Sex in the Cam – Week 8
As the term starts drawing to a close our mystery columnist starts looking to how she’s going to occupy herself in the holidays
The communists have been in the funhouse all week so I’ve been holed up in the evenings eating chocolate digestives and watching anything I can find on iPlayer that has a high sex scene: normal scene ratio. I get to thinking about the only man I’ve ever had sex with whilst on my period (it’s a slippery slope from “just this once”, trust me). The last time I saw him –at the end of the summer as he’s from home – we engaged in a filthy four-day sex-binge conducted in his car, on his car, in my long-suffering little tent and in a variety of slightly soggy fields. I’m well aware that what follows is going to sound like the fantasies of a thirty-five year old virgin caravanning enthusiast but – though looking back I find it slightly hard to believe myself – it’s all me and it’s all true. This column would be pointless if I made half of it up: you might as well make a morning of it and read some decent erotica.
On the way to the first campsite we joke around about pulling over and doing it in the middle of nowhere but in fact there’s a strange soberness between us: he keeps driving and I keep my hand resting gently on the crotch of his jeans, which are getting conspicuously tighter over a growing hard-on. It’s dark by the time we pull into a virtually empty campsite. He turns the car off and we both watch his hand undo my jeans and slide into my pants. I’m splayed across the front seat, feet on the dashboard, by the time we notice the torch light of a passer-by. Shit. We button up and leap out of the car before we look too much like we’re dogging. Are we dogging? We silently decide we better put the tent up.
I’m first in and strip to my underwear. Now, I’m not actually much of a masturbator but when he stays standing at the door of the tent, head-torch angled at my crotch, I can’t help but anticipate his touch. Pretty soon I’m on top – somewhere I feel pretty at home. I love a cheeky spank but I’ve never been hit so hard it hurt. Something’s compelling me to keep asking for it, though, and harder. I’m becoming increasingly submissive even though I’m on top: my arse is smarting and his hands are places I don’t usually let people go but I don’t feel demeaned. I feel like he could do anything to me at this point. Fuck, I want him to do anything to me. God, I thought afterwards, I’m well and truly his girl. I didn’t think I was anyone’s girl.
A couple days later, we pull into a completely empty campsite. There’s a house and some tepees that may be occupied but I think it’s exactly that possibility that turns our minds to naughty things. I’m being a total dick, making him tell me what he wants (a blowjob) then not giving it to him, starting to sink to my knees then defiantly stepping away. He tells me I’m a bitch and I just keep stoking his infuriation. He’s a chill guy, which makes it all the more satisfying – and a little bit scary – when he finally snaps. He scoops me up and drapes me across the bonnet, pulling my jeans down just enough to start fucking me. I’m pleased to see he can’t hide a little grin, a mixture of pleasure and amusement bubbling away under this calculated indignance. By the end we’re both comically shouting abuse at each other: I’m a dirty little slut and he’s a pathetic, filthy bastard.
Afterwards we share a pot of coffee and a cigarette, sitting side-by-side on my little camping sofa. He’s got an arm around me and we’re talking with an affectionate familiarity that, as I ponder afterwards, suggests some little seeds of Something More tucked in amongst the deep lust I feel towards him. I’ve been pretty dirty before but not like this; it’s a kind of filthiness inside of which is some sort of exposure and honesty. As you’ve probably noticed, I’m not usually much of a wishy-washy feelings gal when it comes to this stuff. I present what I want, take what I want and then I’m out of there.
To be honest I’m not sure why I left things at that. Over the years there’s been a lot of sexual politics amongst my home friends, and when I started university I promised myself I’d keep out of it. None of the relationships ever lasted, and each disastrous fling ended up ruining a number of friendships and painting an extra coat of awkwardness onto gatherings. I also think I’m a bit embarrassed about hooking up with people from home: as if I’m not cool or hot enough to find somebody even in the enormous carnal playground that is university (a ridiculous myth I know) and instead have to run back to the little pond to hook up with one of those other failures. I now realise that this is stupid and irrational, and this guy is certainly not the dregs.
So I think fuck it. So what if contact is motivated by a dry and lonely couple of weeks? I’m pretty sure, or at least I convince myself, that this is just the catalyst. Not only was it the best sex I’ve ever had, we had non-sex fun too. I spent a lot of the time laughing. So I text him: I’m home in a week and would he like to hang out? Tent optional. I fret for a few hours before the reply comes: I was hoping to hear from you. I look forward to it.