Last Saturday, yet again, another ex ends up in my bed. Though ultimately more interesting than self abuse and definitely more fun than training in someone new, I can’t help but think she was here more for my toys than for me.


Brought a girl home to the apartment on Thursday night for the first time since I broke up with yer one. Strange feeling.

I met Kasia Thursday week in Bruxelles. We hit it off and had a great night together. I went back to hers up by Christchurch and we fucked for about an hour before heading down to her sitting room for a drink and a chat. We talked for hours. I don’t remember ever doing that with Elaine.

So, on last Thursday night, Jen and I were out in Bruxelles again and I will admit that Kasia was in my thoughts. I did not expect to see her though and it was a pleasant surprise when she walked in with her mates around 10 o’clock.

I ditched Jen because it was unlikely I’d get a shag out of her and made a bee line for Kasia. Same as last week, we talked easily for ages. When it came to kicking out time she said she had her sister staying over and we couldn’t go back to hers. So not missing a trick, I asked her back to ours.

It’s ages since I last nervously rushed around my bed room, cleaning up, hiding the sextoys and lubricants, kicking the clothes covering my my floor under the bed, while my date drank her coffee in the kitchen.

The sex was fun. It wasn’t exciting but it was a fresh body with new curves. I caressed new textures with my lips, different than what I was used to, softer. I nibbled gently on her inner thigh, surprised it didn’t cause the same sensation I was used to from Elaine. Even more surprising was the pelvic convulsions when I suckled on her toes. Every tip, every lick, each tiny bite seemed to bring her close to cumming. With the exception of her fear of anal, this girl has potential. In the throes of passion we even made a date for next Thursday.

This post kind of does exactly what it says on the tin. On Saturday night, I went out to a mate’s 30th birthday party, further evidence of my declining years. It was held in his local GAA club and had all the glamour that goes with that. The cider and alcopops flowed. There were balloons everywhere and the punters ages ranged from about 13 up to 83. Gar’s entire family was there, including his recently turned 21 sister, Aine.

I’m pretty such she was alrady fucked off her head on some illicit substances before I arrived, so she wouldn’t be much of a challenge. The fun part was going to be avoiding the beating Gar was likely to give me if he found out. Two years ago I tapped his aunt in the toilets of his local pub. We were so loud the whole bar heard us. Gar bet me sideways. I narrowly avoided a hospital visit. I don’t want to imagine what he’s do to me if he caught me cunnilinging his little sister.

The toilet were definitely out of the question. Being caught aside, they looked like they haven’t been cleaned since Mary Robinson was president.I’d probably catch an STD just washing my hands in there.

We got the idea into our heads that we’d go do it on the pitch, romantic like. When we got up there though, there was already a gang of drunken teens in the early stages of what looked likely to become an orgy. The moon was very bright and there was no way we wouldn’t be seen anyway.

So we nipped down the alley at the back of the club, between the boys school and the doctor’s surgery. It used to be called Lovers’ Lane, but the graffiti indicates it’s been renamed Puff’s Passage and a quite impressive mural leaves me in no doubt that it is not referring to a magical dragon named Puff. The detail in the face of the guy taking it up the arse was very fucking artistic.

So, in less than ideal surroundings, I began to kiss Aine. She stopped me and said “no kissing”. I was puzzled but as she slid down towards my trousers, I didn’t see any point arguing.

A little overeager, she popped open the buttons on my fly and viciously grabbed my dick. I was only at half mast and I swear I heard her sigh disappointedly. Fucked if I cared at this stage. She shoved it right into the back of her throat and voilà, full mast. Going far too fast at first, I had to slow her down. She soon found good rhythm.

Her, kneeling in dirt in a dark alley, sucking hard as I pulled her head back and forth, might seem unpleasant to some, but I was grinning like that cat in that cartoon. And she seemed happy too, groaning and writhing, rubbing her sticky Bacardi Breezer hands up my belly.

I pushed deeper and faster into her mouth. No gag reflex. I would definitely come back here for more. As I finally came, she let out a faked but satisfactory orgasmic groan and took every drip in her mouth. She looked up at me, smiled and swallowed. Hot as fuck. The girl may have been easy but she was good.

She wiped her face and stood up. “That’s 30 euro”.

Standing in this dark alley, my cock hanging loose, surrounded by gay porn graffiti, having just fucked the mouth of my friend’s sister this was actually the last thing I expected to hear. An awkward moment that sseemed to last a week was finally broken when she laughed and said she was joking. Still, it was clear from her eyes that she knew I was about five seconds away from taking out my wallet. She was hurt but laughing it off and I just wanted to get away.

She quickly suggested we go back to the party separately. She walked back towards the hall, I went home.

