The Love Glove (Part One)

flickr image by celebdu

A few years ago, I holidayed in the hedonistic Vietnamese city of Nha Trang. Here, standard drinks are served in buckets, a growing plethora of young backpackers drunkenly play pass-the-sexually-transmitted-disease, and packs of Vietnamese ladyboy hookers roam the streets, ready to disconcert heterosexual male tourists by placing a forcefully suggestive hand on their crotch, whilst slipping another hand into their victim’s back pocket and grabbing a fistful of a different kind of dong – the Vietnamese currency.

It was here in this wondrous city that I had sex with Pedro.

Oh, how I would love to encase that moniker in inverted commas, or follow it up with a promising asterisk and a footnote at the bottom of this post. These grammar conventions would imply that Pedro was not my sexual conquest’s (I’m using the term ‘conquest’ quite loosely, I may add) real name. It could have merely been a clever pseudonym for a man named Andrew or Ryan or, or, some other normal non-porn-star-sounding title.

But, no. I let a man named Pedro put his skinny Portuguese penis inside my vagina. Not once, but twice.

But I’m getting a little ahead of myself. Let me begin from the start.

I was travelling alone, but along the way had met a variety of travelling companions whom I was out drinking with one night. We all made our way to a bar appropriately named ‘Why Not Bar’. Why not, indeed.

It was here that Pedro spotted me from across the other side of the establishment and proceeded to pillage me with his eyes. Merely bestowing this brand of sexually-soaked staring upon me would have been grounds enough to warrant undergoing a pregnancy test the next day.

After ten minutes or so, I ducked outside to call a travelling buddy who was supposed to have met me at the bar but hadn’t yet turned up.

Upon concluding the call, I turned around and quickly realised the sleazy-looking Portuguese guy who had been eye-raping me had followed me outside and was now standing a mere couple of metres away, hungrily eyeing me up and down.

He’d obviously been watching me while I made my phone call. “How can you be calling me if I haven’t given you my number?” he lasciviously asked.

“Ha!” I replied, too taken aback to quickly muster a witty retort.

“Do you want my number?” he asked, taking a confident step towards me.

“No!” I squealed in disgust.

To be fair, Pedro wasn’t a bad-looking guy. He had dark brooding eyes, a shock of curly black hair, a prominent nose and generous lips. He obviously possessed some brazen confidence, which I’ll admit can be quite an attractive quality. But there was something unmistakably sleazy about this guy.

I laughed cruelly. “I think I’m a bit old for you, love,” I patronised. “How old are you, anyway?”

“I’m twenty-eight,” he replied in heavily accented English.

“Oh, come on,” I scoffed. “You look about eighteen.” I went to walk past him, back into the club to join my friends.

But Pedro wasn’t yet finished wooing me. He flung a skinny arm out to prevent my exit. “I’ll make a bet with you,” he said.

“Oh yeah, what’s that?” I asked, mildly intrigued, despite my better (read: sober) judgement.

“If I can prove I’m twenty-eight, you owe me a kiss. If I can’t… I’ll leave you alone.”

“The last part sounds fantastic to me,” I venomously replied.

He peered at me expectantly.

“Fine,” I haughtily conceded. I figured I really had no choice, as I was being a colossal bitch to this guy and it still hadn’t dissuaded him from pursuing me.

He rifled in his back pocket, then handed me his passport.

Quite predictable really, but in my drunkenness I hadn’t seen it coming. There it was in print: Pedro, aged twenty-eight.

“You owe me a kiss,” he smugly quipped.

At that moment a few of my travelling companions ventured outside looking for me. I roughly shoved the passport back into Pedro’s hand.

“Is everything okay?” one of my friends asked.

“No!” I snarled. “I lost a bet to this guy,” I jerked an annoyed finger in Pedro’s direction, “and now I apparently have to kiss him.”

Okay, so I’m well aware that in reality I could have told him to fuck off, then ignored his sleazy advances until he gave up and began targeting another victim. But I’m fiercely loyal, and if I give someone my word, I mean it. Even if that particular someone happened to be a skinny Portuguese guy named Pedro.

And, just quietly, between you and I, the court jester in me was secretly loving the attention.

I quickly rehashed the story to my friends.

“Well, a deal’s a deal,” one of them stated, trying not to giggle.

Everyone stared at me expectantly, Pedro included.

“Fine!” I conceded, “but I’m not doing it in front of you lot!” I then grabbed Pedro’s hand and led him onto the dance floor where we were safely ensconced amongst other backpackers.

We kissed. And to be brutally honest, it wasn’t bad.

It was here; in the middle of the dance floor, my lips locked with Pedro’s, where my friends found me. They of course proceeded to whoop and cheer and generally make the already embarrassing ordeal even more mortifying.

I pulled away from my pursuer, and continued to drink and dance. Pedro danced with us, along with a few other backpackers who were all staying in the same hostel as us. He continued to molest me with his retinas, and attach himself to my side like a barnacle, even though I was now refusing to acknowledge him.

But I’ll admit, my lips were still tingling from the sexually-charged embrace, and with each subsequent alcoholic beverage, my persistent suitor was becoming more and more desirable.

However, Pedro finally gave up, leaving my frosty side and slinking over to the pool table where he continued to wistfully gaze upon me.

It was then that one of my travelling companions decided to pull me to the side of the dance floor and give me a talking to. “You know what, Dawn, you’re being a real bitch to that poor guy.”

“I can’t help it if I’m not that attracted to him!” I whined defensively, in the tone of an insolent adolescent.

“Oh, come on,” she replied in her German accent. “You’ve been staring at each other all night. What’s the problem? He’s hot. And smart. I was chatting to him in German before. Did you know that he’s fluent in Portuguese, Spanish, German and English?”

It’s time I told you all a secret: I’m pathetic. As much as I like to proclaim that I don’t care what others think of me, it’s only marginally true. I do. Well, I am burdened with the dreaded Court Jester Syndrome, after all.

To hear that my friend thought Pedro was attractive, shed things in a completely different light. I’d been given the go ahead. If I was to hook-up with Pedro, I wouldn’t be made fun of the next day. Because one of my friends thought he was hot; despite his cheesy pick-up lines and ridiculous name.

Game on.

Within minutes Pedro and I were back at the hostel, frantically pashing and groping like a pair of sixteen year olds in the back row of a movie theatre. We stood in the middle of his ten bed dorm, vertically dry-humping with gusto.

After a quick inspection of beds, which were fortunately vacant as everyone else was obviously still out partying, we proceeded to engage in a bout of energetic coitus on his narrow lower bunk. My dress remained on in case someone were to walk in, and my Portuguese lover remained clad in his shorts and t-shirt, with only the essential appendages exposed. It certainly wasn’t the most romantic love-making session, nor the most satisfying. Mercifully, it was over relatively fast.

