she was at home amongst the aristocratic and the wealthy. The food would be predictably divine, and the wine would be free and ever flowing. And we would all get wasted.

This last inevitability was really what Finn and I were relying on to ensure that our plan went off without a hitch. Assuming both my parents and the other guests at the dinner had enjoyed the free accompaniments to their meals to their fullest extent, a little uncontained groping and inner-thigh rubbing underneath the table would be easy to conceal, and ur exit from the dining hall would be disregarded as merely heading outside for a cigarette, or something equally as innocent. Upon our failure to return, my parents would drunkenly and naively assume that we had taken it upon ourselves to head home, or in their inebriation simply forget we were there in the first place. Despite the fact that this year the organisers of the event had cunningly chosen to serve the eagerly awaited Mince Pies and brandy after the hour-long carolling extravaganza (thus forcing guests to suffer through the badly orchestrated cacophony of singing if they wanted any fucking cake) we subtly made our departure early under the pretence that Finn was indeed going for a smoke, and predictably, nobody questioned it. The fact that we managed to stage this manoeuvre as discreetly as we did is really rather impressive, considering that by this time the under-table-groping had reached an extent where my suspender belt and thong had all but been removed and to stop the somewhat imaginative underwear slipping down and exposing our plan I had to adopt a strange kind of waddle to wedge it between by legs and my dress. Once we had made our way up to the toilets and that special little room with the floor-to-ceiling mirror and ornate antique-looking chair, the fact that my underwear had already been discarded came in pretty damn handy.  After ensuring that the door was firmly locked and a final once-over to check that their weren’t any hidden camera’s surreptitiously placed to spy on women changing and ruin any young, hot couples’ dirty intentions, the rest of the essential clothes were removed and the deed was done in a seamless, sexy and successful operation which quite frankly left us on an orgasmic high; and reasonably reluctant to return to the room full of rich, drunk, old pretentious twats who were undoubtedly by this point all passed out in pools of their own vomit anyway.

Finding ourselves in a small, busy and horribly over-priced club half an hour later, the sexual restrictions had been dropped and our post-orgasmic ecstasy has engulfed us. We had drawn out, between us, another hundred or so quid and the fact that we were pissed and dancing like a couple of porn stars at a live sex show took nothing away from the class and eloquence of the evening, in my opinion. We had successfully managed to copulate in a state building which had been reserved up until very recently for selected, influential libertarians wishing to smoke Cuban cigars and discuss the finer workings of David Lloyd George’s political policy – people who had no doubt never had sex in their entire lives. The sense of accomplishment was particularly satisfying and I refused to be lowered from my pedestal even after I had openly toppled over on the dance floor and a drunken Dutch man had apologetically explained to Finn that the reason he had touched his arse at the bar was because he had assumed he was a woman – guess guys don’t really have long hair on the continent. In fact, our buoyancy was at such a level that after closing time, our excitement was so compelling that we decided a phone box (a clear, glass one) just off Leicester Square would be the ideal little love-box to engage in yet more lusty interaction – fortunately for both of us my state of intoxication was not as all-consuming as Finn’s, and this plan was prematurely halted before we were arrested. We managed to complete the rest of our journey home on the N18 without any further humiliation or attempts at sexual liberation, and the epic wine-hangover the next morning was a small price to pay for that evening’s achievement – after all, what’s good sex without a little risk?

"Sex is one of the nine reasons for reincarnation. The other eight are unimportant.."

Sex can be foiled at the drop of hat. What I mean by this is that it is incredibly easy for one to have to end intercourse due to unforeseen circumstance. Most of the time this is incredibly irritating for all parties involved; however, sometimes the situation has hilarious consequences, which are only realised in retrospect.

One such situation arose on our four-month anniversary. I know it’s not a real anniversary (missing the vital ‘annual’ component) but we celebrate these little milestones anyway as they give us a sense of accomplishment. Plus it’s an excuse to have wild, dress up sex, eat in a nice restaurant and ultimately get smashed. We did in fact have dinner reservations on this particular pseudo-centennial, and I did ask Marianna to put on some sexy and imaginative underwear before we underwent a serious fucking session. Once things had gotten started and we were deep in the throws of passion, Marianna’s phone started ringing. Often we are faced with this predicament and nine times out of ten the phone is ignored. This being a fairly normal procedure, we continued unperturbed by the jangling little polyphonic ringtone. When the phone rang relentlessly over and over again though, Marianna started to get a little annoyed and our wonderful we’ve-been-doing-this-for-four- months sex was halted abruptly when she eventually answered the phone and mouthed to me, “It’s my mum”. Blinded by my own lust I decided to ignore the fact that it was the mother of the girl I was fucking on the other end of the phone, and maintained a gentle rocking, causing her to words to falter. This was quickly ended though when Marianna jumped off of me uttering the words “I’ll be there in a minute” - the last thing I wanted to hear at that moment in time.

