The Magic Number

Music: Sex and the City Theme

I’ve never really played the field before in my life. Never ever.

Well, maybe a bit but not very much when compared with everyone I knew when I was younger.

Even when I was stumbling around my university campus, drunk and horny after £1 a pint night I was never that promiscuous. I snogged plenty of gorgeous shaggy haired indie boys but that was generally as far as it went.

The only men I actually had sex with were my boyfriends (with only a couple of exceptions), and I was always ridiculously serious about them as that was all I knew and was everything that I wanted.

Looking back, I now know that my lack of self-confidence as a naive 20 year old stopped me from whipping through a long line of blokes.  Not that I consider myself to be a man eater now you understand. 

Saying that, the creation of GHD straighteners is nothing short of a minor miracle as far as I'm concerned.  The stupid frizzy blonde hair of my youth is definitely a thing of the past, which helps when I'm trying to flick my hair around and look seductive.  For a start, I don't look like I'm wearing a bird's nest on my head or like I've been shagged through a hedge backwards. 

All this all leads me to my question for today: Just how many is too many? 

I'll be honest with you.  I've slept with eight men. 

Yes eight.  I don't think that's too many for eleven years of sexual history, do you? 

OK so I'm not exactly Mother Theresa but I'm hardly a whore of Babylon either.  And yes I've done "stuff" with other guys too (which I'm not counting by the way...). 

The thing is I've always been a bit tradtional and only slept with guys I was way to serious about or gave my heart to all too freely. 

Well, most of the time.  There are a couple of notable exceptions, namely Craig and Sexy Motorbike Guy (who I will tell you about one day, I promise).

I just think that I suck at being a slut.

Yep, as Serenityville said, I think I'm a relationship kind of girl... 

Is that a bad thing?  And eight's not too big a number, right?

The Second Date

Music: Cuddle Fuddle - Passion Pit

When Craig eventually does arrive at my house in his noisy car it is just before 5pm.

On hearing his car engine switch off, I leap up from the sofa and do a quick check of my reflection in the mirror.

Deeps breaths. This is all going to be fine.

Craig walks along the small path in front of the living room window and knocks at the door.

I open it with slight trepidation.

“Hi,” I say breezily, hiding my slight annoyance that he hasn’t turned up when we arranged.

“Hi,” he replies.

We kiss each other on the cheek and then he dumps his bag on the carpet.

“Do you mind if we put Soccer Saturday on?” he asks immediately. “The footie results are coming in.”

How romantic. Nice to see you too.

Usually I am be the first one to request that the channel gets changed to Soccer Saturday.  Yes, I am one of those weird women who really love football, but this is just a little bit rude don’t you think? He’s only just arrived and he’s more interested in the football than he is with me.

Hmm, that's another clue that he's only come to see me so he can see me and come.

As we sit on the couch and watch the scores roll in, Craig is quiet and really introverted. I slyly check him out from the corner of my eye. He is still foxy though, and his plain white t-shirt hugs his arms nicely.

Foxy yes, but he looks really uncomfortable and not quite sure what to do with himself.

As the final football scores filter through, I decide that the best course of action is to get ready to go out, as at least this will give us something to do. We both head upstairs and get changed: me in my bedroom, him in the bathroom. We might have seen each other naked already, but somehow it doesn’t feel right for us to watch each other strip off and tart ourselves up.

After half an hour of primping and preening I am ready to go, so I head back downstairs where Craig is already waiting for me, watching ‘The A-Team’ on some obscure satellite channel.

“You look nice,” he says as I enter the lounge.

OK so that's one brownie point back.

“Thanks,” I reply, and feel my cheeks flushing slightly.

I have made an effort tonight as I’m wearing one of my nicest dresses, with black opaque tights and glossy black patent heels.

Maybe he is just being shy?

I’ve booked us a table at a bustling and popular Italian restaurant tonight, as during our text conversation in the week Craig let slip that Italian food is his favourite.

