Category: Sex (Page 1 of 5)

The first time I stayed in a hotel with a girlfriend, I was 18. We had plans to spend an entire Easter holiday period together – that’s two weeks, to my non-UK readers – one week with her family; one with mine. We decided to bridge the gap with a night in a hotel.

The universe didn’t make it easy. Whatever search engine we were using before everyone switched to Google threw up a few answers and we sort of picked the first one which wasn’t too expensive, part of a chain, near an airport or with a resident distraction. I ‘phoned the one-star hotel near King’s Cross and reserved a double room. Not needing to do so, I didn’t give any details apart from my name… a fake name.

I had gone into this with limited cash and the idea that we had to be more or less anonymous. At the age of about 14 or 15 I had had a fantasy about being one half of a pair of young lovers who had a lot of sex even though the police were trying to stop them. Their orgasmic moans were a clue to their location – usually down a dark alley or on a rooftop or something – but they were never caught. Now that I was actually in that situation (even though we were publicly a couple and everyone knew we were having sex), getting a hotel room without anyone knowing so was about as close as we were ever going to get to becoming The Sexing Twosome™ (yes, there was a name, just in case I ever pitched it to TV. Now that I consider it, Netflix may jump on that idea…).

We took a train down to London and felt each other up for the majority of the journey. By the time we found our one star hotel, we had decided we probably ought to have sex before going out to find food.

The concierge told us that they didn’t actually have the room I had reserved, but there was a twin room available, so would we like that?
“What the fuck?” I didn’t say. “We’ve specifically booked this room so we can go at it like jackhammers, even though we’d be doing that anyway but we got carried away with this harebrained idea and now we want or sex room!”
After not saying any of this and leaving, my dreams of finally becoming The Sexing Twosome™ started to seem impractical. After all, the suave, debonaire male partner was a dynamic young go-getter with problem-solving skills, and I was an awkward, gawky idiot who had just been put in his place by an aging concierge in a hotel which didn’t even seem to contain lights.

“So what do we do now?” she asked, clearly expecting this awkward, gawky idiot to pull some magic solution out of the air like I’d done the first time we had sex.
“Abuh,” said this attractive genius. “Let’s… uh… I don’t know.”
At which point I noticed the rest of the street we were standing on.

The two star hotel next door had nicer Romanesque columns bookending the entrance, but it had the same vibes inside – dim lighting leading the way down gloomy corridors; uniform grey carpet tiles everywhere, a slightly neglected air, clean though it may have been. (London is full of these. The first part of this story has one particularly memorable one.) After being assured that they were never going to be full, I paid some cash and was handed a huge piece of vinyl with a key attached to it.

I remember walking down the corridor holding hands. It was quiet. Nobody else was around. Everything was calm, but sad. A place of sorrow without torment.

Our room, as it turns out, was actually quite nice. Spacious, airy, bright and with a sizeable double bed… which, as we suddenly realised, was the reason for our presence in this dreary corner of London. We put our bags down; I went to make a cup of tea…

My penis was inside her within five minutes. Half an hour later, with a plastered grin and full of cum, she felt ready to walk again.

We went in the wrong direction, got completely lost, and almost didn’t find somewhere to eat. I think we ended up in McDonald’s, which – as I noted multiple times that night – was also the name of the one star hotel who had abandoned our room.

In the end, we had to walk a little to get back to our temporary place of lusty residence. As we mutually admitted, we were tired, we’d had food, and we’d already had sex. We went back to our room intending to go straight to sleep.

And then we had sex three more times that night.

The police never found us.

“It’s too cold to open a window,” she said, “and our room reeks of sex.”
“I quite like the scent of sex,” I demurred.
“Oh, don’t get me wrong!” she protested. “I love it and I always have! In our case it’s a mark of a job well done!”
“High five!” I didn’t say. To this day I’m still not sure whether I should have.

I wasn’t entirely sure about the distinct scent of sex when I first encountered it. It reminded me a little of pee, but then again, the first time I had sex I’d never really had an orgasm awake before, so I didn’t quite equate that to the bouquet of cock. Once I’d tasted vulva, of course, I got that in the mix as well. My wife offers up the term “musty,” which I guess is as good as any.

I’ve always found it to be quite heavy. Sex permeates the air around it and occasionally the whole house. While not unpleasant, not exactly, its distinctive aroma manages to carry both stigma and pride in the same breath. Not bad for a few olfactory particles.