As we lay on the cramped bunk bed, post coitus, he stroked my hair as we discussed our ongoing travel plans. I was due to remain in Nha Trang for the next few days, while he had booked himself a ticket on a bus bound for Dalat at eight o’clock the following morning.

This was perfect, as it meant there would be no awkward post-shag run-ins with each other over the next day or so.

We remained uncomfortably hugging on the constrictive bunk bed until fellow drunken travellers began trickling into the dorm room. Before we said farewell, Pedro spoke of us sharing a hotel room together in Saigon in a week or two. I gave a non-committal response, but proceeded to accept the facebook friend request he’d just sent me from his iphone, whilst connecting to the free wi-fi provided by the hostel.

Damn you, apple.

I then gave my Portuguese lover a goodbye kiss, bade him farewell and safe onwards travel, before returning to my own dorm room upstairs.

I knew my retinas would never again rest upon my sweet Pedro’s face.

But as it turned out, I was wrong.

To be continued…

Tags: backpacker, dance floor, holiday, men, one night stand, pash, sex, Vietnam, women

Trifecta

flickr image by Paolo Camera

Apologies for the late arrival of this post. I wrote it a month ago, but due to my internet provider’s rather lacklustre service, I am only posting it now.

One year ago I wrote a snappy little article entitled ‘Singleversary’. It was an amazing* piece of literature centring around my two years spent frolicking amongst the singles scene. I believe this autobiographical account concluded on a positive note (despite a rather predictable cat-lady reference), and expressed my somewhat zen-like attitude to remaining boyfriend-less for two years. Or seven hundred and thirty days. Or seventeen thousand, five hundred and twenty hours. Or one million, fifty one thousand and two hundred minutes.

Whatever. It’s not like I’d been keeping track of exactly how long I’d been single for…

Now, would you consider me outrageously pathetic if I was to inform you that as of the 5^th of December I will have remained ‘on the shelf’ for three long years?

Well, get ready to scrape those gaping jaws back off the floor folks, because it’s true. I’ve just hit the trifecta: three years of singledom, and counting.

I know; you’re shocked. And how could you not be? Although I’m not frantically searching for my other half by desperately accosting potential husband-types in crowded bars, placing tragic advertisements in the lonely hearts section of the newspaper, throwing handfuls of leaflets containing my contact details and desire to find a soul mate from high-rise buildings, nor hiring skywriters to emblazon my phone number across the sky for all menfolk to see, I have been open to the possibility of a relationship for some time now.

But I still haven’t found the perfect candidate.

God knows where he’s hiding. Perhaps he’s in witness protection?

I’m not really sure how this three year milestone has come about. How has somebody not snapped me up before now? I’m a great catch!

Well, perhaps not quite great per se, but certainly kind of okayish. At the very least, decent enough for a member of the opposite gender, whom I have deemed to be of reasonable calibre, wanting to spend time with me in order to eat Thai takeaway and fornicate on a semi-regular basis?

How the hell have I remained relationship-less for three years?

Sure, I could get all down on myself, write a melodramatic suicide note and then reach for the razorblades. But, no. I’m not going to blame myself. No way.

Instead, I’m going to brazenly point my accusatory finger at the males of Sydney.

Warning: If you are a male aged between twenty and thirty-six and are currently residing in the city of Sydney, you are advised to cease reading now.

This city is full of penis-wielding tools. There, I said it. And at the risk of sounding tragically bitter, I meant it.

These dickheads are everywhere; scuttling through the streets like disease-ridden vermin.

Perhaps you think I’m overreacting. Or that I’m obviously a high maintenance princess who is far too picky for her own good. Maybe you’ve determined that I must be grotesquely unfortunate looking and a guy would rather stab himself in the neck with a rusty screwdriver, rather than even entertain the fleeting thought of becoming my boyfriend.

Well, allow me to share some carefully selected snapshots outlining some of my recent encounters with the menfolk of Sydney. Then you can be the judge as to who is to be held accountable for my long-standing single status.

Firstly, there was the guy who attempted to woo me at the local pub. He struck up a conversation while the cover band massacred a Cold Chisel classic. He really should have known better than to endeavour to have a conversation with a girl who’d just energetically consumed approximately half a bottle of vodka and five wet pussy shots. When I awoke the following morning, next to an unfamiliar male, and unashamedly began a string of questioning that commenced with, “What’s your name again?” and concluded with something along the lines of, “Did we have sex last night?” I knew I probably shouldn’t be calling the printers and ordering the wedding invitations just yet.

Secondly, there was the guy who had a girlfriend. When he told me that my dress accentuated my apparently “amazing breasts” (his words, not mine), I may have been ever-so-slightly pathetically flattered, resulting in me partaking in a vigorous bout of flirting. But, I mean, who’s to say exactly how encouraging my flirting was? Surely not enough for him to justify grabbing my hand and placing it on his erect penis, not once, but twice, while we grinded on the dance floor? And then when I quite innocently suggested we engage in a bit of lip-on-lip action in a dark corner, out of view of the prying eyes of mutual friends, he informed me that he couldn’t because he did have a girlfriend after all.

Thirdly, there was the other guy who had a girlfriend. To be fair, I had no idea he was in a relationship when I boldly draped myself around him and accepted his proffer of an alcoholic beverage. Perhaps a mutual female friend may have mentioned that this guy was in fact attached when I ventured to the toilets with her for a drunken goss session a short while later. But by then it would have been rude to completely ignore him just because he was in a relationship, right?  Despite his cajoling to the contrary, we both went our separate ways at the end of the night. I later extracted his phone number from our mutual friend, resulting in a week or two of pointless sexually-soaked text banter. God knows why I wasted my time.

Next, there was yet another guy who I knew to have a girlfriend. At three o’clock in the morning, at the drunken conclusion of a night out, I produced a pen from my handbag and demanded he bestow a ‘tattoo’ upon my breast. I then lowered the neckline of my dress and courteously thrust my cleavage in his direction. He dutifully obliged. Afterwards, I insisted he take a photo of my tattooed breast with his camera phone. We then proceeded to “hug”; wrapped around one another, heavily breathing into each other’s necks whilst I ever so slightly dry-humped his leg. Can you believe he then had the audacity to hit me up for another photo of my breasts a couple of weeks later, despite the fact that he has a girlfriend whose cleavage he is no doubt able to ogle whenever the urge may strike?

I think I’ll stop there.