The taxi arrives promptly and whisks us off into town. Craig has never been to Leeds before and I am determined to show him what a brilliant night out it can be.

We arrive at the restaurant, and it is busy and buzzing with a really lively atmosphere. The swish waiter takes our drinks order, and as Craig is drinking beer it looks like I’m having a bottle of wine to myself.

Well, it is much cheaper than ordering it by the glass...

As opposed to our first date this time the conversation is a bit more stilted, and at times it feels like we are running out of things to say. I try my best, and eventually I have to resort to talking about Preston North End football team to keep the conversation flowing. 

I know.  Things were that bad.  Luckily for me I’d done a bit of research.

This seems to work though and things start to pick up. Or is it because we are a bit tipsy now? Either way, I figure that as he is here we might as well try and have as good a time as possible.

The meal is delicious, and I can’t get enough of the butternut squash risotto and rocket and parmesan salad. Craig opts for a Toscana pizza, which is piled high with Parma ham and wild mushrooms. We are getting on OK, although I’m sure the Pinot Grigio has something to do with it.

I take Craig to a couple of bars, and the night follows a similar course to our first date:

In the first bar we chat and drink politely.

On the way to the second bar we hold hands.

By the time I’m pressed up against the wall being passionately kissed in bar number three, we decide it’s time to head back to my house.

We have sex, but this time it is distinctly lacking in fireworks and the movie style ripping off of clothes. Craig does the weird closing of the eyes thing again and it feels like we don’t connect at all. If I’m honest it doesn’t really do anything for me this time, and as attractive as Craig is, it is starting to become a bit of an effort to spend time with him.

He is a quiet bloke whereas I am an extrovert by nature, and sometimes I can’t help but wonder if I read too much into the silences. I wouldn’t mind if the quiet times felt easy and relaxed, but they don’t. I can almost feel them hanging in the air like a flashing neon sign which says: “You two have no spark”.

I look at Craig as he falls asleep about five seconds after coming and realise that even though he is young, fit, and sexy and is perfect fling material, that maybe this fling needs to be flung.

Sunday confirms this for me though...

Lost on the Sexual Highway

Music: M62 Song - Doves

After everything that's happened over the past couple of weeks I need a bit of cheering up.

When Craig suggested coming over to see me in Leeds for the weekend at first I was dubious.  But then I thought - why not?

True, he seemed a bit funny over the text after my Grandma's funeral but since then he's been back to his normal, flirty and fun self.

And plus, I always find that going out for a few glasses of wine is a great prelude to a night of fantastically distracting sex.

We'd arranged for him to turn up in the early afternoon, but so far he hasn’t arrived. I wasn't sure if this meant he'd blown me out, or if he’d been delayed or something, so I decided to send him a message to find out what the hell was going on.  You know, subtly, without sounding like I'm sitting on my sofa waiting for him to grace me with his presence.

Like I am.

Hi, hope you’re OK. What time do you reckon you’ll get to mine, as I might need to pop out and want to make sure that I’ll be in when you arrive? x

Craig might be many things, but he is good at sending instant replies to messages.

Sure enough, a couple of minutes later:

I’m just at my m8s at the mo’. Still on 4 bein round at urs 4 about 5. Lookin 4ward to tonite! x

Oh. So he’s only getting here at 5pm.  And his grammar still sucks.

I feel like such a knob.  I’ve been leaping off my sofa every five minutes for the past two hours when I’ve heard a car outside.

I thought we arranged for him to come over just after lunch?

Maybe it’s my mistake...

Oh hang on.  I think I know what's going on here.

Craig's parents are back from their villa in Spain.

Craig is looking for an action replay in the bedroom department.

Craig isn't arsed about seeing me this afternoon.  He's just interested in shagging me this evening.

Ah.  It's amazing how far a bloke will travel for sex.

What's the furthest distance you've ever travelled for sex?

