"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..."

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