Ladies and gentleman (if there are still any men left reading this post) of the jury, I believe I have proven without a shadow of a doubt that my own behaviour has been nothing short of upstanding and exemplary, and it is in fact the male species who can solely take the blame for me remaining single as long as I have.

It seems the only logical explanation for my plight.

Okay, perhaps my own behaviour has been slightly, shall we say, unsavoury, and may have a little something to do with my lack of boyfriend. I suppose I can’t completely blame my single status (as much as I want to) on the menfolk of Sydney. You certainly don’t need to be a genius to figure out that fraternising with guys already in relationships is hardly likely to result in a fairytale romance. And to be fair, I haven’t really been ready for another relationship up until about a year ago, so perhaps I’m being a little harsh on myself by highlighting all three years of singledom.

However, I honestly do hope to meet a lovely unattached man in the not too distant future, who dispels my mounting bitterness towards all menfolk. I really do. Before I regrow my hymen in protest and am done with the male species once and for all.

Happy single-fucking-versary to me!

*Note: The term “amazing” has been liberally used without the endorsement of any party other than the author herself. 

Tags: alcohol, boyfriend, dating, love, men, relationships, Sydney, women

The Marathon of Shame

flickr image by Stuart Grout

Back in the not too distant past I attended a friend’s wedding in London.

With my hot new dress and skyscraper heels (that I would no doubt be discarding later in the night, opting instead to classily go barefoot) I was all too aware that weddings were supposed to be a pick-up goldmine for singletons. What with all that free booze, everyone dressed to the nines and enough talk of love to make you want to regurgitate your smoked salmon entree… The single women are supposedly feeling despondent over witnessing yet another friend join the ‘happily ever after’ club, while the males are rearing to prove how fun single life can be to the once lone wolf who’s just joined the married pack.

However, in the past the closest I’ve come to picking up at a wedding was having the misfortune of dancing with someone’s overly handsy uncle. In my experience as a wedding guest, the single females have far outweighed the single males in number; leaving a bevy of drunken beauties to compete for the affections of the groom’s pockmarked cousin. 

Nevertheless, I ensured my legs were waxed and my nether regions manicured. Everybody knows the law of the universe ensures that the moment you leave the contents of your knickers ungroomed, is the very moment you’ll pick up some man-god you’d give anything to pillage. Anything that is, except for the shame of having him witness the afro currently residing inside your pants. So to be on the safe side, I decided it was best that I be prepared. (Just in case that handsy uncle was in fact a looker.)

The usual wedding festivities ensued.

The gorgeous ceremony ignited my stereotypical neurotic femininity; a harsh whisper inside my cranium rasping that I was boyfriend-less, hurtling towards thirty at breakneck speed and would in fact die alone. Luckily that heinous bitch of a whisper was easily silenced with the application of free champagne.

And plenty of it.

The free booze ensured the best man was plastered enough to deliver a vaguely inappropriate speech, during which he basically outlined his desire to sleep with any one of the bridesmaids. He even managed to throw in some sexually-soaked comments directed towards the mother of the bride, just for good measure.

The floral-patterned garments worn by grotesquely overweight aunties strained at the seams as their owners joined the drunken group on the dance floor in shaking their heaving white flesh to clichéd wedding DJ classics such as Nutbush City Limits, Love Shack and Grease Megamix.

It was while busting some of my classically amazing moves such as The Sprinkler, The Lawnmower and the ever-faithfully crowd-pleasing The Shopping Trolley, that I spotted him. There he was, endearingly executing awkward dance moves with absolutely zero rhythm, precision or skill.

Bless him.

I knew I had to have him, despite his dancing (if you could call it that) exuding the appearance of somebody tentatively trying to move whilst wearing a chaffing g-string.

At the conclusion of the wedding reception, a group of party-goers moved on to a club near Piccadilly Circus. As I patiently waited to be served at the bar, the charmingly atrocious dancer approached me.

Our script went a little something like this:

Him: Hi.

Me: Hi.

Him: You’ve been watching me tonight.

Me: (Scoffing) So has everyone. When you attempt to dance you look like a hessian sack filled with a litter of kittens.

Him: (Smirking) A litter of kittens you want to kiss?

Me: Maybe.

Game on.

We then ensconced ourselves in a dark corner and preceded to maul each other’s faces off for an hour or two, resurfacing for air only when our drinks needed refreshing or our bladders needed emptying.

After a couple of hours we decided to leave the club. By this point my gentleman-friend had somehow misplaced his wallet and I had just had my big toe attacked by the vicious heel of a wayward stiletto.

As we walked (well, he walked while I hobbled) towards his hotel, he chivalrously offered to buy some bandaids from an all night off-license store for my injured big toe, which was currently spray-painting the footpath red. Only, of course he had no money due to his wallet being missing in action. And I too was a little too low on funds to be purchasing first aid supplies.

Once we were safely installed in his hotel room, we climbed under the sheets and commenced a vigorous bout of drunken coitus. Even through my immense level of intoxication I could faintly feel the throbbing pain radiating from my toe, especially when the jaggedly torn nail would painfully catch on the bed sheets.  

Awaking the next morning, I was unpleasantly greeted with a dull pain inside my cranium, an excruciatingly throbbing toe and the rancid morning breath of my partner-in-crime.

Trying to work as quickly and quietly as possible, so as not to awaken my slumbering suitor, I hobbled around the room, uncoordinatedly redressing myself. On closer inspection, the nail on my big toe appeared to have almost been cracked in half and was now covered in coagulated blood. I gingerly attempted to wrap the injured digit in toilet paper before slipping my now swollen foot back inside my high heeled shoe. However, the nauseating wave of pain that greeted me when I attempted to execute such a manoeuvre insured that I would have to instead escape barefoot.

Glancing at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, I was aghast at the she-beast peering back at me. I hastily raked shaky fingers through my wayward hair, primitively used water to wipe at the unbecoming dark smudges under my eyes and lastly gave myself a hearty spritz of his lynx deodorant – a shower in a can. My reflection was still worlds apart from pristine, but it was the best I could do under the circumstances.

Peering back towards the slumbering figure in the bed I clocked the state of the once white bed sheets. Our fornication from the night before must have included some pretty impressive acrobatics, as the bed sheets were now soiled with caked blood that had no doubt flowed from my injured appendage.

The cleaners would be justified in assuming a hymen had exploded in these bed chambers the night before.

Grabbing my shoes, I scuttled barefoot through the hotel and burst onto the street below. My escape would be easy; I’d simply hail a cab and effortlessly make my way back to the safety of my own hotel room.

