lee

picnic

British babe.

Oh holy cow this boy was cute.

I met him at a party in a park. There were a few thousand people gathered in a local park listening to DJ sets, drinking and playing Frisbee. One of those perfect sunshine days with a breeze that just make you feel lucky to be alive.

He was tall and really athletic. Just a beautiful specimen of a man. He and his friends were playing soccer, shirts vs skins. All of them running while holding a beer and occasionally stopping to take a sip and show off some fancy footwork.

Thank you universe for making sure that he was on the skins team. I swear he was like zero % body fat. All lean muscle running and head butting and diving for the ball.

It was like slow motion porn with a soccer ball.

There’s a house down the road from the park that a bunch of friends live in, they call it the avenue because it’s on the beach road. By the time the police came around and told everyone to throw away their drinks and head home it was late evening and we all went back to the avenue to keep the party going. About fifty of us wandering through the tree lined street of suburbia, carrying picnic blankets, coolers full of drinks and cricket wickets and bats.

Lee had just moved in with the boys and offered me a ‘tour’ of his room.

To my surprise and disappointment, he actually gave me a tour of his room. As we were about to rejoin the party and I was bitterly disenchanted, he pushed me up against a wall and kissed me in his kitchen. It was something at least.

As I was leaving with a group of friends he actually chased the cab into the street to get my number. Men take notes, this is simple, yet fucking romantic and a brilliant show of public affection that isn’t cringe worthy but amazing.

He came over to my house one night at about midnight. My choice, he kept asking me out for dinner and drinks but I never agreed to it. I don’t know why but I had a tipsy bravado moment (also a little horn dog) and I told him to come on down. Literally.  *Wink wink*

After that we started seeing each other regularly. We lived only about a fifteen minutes’ walk from each other’s houses so our meet ups were easy and all the dang time. We never went out for drinks or a meal, he would just come over to my place or me go to his.

It was so nice and easy.

The only problem was, he was a chatter. He wanted to tell me all about his day and his life and his friends and his problems and his family back in England. And I could never keep my eyes open to hear the end of the story. A couple of times he actually shook me awake whining that I “Hadn’t heard a word her said.” Nope, I really didn’t, I wasn’t really interested.

I was interested in his insane athlete stamina between the sheets.

He could turn it on and off like a tap. The first time we screwed he said “Tell me when you’ve had enough and I’ll cum.” I didn’t really understand what he meant but nearly 3 hours later I finally called time and he came.

So from then on, every time I was satisfied, I would just yell at him to finish and he would. It was like have a very well behaved house guest. I loved it.

He eventually had to leave my bed and return to the motherland. England is very fucking far away for a booty call.

Stupid government and their stupid visa laws. I will always miss Lee and his perfectly timed release.

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cooper

 

Tequila Silver Patron

I went on a day date with Cooper. We met at a bar on a Saturday night and we went for lunch the following weekend.

All of his messages were the best. He was witty, funny and sarcastic. Really great banter.

He would message me in the middle of the day with a joke or anecdote and always managed to cheer me up or make me laugh. Such comical value via text is hard to find.

But there was a catch, I had no idea what this guy looked like. I had wandered away from my pack of pals at the bar and I had met him in the smoker’s area while having a cheeky drunk cigarette. All I could remember was him lighting my cigarette and me joking that we were in some kind of a French film (obviously my banter skills were off). He thought I was charming, got my phone number said some other things, who knows what. Then I went back to my friends and forgot about him.

Until a few days later when I got his text.

The best thing about going out with your friends is that if a guy asks you out, you have a bunch of other memories to recall the incident the next day. No one could back me up, I didn’t even have a blonde or brunette memory.

So I went on this date totally blind. More blind than any kind of dating app on your phone or a friend of a friend set up that you could find on social media. I didn’t have a last name; all I had was Cooper and hilarious chatter.

When I arrived he waved at me. So lucky. He was sitting in the beer garden at this pretty Mexican place with colourful walls and twinkle lights. All the water was in recycled tequila bottles and the waitresses wore hoop earrings. I loved it.

