"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.