“We could open a window,” I said suddenly. “We don’t need to get cold. Hey, we don’t need to lie on the bed. We could get into the bed. The duvet’s warm enough.”
“But it’s the middle of the day,” pointed out the Seamstress. “Why would we be in bed in the middle of the…? I mean, unless we’re doing what caused this in the first place…?”
“…for the third time today,” I supplied helpfully. “But we don’t need to have sex. We could just be in bed to get warm.”

There was a long, hazy pause.

“No.”
“No?”
“I disagree.”
“You do? You don’t want to open a window or you don’t want to get into bed?”
“No, I want to do both of those things,” she clarified while beginning to take her dress off. “But I don’t agree that we don’t need to have sex.”

[Incidentally, this is my last post for a while. For the next two weeks I’ll be virtually incommunicado while I’m enjoying geeking myself silly in Japan. Catch you on the flip side, bloggiverse.]

“So… since you have that new boyfriend…”
“I wouldn’t really call him new, but yeah…?”

I would. As far as I was aware she had only ever had one boyfriend beforehand, and they had been together for yonks. Compared to a relationship that lasted over a couple of years and had continued apace, a few weeks still counted as “new” to me. Still, not my relationship, I guess.

“Have you been having sex in this heat?”
“Of course! I love having sex with him!”

I’d have to take her word for that. I didn’t know this guy and all I really had was a name. My mum walked into my room once immediately after she’d sent me his passport picture and said he was “grotesque”. I didn’t relay this back to her.

“Have you noticed,” I ploughed on, “that in this hot weather, with you sweating a lot already, and sex being a sweat-inducing activity by design, that it gets a bit… slippy…?”

And this is the question I’d been wanting to ask. Since our last big conversation – although we had been chatting on and off for a while – I’d started having sex. She had been doing so for a while and I was a bit of a newbie, so I was still discovering things. The last time I’d had sex, it had been in blistering heat and I’d been sliding all over the place. I had been wondering.

“lol,” she said, and then more fully, “Yes! I mean, it’s not exactly made it more difficult to have sex, is it? You just slide more if you’re moving back and forth, right? If he’s on top of me…”

I found this difficult to envision, so I stopped trying.

“…he slides back and forth quite a lot, and we’re both quite big, so there’s a lot of movement there.”
“I was wondering. It’s been happening to me. Er, us. I mean, it’s sweat so it’s a bit gross, but…”
“I like sweat.”
“Okay, sure,” I amended. “I think it’s gross. But it’s a different sensation, so I was wondering if you’re finding it hard.”

I suddenly realised what I’d just said.

“I find it hard whenever we have sex, whether or not it’s hot and sweaty!” she replied, making the joke about a millisecond before I’d finished typing something to the same effect. At least I didn’t have to debase myself by indulging in such puerile filth. “In any case, appropriately given the subject, he just got home and I’m going to have sex with him now, so I’ll talk to you later?”
“Uhm, sure, enjoy your slippy slidey sex where everything’s hard,” I signed off smoothly.

The next time I had sex, I made sure there was a towel nearby.

“I want a psychedelic fuck,” I said. Her e-mail address wasn’t quite that – the profanity was missing one letter and the word “psychedelic” was misspelled – but the meaning was clear enough.
“Me too,” she replied, and she left it at that. I dithered for a while; frankly, I had been expecting more. At the very least, confirmation of any fucks she had had herself – psychedelic or otherwise.
“I’ve had sex,” I humblebragged. “It’s…”

At which point I wondered exactly how to describe what sex is in one sentence fragment. It wasn’t easy. Eighteen years of sex blogging later and I still can’t do it.

“It’s quite good,” I settled on.
“I don’t know, though,” she wheedled. “A friend of mine had sex and it hurt so much she never wants to do it again…”
“It shouldn’t hurt.”
“It was her first time, though.”
“It still shouldn’t hurt. It shouldn’t hurt any time. My first time was awkward, but it didn’t hurt.”
“I’m not sure,” she went on, “if I’ll ever be ready.”
“Even though we’re both about ready for a psychedelic fuck?” I couldn’t stop myself from saying. The sort of statement I would have put a smirk emoji after had emoji been a thing back then. :-p didn’t really convey the same message.
“Even though. I’ve got another thing I do,” she said. I could practically feel the accompanying blush through the screen.
“Oh? What’s that?”
“I’m downloading porn.”
“Oh,” I responded. “Yeah. That. So am I.”