It was packed with people lunching and celebrating birthdays and big family functions. I actually love a packed restaurant, other people think the vibe is ruined, but people watching is my jam. Who doesn’t want to just stare at others and guess their life stories?! Amirite??

He was medium height and medium build and tattoos on his neck. There were also a few poking out at the ends of his sleeves on his wrists and as his shirt was buttoned up the whole way, I could only imagine that his whole chest was covered in them and I mentally imagined what kind of designs he might have.  He was in the music industry, worked with a few up and coming bands as well as booking some established names and doing their promo work.

His life was just one big hilarious anecdote, he had jokes about trips and festivals and drunken nights out and embarrassing storied on stage or with tour managers and singers fucking up. Everything and it was all brilliant. I honestly had such a fun time. He was the kind of guy who loved to be the centre of attention, and he had mine undivided. It was one of those dates where you don’t want to finish you meal because it might have to end.

We shared a HUGE (seriously fucking big) bowl glass thing of margarita and I didn’t really realise how strong it was until I got up to go to the bathroom. Mega tequila buzz. I was only sipping it, but Cooper was guzzling it down. He had a few beers too with his meal and when I sat back down at the table I realised that he was kind of being really loud. Actually fuck that. He was shouting his stories at me.

I was totally unsure of how to tell him that his story about the coke that the guy in the band did of the stripper’s tits on tour, was seriously inappropriate for the five year old’s birthday party sitting at the table next to us.

His stories had also intensified from funny anecdotes to very fucked up situations that he thought were hilarious. It was no longer, that time his mate got drunk on stage and threw up on the guitarist, but had escalated to that time they were all fucked up and nearly drove off a cliff and crashed into the side of someone’s house and fled the scene. Ha ha right?

He lit his third cigarette white telling me about how they nearly killed their friend after forgetting they locked him in the boot of a car for a day in the forest, when a woman from the table next to us asked him if he could please not smoke around her children.

Oh my god. The guy lost it

“It’s not my fucking issue if you choose to sit in the smoking area.” He rolled his eyes at me like I was a part of his crazy rudeness. And then turned his back on her and lit an excessive 4th cigarette of his 3rd butt, intentionally blowing his smoke in their direction.

So then her husband comes over and he tried to reason with him.

“Look mate, we know we’re in the outdoor area, but it was the only table large enough for us, would you mind smoking a little further away” the guy politely smiles and points to a vacant area a few meters away. “My friend is pregnant.” He adds with a grin pointing to a smiley pregnant lady and for emphasis I think.

Cooper is fucked off. Like really angry. So he starts a loud conversation with me. While smoking, not acknowledging the guy and his pregnant friend, or his wife, or the kids who are all now watching.

“If that fucking clown comes over her one more time & tells me how to live my fucking life. You don’t see me telling him he’s fucking over populating the planet with all his fucking kids do you? What a fucking faggot.”  This last line was so loud I think I actually flushed as red as the pretty red Mexican wall behind me.

Everyone in the area was staring at us. And I was a baddie! I was sitting with the fuck head so I was lumped in with this fuck heads bigotry and stupidity.

So this father, husband, guy is angry now. He’s gone from being really polite to going to speak to the manager of the restaurant.

Cooper is still going on about what a fucking fuck face that fucking guy is. And I am packing up my stuff. Phone in the bag, purse, jacket on. I’m trying to give the family apologetic looks, the kids are still starring the adults are all horrified and pissed. They’re not really making eye contact, I can’t blame them, I’m associated with this dick.

Just as I’m getting up to leave and Cooper is obliviously slurping the giant margarita, the manager comes over to speak to us about our behaviour. I’m getting close to tears because it’s just such a big scene and everyone’s looking and Cooper is getting angry. So I just put money on the table I mouth “I’m sorry” at the first woman, try and apologise to the manager but he’s in dispute with Cooper and I just leave. Then he actually, like in a movie, yelled at me across the restaurant.

“IVY, WHAT THE FUCK?”

So I just kind of ran walked the last few steps out the door and then burst into drunken tears in a lane way a few blocks down the street. It was one of the most traumatic dates of my life. It was such a giant shame, he had seemed so normal.

