Sex in the Cam – Week 7

Alright, confession time. I went out for drinks with a friend at another college who I hadn’t seen all term. We had a good long debrief in which we shared our Michaelmas exploits and a plethora of 2-4-1 cocktails, and by the end of the night I was pretty deep into the “everything seems like a great idea” stage of ratted.  And with a generous helping of the horn on the side. Walking home, I started thinking about my conquests of the term. I got out my phone and started to browse my contacts, pondering the protocol of the Booty Call. Would a Booty Text be better? No, too easy to evade and leaves humiliating traces. The first prospect I came across was last week’s good cunnilingus man. Before the last remaining sober operator in my brain had a chance to untie himself and reclaim control from the army of drunk morons manning the ship, I pressed call. No answer.

A really special someone

At this point I should have given up: put my phone in my pocket, gone home, had some toast and slept off the madness.  But I’d started and that meant, apparently, I was damn well going to finish. The next name was the Incredibly Suave Male Friend, but he was out of town and, even in my state of suspended rationality, I could pretty confidently predict he wasn’t going to drop everything and jump on the last train. Next was German number one. We’d exchanged a few texts over the past six weeks but nothing had come of it. The phone was ringing. I slowed my pace, ready to turn back towards his house. No answer.

By the time I was at my door there was one name left: bad cunnilingus boy. I wasn’t desperate; I just really wanted a shag. And, though I hate to admit this, I knew if I called him he would come. I called. He said he wasn’t going to come. I said it was his loss.

And sure enough, twenty minutes later he texted to say he was outside.

It happened exactly like this

This time I made sure to keep his mouth away from my vagina, and it was a great improvement on last week’s omnishambles. He touched me and it felt good. To be honest though, in the state I was in a sexually challenged elephant wearing oven gloves could have touched me and it would have felt good. By the time he entered me I was ready to burst. He managed to last marginally longer that our previous encounter but, disappointingly, it still wasn’t quite long enough to let me come. And then (and no, I’m not proud of this) I kicked him out. I wanted to sleep, and I didn’t want to wake up next to him. He’d fulfilled his duty – well, almost – and so it was time to go.

While we’re on the topic of confessions, I’d like to get a couple more things off my chest:

• In the summer I travelled a good two hours by train to spend an evening with a guy from my college. Not only did sex last less than a second – there wasn’t even a single in-out, just an in (and barely a whole one at that) – he was gruff, uninterested and uninteresting all evening, spending most of it staring at the TV, at his laptop or at his phone. Now, I’m many bad things but I am not bad company; I felt a fool for letting him treat me like I was. I’ve learnt my lesson though: from now on, I’m staying put. They can come to me.

• In Easter term last year, I went on a date set up by a friend of mine that culminated in drinks at mine after closing time. He was reluctant to cycle home tipsy and lived miles away so for some bizarre reason – drunk brain strikes again – I offered him a portion of my bed. He wasn’t a sex-on-the-first-date kind of guy – and I wasn’t really feeling it – so we just kissed a bit then fell asleep. At some point in the night I awoke to find that I was giving him a hand-job. And not even initial fumblings – he was well on his way to coming, propped up on his elbows over me. I watched my hand nonchalantly continue, trying to make sense of how this scenario had come about, of which I had been conscious for only a small portion. And then he went “I’m going to come” and I thought, I don’t want this: I’m tired, I had no conscious part in this, I only put clean sheets on yesterday. So at the crucial moment I slid my hand out of his boxers, pulling them up as I went, and voila! – all contained. Problem solved.

I’m a bad person.

After looking up the exact meaning of ‘to purge one’s sins’, I’m not sure this counts. The sins aren’t any purer, I’m not any purer, I’m not going to be any purer in the future.

Oh well.