It turned out that her grandmother, who lives a stones throw from Marianna’s house, had fallen in the bath. At the time this was a rather worrying prospect. The old bird is pretty ancient to say the least and the thought of a poor, elderly woman struggling to pull herself from a rapidly cooling tub of water tugged at my heartstrings. Even though I was desperate to…well…cum, to be honest. And so we reluctantly threw our clothes on and walked the hundred yards or so up to her house where we were greeted by an array of family members and emergency – service workers. There was already a carer, Marianna’s brother, an ambulance parked outside, two medics helping her out of the bath and a disgruntled looking social worker. I must say that our presence felt a little unneeded even though Marianna’s mum had insisted that she come to make sure everything was ok. We were still immersed in a kind of sexual haze and her brother was the first to confront us, probing on why we had taken so long to get here. I’ll admit I found this quite funny - there’s something a bit sleazy about my personality and the thought that her brother had no idea I was busy fucking his sister while this family emergency erupted made me chuckle to myself a little. Ain’t I evil?

Eventually it was decided that her grandmother was in a fit state to finish her bath and we were able to sneak away from the commotion. Planning to continue what we had started, we were foiled again when we arrived at her house to find her dad had come home from work just that second. So our sexual desires went again unfulfilled. Not to say that we didn’t have sex. Just that we were unable to resume our dress up game. Or copulate as loudly and as passionately as one would hope to on such a special occasion. I guess the whole grandma thing kind of ruined the moment as well.

We went on to have dinner in a fairly nice restaurant and deemed our special day an overall success with only a little hitch. The whole thing was pretty amusing looking back on it, however irritating it was at the time. And this is usually the case with these situations; no-one likes to be interrupted at their most intimate moments, but it’s fucking hilarious when you think about it.

"I believe that sex is one of the most beautiful, natural, wholesome things that money can buy..."

I like to think that I’m pretty sexually liberated. I reckon I’m fairly overtly sexual in my demeanour and I’d never dream of lying about the number of people I’ve slept with – what’s the point? I don’t like boundaries, labels or limitations, because to me, sex is about freedom – freedom of self, freedom of expression and freedom of choice. Which is why my attitude toward prostitution has always been fairly blasé. If a woman wants to charge entry into her most secret and special of places then that’s great – we should all cash in on our talents and if someone is a sexual goddess in between the sheets then why not?

So, when Finn and I visited Amsterdam and ventured into its world famous Red Light District the other week, nobody was more surprised by my reaction than me. We’d boarded our plane that Saturday with the intention of sampling as many coffee shops as possible, absorbing the atmosphere, visiting a couple of museums, and purchasing a metal grinder, a glass dildo and an hour with one of the world – renowned girls-in-the-windows. Check, check, check and … not so much. Admittedly, considering our somewhat adventurous objectives, we could have possibly planned the operation a little more meticulously. Our choice of pub, situated slap-bang in amongst the neon-lit windows and the Sunday night throng of seedy locals did little to get me in the mood, and in contrast to the apparent ‘eroticism’ of the industry, by the time I’d blindly stumbled back to the comfort of a warmly lit coffee shop I felt as though I never wanted to have sex again. Which would have been tragic – for the readers of this blog, for me, and especially for Finn.

The whole expedition turned out to be a complete disaster and at first Finn couldn’t understand why I had got so upset. Obviously, his drunken leering at the time didn’t exactly compliment my state of stone cold sobriety in such a circumstance, but my pondering of the nights events since have led to the comprehension that my dislike of the experience stems from much more than my boyfriends inevitable awe at a 60 Euro vagina…

Firstly, what I didn’t like about the prostitutes was that they didn’t live up to my expectations. I had made the mistake of believing that, since Amsterdam is the epicentre of the European sex industry, these women would be word-class fuckers. Imported from across the globe to provide the finest sexual experience that the female race has to offer; so I was well up for it. But the reality was that I didn’t want to engage in any kind of hanky-panky with any of these girls. I kind of resented, I suppose, the fact that as a young woman in the UK, I have to watch my weight and take care of myself if I want to get any cock – from what I could see these girls were even neglecting to wax their bikini lines but could rest easy in the knowledge that somebody would always be willing to pay them for a delve into their overgrown forests of lust. And that just isn’t right.