It turns out I had just been on a date with some kind of tequila fiend, with no morals and a dirty mouth.  Who hates babies and people who procreate and gay people?

Cooper called me, no joke, 17 times that night. Sent me multiple texts and left vicious and scathing voicemail’s until I eventually blocked his number and never went back to the bar I met him at for fear of ever running into him again.

I did however, go back to that restaurant, had great food and shared a bunch of margarita bowls with a group of friends for my birthday later that year. So thank you for the restaurant recommendation Cooper and go fuck yourself.

 

rick

portuguese-chicken

My first love.

We were very young, but I honestly though that I would marry this guy and spend the rest of my life with him.

I think I was fifteen and he was sixteen and he was my first really serious boyfriend. After school I would get the bus to his house and sit in the back room of his house, the tiled room, his family called it. We would cuddle on the couch watching afternoon TV shows (mostly cartoons) and eating amazing Portuguese food cooked by his stout adorable mother. Always clad in apron and messy hair in a bun. She was the sweetest lady on the planet.

She would pinch my arms and my ribs and say ‘you need more food! I cook for you? You want chicken? I make you chicken.” and without waiting for a reply I would suddenly have a steaming plate of Portuguese chicken and rice that would make Nandos jealous!

Also, huge ego boost for a teenager who hates her body (all teens girls have this affliction at some stage; it’s a little boost of hatred society gives you just for shits & gigs).  Rib pinching and force feeding?! Hells yeah. I was a rake, get me a cheeseburger! Fatten me up! This lady sure knew how to stroke an insecure girl’s ego!

Rick would send me love texts throughout the day. GOD! I wish that was still thing. Just a midday pick me up “I love you <3” or “you make me so happy”. Who wouldn’t love that, mid-morning coffee followed by a little validation of your adoration text? Sign me up.

We went to arcades together and he would use all his tickets to get me a ridiculous memento of the day like a mini pink slinky or a glittery bouncy ball. Yeah this was love, I was sure of it. He gave me his jumped when I was cold. He wore a shell necklace. He was just so beautiful. I remember sometimes just sneakily starring at his face out of the corner of my eyes & thinking “wow, you’re beautiful, I love you and I will love you forever”. Maybe in some weird way I still do.

I love that face I used to look at. The sweet memories of falling in love with 16 year old Rick.The joy I got with every kiss & every note & every text. The very real pain of my first heartbreak. It wasn’t the love of novels, but it was pretty epic in my world.

I gave him my first ever blow job.

I had no idea what I was doing. I had heard about it from other girls at my school and I was desperate to be able to do it, but I was really unsure of how to go about it. It seemed like the fucking weirdest and wrong thing in the world. In my mouth? You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

Cosmopolitan magazine was for sure lying. Their page by page, step by step description had to be a hoax. This was some kind of universal joke, maybe it was an April fools kind of thing, like when the BBC convinced all of Britain that spaghetti trees were a thing. There were millions of women on their knees who would get a collective embarrassed giggle out of the fact that they listened to this lie & actually did it.

We were at the wave pool with a group of friends, making out in the water, jumping up in the ways, snuggling skin to skin. And I was like, yes, I’m going to do it. Go me for this confidence by the way! I walked the boy down the slippery hallways to the disabled bathroom (sorry) we needed more space. And he sat on the bench seat , while I got down on my knees on the wet tiles. It was so weird, I felt like I couldn’t breathe. For some fucked up reason, I really wanted to remember the taste so I could commit it to memory and talk with the ‘cool girls’ at school about what I thought my boyfriend tasted like. They all had a different opinion on taste and consistency. Really it was just an excuse for them to scream, I’m amazing and I’m sexually active! I’ve given head, bow down prudish bitches! And I wanted to join this weird fellatio club.

To this day the smell of chlorine still reminds me of blow jobs.

Rick and I ended up eventually breaking up over something really mundane like, we could be bothered getting the bus to each other’s houses anymore and we didn’t have a car. Really I think it was because we were babies in love and just wanted to explore other options.

But I missed his mum. Severing that tie was really hard.

