When it comes to my sexual past I feel pretty lucky. Although I’m the first to admit that I’ve had more than my fair share of less than stellar ass (hence the bitchin’ and moanin’ on this blog), I also readily acknowledge that I’ve been blessed enough to have lovers who were committed to giving me the one thing I love most. And what is that you might ask?

Super Extra Delicious Oral Sex.

Now, as anyone of my friends or past lovers will tell you I love me some down and dirty oral (just ask Elizabeth Rose how much fun we both had honing our skills here) – both giving and receiving – even more than I love backshots. True F’in Story. I mean, I love it so much that I can’t even imagine getting horizontal with a dude if it’s off the table. A point that provides the perfect segue into the first time story I’m going to share with you all today…

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Boys if you do this...

I can’t even remember how Carlos and I met, but all I know is that I was approaching 30 at the time and from the moment I first saw him I was determined to have that man. And lucky for me it quickly became clear that he had similar ideas about me. So we exchanged numbers and soon after began the whole “getting to know just enough so I can eventually get in your pants without looking like a ho” thing (And yes during the folly of my youth I was very concerned with number crunching). Needless to say, as we were both ‘buzzing’ the process was quite short. I knew the deal was beyond sealed for Carlos when during our third conversation I let it ‘slip’ that I loved putting a hard, stiff one in my mouth. I actually heard his breath catch in his throat before he managed to get the words “Are you serious?” out.

You see folks, unlike me, my new found friend had NEVER had the pleasure of having his man parts inside the wet, warmth mouth of an enthusiastic partner (you’ll soon understand why). Every BJ he’d received in his life (according to him he could count them on his hand) had been abysmal, because the women in question weren’t into it. And as a result he was feenin’ to experience the joys of a BJ with a woman who delighted in the task. Once I let the cat out of the bag, he could barely contain himself.

So about a week later we were locked in the opening moves of the dance of lust. To his credit, as we got better acquainted and he set about warming me up Carlos kissed, sucked and licked virtually every part of my body except…

My Throbbing Girl Parts.

You have now idea how shocking this was to me. Dear readers, every man before him had just face firmly planted between my legs, so to my mind it was the natural order of things – a given even. When it finally dawned on me that he was pointedly avoiding the area my mind reeled.

WTF? This has never happened before. Do I smell today? Oh God, I must smell.

After enduring the madness of it all for what felt like an eternity I got up the courage to ask him.

“Carlos, is there a problem? Is there a reason you’re avoiding my girl?”

He released his lip lock on my breast and looked at me quizzically. “Oh Skye. I don’t do that.”

I’m sure a look of utter confusion must have swept across my face. “What do mean, you don’t do that?”

“I’m not into going down on girls. It’s just not my thing.”

As I felt my love juices evaporate I took a deep breath and tried again. “Is that because you’ve never tried it?”

“No. I have and I just don’t like it. I think it’s nasty.”

People, that beautiful and oh so stupid man actually told me, the woman he was hoping to get his first decent BJ from, that he thought eating pussy was nasty.

“Well, then my friend we have a problem,” I said as a thought I’d never had before crystallized in my brain, “I don’t do men who don’t do me.”

I promise to do this...

“Come on Skye, what’s the big deal? You like it anyway.”

“Sorry dude. We’re done.” And just to make sure my message was clear, I pushed him off me and turned my back to him, ready to sleep.

He pleaded for a while and tried to get things started again, to no avail, before conceding defeat (indicated by the loud sigh he emitted as he rolled away from me). Or so I thought…

Ladies and gentleman, can you all guess what I woke up to the very next morning?

Good people, I was rudely awakened by the tip of a very hard dick being pushed against my lips – and not the ones below my waist. In a fit of I’m-getting-my-BJ-anyway-I-can desperation, Carlos, who had straddled my chest as I slept, was busy trying to get his dick in my mouth.

Okay say it with me…

What. The. Fuck?

Needless to say, what happened next wasn’t pretty. All I’m willing to say here is that as I stormed out of his house that morning Carlos and his man parts weren’t happy campers – at all.

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I’m pleased to report that since that time, I’ve had very little trouble in this area. Carlos and his antics were a blip in the universe for me – and that’s not just due to dumb luck. You see, I was so appalled by Carlos’ attitude and behaviour that immediately after my standoff with him I instituted what I like to call my ‘You no licky, I no fucky’ policy: which means I don’t even consider having sex with any man who isn’t willing to go down. And I make sure I flush out chumps like Carlos early in the game by putting my cards on the table from the get go.