Two years later…

“I don’t know what the sort of thing is,” she said, “but my boyfriend doesn’t really want to have sex with me when I want it.”
“You mean he’s not ready?”
“No, I mean, we have sex when he wants, but not when I want.”

Her boyfriend sounded like a bit of a dick. I never met him, but the pictures I saw looked scary.

“Your boyfriend sounds like a bit of a dick,” I said.
“He is,” she readily agreed, “but the sex is really good. It’s the best sex I’ve ever had.”
“I thought you said you weren’t ready for sex?”
“That was two years ago. I had sex about a week after that. You told me it shouldn’t hurt. It didn’t hurt. I like it now.”

My heart suddenly beat twice as fast. Did I have that sort of influence?

“Anyway, I want sex.”
“Yeah? Are you going to pounce on your boyfriend with the questionable morals but firm and unyielding penis?”
“Nah,” she demurred. “I’m downloading more porn.”
“Oh,” I responded. “Yeah. That.”

There was a notable pause.

“So am I,” I added, opening VLC as my halo lit up and began to spin.

I was on the way back from Manchester, and I was alone. I’d stopped off at… somewhere, I’m not entirely sure where… but the station was empty, for myself, an unassuming couple sitting on the bench, and a sleepy member of staff who looked as if he would rather be anywhere else, doing anything else.

I had used the combination disabled toilet / baby change, and to break up the tedium, I decided to spend the rest of my wait gaming in the customer lounge.

Said customer lounge was a large, sad, square room with uncomfortable wooden benches. I huffed my bag off my shoulders, fumbled for my Game Boy Advance, sat down gingerly, and was just about to push the power button when…

Slap.
“Unh.”

No, that was just my imagination. Let’s get back to Ice Climber.

Slap.
“Aah!”

Okay, that was definitely real. I knew that sound, too. It was very familiar, and not just from porn (although that was, of course, the first place I’d heard it). I’d even made it a few times myself, despite never thinking I’d even get the chance.

But it was unmistakable, even without my prior knowledge. The telltale sound of flesh against flesh, skin meeting skin, pushing out the air between them and the very slight echo. Yeah. I knew what this was.

The only question was, where was it coming from?

Slap.
“Oh!”

Turned on, ashamed, I prowled around the room trying to puzzle out the mystery. A cursory glance around the platform outside and I noticed the lack of the couple on the bench. The sleepy guard was looking the other way… and there was no other activity.

Slap. Slap. Slap.
“Mmm… mmm… mmm!”

As the slaps and moans increased in terms of pitch, tempo and volume, I could definitely discern the direction they were coming from. The wall to my left. The wall, the thin brick wall, to my left. The wall separating my empty customer lounge and the disabled toilet / baby change.

The disabled toilet / baby change! That suddenly made perfect sense! I was the single boy perfectly content to sit and play Ice Climber; they were the horny couple deciding it would be a better use of their time to go and have sex in the disabled bathroom. (I mean, I don’t blame them; I’ve done that.)

How decadent. How risqué. How blatant. How…

how…

…sexy.

I even managed to pinpoint, through a sound I’m not even going to try and transcribe, what may very well have been an orgasm. It was certainly, if not that, a finishing move.

I didn’t quite get around to playing much of Ice Climber, but I did get my train. In fact, when it arrived, the couple were back on their bench, looking for all the world like nothing untoward had happened. Cool as you please, they stepped gracefully into a carriage. I followed suit, and as they swanned away into the milieu of seats, I traced them with my eyes…

…and regarded them with nothing short of ardent worship.

“Hey. Wake up.”

I rolled over – not an easy task in a single bed – and ended up lying supine.

“I’m awake,” I murmured. “Haven’t gotten any sleep. Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m okay,” she replied, at which point I realised she was standing up. “I just wanted to point out that, well, that you’re hard. It’s very… apparent.”

She wasn’t wrong. I was hard, and what’s more, I had been for a while. We had had sex, of course, a few hours ago, but my body had decided it was ready to go again. I wasn’t going to wake her up for sex, but as it turns out, that’s what she was doing.