I’m not actually kidding, when you date a European boy with a sweet mother, you have to break up with two people. And she is always the hardest.

shane

football

I went to a housewarming party for a friend’s boyfriend.

He had moved in with a bunch of guys from his football team and they lived just off their university campus.

The girls and I all went in a drunken gaggle, very loud and laughing and dancing and not giving a fuck about neighbours, or spilling things on rental carpet, or decibels and volume levels. Pretty much a group of obnoxious assholes in their early twenties.

I met Shane at this party.

He was fucking hot. There’s really no other way to describe him. He was built like a swimmer, with broad shoulders and a cute butt. He had short dark brown hair and honestly the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen in all my days.

He singled me out and we danced the night away. He was the captain of the team, I’d never seen them play or knew anything about them, I wen to a different college, but I knew he was a babe. And a great dancer. He was the kind of guy who danced with you, not just pulling you into his chest and grinding his dick on your hip, but making you laugh and spinning you around and having fun with it. All the while, looking into your eyes so you know they want to bone you and this is just musical foreplay.

But the time 2 am rolled around my friend was drunk and sick and he boyfriend was going to take her back to her place away from the party. He said I could crash in his room if I wanted. And all I was thinking was, I won’t be crashing in there alone buddy ol’ pal. Sorry about the sheets.

When I was in the kitchen and getting another beer some of the players from the team came in and raved on about what a great guy Shane was, how much he liked me & how ‘rad’ of a ‘dude’ he was. I’ll tell you this much for free, even though its insanely primary school behaviour, there’s still something very endearing & flattering about the friend-on-your-behalf chat up.

I went back to him with two beers and a grin that wouldn’t quit.

When the party was dying down we went to ‘my’ room and had some very drunk, very epic and great sex. It was that messy, no inhibitions, fun sex. When you just don’t care & get thrown around a little bit, but it’s fine, coz you’re into it.

And we’re laying there and I’m thinking, I actually really like this guy. I would like to see him again maybe…and I would definitely like to do this again and again.

So we did.

A few more times that night and I just had this really good feeling about him. Like maybe this was more than a one night stand. He was so nice & so great. Blah blah.

It turns out my feelings were just a mixture of white wine spritzers and beers on an empty stomach.

At around 5am after our third or fourth round of self-consciousness free sex, he says ‘I’ve never done this before’. And I’m lying there thinking, there is no way that this guy is a virgin. So I say ‘never what?’ and he says “cheated”!!

It turns out he doesn’t have a girlfriend, but he has a WIFE. And he’s not in college, but he’s an assistant coach in his 30’s. And his WIFE brings fresh fruit to every game. And their children come to support him on game days. CHILDREN and WIFE.

It was like ten punches in the face. Over and over.

And so.

I punched him in the face.

Literally.

As a pretty passive person, this was my first act of violence. And it was really confronting.

He started saying things like, but I really care about you, she and I are having problems, you don’t understand my life, she doesn’t like sex that much, you and me really have something, I love your tits, I just want to be with you, look at me, I’m so sorry I thought you knew, she doesn’t even care about me, I’m thinking about leaving her, I don’t love her, I want you, I love your body, we could be great together, let me make you feel special, I want to see you again, don’t put your clothes on, I want to fuck you again, please don’t leave, I don’t want you to go, this wasn’t a mistake, I think I could really care about you, I didn’t mean to lie to you, you’re such a great girl, I know you liked it, I know you like me, don’t do this to us, I know you want to fuck me again, come on, be cool, calm down, don’t go.

This was the ramble I got dressed to, left the room to and started crying in the hallway to, as well as slammed the door to.

I walked to the train station in the harsh light of day carrying my shoes and crying like a big baby.

I looked like shit, I felt like shit, I had no battery on my phone to call a cab and I just wanted to curl up and die.

This was the first time someone I had screwed turned out to belong to someone else. And it was the worst hard hitting reality I ever got in my early 20’s. it genuinely hurt. Also, the fact that his team, the men who knew his wife, his real age, his children and the fact that he was lying to me, actually encouraged me to hook up with him. Selfish assholes. Bro mentality. Frat boy bullshit.

