The Week I Said Yes…

…And the gargantuan dick…

Hello dear readers!  I was so close to a perfect month of posting! Well just like sex, it’s how you finish not how you start that counts. I’ve had a writing sabbatical of sorts and ignored this blog for the last month, I just needed a little break from the self-analysis. Luckily this time ‘off’ was well spent, I have not one but a massive four men to update you on (My jeans aren’t assless but they’re certainly classless). You’re probably wondering how a sexually deviant wallflower like me came to juggle so many men at once. Well, my new emotional/physical plate spinning act started with “The Power of Yes”. Tired of putting myself out there for men who had the follow through of a paraplegic golfer, I vowed to say yes more often. Obviously there were limits to this, I’m not walking about giving out any kidneys or getting pissed on. Other than requests to do wet work (homicidal or otherwise), I wouldn’t say no to any potential dates.

The first man to benefit from my body’s affirmative action policy caught me straight after waking up at James’ flat.  Please check your judgment at the door for this next admission. After waking up naked and sneaking out like a slutty Santa Claus, I managed to arrange a coffee date in the time it took to walk home. Honestly, I didn’t really want to waltz into the next man’s life whilst the air of regret still clung to my bed hair. Sadly I’m a martyr to my own frivolous causes, if I’ve promised to say yes to all men to prove a point, then goddammit I’m going on that coffee date.

 

joker
I didn’t promise I’d be pretty too…

 

 

After returning home to change into an outfit that didn’t smell like cigarettes and sex, I left to meet my new boyfriend.

Top Tip #981: Don’t waste time after you hit your mid-twenties, being a Brooding Brenda will land you with a house full of cats and an overused vibrator…

Despite feeling weird about walking into one man’s house after leaving the last without knowing if I’d just had sex, rules are rules. I strode in with a confidence forged with the heat of a tequila hangover between a stranger’s thighs. Rushing past my date I headed to the nearest sofa, my body felt as strong and stable as the British government after my walk over (politics is sexy right?). Fortunately, the host reappeared bearing coffee and a smile, he was actually quite cute and we started chatting.

I sat talking to… Piers (someday I’ll be good at making aliases) and there were three things I noticed about him. Firstly he was tall, blonde and dressed like a cool dad, nothing too crazy but all quietly sexy (in contrast, I was wearing a tank top with a peace swastika and what I’d describe as risque pirate shorts). Secondly, he was very intelligent, during our conversation he mentioned becoming a vet, music to the ears of a ragamuffin writer like me. Finally, he had this really odd habit of laughing then suddenly his face would go deadpan serious. It was like watching a robot that was programmed to appear human turn off mid-simulation. I began to worry this ‘yes’ idea might be how I ended up in a coffin. With images of a tombstone with “slutty yes-man” slapped across its visage, I politely made my excuses and headed to leave. The day wasn’t done though, on my way out Piers went in for a kiss. His face drew close to mine and my heart quickened, I hoped for something passionate but instead he glanced my lips and plodded onto my cheek. The ‘kiss’ felt so awkward, never go half-lip, it’s a space reserved for overly friendly uncles and break-ups. A piece of advice from a princess who kisses frogs for fun, if you’re going to bail on a smooch then go the whole way! Blow a raspberry on my face or ‘boop’ my nose, give me something to laugh about at least guys (that’s exactly what I need in my love life, more comedy). Speeding away from the oral Nagasaki, I shouted back “See you soon!” with zero intention of ever meeting Piers again…

 

kiss2
So accurate that I’m getting PTSD…

 

 

Walking home with my cheek burning and my body falling apart, I received a message from the Half-Kiss Prince. “Well, that was awkward”, for once my yes reply wasn’t forced. Piers wanted to see me again soon (god knows why) but he lived up in Manchester, quite a trek from my Southernly home. Our conversation escalated quickly and before I knew it he asked if I’d come up that night…

“Yes.”

Within two hours of meeting this man stranger and three hours from the last time I slept with someone, I was boarding a train and travelling one hundred miles away. Somewhere between London and the northern wastes past the M25, I began to worry. What did I really know about Piers other than he was good with a scalpel? It can’t be too much of a leap between pig and human livers, not that mine could be labelled as anything other than “condemned”.  Fearing for my second-hand organs, I frantically messaged people who knew him for a character reference (for good measure I asked if he was a serial killer but you can never trust the suspect). I got one message back:

“Piers? He has a MASSIVE cock”.

Promising, at least I’d see a big sausage before I got ground down into one (sidenote, I would not translate well into food, a Sam Steak would taste of cigarettes with hints of shame and ennui). Fear would have to wait though, after finding out that my killer was well endowed, I arrived in Manchester. Piers was waiting at the station still clad in his Dad Chic clothing, you know a guy’s eager when he hasn’t changed between dates. Walking back to his flat and my potential final resting place (he didn’t look like he had the upper body strength to dump my body), I tried to make small talk.

murder.gif
“Yes, but what’s your salary like?”