“The thing is,” she continued as she slipped off her tee, “you have a very big penis and that’s a very nice erection, and I really don’t want to waste it.”

There was a beat.

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” I eventually came out with. Mr Smooth, right here.

“You don’t need to.” (She stepped out of her girl boxers and kicked them aside.) “You never need to say anything.” (She climbed back onto the bed and straddled me.) “You just need to do the things you know how to do.” (She lowered herself to sit astride. My cock, which was very hard, as you may have realised by now, slid inside her in one stroke.)

I took a deep, shuddering gasp as every single bit of me decided to wake up.

“And this,” she said as she started to ride me with a wicked grin, “is what I like to do with a very nice, very hard penis.”
“I’m not objecting,” I said as I started to meet her bounces with little pelvic thrusts. “You have a very nice… well, a very nice everything.”

As sex goes, it wasn’t very long. But then it didn’t need to be. A few minutes of bump and grind. All the right noises with all the right bits going all the right places. She was lying on top of me when we finished, and that was the way we stayed for a while longer. Her breasts squashed against my chest. My penis still buried inside her. Warm, wet, spent.

When, eventually, she nestled back into the covers and pulled one of my arms around her, she mentioned something about being able to go to sleep now.
“But I was awake. I said I was.”
“But I’m all warm, and satisfied, and full of cum, and I’ll sleep well tonight.”
I laughed, but she didn’t respond. She had gone to sleep. I wish I had that superpower.

Seven or so hours passed, during which I had sex dreams about her.

“Do you want a cup of tea?” said someone at some point.
“Mmmmm?” was my suave reply.
“Tea? Do you want tea?”
“Xibu ejezpv tbz?”
“Come on,” she said, while manually opening my eyes and greeting me with boobs to start the morning. “You can’t be that sleepy at this hour.”
“What time is it?”
“Never mind that! We’ve got to have more sex!”

More sex?

“Wake up!”

Some people call me the milkman because I always deliver pain.
Others think it’s because I’m a renegade milkman.
But the real reason they call me the milkman is…
I carry a bottle of milk with me.

It was seven-thirty post-meridian and I was just standing outside the Zoroastrian Centre on Edgware Road when I got a text.

It wasn’t full of doom and gloom, but then again, it wasn’t overly exciting, either. Alicia had run out of milk and wanted me to pick some up on the way to her flat. There was an M&S on the road, so it wouldn’t be difficult. Simple task, of course, and nothing unusual. I’m always buying milk. How would I be able to drink my tea otherwise?

But this made me unreasonably excited.

The relationship between Alicia and I was wonderfully uncomplicated. We would meet at her house (often on my way back from work); we would talk and eat; we would flirt and eventually have sex. We would sleep, spoon, maybe have sex again in the morning, and then we would leave for our respective lives. There were, of course, variations on this theme: on our first night together we watched Moulin Rouge! beforehand; on our second, she randomly drummed the main beat from Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Boo on my stomach. But the general idea was the same.

What made this simple request special was that this was the first time she had ever asked me to do anything domestic. Maybe neither of us had ever considered this. I was her lover, not her maid; I offered to help her wash up after dinner, but she had consistently refused. I occasionally went to the fridge to get chilled water for immediately after sex. Once I put some stuff in the bin. But that was about it.

Here, I had an actual errand. Go to the shop. Buy some milk. Bring it with me to her flat, so I could have tea with her before sex, also with her. I’d never had to buy milk in any sort of relationship before. Rebecca’s mum always had a supply available and Louise preferred lemonade (although she also had some for me when I requested coffee).

Is this what being a husband is like? I wondered, as I stepped into the warm light of M&S (noting the contrast with the Harrow darkness outside). Providing milk to your lady with the promise of hot sex afterwards? Calm down, ILB. You’re overthinking things again. Just turn up with milk and a penis and that’s all she’s really expecting.

I chose semi-skimmed, paid and set off down the hill to Alicia’s flat. As usual, she opened the door wearing a nice dress and a smile. I nervously, but with an air of utter confidence, presented her with a bottle of milk in lieu of a hello. She smiled, gave me a kiss on the cheek, and beckoned me inside.

We had a lot of sex that night.

This was preceded by some apple crumble she had made with custard. I don’t like apple crumble or custard, but I was very good at pretending. Plus, I had tea to drink to get rid of the taste.

With milk.