The two weeks since I’ve had a fuck feel like an eternity, I can barely remember the details (and I was pretty drunk at the time).
Meet Daniel: A fireman with broad shoulders, stubbly broad chin and blue eyes. He picked me up after a work drinks party near Liverpool Street. I was already pretty drunk and the tequila shots my co-workers and I had polished off before I left were a good ten minutes away from kicking in. We had a quick drink in a pub by the station and after I’d sized up his cute arse and given his crotch a quick grope it was time for a taxi.
I can’t remember that much of what happened next. He was hairy, I remember that and I’m pretty sure he had a larger than average sized cock. Anyway . He had me bent over my dining table fucking me hard, I remember the table shaking and my vision a little blurry. I came to orgasm and he continued pumping away at me, I considered getting him to stop but his rhythm had me totally hypnotised.
So there I am, head swaying from the alcohol and the relentless motion, murmering ‘fuck me, fuck me’ and as I’m feeling orgasm number two on the way I look up and there, standing directly in front of me, totally mesmerised and in floods of tears, is my sister.
I sobered up pretty quickly, Daniel left and I set about making coffee while listening to her woes.
Her husband (a journalist, I would out the fucker right now were it not for my own precious anonymity) has been having an affair with her oldest friend. Bitch. She was due to go away with her on a yoga/foodie break (go figure) the next day and so I stepped into the breach.
So that’s where I’ve been for the last fortnight, a week of women-only yoga and a week of stuffing my face in Provencal restaurants.
And not a cock in sight. Not a hairy arse, not a pair of swinging, full, juicy balls anywhere to be seen. Just endless conversation, meditation and recrimination.
Fuck, am I going to get myself laid today.
Watch out London.
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