Obviously there were the complete monstrosities – the morbidly obese and those who were quite clearly born men. But the thing is, in all honesty even the girls who were somewhat prettier and thinner weren’t doing it for me. There was something about the unattractively splayed legs and the cigarettes hanging limply from their mouths and the bored expressions that seemed to be customary among them which well and truly massacred any mounting excitement or hint of eroticism – despite the neon signs telling me otherwise.

Also, I didn’t like the prostitutes because they looked at me funny. Seems like a fickle thing, but I felt uncomfortable asking myself why it was they were staring. Was I not meant to be there? Was I on the wrong territory? ‘They want my man’ is the first thing that usually springs to mind when I’m given evils by random girls on the street, but I’m reckoning that that line of work would make you pretty indifferent. Or maybe they were just judging me, because I was toddling around in a fluffy hat and a big red coat and how could I possibly think I was sexy enough to mingle amongst the girls in sparkly thongs? Judging and comparing is something that women do. It wasn’t until I noticed the number of drunken Stags stumbling past the windows and openly having hysterics at the ones they didn’t like that it occurred to me how difficult that aspect would be. Knowing that I’m conscious of my hips and my thighs when I’m in clothes blending into a crowd is enough to make me feel uncomfortable. The thought of being put in a window effectively naked and having hoards of lairy men cackle at my body is really quite harrowing. So then it occurred to me that maybe they were glaring at me because they knew they were being judged – and I hated them a little bit less. But that wasn’t enough to sway my opinions.

The fact was that the prostitutes were making a mockery of sex. It’s not the exploitation or the degradation that bothers me – as I’ve made clear, sex is about choice. But there seemed to me like there was some kind of lowering in standard of sexual interest. I was even a bit disgruntled at the thought of anyone believing the male population are simple enough to be told what’s sexy – especially if this was it. Of course my opinion is biased. Men like tits. And when there are forty pairs of naked ones waving at them through windows surrounded by shiny lights and loud music then they’re going to respond. Women, even sexually liberated ones, aren’t programmed like that. I know that the thought of a neon – tanned, perfectly toned Casanova in a man thong gyrating his hips at me wouldn’t exactly make me wet – apply that to the Amsterdam Red Light District standards and we’ve got Ricky Gervaise in speedo’s. Not sexy.

So yeah, there’s that. And I’m well aware of the fact that the guys reading this will be scoffing into their Dorito’s at my naivety. And yes, I know that this is a different angle to take on my blog – but sex is a pretty massive part of my life. I think about sex alot, I have sex alot, and I watch alot of people having sex on the internet, and I’m reckoning that I probably have more to say about this subject than anything else in my life. So why restrict my sexual ramblings to stories of audacious indicents recounted in an engaging and humourous way? What I’m saying is, expect these occasional diversions from our regular approach to Black, Red and Leopards in Bed. Because since sex is about freedom, I’m going to excericse my voice and take the opportunity to bestow upon the readers of this blog my opinions on anything that’s been disrupting my sexual Zen.

"You know "that look" women get when they want sex? Me neither..."

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

"One half of the world cannot understand the pleasures of the other..."

Sometimes, after a particularly exciting, unlikely, or just fucking awesome sexcapade, we as sexually active young people are faced with a particularly difficult decision – do we, for the sake of dignity and our mothers’ poor nerves, clear away the evidence of one such event and allow the memory of it to slip solemnly away into obscurity? Or do we cast aside any pretentious notions of ‘decency’ in favour of a pompous sort of pride and cohesive proof that ‘our sex life is well good, innit.’ Incidentally, the inner turmoil and deep-rooted soul searching which arises out of such a circumstance is the order of the day in our third blog, and I will begin by recounting a short but amusing tale of one such episode which took place in the not all together exotic environment of my room… For exemplary purposes only, of course…

During a fairly standard session in my bed, we decided to spice things up a bit and take the party over to the wall (oh yeah), which is painted in matte red emulsion and conveniently in perfect view of a full length mirror. Afterwards, lying in bed in a kind of post-orgasmic haze, Finn glances over to the wall and says, ‘That hand-print looks awesome.” The hand-print did indeed look awesome. But, situated about four-and-a-half feet up, and printed onto the paint in what was clearly sweat and grease from my hand, it was OBVIOUSLY the leftover remnants of sex. So here we are: do we wash it off? Or do we leave it? Ultimately, we decided to wash off the hand-print – but left the huge indeterminate sweaty blob next to it, which could easily have been anything, forever serving as a discreet and mysterious souvenir of that unexpectedly fantastic fuck.