I was about 11 years old and I was reading Disclosure. They eventually turned it into a movie with the once highly fuckable Demi Moore alongside the never very fuckable Michael Douglas. Anyway, I was reading this book and it came to a sex scene. It was soft core stuff, you understand, nothing to get me hot and bothered under the collar these days. But when I was 11, this was rousing things in me that I had never experienced before.

Lying in bed, I found I had to keep moving the book because something between my legs was creating an awkward bump in the covers, right where my book was rested. Half way through reading the scene for the third time, I reached down to investigate why my normally fairly uninteresting pisser was standing to attention. It had some viscous fluid coming from it, which I immediately wiped away. But wait! That was a nice sensation. I wiped the tip of my eager and firm penis once again. Oh yes, I liked that.

It wasn’t long before I realised the best sensation was when I took the tip between my thumb and forefingers and rubbed gently. No, not gently – firmly. Up and down, up and down, around, faster. What was going on?

I kept going. I stopped using my fingers and moved my entire fist around my cock. I was wanking for the first time and it was terrifying and wondeful all at once. My fingers and toes began to tingle. I stretched my feet and toes out to their fullest and braced for something I couldn’t possibly understand. My hand kept going. Faster. Harder. I was on autopilot at this stage. My half open bedroom door. My brother’s room next door. My parents and neighbours in the sitting room above. None of these things could stop me from doing this amazing thing at this moment in time. I was making involuntary groans. My fist went up and down in a blur. My legs hurt from sdtretching out to their fullest extent. I pulsated. I thrust forward. And then I exxploded. I let out a shout as my entire body seemed to be electrified all at once. Again. And again. Yes!

I calmed. More than that, I was the most serene I have ever been. I looke down to see my chest, my hands and my book covered in sperm. I didn’t care. I just took a deep breath and started all over again.

Asian Chicks Kissing

That was what 16 years ago. Tonight, I’m lying in bed, viciously wanking like a pro, watching 2 dirty looking asian chicks lick the sweaty balls of some lucky bastard and it isn’t a patch on how I felt that first time. I think I’ve been escalating my sexual appetite week after week, year after year in an attempt to feel that first time again and I’ve never cum close. Tonight, I am sad. Porn gives me little solice this evening.


(It’s not going to stop me trying though)

“Finally slept with Mr Loafers. Dick like a Wagon Wheel – you have to grin to get it in.” 

I wish Mother emailed more. 

J x

It’s been a tough old week for those of us who like getting their kicks outdoors, lads. Not a laneway in sight that wasn’t full of snow. You couldn’t expect a gentlemen to hold his own, or yours, in that kind of cold. Sadly, there are no gentlemen anyway. Hands up, I’m the only person in the country experiencing a dry spell. Met Eireann are scratching their heads over the weird readings in the atmosphere over our house and I got vaguely excited yesterday when I saw a particularly phallic-shaped butternut squash in Tesco.  (And yes, a week is a dry spell). 

In the face of wall-to-wall boredom, I picked myself up a book. I’d let you guess the topic but it would be like asking what Mrs Doyle’s favourite beverage is. Behold: 


the book about the guy who can sex good. Andrew, (and we all know that’s not his real name), hooks his way around London Town, bringing orgasmic joy to women who can afford him. 

I was expecting steamyness. I paid for steamyness. I wanted steamyness. In fact, there’s a lot of personal jabber about Andrew’s life. Yes, yes, I know he’s a person too – but come on – it’d be like a celebrity chef releasing an autobiography. I don’t want Rachel Allen’s life story, I want her recipes. I wanted Andrew’s recipes. Andrew did not have a lot of recipes. He had a lot of chat about the pains of trying to come 16 times in one day (occupational hazard) and some stories about how he provided a service to wimmins who don’t get a lot of sex – old/large/disabled. 

It all seemed very reasonable written down. Ordering Andrew is like ordering take away. He’ll be there in half an hour, pay him up front, nom nom nom. It was all very interesting but I just couldn’t get into it. I couldn’t imagine hiring Andrew. In my head (and my head can’t be relied on to be any sort of gauge of normalcy) part of the joy of sex is the part where the other person wants you, for however short a time. Part of it is knowing that when you stand just out of reach and raise a suggestive eyebrow you’re driving them crazy. How much joy can be had in paying for it? 

I don’t have any of the problems with prostitution that some people do. As far as I’m concerned, if you’re doing it of your own free will, go ahead and do it. Register your whoohoo with the PRTB and lie back and let the money roll in (har har) for all I care. People do worse things. Thing is, I just don’t know why anyone would be bothered paying you. If feels bad enough not to be getting any. It’s got to feel worse to pay someone to give it to you. 

Well then. Would ya?

J x 

In the course of shopping for, um, conservative underwear and sensible shoes, I’ve just discovered that in Ann Summers they call the male employees ‘Man Summers’.