I've driven hundreds of miles to see boyfriends before, but just for sex?  That's probably only about two miles. 

OK, so it wasn't exactly a journey of epic proportions but the trip really was worth every inch.  :-)

I'll have to tell you about him someday.  He was fantastic.

But back to Craig... 

I guess I'll just have to see what happens on our second "date" tonight.

It looks like sex is definitely on the agenda though...

The Morning After the Shag Before

Music: In the Morning - Razorlight

The morning after our first date sex-a-thon, Craig’s alarm goes off at 8:00am.  Sadly, he has to get up and check on his team of painters and decorators in the absence of his holidaying Dad. I always wake up early when I’ve been drinking and partly because of this and partly because of the strange location I’d already been awake since 7:00am.

Craig stretches, then rolls over and turns to face me.

“Good morning,” he says, half-heartedly rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“Good morning,” I reply.

I can tell that things are slightly different now. Of course they are bound to be, as we are both now sober(ish) and are lying in bed together with the cold light of day streaming in through the curtains.

In the harsh morning light there is no attempt to cuddle and I feel a bit awkward. Craig starts to mess with his phone as he has a few missed calls from the blokes on site. This doesn’t bother me too much at first, but after his phone rings for the fifth time I politely ask him if he wouldn’t mind putting it on silent mode. I understand that he has to go to work, but manners are manners and he still has a naked woman in his bed to deal with first.

I am conscious of my morning breath, and I’m sure that the Alsatians downstairs had sweeter breath than me after a night out. Therefore, before Craig had woken up I nipped into the en-suite and rubbed toothpaste on my teeth with my finger to try and freshen it up. I don’t think it really worked as my mouth still tasted like I’d been sucking on a turd, but this didn’t seem to matter to Craig as we kiss for the first time when sober.

The kiss is nice, slightly awkward, but nice. Our bodies move closer together and as Craig pulls me towards him I let myself relax. We start to touch each other again, and after a few minutes of kissing and groping we start to have sex. Without alcohol coursing around our veins, it isn’t quite up to the levels of passion from the night before. I know I am not looking as good as before we went to bed (despite my best efforts to freshen up with the bits of makeup I’d stashed in my bag), and we end up having face over the shoulder sex:

In the missionary position, with my face over his right shoulder and his over mine.

We don’t look each other in the eye.

He comes.

He climbs off.

He gets up to make me a cup of tea.

Now that was the first time experience I'd been expecting.

Samantha Jones eat your heart out.
I did it. Or more accurately, we did it.

The first time it was drunk and great. The second time it was sober and a bit shit. But I don’t care, as I had a brilliant night, some pretty good sex and all with a younger, good looking man who I wouldn’t mind seeing again for an action replay.

I am proud of myself that I didn’t freak out when it came to being naked and I must be OK at sex still as I made him come twice.  Hurrah for me.

As I lie in bed pondering this, I can hear Craig talking to his brother downstairs and banging around in the kitchen. I pull the duvet up around my chin and am about to doze off to sleep again when my phone starts to ring.

That’s odd. Who on earth is calling me this early on a Sunday morning?

I reach out to the bedside table and pull my phone out of my bag. I check the caller display.

It’s my Dad.

Oh shit.

This can’t be good.

To be continued... (sadly)

The Paint Job

Music: Let's Make Love and Listen to Death from Above - CSS

I can’t actually believe I suggested that Craig and I go back to his place.  On our first date.  I know I said I wanted to be all Samantha Jones-like about the whole thing, but at that moment I felt surprisingly calm and confident.  It was weird.

Craig tells the taxi driver his address and takes hold of my hand. I wonder if he's nervous too, or if since his recent break up he takes girls home for sex pretty regularly?
(Thinking about it now I doubt it to be honest.  He lives with his parents and if they’re anything like mine, as lovely as they are, their presence in the house is such a passion killer).