Of course, times like these are funny, light hearted, and perhaps a cheeky anecdote to recount to friends and grandchildren (if and when they occur), out of which nothing even mildly uncomfortable or cringey would occur. Not every blatant vestige of out of the ordinary sex is quite so easy to conceal – or more to the point, explain. Like the 8cm scar across Finns chest. How can we expect our peers to truly identify with our somewhat drug-addled state of mind when we chose to partake in such a controversial and dangerous (obviously) activity? Moreover, how could we possibly hope to convince anyone of our sanity without divulging the true extent of the filthy, bloodstained event? Was it even legal? It certainly wasn’t all together that ‘normal’ in terms of good, conventional sex.  And that muthafucka is PERMANENT – I may as well have just tattooed my name across the boy’s chest. In the inevitable event of some messy break-up months down the line, I fear that Finn will in fact greatly regret said scar and feel even more bitter and resentful toward me – for this, I feel bad. But we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.

When Finn and I arrived at the pub that evening for what was going to be one of the last stolen evenings of summer shits and giggles, we did not foresee the illicit events of that evening unfolding. Honestly, our intentions were, as always, innocent and godly. However, Finns spontaneous purchase of some class A substance on top of what was already a highly inebriated state of mind left us, once again, in a somewhat sticky situation.

After the obligatory drunken sex in a highly inappropriate place (car-park, opposite pub) we decided that it was time to bring our public copulation to an end and retire to my house. 45 minutes of drunken stumbling and a £5 kebab later, we eventually made it to the confines of my shag-palace bedroom and proceeded to consume the remainder of our narcotics. It would seem that this last indulgence is what ultimately led us on our first foray into the unfamiliar realm of sado-masochism. Which would have been awesome, if either of us had been remotely medically trained. I have to admit, that after a couple of minutes of watching torrents of Finn’s blood pour out of his chest, I did start to panic. The initial exhilaration was short lived and soon gave way to dread and our next port of call was obviously the bathroom – where I made a feeble attempt to clean and dress the gaping wound. The next morning, however, it was apparent that my efforts were fruitless and the Savlon and plaster just weren’t cutting it in terms of preventing him from bleeding to death. To the hospital!

The fact that we found ourselves sitting in an A&E waiting room the following morning, having to elucidate to not one, but THREE separate nurses on how the huge gash came to be, is really what makes this such a funny story. We’d even managed to get a lift up to the hospital from my unwitting mother, under the pretence that I was visiting my sick grandmother who conveniently happened to be in that exact hospital, after suffering a stroke a week previously (no joke). Not to say that the whole operation didn’t take some careful planning – Finn’s realisation that he would in fact look like ‘some kind of neo-Nazi Goth freak’ in his long black coat and military issue boots came just in the nick of time and possibly saved us some further humiliation. Although probably not. I think that the ACTUAL events of what happened that morning were enough to cause sufficient embarrassment for the next couple of weeks, at least.

The ‘immediate future’ quickly revealed to us that that one moment of uninhibited kinkiness was in fact ultimately detrimental to our sex life – “Careful of my chest!” and “Oh, shit, did I hurt you?!” quickly became frequently used phrases and the kink factor significantly dropped due to fear of any additional hospitalisation. Finn’s insistence that “it was still massively sexy” makes me feel slightly less evil and sadistic, but it’s still unfortunate that now everybody thinks I'm a bit nuts.

"An intellectual is a person who has discovered something more interesting than sex..."

I will begin this second installment of our eagerly awaited blog with a short anecdote recounting a particularly amusing and, most likely, fairly embarrassing night. It started off incredibly sophisticated and proper, however turned into a drunken and, might I add, unsuccessful sex session on a train. When Marianna and I began our relationship, I was regaled with many stories involving what was only known to me then as “The Club”. This enigmatic and enchanting wonderland, home to libertarians and other important historical political figures, in which Marianna and her parents frequented on special occasions, was somewhat daunting when I was actually invited along to what was probably one of the most expensive meals I have ever eaten. I must quickly add that one such story involved Marianna consuming a vast amount of alcohol at some sort of event involving free wine, and throwing up under a table in this most prestigious of establishments. The contents of her bag then emptied onto the floor revealing a magnitude of condoms which she had taken from the sexual health clinic earlier that day. Her parents were suitably horrified and I believe it ended with her father very nearly being relieved of his membership. This, along with a sense of impending discomfort at the thought of sitting, suited up and eating in front of not only my new girlfriend's parents, but also a room full of pompous, pseudo-sophisticated graduates and elderly, bitter politicians smoking pipes. It worried me slightly as I imagined a scene where the staff remembered the previous encounter with Marianna and removed our uncouth arses from the restaurant. I am however, pleased to report that this was not the case and we in fact had a very pleasant meal including the best steak I have ever inhaled.