Then we'll both enjoy lots of this.

Strangely enough, I’ve seen some miraculous conversions in my time.  Upon hearing a man say anything akin to “I don’t do that” when I ask him about oral, I just look at him blankly for a while. Then in the sweetest voice possible I thank them for all the (decidedly sexless) time spent and start in on my ‘Dear John’ speech. And you know what folks? That seems to cure many men of any box-eating phobias they thought they had. In fact, in my experience the vast majority of dudes who boldly declare that they are hell bent against going down (if I had to guesstimate I’d say at least 85%) when first asked, quickly change their tune, giving me a “We’ll see when the time comes” or “I do it in special cases for special women”. What’s more, I’ve found that it’s the men who put up the most stink that are the most artful (in the most climatic sense of the word) at doing the job. Go figure.

So here’s to Carlos, wherever he is, for giving me good reason to take a stand. It’s served me and my deliriously happy lady flower very, very well.

Ever since I was 12 and I read my first Sweet Valley High I dreamed that my first kiss would be to a jock called Tad. We would go for a malt, then he would brush his lips against mine and I would feel a shiver of pure delight rush through me.

Never mind that I lived in the UK where no one is called Tad.

What actually happened was that I got slobbered over by my mate’s brother’s friend while I was passed out drunk on a couch.

I know.

Classy.

This is what happened…

I was a 17 year old lip Virgin. You see, teen pregnancy was never a danger with me. I have and still am verging on the slightly frigid. In this day and age with everything being so hyper sexualised (and with nearly everyone pretending they are up for it all the time just because a few rappers on MTV keep talking about dropping it down low) I know it is not the done thing to admit that I am not a sex machine. But facts are facts and I’m not.

And it was this very same lack of interest that led to me being Never-Been-Kissed at the ripe old age of 17.

When it dawned on me that I was probably the only girl in school who hadn’t managed to lock lips with a guy I naturally panicked and ran to the shops to buy some plums to practice on.

After demolishing three plums in quick succession I realised it was time to grab a boy and get it on.

In my youth I resembled a much younger version of the fabulous Ms. Ross...on crack.

But finding a boy turned out to be easier said than done. I may be a walking bombshell now – modesty has always been my strong point – but when I was a teenager I looked like Diana Ross on crack.

Since I had no sense of reality, I asked out the most popular guy at my school who shot me down. After that I lost all sense of perspective and asked out the geekiest guy at school who said “Ok”.

Being students, we didn’t have big budgets. So it wasn’t a drink followed by clubbing in central London, but more a walk to the shopping centre and back. Truth is if I had taken that walk to the mall 100 times by myself that day, I would’ve had more fun. My date ended up having all the personality of asphalt. I was bored to tears by the time we were halfway to the mall. I considered shortening our so-called date by attacking him with my lips: however, as I pride myself on not being a sexual harasser, I refrained.

Somehow I managed to stay awake until we made our home. Before parting ways, we stopped on the sidewalk for a very awkward goodbye. Sensing that this was my big chance I leaned in, ready, primed and prepared for my kiss. But the asshole pulled away.

“Hey!”

“Look I’m sorry, but I can’t kiss you,” the geek said blushing.

“Why not?” I demanded.

“Dental problems.”

“Huh?”

“Yeah, I can’t control my saliva.”

“Oh.”

“We can still give it a go if you want.”

“It’s ok.”

I went home. Still very much a lip Virgin.

Depressed I called up my mate.

Turned out her brother was having a party at her house, as their parents were away. He was in college and he had invited a bunch of his school chums round. She asked if I wanted to go over and I jumped at the chance.

The party was in full swing when I got there and I felt unbelievably cool as I was in the company of College students. As soon as I walked in my friend pushed a beer into my hand and then disappeared.

I ended up sat on a couch and next to a guy called Dave and we hit it off. I kept sipping on my beer and in a moment of alcohol driven candour I told Dave all about the problems I was having losing my lip Virginity.

“I can kiss you if you like?” he offered kindly.

I looked at him like he was the second coming of the Messiah, quickly puckered up – didn’t want to give him a chance to change his mind – and then everything went blank.

I think we both kind of passed out after that little romantic moment and I woke up to his slobbery kisses. It was disgusting and I pushed him off. It was nothing like kissing a plum!

