The Public Sex Act…

…And the free Grey Goose…

After two months of unforgettably bad sex, if you can even call it that, I have run away for the summer. Much like Taylor Swift “I would like to be excluded from this narrative” for two weeks… I have flown the coop to the south of France where shame stems from refusing an aperitif after 6 courses, not blowjobs. The hope is that by spending time away from my ‘hunting ground’ the guys will forget my most recent escapades (it’s much more a sexual Indian burial ground, I’m haunted by bad cockrings)…

My need for anonymity is pressing for two reasons: firstly, on my last week in the country I flirted with A LOT of older men, I do not want to clean up that mess drunken I created for myself. I distinctly remembering one looking like Neville from harry potter, which I was into (wand puns were rampant), but when I arose the next day I must have had butterbeer goggles on because he was more of a Pervimort (still had a big snake though… get it? please?). Luckily older men seem to have the object permanence of babies and will soon forget me once I’m not in their direct line of sight, like a T-Rex or Nigel Farage with campaign promises.

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Whats an NHS? Can I Blame it for Immigration?

 

The second reason I’m hiding in France (that isn’t croissant or baguette related) is me. I was stupid and broke one of my rules. Admittedly I do that most the time but this rule was important because it affects my social life. As you may or may not know from my article where I introduced Bruce (read here if you’re just dropping by because of my suggestive titles) I have a demilitarised zone of men which I don’t touch. These are my buffer men who I frequently go out with but can’t get involved with. It just makes going out in my small town a thousand times more awkward if you sleep with any of them. The other reason for this anti-harem of men is they pay me compliments because I’m ‘untouched’, and like Tinkerbell, I’ll die if these run dry (I’m not high maintenance, more a cactus you water with kind words). Well I royally fucked that up, the kisses with Bruce were easy to brush off but this time I made an irrevocable mistake with (we’ll call him……) Hank.

Hank is not my type.

Top tip #98: Reaffirm your lack of attraction for people by sleeping with them (its romantic like renewing your vows).

I’ll conjure up a mental painting. Hank has blonde hair, a terrible sense of humour (calling someone a slut is never a funny pick up line even if its mildly prophetic), and is slightly bigger than me. Now we’ve learnt from patchy penis that I don’t like huge men, but hey, I’m slowly scaling down to find out where the border is. I can already hear the comments of “well if his personality was good…” well tough shit commenters, I can barely detect for attraction let alone decency, you might as well ask a hamster to find Switzerland on a map. His redeeming qualities are ‘apparently he’s very nice’ (I’ve yet to be shown that, but what does a slut know I suppose?), he dresses well and he gave me some free vodka.

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The good to bad ratio just hit 50:50

 

Now me and Whorey (remember them?) were having a standard night of me waiting in the smoking area whist they slowly wind in the net around unsuspecting men (I was already pre-ording my junk food for the walk home). I have to quickly point out that since finding out about my blog Whorey wants to be called Whorey Spelling, and I will never let a good pun go to waste. So Whorey Spelling was circling, as only a sexuality aware shark possibly could, when Hank bumped into me in the smoking area and offered me a cigarette (he knows the way to my heart, poison sticks…). I have made out with Hank when drunk, but mostly because he and Whorey have metaphorical beef about some actual beef that Hank served Whorey in his restaurant (got that?). Now I’m not trying to build tension between me and one of my friends, it’s mostly because I know categorically that Whorey Spelling has definitely not (and will not) sleep with Hank. I love to keep my friends close but I don’t like to play 6 degrees of sexual separation with them.

By the time I finish the cigarette donated by Hank, it’s closing time, so I’m leading Whorey and whatever man they caught towards the taxi rank. Hank comes over with two friends and offers me a drink in his restaurant, even though its 3am (my type of manager), but only on the condition that Whorey can’t come. Glancing over its clear Whorey is more interested in the ‘catch of the day’ anyway but friends don’t leave friends behind… without their permission first. I was slightly drunk and got very serious, holding Whorey’s face and I told them if anything, ANYTHING is wrong, to phone me and I’ll come running to help. Whorey didn’t care, there were men to be had at the taxi rank. I would have had more luck getting through to Helen Keller after ten shots of tequila.

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Whiskey Helen… Whiiiiiskeeeeeey…

 

I arrive at the restaurant and there’s a bottle of grey goose (sponsor me bitches) and water waiting. Hank clearly had no idea that I’m a cheap date. We chatted, made out, chatted again, it was pretty cyclic, apart from when I told him to stop so I could have at the free vodka (I wont lie, I was getting bored and knew what I REALLY wanted in my body). Like many men I’ve had before him him, Hank was good at starting the car but had no idea how to drive it. I was bored of making out, bored of talking to him and the vodka was running out but he refused to make a bold move, it was a Mexican kiss-off if you will.

It hit five in the morning and it was time to call the whole thing quits. As much as I love making out into the unforeseeable future, I much prefer a Big Mac and a comfy bed. I got up to leave and my ear cuff fell under the table (this I PROMISE was entirely unplanned), and whilst I’m down there Hank jokes that there’s something else I can pick up whilst I’m down there…

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Grey goose is expensive…

 

So yeah, I figured “fuck it, I’ve been here 2 hours and this will wrap this shit up at least” and went to town under the table. Before you raise your pitchforks to Drunkenslut’s Monster, the restaurant was empty (If a blowjob happens in the woods but no ones around to see it, do you still have self respect?). Now I know why you’re all here, honest discussion about the political climate, but failing that I’ll tell you about his dick.

Now I think this may be a running theme with fat guys but their dicks seem really skinny? It wasn’t patchy, so already a solid improvement, but still much thinner than you’d expect for someone who only sees the inside of a gym on their timeline. Personally, I think its a perspective issue, four shots of vodka looks small when you put it in a cereal bowl, (and a good recipe called ‘Help me I’m hungover flakes’). Other than being the only skinny part of his body there’s nothing else of note about it, much like a motel, it will do for a night but I wouldn’t want to go back (amenities include one free coupon to the STD clinic).

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My standards are proportional to vodka consumed…

 

Hank was surprisingly gentlemanly towards me acting like a cheap prostitute, but looking back he was probably just thrilled to have his dick touched.

Top Tip #65: Men in dry spells are much more appreciative about sex, so withhold those puppies until it becomes a relationship issue.

Hank wasn’t going to come anytime soon and I wasn’t in a position to slowly get accustomed to lock-jaw, we called it quits. Breaking another one of my rules (at least let someone cum) I headed home to shower. It was refreshing to have both parties disappointed for once, much more democratic. I wish I had a lesson for you guys this week, but all I really have is ‘don’t give blowjobs under tables’. Much like family reunions, it’s needlessly uncomfortable and someone leaves with a little less dignity (in this case me, it was definitely me).

So that is the story of how I fucked my friend group up, mainly because Hank knows all of them and I’m pretty sure Iraq will have a better reputation than me when I get back. For the time being I’m going to be drinking wine and swimming in the pool and pray this all blows over (the middle aged women approach to handling crisis I believe.)

Stats:

Cigarettes: I’m in France guys, you basically smoke whenever you have a free hand (even if there’s a baby in the other…)

Dates: One french man named Abel, lets see if hes able to lift my spirits……….I’m sorry, its a disease…

Mood: Tanning

Exercise: Croissants

 

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3 thoughts on “The Public Sex Act…

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