 

After an uncomfortable amount of time slyly working out if it would be dinner, sex and death tonight, I walked into Piers’ home for the second time that day. His northern abode was a student flat so I immediately readjusted my living standards as I walked up to his room (I guess we were skipping dinner). We made our way to the bed, not out of sexual tension but necessity, it was the only furniture in the room and his wardrobe had apparently claimed the chair. Piers turned to me whispering “This is so crazy, I have no idea who you are”. Not sure how to answer this accurate statement, I happily chirped “yep” and started kissing him. We melted into the duvet and let our bodies find each other, it was easier than making small talk after all…

Top Tip #1023: Talk is cheap but you can be cheaper.

Right, let’s get the body details out the way first. Piers did have a huge penis. Recently I’ve noticed that the largest dicks I’ve seen have always come from unassuming white guys. Sure my sample is slightly racist but my inclusion policy isn’t, I just seem to have better luck with pale insecure guys (I’m the World of Warcart of gay men). Stripping down I learnt more about his physique. It was very ‘Dad Bod’, a phrase which here means ‘tall but slightly pudgy’. Personally this has never been an issue, I love a tall man with a hint of fat but it leaves me looking like a malnourished child next to them (sadly, a look I aim for).  As his lips climbed this Live Aid ad’s excuse for a neck, he committed a cardinal sin. Sexy Talk.

Piers: “Your body feels amazing.”

An increasingly terrified me: “Thanks…”

Piers the poet: “I can’t wait to have you in my mouth.”

Me, trying not to cringe: “Sounds good…”

Piers, Captain Obvious: “I can feel you against me.”

I’m Searching for the Door Sam: “That. Is. Accurate.”

Scared wide-eyed woman
“It’s okay Sam, he might turn out to be a killer after all.”

 

 

Why do men ever think this will sound sexy? I’ve spent half my life deciphering the meaning behind a man’s words but for some reason, bed is the one place they’re Chatty Sallys?! Can someone explain this to me? I’m as blunt as can be but I don’t feel the need to monologue my sex-life like a discount Attenbourgh. In my opinion, actions speak louder than words. Seeing a partner’s toes curl as you kiss their neck, or feeling a back arch after you caress their thigh is ten thousand times sexier than “It puts its penis in the mouth or else it gets the hose again”. If you do enjoy oral that isn’t muffled, please tell me why. Maybe I’ve only been with the sexual Gibert Gottfrieds of the world and it’s ruined my attitude towards people talking in bed.

Before things could get too hot and heavy, Piers wanted to know more about the stranger in his bed. Taken aback by this sane behaviour from someone who had just that day invited a hungover mess into their home (twice), I agreed. My legs crossed as I sat up, I looked him squarely in the eyes and said: “Shoot” (poor choice of words considering the lingering fear he might murder me). We spent the rest of the evening twisted into knots whilst we interviewed each other. He would ask my political views and I would ask what colour dragon he would be, our interests didn’t align but he’d stare deeply into my eyes with each answer. It was the most intimate conversation I’d had with a man since I’d been single, I found myself enjoying the pressure of his hand on my belly whilst he talked about his dreams.

There was no sex for once, we spend so long talking that the sun had risen and I needed to catch my train home. Weirdly, it had been the best ‘date’ I’d been on.  For the first time, I found a man who listened to me without the expectation of sex to come. Sure we were naked the whole time but he never made a move that felt inappropriate. As I dressed to leave he said he wanted to do one more thing before I left. After watching him sit patiently whilst I talked for seven hours straight, I felt obliged to do whatever sexual favour he was about to ask of me. Instead of reaching for my body he grabbed my throat and pretended to strangle me. His sexy talk may have turned me off but his humour was on point. Laughing I went in for one more kiss, it was my last that day but I knew I’d be back in Manchester soon…

Right, that’s it this week folks! Again I’m sorry I took some time off but I started to feel like I was dating for the blog and not for me. It’s back to usual (for a time, I’m about as reliable as folksy anti-pregnancy methods) with my next post kicking off with more Piers. Stay tuned and sexy guys!

Stats:

Diet: Is actually going really well for once. I’m so busy running between men that I barely have time to eat. Not exactly a perfect diet but I’m not a perfect person *wink*

Cigarettes: Okay I may have lied, this is the other reason my diet is going so well. With zero calories and a penchant for nausea, cigarettes are a dieting must people!

Dates: Well one more with my sexless veterinarian but three others are waiting in the wings.

 

 

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11 thoughts on “The Week I Said Yes…

  1. Naked talking for hours are hands down the best dates. It’s nice to feel skin-to-skin contact without the expectations of performance and a hasty retreat after the curtain closes. Of course, with a guarded attitude, however. Can’t wait to hear more about Potential Perpetrator Piers and Accompaniment. I’ve definitely missed your writing, haha.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Aww thank you! I needed the break but it’s great to be back on it. I like a naked date but I do worry I’m setting men up to expect a certain level of intimacy which I might (most likely will) withdraw further down the line… love the alliteration by the way!

      Like

  2. *Oral Nagasaki* :’)

    You. Are. Amazing.

    I don’t think I’ve read anything lately that has made me laugh so much! The first paragraph and I knew I’d follow the fuck out of your blog!

    Like

  3. That feeling of “Is this a date, or a prelude to murder?” is one that I definitely don’t miss… I’m glad it was the former rather than the latter for you, and that you lived to tell another amusing story!

    Liked by 1 person

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