He had my number and text and called me nearly every day for a few weeks. I never saw or spoke to him again.

I really don’t wish him well.

hamish

footstool

I recently went on a first name with a guy called Hamish.

He was brunette and a bit chubby, but he had a bit of a handsome jolly dad-bod vibe about him, that I didn’t hate.

He worked in IT, but not the boring kind, the kind where they’re creating new systems for multi billion dollar companies and travelling the world to work on them. I liked the whole, I work for myself and I’m my own boss, but i don’t wear a suit, or say pretentious things, causal kinda attitude he seemed to have.

We met up at this cool gin bar in the city and we have a taste testing tray of different types of gin. I didn’t really taste the difference. They all just kind of tasted like poison without a mixer. But I sipped them politely and nodded along as he talked about ‘really being able to taste the woody elements’. Blargh.

But such a great first date.

He was charming and nice and friendly.

Eventually I decided after about six tastes of this nail-polish-like gin, that I was going to have sex with him.

Sometimes you just get that urge, where you feel confident, you’re not looking for validation, you just want to screw someone and have fun.  We went back to his apartment. Very minimal, ugly glass Ikea kind of stuff. All put together one weekend three years ago and never changed.

He offered me another drink. Gin. Oh joy!

He handed me my drink and then, this is no joke, got down on his hands and knees in front of me and asked me to ‘use him as a foot rest’. FOR REAL.

It turns out that Hamish was really into inanimate object sexual gratification.

It stems, allegedly, from sexual submission. But he enjoys the aspect of being in the room and the only contact to be that of what you would do to a piece of furniture.

He actually didn’t want to have sex. He just wanted me to use him as a footstool; with full pressure might I add. It made it ‘more realistic’.

Apparently the guy also dabbled in being a table or actually having his sexual partners use him as a bed. To lay on top of him. Zero thrusting, not bits touching. Just the weight of another person on top of him.

I don’t know what kind of gratification you can get from having someone rest their feel on you, or lay on you, or pop their drink on you. He said it was especially arousing when the drink was very or or very cold as he could feel it on his back. So no coffee ring stains on his furniture, they’re all on his shirts.

Although his offer was very kind, I politely declined and left really fast. Seriously fast. I kind ran skipped to the lift and pushed the button around 95 times.

The only consolation I could give myself, was that he hadn’t asked me to be a piece of furniture.

Another one bites the dust.

joe

pool

I once had a boyfriend when I was around 14 called Joe.

He was goofy, fun goofball Joe. He used to tickle me and throw me over his shoulder and my stomach was always in stitches when we were together.

He was just great value. Always the centre of attention and such a comedian. I don’t know what he’s doing these days, but I hope it’s something to do with the arts. He was gold.

This is in the mid 2000’s so he used to wear obscure band tee-shirts and had a walled with a chain attached to his jeans. WhatABabe. But that’s really no reflection on his personal style. I think I was into fisherman pants and peasant skirts. What the fuck society.

Joe was cool, I felt kind of lucky to be his girlfriend. He wasn’t into having sex, and I was super virginal at this stage. In fact prudish. Like I used to giggle and say he was tickling me when he tried to touch my boobs because it was shit scared.

Anyways, we made out all the time. On all the couches and beds we could find. And on the sand at the beach, grass at the park, any kind of surface we could just kind of lay on forever and grind & make out.

Joe had this weird thing though. He always wanted to make out in front of my parents. I remember the first time he did it; he kind of just latched onto my face and pushed me up against a kitchen counter in front of my mum. I swear my mum just kind of put everything down and walked out in a shocked trance.

He thought it was cool.

One day when my dad came home from work he started making out with me in the hallway so my dad could see and he kept his eyes open watching for my dad’s reaction.

Dad was also very uncool; he kind of backed out of the front door and closed it behind himself. I don’t know if he kind of just stood in the front garden for a while but he didn’t come back into the house for a bit.

He was the one who told me about the ‘danger wank’. When a boy starts wanking, calls out to his mum and has to finish before she walks in, hence the danger of getting caught.