And that ladies and gentlemen is the tragic tale of my first kiss.

In case any of you think I suffered some mental trauma I think it only best I add an epilogue. I went to University and was a late bloomer. I got myself a lot of dates and kisses; and I realised that kissing is not at all like they describe in books – it’s better.

Last week Thursday, we published @Soloat30’s Being Reborn. For those of you who missed it, her guest post detailed the transformation of her relationship and sex life with her partner – for the better – as a result of the positive shift she was able to make in her view and thinking about herself.

As is customary, we spread the word about the post via twitter and as luck would have it, when Sam sent out a tweet that read…

Wishing my sex life could be REBORN>>RT @SoloAt30: RT @metanotherfrog @Soloat30 is being reborn. New Guest Post…http://fb.me/QcqU9TCf

One of his amazing followers, @ReboWolo, came back with this…

@TheManSamSharpe Question, what if anything would you do differently if your sex life was reborn?? Or had a do over? Just curious.

Now, that was a question that made us stand up and take notice. One that got Sam, Elizabeth and I thinking – hard.

I mean think about it for a minute. If you could go back in time and redo your sexual history what would you tweak, do the exactly the same or not do at all? It’s a question that’s tough to answer. However, since we are a trio that is not at all averse to being challenged, we quickly decided to tackle it head on in our posts this week.

So dear readers, starting tonight with my fave English rose, we’re give you our takes on @ReboWolo’s thought provoking question. Take it away  Elizabeth…

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“I have many regrets, and I’m sure everyone does. The stupid things you do, you regret… if you have any sense, and if you don’t regret them, maybe you’re stupid.” – Katharine Hepburn

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So the question of the week is if given the chance would do over anything in your sex life? It’s a tricky one.

I am a firm believer in regrets being a huge waste of mine and everyone else’s time. Since I was raised in the “stiff upper lip” tradition, this isn’t hugely surprising. The current trend towards constantly rehashing past pains, mistakes or incidences leaves me ill at ease. However, I must agree that one can learn from one’s past digressions and so I intend to dive on into this with gusto.

In looking back over my romantic and naked history (yes, it took a while) I was struck by the variety in quality I have experienced. I adore variety but this wasn’t a good sort of variety. This was more like a Woolworths’ pic’n’mix where the gummy candies are side by side with jawbreakers, liquorish and smudges of children’s fingerprints.

I have never had a specific physical type, but there are some people in the world I just don’t feel any attraction to at all. Oftentimes this is due to a lack of an interesting or redeeming feature in their personality, wit or humour. Yet for some reason, my sexual history is peppered through with instances where I have taken such men to bed with me. The scenarios are all different, but the commonality being I wasn’t really all that keen on the chap, but being very keen on sex I would go through with it regardless. This always resulted in dull and unsatisfactory coupling.

On a recent night out with a group of past school friends, I ended up sleeping with a guy who I have never had a crush on. Not back when I was 16, and certainly not that evening. His attentions amused me, and I tried to let him down gently that it wasn’t happening. He was persistent in his affections. Eventually his persistence bored me and I figured having sex was the path of least resistance. Then his clumsy overtures would end, and more importantly I could get some sleep. On the positive side, I would get laid and that’s always a good thing.

…It wasn’t. The act was mundane. His abilities were probably no further advanced than when he was 16, but without the energy of youth.

Other times, I have fallen prey to the “ten to two” syndrome. In England, most clubs and bars close at two am. This leads to a frantic last 20 minutes when those who have yet to pair off for the evening will go crazy in a last minute attempt to fill their arms for the night.

Since when I am out with my girlfriends, we are out as a group, this doesn’t allow for hooking up earlier in the evening. It’s considered terribly rude. So this means I have to wait until my dancing queens are queuing for the cloakroom or taxis before I can cast about my wandering eye. By this time, pickings can be slim, but if you have an itch to scratch (and a few too many glasses of champagne in your system) someone can always be found to oblige you.

Unfortunately that someone is often more drunk than I am, or just lacks the necessary skills (such as banter or foreplay) to get me really going. There have been occasions when I have described the sex as being unworthy of the energy required to take my knickers off.

So my do over would be to choose quality. I would rather this didn’t impact the quantity (as I really don’t suit a celibate life style) but not to choose the lame pups or average drunks. Even if this means a night on my own once in a while; after all, I can always get new batteries from the corner shop on the way home. This way, I could look back over my sexual history and feel only a familiar stirring of desire as I remember past conquests.
The rock climber who took me in his hallway against the front door as it closed.