Only, after riffling through my clutch I remembered that I was dangerously low on funds. Spying a conveniently located off-license store, I made use of their automated teller machine and purchased a packet of crisps. My hangover was threatening to cause the contents of my stomach to disobediently travel back up my oesophagus, so perhaps the greasy potato snacks would assist my insides to behave.

Making my way back to the curb, I patiently waited for a cab to amble past. However, after a short while it became obvious that no vehicles were driving past. I walked a little way down the street and waited despondently at a bus stop. But again, no vehicles presented themselves.

I wondered if there’d been a nuclear holocaust and I was in fact one of the only survivors. Me and the guy in the off-licence. Dear God, I hoped the continuation of the human race wouldn’t be dependent on our copulation.

I was currently located in a (usually) busy section of London, so where was all the traffic?

With no other options, I continued to limp down the deserted street; the large wad of toilet paper wound around my damaged toe starting to unravel. Plan A (hail a cab) and Plan B (catch a bus) hadn’t exactly come to fruition so I figured the only option left at this point was Plan C (attempt to catch a tube).

Charring Cross station was proving to be depressingly far away as I continued to hobble along. As I continued my painfully slow journey onwards, I spied the reason for the traffic-less street; the entire road had been cordoned off with fluorescent witches’ hats.

As I approached the tube station it became apparent as to why the street had been closed; hordes of disgustingly fit-looking people in exercise attire were spewing forth from the station. I had never seen so much lycra in all my life. Many of the athletes had a numeral pinned to their front, alluding to the likelihood that they were in fact about to compete in the running of a marathon.

My throbbing toe was now unsubtly trailing a length of toilet paper behind it, while my hands were scrabbling to keep hold of my shoes and clutch whilst simultaneously attempting to shove handfuls of greasy crisps into my hungry mouth.

Blessedly, I finally entered the tube station. However, accessing the train I wanted to catch involved trekking along what seemed like miles of underground passage ways. All the while, marathon enthusiasts were pouring along in the opposite direction. Whilst I, like a wounded platypus attempting to paddle upstream, tried to forge my way through the crowd.

There are moments in life when you self-consciously imagine people to be peering at you in judgement. Let me assure you; my barefoot hobble through Charring Cross station on a Sunday morning whilst clad in a short dress, my face scarred with the remnants of last night’s makeup and the guilty crumbs of a recently devoured packet of crisps, was not one of these moments.

Rather, I knew with complete conviction that those toned exercise freaks were judging me. And according to their disgusted expressions; quite harshly.   

However long, strenuous and tiring their marathon that fateful Sunday may have been, I can guarantee with absolute certainty that my own marathon of shame through the tube station that morning was far more painful.

Tags: alcohol, London, marathon, men, one night stand, sex, the morning after, walk of shame, wedding sex, women

To Love, Honour and Betray (How to Spot a Married Man)

flickr image by firemedic58

Recently, I unwittingly had a one night dalliance with a married man.

However, I was not made aware of his marital status until the following day. When I discovered the shocking news I felt a range of emotions; anger, disgust, shame and remorse, mingled amidst pity for his oblivious wife.

The thought of fucking his genitalia up with a swift kick to the nether regions may have also crossed my mind once or twice.

How had I not realised he was married? Surely I should have spotted a thin silvery line where his wedding ring usually resides. Or perhaps noticed the ball and chain attached to his ankle.

Alas, at the time I didn’t notice that anything was amiss. But looking back now and analysing the night in typical obsessive female fashion, there were a range of indicators that pointed to his marital status.

If you’d like me to save you from unknowingly bestowing sexual favours upon a cheating fuckwit, please accompany me as I relive that regretful night and highlight the abundance of red flags that were waved in front of my vodka-numbed face…

I spotted him early on in the night. I was undeniably enraptured by his rugged good looks, sexy brown eyes and generous helping of dark tresses. We made sexually-charged eye contact a number of times; his retinas molesting mine like a fifteen year old Asian kid eying up a new Xbox game.

Somehow our two groups of friends drunkenly merged on the dance floor as the band massacred a Jimmy Barnes classic. Spying the green light and ploughing my foot on the accelerator, I snatched a packet of chewing gum from an acne-infested youth attempting to grind on one of my friend’s behinds and proffered the contents to the group of guys now dancing with us.

The guys heartily accepted; placing the strips of gum behind their ears, as a greaser would a cigarette. Taking a strip of gum for myself and planting it between my lips, I brazenly approached the guy I’d had my eye on.

“Got a light?” I queried, removing the strip of gum from my lips and holding it between two fingers as one would clasp a cigarette.

Without missing a beat he grabbed a lighter from a friend and pretended to ignite the end of my gum, cheekily winking as he did so.

At that moment the band finished their set, causing the crowded dance floor to immediately thin as patrons fled to refresh their drinks.

I bided my time and as the band began their next set, I spotted the object of my affection, conversing cosily with another girl.

Trying not to feel too disappointed, I began drunkenly swaying to a tragic rendition of a Red Hot Chilli Peppers tune.

Suddenly, there he was, standing beside me.

“Hi,” he rasped.

“Hi,” I replied nonchalantly.

“I’ve been watching you all night and I find you really attractive,” he continued.

By now we were circling each other; like hungry jungle animals preparing to pounce on their prey. “Is that right?” I questioned, sneaking a sideways glace at the girl he had just been talking to. She murderously peered back at me.

“Yeah,” he replied with enviable eloquence.

“Are you going to grow a big head if I tell you that I find you attractive too?” I asked.

“Probably,” he replied cockily, lunging forwards.

Game on.

We pashed like horny teenagers for a good thirty seconds before he whispered something in my ear about going somewhere to talk. Assuming he meant the beer garden, I allowed him to lead me outside by the hand. However, instead of heading towards the beer garden, he began to walk determinedly towards the exit.

Possible indicator he may in fact be a cheating fuckwit married guy: He wants to leave the pub immediately for fear of being spotted by someone who knows his wife.

Loophole: Many unmarried guys are just out for a shag and will try to whisk you home as quick as humanly possible. They can’t be bothered with any of that tedious shit-chat like getting to know a girl’s name nor discussing any of her meaningless hobbies. And God forbid they have to fork out some cold hard cash in order to buy her a drink. No, best they get her straight home and try to get a shot away with her before she sobers up.

I immediately hit the brakes. “Where are you going?” I asked.

“I thought we could head to your place?” he confidently inquired.

Possible indicator he may in fact be a cheating fuckwit married guy: He insists on going to your place. Well, he can’t very well shag you in his marital bed with his wife peacefully slumbering beside you, can he? But don’t worry, he’ll have plenty of fabricated excuses at the ready. These may include, but are certainly not limited to, his place being a mess and him being mortally embarrassed for you to see it in such a state. Or his flatmate starting work early the next morning and him not wanting to disturb them. Or the age-old gem that he’s actually living with his parents at the moment while he’s searching for his own place to buy.

