Sex In The Cam

Week 1: The Germans

Ahhh, freshers’ week round two. This time I am much better prepared. I now know how this all works: come nine o’clock, all the guys put away their nerd faces, put some ridiculous arsehole pinstripe jackets on and squeeze into the oxymoronic persona of the ‘Cambridge Lad’. Desperate not to be labelled a loser for the three years of their life in which they have the most chance of not being a loser, the freshers are out en masse.

But having been a fresher myself just last year, I don’t really fancy any more nights of porn-style foreplay: faking moans while some poor sod drunkenly and desperately jabs aggressively in the direction of my clit. But that doesn’t mean I’m not on the prowl for some better-practised cock.

Our second year drinking society has just taken some fresher boys out on their first swap – a baptism of cheap wine and bad curry. The one opposite me chundered in his own lap; polite of him not to leave the table during dinnertime. We, even Mr. Sick-on-himself, hit Cindies – where else? – and I ditch the kids. A tall blond standing at the bar is eyeing me up. First thing: check the fruit is ripe. First year? Nope, third. And German. Sweet.

Looking for a good bosch

Back at mine, he’s a little shy – a contrast to on the dancefloor where he told me to stop being a tease. His considered and delicate approach to my vagina is unbelievably arousing. After he mustered the courage to take the plunge, I’m ashamed to say I came within minutes. Sadly his alcohol levels did not allow me to return the favour. It didn’t feel like a one night stand in which both parties selfishly gun for their own orgasm; in the final minutes before I realised he wasn’t going to come our kisses were long and intense. Drunkenly messing about in bed afterwards, he gets a phone call and I answer it. “Hi, is The German there, does he want some drugs?” I respond that The German is otherwise occupied, laugh and hang up. In the morning he asks for my number as I elegantly kick him out of my house. While it’s not usually my style to share personal information with strangers, I thought why not.

A few nights later I find myself back on German territory. We’ve flirted all night and within minutes of kissing he tells me to get my coat. He’s witty and mean, and totally in control. On the way home he throws me onto the bonnet of a parked car and climbs on top. A complete contrast to the Gentle German from the other night. Just as we step into his house he turns and grabs me by the collar, pulling our faces close: “How loud are you? I really don’t like the girl that lives upstairs.” Volume is no problem for me, and we have bizarre, slightly rough, great sex during which I cannot decide if dirty talk in a German accent is incredibly hot or completely ridiculous. I guess both. I’m impressed by his blunt approach: before we get it on, I come back from the toilet to find him completely naked. Undressing each other is just a faff, then. You can add the specifics of the German stereotype joke yourself.

Our pillow talk is fast-paced and unromantic. He rips the piss out of the fact I don’t shave everything off and I tell him where to stick it. But it’s good fun and he’s a little bit affectionate, which is nice. I don’t stay for breakfast, and wander home at seven am, smiling at the fact we had no need to exchange names or numbers. Nothing wrong with a good anonymous fuck (plus, inevitably in Cambridge, a cheeky wink in Sainsbury’s the following week).

Sex lessons learnt? Germans are great in bed. Maybe it’s an efficient approach to life that reliably manufactures pleasure like a good VW, or maybe they’re just a bit cooler than your typical pasty Brit. But saying that, the two Germans had very different approaches, so maybe it’s luck of the draw. I’ll have to work on increasing my sample size…