The often absent lover who drove four hours to spend an hour in some of the hottest, hungriest, roughest sex I’ve ever been engaged in.

The foreplay; the tussles; the orgasms; the gentle touch; the frenzied energy; the nails down my back; the hands in my hair; the rough stubble from his chin on my neck or my thighs; these are the pleasures in my memory. These are what I would keep however many times I relived a sexual groundhog day.

It would be the dull; the mundane; the slobbery; the smelly; the over too soon; the selfish in bed; the unimaginative: these would be my do-overs. To skip past the less than satisfactory and aim for quality all the time; this would be my change.

To inspire me, I have naked pictures of Johnny Wilkinson. That’s the kind of quality a girl could pass a few packets of batteries waiting for. Don’t you agree?

I apologise. I apologise for all those who escaped reading this story the first time round and are now faced with it’s gruesome reality; and I apologise to those who have already read it and thought the nightmares were finally laid to rest after a year. Except I don’t… not really. Having finally recovered myself, I find it far too amusing not to make it’s publication an annual treat for you all. I’ve even included the original comments to add “flavour”.

Happy Halloween, my darling Readers!

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“Poets have hitherto been mysteriously silent on the subject of cheese” – G.K. Chesterton

O MY GOD! Most upsetting and horrifying experience on Saturday! I drunken stumbled home with a reasonably attractive young Canadian (being Slutty Mc Ho-Bag) and to start with his equipment was much smaller than his stature would have suggested (I should listen to my own advice as he had very clean shoes). Then to add insult to injury, I discovered his foreskin contained a truly gopping amount of crusty knob cheese.

Picture, if you will, my Halloween horrors– we have been drunkenly fumbling around and are just getting to the good stuff…

I slip his boxers down flinging them off into the corner of his room,…

I lean forward to enjoy one of my favourite pre-shag snacks…

My hand grips his shaft and slowly I pull back his foreskin…

My eyes are closed and my mouth inches away from his helmet..

…and then this hideous smell made me gag. I look down in alarm to see a cottage cheese like substance oozing out from under his foreskin complete with some greenish tinge I can only assume was mould.

Luckily he was drunk and easily pleased, so I got away with just jacking him off while holding my free hand over my face and leaning as far back as possible. I ran straight to the bathroom to wash my hands and legged it out of there before he had time to smoke a cigarette.

For Canadian readers not knowledgeable with my vernacular, knob cheese is what will form under the foreskin of an uncircumcised man if he doesn’t clean properly. It is a mixture of dried cum and sweat.

It is foul beyond measure.

The whole experience was so horrifying I thought I might be put off sex for a while. Fortunately, all was forgotten when I met my upstairs neighbour.

Now I know I should have learnt my lesson after my London troubles with a flat mate, but this is a really big building with no shared kitchens or anything like that. Besides, Andrew (the neighbour) is hot, smart and funny. I was introduced to his cock yesterday and I am already a little smitten with it. However I have learnt some lessons – least of all that Canadian men scare easy, so I haven’t emailed, called or texted him, or done any of the other insanities I am desperate to indulge in to gain repeat access to his nether regions. I have set myself a target for noon tomorrow for a quick “breezy” email.

Does this sound ok, dear readers? Or can I just drill a hole in my ceiling this afternoon, install some stairs and surprise him with a two bed duplex apartment after work? Complete with mirrored ceiling and a love swing?

Having said that, I did send an email to the owner of the cheesy knob today; I realised I still had his business card from when we were talking at the bar, so I dropped him a very polite little note to explain how to clean his penis correctly. I warned him that if he didn’t it may rot and fall off. So lovely Toronto ladies, I have done you all a favour. Assuming he will learn the error of his ways, his next victim will have an altogether fresher, if still ‘sizably’ disappointing, experience.

Okay my fellow camels, we’re almost at the end of Drought Survival Month and I thought it would be a good time to give you all some tips on the types of people you should steer clear of when you’re committed to keeping your legs closed…whatever your reasons.