The taxi pulls up outside his house a few minutes later. As I climb out, Craig pays the taxi driver which gives me time to take it all in.

The house is pretty big, I think it is detached and it is on a newish estate. I see Craig's white van (that he crashed) and its gaffer-taped wing mirror and smirk to myself, and then catch sight of a sporty looking car which I assume to be Craig’s. I hear the taxi drive off, and feel Craig wrap his arms around me from behind before he kisses me gently on the neck.

“So here we are then,” he says, then takes me by the hand and leads me through the door at the side of the house.

We walk into the brand new kitchen which is all gleaming white surfaces and shiny chrome fixtures and fittings. Before I have chance to take off my coat I am promptly attacked by his two dogs, both old Alsatians who seem desperate to lick me to death. Craig finds this endlessly amusing.

“I think they like you,” he laughs.

Great.  I'm going to stink of Alsation and dog hairs are so not sexy.

“Can I get you a drink or anything?” Craig asks politely.

“Just some water please,” I reply.

I’m already feeling nicely tipsy and I don't want to tip myself over the edge.

We stay chatting in the kitchen for a while.  His dogs attempt to shed all their fur on me whilst Craig busies himself by making sure the house is securely locked up.

I can tell that Craig is nervous now as he is jabbering away for England and seems to be a lot more on edge than earlier in the night. After about ten minutes of fending off the dogs and making nervous conversation, I figure that if I don’t make a move then we will be standing in the kitchen all night. As he finishes his drink, I touch him on the arm and gently say,

“Let’s go upstairs”.

Craig looks at me and pauses before he replies.

“Yeah, OK. Let’s go upstairs.”

Here we go.

I follow Craig up the staircase and he leads me into his bedroom. It is quite a big room and facing the entrance there is another door to an en-suite bathroom. Wow, I am impressed. At least this means I won’t bump into his brother during a mad dash to the loo at 4am. The room is very plain: magnolia walls, white bedding and not a lot in the line of “things”. The only exceptions are a TV on a chest of drawers facing the bed, and a picture of Craig driving a Ferrari which was taken on a track day. I did think this was slightly odd, but then again Craig hasn’t been living back here for very long and he said that he’d recently swapped rooms with his parents. Fair enough, the décor is the least of my concerns right now.

I put my bag down on the bedside table, then turn and move towards Craig who is standing awkwardly at the end of the bed. We start to kiss, and then start to kiss really passionately. He takes off his jumper and I feel his toned body through his shirt underneath. God he has a great body. We rip each other’s clothes off, hands touching everywhere, desperate to feel each other. It feels like how sex looks in the movies. It is so passionate, and so different to the calm and collected removal of clothes before-slipping-under-the-duvet preamble to sex that I experienced with my ex-boyfriend. Craig has a fantastic body. He isn’t too muscular, but he is really toned. His arms are strong and his chest is smooth and sexy and I am really turned on.

We have sex that lasts almost an hour, in different positions, fast and slow. I thought I would be bothered about another man seeing me naked, but as it turns out I didn’t even give it a second thought. I am so wrapped up in the passion and feel so sexy that the fact that another man is staring at my tits doesn’t even enter my head.

As first time sex goes, wasn’t bad. It wasn’t too bad at all. It's true what they say: tradesmen are very handy.  Craig did a slightly weird thing where he closed his eyes occasionally, but I’m hoping this is because he was in sheer ecstasy and not because he was imagining shagging someone else. For me it was good, and I was pleasantly surprised that Craig ventured down south on me too, although bless him, it didn’t really do that much for me. When we’d finished, Craig put his arms around me, and when I didn’t think it could get any better, it did.

He spooned me.

I wasn’t expecting a display of closeness like this, but it was nice.

“Wow,” Craig says as we lie there together. “Thanks for a great night.” And with that, he kisses me on my cheek and nuzzles his face into the back of my neck.

What a great night.

I fall asleep drunk and quite literally knackered.

I had officially been painted and decorated.