Loophole: His place actually is a mess and he would be mortally embarrassed for you to see it in such a state. Or his flatmate is starting work early the next morning and he considerately doesn’t want to disturb them. Or that he actually is living with his parents at the moment while he’s searching for his own place to buy.

I can’t recall the exact wording, but I informed him that if he wanted to find a girl to have sex with that night, it wouldn’t be me. (Quite out of character, I know. Perhaps I was surfing the crimson wave at the time). I told him there would be no hard feelings if that’s what he was after and I’d understand completely if he’d rather go and find a girl who would be willing to bump uglies with him.

I also can’t recall his exact response, but I think it went a little something like this, “No, of course I don’t want that, I just wanted to go somewhere quiet to talk blah blah bullshit bullshit. You seem like a really cool girl bullshit bullshit. I just want to get to know you blah blah I can’t believe you don’t have a boyfriend bullshit blah blah. You’re so gorgeous bullshit, I wish I could be your boyfriend bullshit bullshit bullshit.”

We walked back inside the bar and he led me to a dark corner where we continued to enthusiastically pash, while every now and then he inflated my ego with false compliments.

At one point, through my persistent questioning, I discovered there was only six days difference between our ages. Demanding proof, I insisted he show me the date of birth on his licence.

He dutifully obeyed my request. However, when he displayed his licence, he purposefully placed his thumb over his name and address.

Possible indicator he may in fact be a cheating fuckwit married guy: He doesn’t want you to know his full name. The reason being, he does not want you using it to google-stalk the shit out of him. Through a medium such as facebook you’d no doubt discover he was married. Then, because you are a female, and therefore a crazy bitch, you would probably facebook message his wife, mischievously causing an avalanche of shit.

Loophole: He fears that because you are female, and therefore a crazy bitch, if you were to discover his address you may take up temporary residence in your car parked across the street from his house, with only a thermos of gin and your heat-seeking goggles for company.

There wasn’t much in the way of deep and meaningful conversation that night. I can recall asking him questions about himself and receiving rather evasive replies. Basically, he agreed with everything I said, rather than actively contributing to the conversation.

Here is an example of our script:

Me: So where do you live?

Him: Not far from here.

Me: I’m a local too! What street are you on?

Him: That one. (Executes a vague pointing gesture).

Me: Beach Street?

Him: Yeah.

Me: I used to live on Beach Street, right near Anderson Avenue! Are you up near there?

Him: Yeah.

Me: So who do you live with?

Him: A flatmate.

Me: Do you live with him? (I indicate towards his wingman whom is currently mauling my friend’s face with his face).

Him: Yeah.

Possible indicator he may in fact be a cheating fuckwit married guy: He wants you to know as little about himself as possible. The more you know, the greater the risk of him being ousted for being a cheating married fuckwit.

Loophole: He’s merely too drunk to make decent conversation.

Loophole: He’s too unintelligent and uncharismatic to make decent conversation.

Loophole: He’s a boring dickhead.

Loophole: He’s a male, and therefore talking to a female when you could instead be shagging her is pointless.

Sorry, I’m clearly a tad bitter at the moment.

Somehow we got onto the topic of his amazing muscles (as you do), and he flexed his impressive bicep. Luckily for him he refrained from making a predictable Anchorman reference about tickets to the gun show, or I would have had to punch him in the face. Hard.

However, I instead pretended to bite his bicep. (Please note the key word used in the previous sentence: pretended).

I, in response, jokingly flexed my own unimpressive girly bicep, only for him to bite it. And not in a pretend way, either. His teeth sank into my flesh like Cujo attacking one of his victims. Thank God I was wearing a cardigan that slightly cushioned the impact from his razor-sharp incisors.

Yelping in pain, I pushed him away, only for him to laugh cheekily. I determined he was too drunk to realise how hard he had just bitten me. And luckily I was too drunk at the time to register the damage he had caused to my arm.

Finally, the band completed their last set and I informed him I needed to catch a cab home. Despite my protests, he insisted on hailing a cab with me to ensure I “got home safely blah blah bullshit bullshit”. He wouldn’t take no for an answer and informed me he would chivalrously pay for the cab to my house, give me a goodnight kiss on the doorstep then walk home from there.

Once the cab had dropped us off, he escorted me to the front door, then asked if he could use the toilet before he went on his merry way.

Ha. Likely story.

After his sojourn to the bathroom, we began mauling each other on the lounge. I’d only moved into the house the day before and was frightened one of my new flatmates would walk in at any second.

I suggested we head upstairs to the safety of my bedroom, once again assuring him nothing untoward was about to take place.

I led the way up the stairs, with him trailing behind. When I made it to the bedroom I turned around and saw he was now clothed only in his underwear. Clearly he had optimistically undressed himself whilst climbing the staircase. I quickly ushered him inside the bedroom, paranoid one of my new flatmates could appear at any moment.

We continued to tongue-lash each other for an hour or so, with me deflecting his octopus-like extremities. During this time his phone kept incessantly ringing from the pocket of his jeans, which he’d left strewn on the other side of the room.

Possible indicator he may in fact be a cheating fuckwit married guy: His phone rings approximately twenty-seven times in the space of an hour; the telltale sign of a scorned wife desperately trying to locate her unfaithful spouse.

Loophole: His flatmate has locked himself out and needs the house key.

The whole time he continued to beg, nag, plead for me to bestow sexual favours upon him. And finally, in a moment of weakness, I agreed to “kiss him down there”.

Classy, I know.

As soon as he orgasmed (in my mouth, with absolutely no warning, causing me to spit the contents on his stomach in shock) he jumped up, cleaned himself off, redressed, gave me a perfunctory kiss on the cheek and left.

What a fucking cunt.

Feeling upset, used and dejected I sent a text to one of my friends I’d been out with that night, informing her of the whole sordid tale, before falling into a drunken slumber.

A reply text arrived from her the following morning. She’d gone home with his mate, and when she’d told him what a prick his friend had been to me, he admitted to her that his friend was actually married. Picking up girls is apparently just something he does from time to time.

Lovely.

I felt stupid. Used. Angry. Ashamed.

Following the incident I sported a large nasty bruise on my arm for a lengthy period spanning about six weeks. During a fucking heatwave. Meaning I had to cover my arms whilst at work and pray I didn’t pass out from heat exhaustion. I’d post a picture of the damage he caused to my arm (which has elicited many a shocked gasp from all whom have viewed it), but I’m far too paranoid of my true identity being uncovered.