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1. The ‘friend’, co-worker and/or guy you see everyday at Starbucks that you’ve been coyly flirting with because he/they make your girl parts tingle. Because as they say the flesh is weak and temptation, especially on an ongoing basis, usually leads to people getting horizontal.
2. Harbour Sharks, the male and female kind alike.
3. Anyone who tries to convince you that what you’re doing is whack, unnecessary and/or not the path a ‘sex goddess’ like yourself should be on.  Whatever their agenda, it’s unlikely that someone who tries to talk you out of a decision you made to take care of you has your best interest at heart.*
4. Bitter women who go around saying all men (or women depending on which way they swing) are evil, liars, cheaters, dogs, stupid or any variation on those themes, and claim that they are going to be single forever as a result – celibacy is a journey not a destination folks.
5. People who are actually evil, liars, cheaters, dogs, stupid etc. But then again you should probably make an effort to avoid these people all the time.
6. Your friends who like to start impromptu sex parties whenever you all get together (What? You don’t have friends like that too?…Weird).
7. Friends who like to dish on the graphic details of their sex lives – non-stop. Like all the time.
8. Your über hot girlfriend who asks you to tag along as her wing girl whenever she goes out hunting. Because as we know there’s always a ‘friend’ for the wing girl when the action starts.
9. Any past lovers with mad skillz between the sheets. Stay away from any and all super cocks, hurricane tongues and handsy dudes that once turned your crank.
10. Friends who are going through an involuntary bout of celibacy and have a tendency to whine like Sam about it. All their talk about wanting and not being able to get filled up by/ all up inside someone is bound to get you thinking about getting’ busy yourself.

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FIN.

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* – Of course the corollary to that point is this: If you’re the type to use celibacy as a way to ‘care’ for yourself by avoiding any possibility to date or be in a relationship to avoid being hurt (i.e. hideaway) for months or years at a time PLEASE LISTEN to your friends when they try to talk you out of being sexless forever.

I have two close friends (one on either side of the Atlantic) who love to matchmake. I think now they are happily coupled up, they just love to live vicariously through the dates of their friends. Why they can’t get this thrill from hearing stories rather than being instrumental in the set up is beyond me. I understand that in days of yore it was a great way to meet new people, but with singles events, online dating sites and hook ups possible across the gammit of social settings – blind dates have become out of date.

I am always of two minds when greeted with the dreaded set up. It could be a total waste of time, money and lip gloss or I could be gifted with a new friend / contact / penis. To be completely honest, if I haven’t already got plans stretching out for the next 12 to 16 weeks in my social calendar, I will often accept these introductions as the friends in my life are well meaning.

However, only from the two pre-appointed matchmakers I have already alluded to. Other offers are met with derision. I recommend it as a coping mechanism for many situations (professional and social).

For the rare cases you cannot put off these wannabe “Cilla Black’s” with a snort and a raised eyebrow; Skye and I have come up with a few choice statements to cool the enthusiasm of even the most insistent of matchmakers…

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1. “My last relationship ended when my ex put a restraining order on me, but that was a long time ago.” (Be sure to follow this one up with a maniacal nervous laugh, for added effect).
2. “I’m sure he’s lovely, but how much money does _____ make?”
3. “Really you have a friend you think I should meet? Is he as hot as your boyfriend.” (Make sure the potential matchmaker’s BF is in earshot when you say this and wink at him if he makes eye contact.)
4. “Oh God, thank you. I could really use some help with the whole dating thing. Just make sure you let him know I’ve gotten my sex/drug/alcohol addiction under control now. Rehab was so helpful.”
5. “Fantastic news and great timing.  The rash has gone, and the doctor says once I finish the antibiotics I won’t contagious any more.”
6. “I doubt very much YOU know someone I’d want to date.”
7. “Is it someone you used to date/sleep with, because I’m really not interested in your sloppy seconds?”
8. “Do you have any pictures? It’s just I can’t face eating opposite ugly people.”
9. “I’ll have to check with my therapist if I’m ready to start meeting new people. Dr. Steve says the process is at a delicate stage right now, so I wouldn’t want to jeopardise my inner goddess.”
10. “Hmmm…I already have three dates on this weekend. But maybe I could slot him in at 8pm on Saturday? I have to make sure I have time to shower and be dressed again after the earlier one. And you’d better tell him he won’t be able to stay the night as I’m booked for breakfast up town Sunday morning.”

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And finally, the one use only, “Do not push” red button get out clause:

“Uhh…a set up. Sorry that’s not going to happen. Did I forget to mention that I’ve been seeing your ex?”

Use it wisely my friends.