Our evening started in a rather beautiful but entirely contrasting bar known as Gordon's. A tiny, ancient wine bar, which reminded me of a medieval dungeon or some seventeenth century cellar. Notorious for it's superbly low ceilings and, of course, excellent selection of ports and wines, it was a place that exuded notions of unspeakable things. We found the bar packed to capacity at around 7 o'clock and were unfortunately forced to sit in their less than spectacular outdoor seating area. This did allow me to smoke freely though, and my appetite was escalated by the myriad of food smells scattering the cobbled street. A few glasses of wine, some stolen kisses later and a bit of friendly banter with her parents and brother, calmed my anxiety about entering the much acclaimed club.

When we did head across the road to eat I was surprised to find out that the enormous and captivating building I had been drunkenly admiring, was actually the very place we were going to eat in. As we entered the hall I was instantly reminded of my previous concerns, and became very aware of my incongruity. However, once we sat down in the great, marble pillared dining room and continued to consume yet more alcohol, I relaxed. A lot. Even to the point that Marianna and myself escaped every so often to snog in darkened corners, pushing each other against walls passionately only to retract from each other at the first sign of unwanted company. Our sexual desire for each other at this point is paramount to the story and explains a considerable amount of our adventurous behavior. From day one there has been a phenomenal amount of sexual chemistry between us, and this has evidently resulted in some inappropriate escapades and a great deal of fun. A particularly notable idea that we did not  follow through with however, involved a cloak room discovered upstairs away from prying eyes and the bustle of the restaurant. In it stood a rather seductive looking chair and a beautiful floor to ceiling mirror framed in gold plate. I regret to inform you that we didn't have any sort of sexual play in this most inviting room, mainly due to the fact that her dad happened to come upstairs at our moment of discovery ( I suspect he was checking up on us) and shattered our little fantasy in a cloud of bad puns and not quite so innocent jibes at me. We will however update you next time we attend an event there, as we are both determined to copulate in that perfect little room.

After our meal we decided to separate from her family and go for a drink on our own, which we did in a rather quaint pub which is split across an alleyway called The Ship and Shovel - the ship being one side and the shovel the other. As it was already fairly late we only had time for a single drink here but our inebriation had risen to a point that we were now fairly comfortable kissing in the busy pub whilst hands wandered under the table. Needless to say we didn't stay here long and swiftly moved back to where we started, at Gordon's. A very different atmosphere greeted us this time though, as most of the young commuters had long since left, leaving behind a stench of wealth and arrogance but friendly staff who were more than happy to bestow a free drink to Marianna and her “gorgeous friend” who was waiting outside. They were a little baffled when I stumbled down the stairs and took a glass of wine from her. Undoubtedly pissed now, I chatted hesitantly to a tramp who claimed he had run with The Beatles. After some strained conversation he handed me a DVD (which I still haven't watched) and shared a measly spliff with me; all because I gave him some of my port. We absconded from the bar, as Marianna was becoming a little irritated at the drunken ramblings of the man I had recently made friends with - although I did feel obliged to listen to the old fool, mostly due to the alcohol.

It is my belief that what happened next comes down to a combination of drunkenness, stupidity and a limited sense of dignity on both our parts, the latter both most likely induced by the former. We boarded our last train. A relatively empty carriage, although I must stress not entirely devoid of the public. We positioned ourselves in what we obviously thought was a discreet corner of the train and proceeded to fuck for a majority of the journey, unheeded by the shouts of disgust and incredulous looks from fellow passengers who were understandably shocked and appalled at our blatant disregard for decency. Although it was a great deal of fun being in this situation, our coitus did not culminate in any orgasms and so has been deemed, as previously stated, as unsuccessful sex. I think that there is a high chance that one day we may very well be arrested. Or sectioned.

"Is sex dirty? Only if it's done right..."

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.