By the time we got to the lets explore each other bodies but we have no idea what we’re doing because we’re still children stage, he was all about doing it in public. Like trying to get his hands up my skirt in the movies, or wanting me to touch him under his bathers at the pool. He seriously got a thrill out of it. He’d wait with bated breath to see if we got caught, starring at people floating past us, totally oblivious.

My poor prudish heart couldn’t handle it.

Sometimes I think about weird voyeuristic Joe.

He’s probably married to some babe and they have sex in public places. Or maybe she watches him touch himself? Who knows? All I know is that he was a little dirty fetish 14 year old. But boy, did he make me laugh.

stephen

cocktails

Super-fancy-business-man Stephen.

Stephen was flying in from out of state for business and wanted to take me out for dinner. He had this way of speaking which was really strange and out of the ordinary for me. He wanted to ‘spoil’ me and ‘make me happy’ or ‘treat me’. He used phrases like this so often that I just though he was trying to sound generous all the time.

Then I went all internally monologue-y and though well why shouldn’t you let someone spoil you and buy you a lovely dinner at one of those restaurants you’ve never been in, but read about in the good food guide. Why shouldn’t you date someone who wants to pay for everything and ‘won’t take no for an answer’?

Maybe you should.

You deserve this.

I convinced myself that weeny bit older than me Stephen was a good idea and I deserved to be spoilt by him, like you deserve a hot bath after a long day.

It was the kind of date that I prepared for.

As in all that stops, waxing, tanning, trimmings. Everything. And I felt great walking into the hotel lobby and following the signs to the ridiculously glitzy bar.

He was in a suit, but not a normal, guy on the tram suit, but like a visibly expensive, pocket square fancy beautiful suite. He was wearing a Rolex and had his hair strangely slicked back that on anyone else would’ve looked ridiculous but on his looked suave and debonair.

He had an array of cocktails on the table for me. A fucking selection of drinks. Who does that? I loved it. Seriously though there was one with half a passion fruit floating in it and every beautiful kind of ornate glassware you’d love to have in your house.

Pretty sure he expected me to pick one.

I drank them all.

He was charming and spoke a lot about the stock market and merges and moving his options in to forging blah blahs. He was very boring, but there was someone really intoxicating about his insanely strong aftershave and older man-ness that made him impossible to stop listening to.

I didn’t give a flying fuck about the markets in China or his recent endeavors with the Middle East. But I did like his voice. It was kind of soothing.

He was probably tice my age. I hadn’t even realized it until he paid with cash from a money clip. I mean I knew he was older and obviously from a seriously different socio-economic status. But he was ooold. And for some weird reason I didn’t care. I liked it, I kind of felt adventurous.

He had a room at the hotel and he had this lovely gentlemanly thing about him, he totally understood if I would prefer not to come up, but he would love to see me again on his next trip. I didn’t want to wait. The next thing I knew we were in his hotel room and his suuuuuper expensive suit was on the floor & I was praising my waxer for her brilliant job. Especially those last little hairs she got with the tweezers (come on ladies, you know what I’m talking about)

It was so much fun, honestly, I had this weird (obviously drunken buzz) powerful feeling. I rode that old man like my life depended on it. And he was the funnest guy. He made us shitty mini bar cocktails. Ordered us fries. And we may watched some porn (lols hotel porn it turns out, is the absolute shittest). For some reason I loved that he had to pay for that, so his check out would just be hilarious.

In the morning he had to go to work, Saturday morning meetings. So he suited up again. He looked a little older in the morning light. He kissed me on top of the head, which I didn’t love as it felt really fatherly, and left.

Beside the bed there was an envelope with my name on it. Inside there was a note that said “you’re by far these best time I’ve ever had in this fucking town.” He actually wrote fucking.

What a cool dude.

Oh and $2000.

Yeah. I may or may not have been a one night whore.  Accidental whore, which I, to this day stand by the fact that I don’t get to categorise myself that way.

Call me a prostitute and buy me a new coat. Thank you very much.

Stephen wanted to see me again the next time he came to town. But I decided although, he was great in bed and that it was a fun story, hooking was not my jam.