But despite all that, I’m mostly disappointed.

I’m disappointed that yet another fuckwit guy has given me something else to fear when meeting new men. They may be married. The thought had naively never crossed my mind before meeting this tool.

It’s like cruelly shattering the magic of Christmas for a child by telling them Santa Claus doesn’t exist.

I’ve since seen him at the same pub, brazenly flirting with girls. My heart goes out to his wife, whom in my imagination is sitting at home on her lonesome, angelically knitting booties whilst her unfaithful husband is trying to stick his penis in anything that moves.

To love, honour and obey indeed.

Tags: alcohol, dance floor, marriage, men, pash, relationships, unfaithful, women

Man Drought Or Loser Flood?

flickr image by Burning Image

I’ll be honest… My internet dates thus far haven’t been the stuff dreams are made of.

There have been no Prince Charmings appearing atop white stallions. No names written in the stars. No fireworks metaphorically exploding. And sadly, no suitors displaying completely un-tool like tendencies.

Whoever first said there was a man drought in Sydney wasn’t wrong. And as a consequence I’m more than a little parched.

However, a friend of mine disagrees. She claims there is no man drought. Rather, there’s a loser flood. And perhaps she’s correct if my last internet “date” is any indication of the quality of available men out there.

Despite having a cringe-worthy username, GeorgieBoy grabbed my attention. First it was his undeniably handsome photograph – a lone headshot with a dazzling smile and dark eyes that crinkled and gleamed.

However, any internet dating veterans out there would know only too well that agreeing to meet someone whom has only posted one photo can be a bit of a gamble. There is the not-so-farfetched possibility that he could in fact be an ugly cretin, and the lone rogue photograph you are viewing is the only one on the face of the planet that makes him (deceptively) look halfway decent. Absent of a body-shot for confirmation, there is no guarantee that his torso is not disfigured in some horribly repulsive way or that he actually weighs upwards of one hundred and fifty kilograms. Alternatively, there’s a very real possibility that he could in fact be a midget. (Let’s face it; guys always lie about their height).

Nevertheless, when I struck up a conversation with GeorgieBoy via online chat, I pleasingly discovered he was able to reciprocate my witty banter. Soon this jokey jousting took the form of text messages, and after a couple of days worth of texting (thank goodness my phone plan includes unlimited texts) he’d asked me out for a drink on the Monday night.

We met, fell in love and lived happily ever after.

Not quite.

At this point it was only Saturday and the arranged date was not set to take place for another couple of days. Much to the exasperation of the friends I was out with that night, the flirty, butterflies-in-the-stomach inducing text banter continued.

Let me take this opportunity to dole out some helpful dating advice. Texting under the influence? DON’T DO IT.

Feel free to heartily disagree with me, but in my opinion drunken texting rarely ends happily. A nerdy scientist really should invent a mobile phone with breathalysing capabilities. On a Friday or Saturday night when you’re out and about getting your drink on, you’d be forced to blow into the breathalysing device on your phone before you’d be permitted to operate it. For safety reasons, perhaps you would be able to program some numbers into your phone that would require no breathalysing. This could include the phone numbers of friends you regularly hit the pubs with, your designated driver, or the number of a taxi company.

But the phone number of a romantic interest? Hell no.

Sadly, no such phone had yet been invented, and my inebriated mind, along with my rebellious phone, allowed the drunken correspondence to take place.

And wouldn’t you know it, what a coincidence! GeorgieBoy was apparently out drinking in the same area of the city as me. Sydney is a large city, with many different suburbs you may find yourself sinking beers in. But out of all those other places, GeorgieBoy was right near me.

How convenient.

Against my better judgement, we made plans to meet up. And finally, at one o’clock in the morning, I spotted him.

He wasn’t completely unlike his photo. He had the dark hair and eyes I’d expected. And if his face wasn’t so blotched from the consumption of excess alcohol, you’d be warranted in calling him handsome. However, he was pudgy. Not that I necessarily have a problem with pudgy, as I’m not exactly svelte myself. But on my dating profile I have included a full body shot so that future dates don’t expect a size 8 model to rock on up. Also, he was wearing thick black glasses that weren’t exactly becoming. And nor was he wearing them in an attempt at geek-chic; he later revealed that he was actually as blind as a bat without them.  

To be honest, due to my level intoxication, it’s difficult to recall the minute details of our late night meeting. There was certainly an abundance of sexually-laced conversation; all initiated by him and often involving him alluding to the apparently massive size of his manhood. There were some kisses. Again, initiated by him and involving an overly generous serving of tongue. Disappointingly, it was certainly not the kind of lip-on-lip action I could mentally conjure up at a later time to aid masturbation.

Given the details I have provided in that last paragraph, it makes it pretty tricky to justify why I then allowed him escort me home.

My initial defence is to blame it on my impressive height of intoxication. Mingle that with the fact that I didn’t have quite enough cash to pay for my own cab ride home.

But that’s merely an excuse; everyone knows taxi drivers accept eftpos these days.

The sex was atrocious. In hindsight, I would have much preferred to drunkenly leave the bar by myself, have oral sex with a kebab, then pass out on top of my bed clothed only in my knickers.

Thankfully, due to the large quantity of vodka consumed that fateful night, I have been spared the disgust of possessing many memories of coitus with GeorgieBoy. However, a few defiant recollections remain lurking in the recesses of my brain; although conjuring them requires the immediate suppression of vomit.  

His male appendage was unattractive in appearance and aroma. It looked not unlike a chubby uncooked sausage, repellently assembled between his flabby thighs. Usually I’m not one to criticise flabby thighs, as there’s no disputing that I’m in possession of a pair. However, I’m female. He is a guy. I imagined it wasn’t unlike having sex with a flabby-thighed chick wearing a strap-on. And the smell. There was no denying that his penis had a repugnant stench about it. I unfortunately discovered this when it was optimistically dangled in front of my face a number of times.

He wasn’t exactly rough with me. But he certainly wasn’t gentle. He was a touch heavy handed for my liking and carelessly flipped me around into whatever position he desired, with little to no care for my comfort nor satisfaction. I was tempted to remind him that he was in fact having sex with a real life human female, rather than a blow-up doll.

Throughout the night I fell asleep a number of times, only to be awoken by his intrusive hands on my flesh yet again.

Finally, I sobered up enough to demand him to stop. Blessedly, he ceased the octopus-man routine, and rolled to the far edge of the mattress where he proceeded to further prohibit my slumber with an hour or two of spirited snoring.

Thankfully, the time came for him to leave. I offered to call him a taxi, but he informed me that he’d prefer to catch the bus. Mercifully, he spared me the repulsiveness of a goodbye kiss and went on his merry way.

GeorgieBoy conveniently (praise the lord!) forgot to chase up our following Monday night date, but sporadically contacted me a number of times after our revolting night together. My theory was that he was trying to keep the window open in case one night I’d drunkenly shag him again. Ha! Not likely. Not without him slipping a Rohypnol in my drink.

And I wouldn’t put that past him. 

At first there was a lame text sent every few weeks or so. And initially I responded with short but vague replies. God knows why, but it almost seemed rude not to respond, given the linguistic foreplay we’d engaged in via text prior to that god-awful night of coupling.

Although I’m sure many girls wouldn’t have bothered replying. And I soon dropped the politeness and became one of them.

Hey how u going? He sent one Wednesday afternoon. I chose not to reply.

Then a Friday evening soon afterwards: Hey how u going? Long time no speak? My phone was getting repaired and I didn’t have your number on my old one. But it’s all back. So how are you?

Firstly, dickhead, if you actually did care how I was you may have decided to refrain from manhandling my body as though it belonged to a cheap hooker. Secondly, I couldn’t care less that I haven’t heard from you. I didn’t reply to your last text, so it is completely unnecessary to make up a pathetic fabrication about your phone being repaired. Thirdly, kindly fuck off.

Once again I decided not to reply.

Then, the creme de la crème of GeorgieBoy’s texts, sent the following Wednesday evening: Hey what are u doing tonight? Do you wanna come over and hang out? Maybe make out for a little while. Have a beer. See where the night takes us?

Ah, no. I can’t say I do. Not a chance in hell. But thanks for the kind offer.

So… Man drought or loser flood? At the moment my vote’s with the loser flood theory.

In fact, I’m off to build an ark.

Tags: alcohol, dating, man drought, men, one night stand, online dating, sex, Sydney, women

Taking It (Part Two)

flickr image by Powderruns

The following post is the third and final instalment in a trio of tales. Please read the prequel first, followed by part one.

Scott pulled his brother aside, along with the friend they were sharing their hotel room with. They huddled together in hushed tones before he returned; a victorious smile on his cute face. “We’ve got the room to ourselves for an hour. Let’s go.”

We speedily hailed a cab and headed back to his hotel. Things got pretty hot and heavy in the elevator as it chugged towards Scott’s floor. I only hope that cctv footage doesn’t end up on redtube someday soon.

As we burst inside the hotel room I saw three single beds militarily lined up in a row. Not quite a honeymoon suite.

Foreplay? I hear you ask. Forewhat? It quickly became apparent that to a randy intoxicated twenty-one year old male, this cursed f-word doesn’t exist.

My young lover ungracefully deposited me onto the single bed closest to the door, then quickly removed every scrap of his own clothing, including the esteemed ‘sports top’. I however, lay on the bed, fully clothed.

After he’d undressed himself, he started on me. He urgently scrabbled to remove my knickers with clumsy fingers, but left my dress untouched. Next he roughly shoved his fingers inside me without the luxury of precision nor dexterity and began to enthusiastically stroke himself. Meanwhile, I remained splayed on my back, beginning to wonder why I’d ever agreed to this bout of copulation in the first place.

“I’m not hard yet,” he rasped unsexily in my ear. 

At that very moment it would have been divine to lie in my own hotel bed and not have my vagina pillaged by skill-less fingers.

Before too long, he’d gloved himself and the coitus began. Again, no fireworks, waves crashing against rocks, nor volcanoes erupting. However, after a few stokes I began to get into the groove and began emitting small sounds of enjoyment.

“Shhh!” he whispered in my ear as he rocked back and forth on top of me. “Shhh…”

My mouth immediately snapped shut like a rusty rabbit trap. My confused drunken mind took stock for a moment. Why was he silencing me? Was there someone else in the room? A sliver of soberness edged into my inebriated mind, reassuring me that we were in fact alone. Then why, pray, was he shushing me?

Again, I began to make soft encouraging noises.

“Shhh!” he whispered again. “Shhh…  Just fuckin’ take it.” As his pumping increased in gusto, his words became louder and rose in urgency. “Just fuckin’ take it! Just fuckin’ take it!”

As I lay underneath him, my legs spread apart as wide as my hips would allow, I believed for all intents and purposes that surely I was ‘just fucking taking it’. Whatever the hell that actually means. Lucy’s guess when I told her the next day was that he’d watched too many dodgy pornos in his short life. I tended to agree with her, perhaps fused with me being a hefty seven years older, meaning he needed to prove what a skilful lover he was… By apparently screaming out phrases he’d learnt whilst watching his dad’s porn collection.

At that moment he jumped up. “The condom just broke!” he proclaimed, scuttling into the bathroom. Perhaps he’d had the condom in his possession for a number of years, just waiting for an opportunity to actually be able to use it. It seemed that opportunity had been such a long time coming that the rubber had now passed its used by date.

The bathroom door remained wide open and I had a prime view of Scott determinedly attempting to maintain his erection in order to glove himself up for round two. I stifled a giggle and resisted the urge to text Lucy with an amusing update.

Scott strode back into the room, continuing to stroke himself. He perched between my legs and eloquently informed me, “I’m not hard yet. Show me your tits.”

Smooth.

Round two began. By this stage of the proceedings, I had to wonder whether I was still there for enjoyment, or for the comedic value alone.

With an undeniable sense of déjà vu, my soft whimpers of pleasure were once again silenced. “Shhh! Just fuckin’ take it. Just fuckin’ take it!”

Suddenly the sound of the hotel door opening followed by the room flooding with light forced me to push Scott off me, mid-thrust, and yank my dress down to maintain a semblance of modesty. I quickly sat upright, ensuring my dress was shielding my nether regions. Scott perched beside me on the bed, continuing to glide his hand up and down the length of his shaft, for fear of once again losing his beloved erection.

Two pairs of eyes peered at us from the foot of the bed. I assumed the guy expressionlessly staring at us must be Scott’s elusive friend who was sharing the hotel room, but whom I’d yet to be introduced to. Oh well, no time like the present to make an amazing first impression.

The friend was accompanied by a blonde girl holding a beer. The pair stared at us impassively, showing no reaction to the pornographic scene they’d just witnessed. I imagined if any of us were actually the slightest bit sober, this could in fact have been quite an awkward scenario.

Blessedly, Scott decided to leave his private parts alone long enough to quickly redress himself. He then ushered his friend into the bathroom to converse in hushed tones.

Meanwhile, the blonde girl walked over to the bed next to the one Scott and I had just been copulating on. She lay down, a mere metre or so away from me and turned in my direction, propping her head up with a hand. She took a sip of her beer, then smiled kindly at me. “Hi, I’m (insert name that I have long since forgotten here).”

“Hi, I’m Dawn,” I replied, well aware that my undies still lay guiltily on the floor in between us.

“What country are you from?” she asked inquisitively, with an unidentifiable European accent.

And so the shit-chat continued. We discussed places we’d travelled to, whom our travelling companions were and offered advice on each other’s next destinations. All the while my snatch remained unclothed.

Finally, the boys reappeared. The friend strode determinedly over to the blonde girl, lay on top of her and began his business. “We’re good to go,” Scott whispered in my ear. “They’re cool.” He began to remove his shorts once again.

Perhaps I’m a prude, but situations like that are just not for me. “I don’t think so,” I snapped, jumping up and retrieving my underpants. I made my way to the door, but not before I was intercepted.

“C’mon,” Scott begged, stroking my arm. “You can’t leave me like this.” His blue eyes pleaded with mine.

“Well, what do you want to do about it?” I asked.

His eyes flashed towards the bathroom door, one of his eyebrows cocked quizzically.

Just for the record, bathroom sex is in no way sensual. We began the ordeal with me perched on the edge of the bathtub, Scott kneeling in between my legs. I imagine the boy had some pretty impressive bruises on his knees the next day from those unforgiving tiles. Next we tried me bending over the sink, with him taking control from behind. However, despite the taps that I kept accidentally turning on, there was nothing for me to grab a hold of. Lastly we attempted Scott sitting on the toilet seat, with me perched precariously on top of him. Perhaps this position would have worked, had the flush not been operated by sensor, causing the toilet to flush every thirty seconds or so.

It was then that I made the decision to end the proceedings once and for all. As I readjusted my underwear, I ruthlessly ignored his pleas and claims of ‘blue balls’. Though I’ll admit it took me back a decade or so to when I may actually have been young enough to believe this male-created legend.

Ever the gentleman, Scott offered to escort me out, despite his apparently uncomfortably full testicles. But not before I self-importantly bookmarked my blog on his laptop.

 As we descended in the elevator, making idle chit chat, it seemed unbelievable to imagine this polite young man had been ordering me to “just fuckin’ take it” a mere twenty minutes ago.

As we exited the hotel, we searched the street for a taxi. Unfortunately we could only spy one, where the cab driver was passed out on the front seat having a kip. Our loud energetic bout of window banging wasn’t enough to rouse him.    

We both spotted the seedy old character on the motorbike at the same time. “What’s your stance on a motorbike taxi?” Scott implored.

An answer wasn’t necessary, as I’d already hopped onto the back of the bike in my summer dress, my legs clamped tightly to the sleazy rider. As we sped off down the road towards my hotel, I yelled a parting comment over my shoulder. “Don’t forget to check out my blog!”

“I will!” I heard Scott’s response, before the motorbike zoomed around a corner and he disappeared from my sight.

I dread to think what the hotel staff’s opinion of me was as they kindly assisted me in dismounting the motorbike out the front of the hotel restaurant at five o’clock in the morning, wearing the same dress as the night before, sporting panda eyes and I’ve-just-fornicated-hair. Moreover, as I hopped off the motorbike, I’m certain my dress betrayed my modesty by revealing my underwear.

Thank goodness I was finally wearing some.

Dear ‘Scott’… Hello. I’m glad you’re still reading my blog. Hopefully this latest post featuring our sexual rendezvous won’t dissuade you from reading any upcoming posts. Kind regards, Dawn xx.

Tags: cab driver, condoms, erection, holiday, hotel sex, men, one night stand, sex, walk of shame, women

The Girl Behind The Double Ds

flickr image by Irwin-Scott

I recently took a three month break from blogging. For a variety of reasons, I took a step away from my cleverly alliterated alter ego, Dawn Dash.

For years I’ve been writing ‘Walk of Shame’ stories; usually in the first person, despite many of the chronicles not being based on my own personal experience. Initially the tales began as a way of cheering my friends up during the emotional aftermath of uninspiring sexual encounters with absolute tools. Instead of feeling awful about the experience, I wanted my gorgeous friends to try and see the amusing side, laugh and move on to greener pastures.

Shortly afterwards, Dawn Dash was born; a promiscuous unlucky-in-love twenty-something girl we could all relate to in one way or another.

My friends and I accepted Dawn into our close-knit group, despite her frustrating inability to dodge man-trouble and keep her legs closed on a Saturday night. “What would Dawn say?” we’d goad each other when we lacked the confidence to pursue a lusty member of the opposite sex. “Say hi to Dawn for me,” we’d text a friend if we knew she was likely to have sexual relations in the very near future.

But as more and more people learned the true identity behind the creator of the fictional character Dawn Dash, I became self conscious about my writings. That’s right; I mean the real girl behind the Double Ds. (And, for all you perves out there, I am referring to my chosen pseudonym, not my breast size.) I’m talking about the girl currently sitting in front of her laptop in a pair of unflatteringly oversized tracksuit pants, not the man-eating vixen drunkenly gyrating with men on a dance floor somewhere.

Was I being judged by my readers? Did people think all of the sexual experiences I wrote of were my own? Were they wondering if my nether regions were riddled with hideous STDs due to my supposed rampant promiscuity?

At the risk of shattering the illusion – I’m not Dawn. This blog is by no means a personal diary of my own sexual experiences. Of course I’ve had casual encounters I’m not proud of, but then so have most of us. And with the help of our wonderful friends and a steely resolve to want better for ourselves, we’ve gotten up, dusted ourselves off and gotten on with our lives.

I once wrote, “The aim of this blog is to celebrate in our sexual mistakes, have a laugh, and most importantly, move on. All the stories published here are true. Many belong to my gorgeous liberal-minded friends, while some are of a more autobiographical nature.”

The real girl behind the character of Dawn Dash wants more than a drunken slide show shag – sex you were too intoxicated to remember, bar a select few photo-esque still shots you can vaguely recall the morning after.

The girl behind the Double Ds wants nothing more than to love and be loved. She often doubts herself, despite the outwardly brazen exterior. She possesses the ability to experience a range of emotions deeper than shame and humiliation. Surprisingly, she’s had far less sexual partners than one would imagine, considering she’s the author of what her friends affectionately refer to as a ‘sex blog’. Despite a magnitude of negative interactions with members of the opposite sex, she still believes in love.

And she hasn’t given up on trying to find it just yet.

Tags: dating, love, men, one night stand, relationships, sex, walk of shame, women