Monthly Archives: September 2010

Sex With The Girlfriend’s Best Friend? Why Not

Fetish DressThe number of surveys that pop up especially before major consumer events like Christmas is quite startling. You notice I mention Christmas as a major consumer event not a festival, LOL, that’s because most surveys these days seem to have an agenda. You have to be pretty naïve not to notice and after all they do make for some amusing reading in the tabloid newspapers and in their online equivalents.

It seems there’s never a day goes by without me receiving one survey or another claiming to show that a need exists in the population for some new adult product. Or that we’re all shagging our partner’s best mates.

They’re all harmless so long as you don’t take them too seriously.

What they tend to do, and I find this interesting, is “research” a premise that we all find intriguing, or a slightly taboo behaviour that we’ve all considered before but never had the guts or opportunity to pursue. The girlfriend’s best friend is a good example, the ultimate taboo, dangerous if it goes wrong. What if she rebuffs you and tells your girlfriend. What if she shags you and then tells your girlfriend?

Then there’s the forbidden fruit thing with fetishes like bondage and S & M. I know this isn’t a survey but look at the Max Mosley “scandal”. It was read rapaciously by consumers of the media and pounced on by the press who seemed initially oblivious to the invasion of privacy and only later acknowledged this point when it became apparent they were not going to be able to nail Mosley as being a Nazi.

My advice. Take all things with a pinch of salt if you suspect something other than total impartiality and enjoy most surveys for what they are, marketing.

Letting Those Titties Loose ;)

suze in white bra

Alex believes that when it comes to erotic imagery it’s more about what you can’t see than what you can.  Therefore he would probably prefer the picture of me to the left there.

Which image do you prefer?

suze without a bra

Cup Your Balls And Wank Your Wicket

Penis DragonIn my humble opinion and experience of the opposite sex, they don’t need telling twice to masturbate. Lol I once went out with a bloke who must have feared that someone would try and attack his cock because he constantly had his hand down the front of his trousers, even when driving.

I can only conclude that it was a comfort thing because it wasn’t like he was having a crafty wank or even fiddle with himself. Perhaps someone can enlighten me as to why men do this and I know he isn’t the only one to do it. Lol

This all came to a head with me last year when the head coach of the Indian cricket team sent a document to the team coach Gary Kirsten giving details of how they should keep themselves sharp.

It recommends a busy sex life, the relevant chapter entitled “Does sex increase performance?” says “Yes it does, so go ahead and indulge”.

I’m guessing there will be a lot of solo action taking place with that middle wicket. 😉

Geting My Hand Into A Man’s Pants

Wet ShortsNot being a bloke I can’t say I have ever acquainted myself with the difficulties faced by left handed men when it comes to underwear. It really isn’t something that crossed my mind.

In fact until recently I didn’t understand the rules of “dressing” for me, to me they were a little like the off side rule. Lol Alex put me straight on that, I’m glad we girls don’t need to consider which way to place our bits and pieces.

However HOM had addressed the problem of men wearing Y-Fronts struggling to get their winkies out. They have created a range that unlike conventional underwear which has a vertical opening has an horizontal one just under the waistband.

One thing did just occur to me, how do you stop you dinkle making a break for it when he is excited? 😉

English Sex Comedies

robeEnglish situation comedy is a mirror that reflects the British attitude to, amongst other things, sex. It’s a distorted mirror, but a mirror nonetheless.

If fact I’d go so far as to say that it isn’t as distorted as some of the publicly expressed views about sex that are heard from public figures and earnest documentaries on sex and sexuality.

It’s easier to discuss and depict subjects we are uncomfortable about when there is a protective layer of comedy over them. We can pretend that we’re not quite serious about the whole thing, the humour giving us a degree of separation that is comforting and allows us to dismiss elements of a subject that we find difficult as simple farce.

One particular element of sexuality that was often sniggered about in the 1970s was swinging. The thought of respectable suburban couples throwing their car keys into a big wooden fruit bowl and the wives sleeping with the owner of the keys they pulled out was legend. Everyone knew someone who knew someone who did it but nobody admitted that they or their friends did it. Well nobody that knew my family did anyway. And I suppose at that age I shouldn’t have been listening in to those sorts of conversations a the parties round our house.

The resurgence of swinging and it’s coincidence with the development of home access to the Internet has changed swinging into something else in the early 21st century.

In the 1970s and early 80s I always regarded it as a middle class pursuit. The realm of bank managers and other professionals. You notice how the British class system even figured in what sexual practices each member of our society got up to, LOL. Now it’s much more egalitarian, everyone and anyone can do it.

And if they like post the picture son the Internet.

Sex In The Med

Wet T ShirtConsider this. When you think of an ancient civilisation such as the Greeks or the Romans you see their society as we interpret it from the clues they left behind. The pottery, stone and metal artefacts are most durable. The clothing and items made from precious materials may survive but only if the garments do not rot away (which they usually do) and are not looted and broken up as was often the case for the gravegoods of many civilisations.

We know some things about their sexuality, but what we do know is quite narrow in its scope. Take three civilisations. Ancient Egypt, Rome and Greece. The first three things that probably pop into your mind about them are probably:

Egypt: the pharaohs married they close relatives, mothers, sisters etc.
Romans: Indulged in orgiastic sex.
Greeks: Had a thing for young men and almost invented anal sex – OK, maybe not invented but certainly made it almost compulsory – LOL.

To a greater or lesser extent these things may all be true, but they are a gross misrepresentation of each of those societies as a whole.

In Egypt only the ruling class probably indulged in incestuous unions. The Roman plebeians didn’t have the money for anything more than basic sustenance and an occasional jaunt to the Circus Maximus to watch Charlton Heston race chariots and the Greeks would have died out if anal sex was their only preoccupation.

It’s the same with today’s society and the stuff we leave behind as adult bloggers. In fact its true of any blogger, or diarist or contemporary historian. No matter how objective and honest you try to be, anyone reading what we write in a hundred years time will get a very distorted view of us. We don’t document every thing we do down to the last second of every day, you get the edited highlights. Which is of course what archaeologist see when they examine ancient texts.

Then of course there the problem of censorship and editing by the scholars of the future. To preserve reputations of to portray our antecedents in a light that serves our purposes there is always a temptation to place a certain amount of spin on the interpretation of “evidence”. Ascertaining the facts is one thing, but how those facts are used and communicated is another.

With every blogger’s work available on the Internet, and assuming it hasn’t all been deleted in a century or so, do you think that our ancestors will think we’re pioneers or perverts?

Exploding Boobs

oiled boobsEvery year thousands of women opt to go under the knife for a boob job.  And I have to admit that I did dabble briefly with the idea when I was in my early twenties and a size 32A.  It’s most girls dream to have a cleavage to display when they are wearing a dress or low cut top and at a 32A I didn’t really have a cleavage to fill out my tops.

I went as far as seeing the surgeon and discussing the size and type of implant to have and I recall at the time he was suggesting that I opted for a B cup, small by today’s standards as more and more girls go for supersizing to DD and above.

It just makes me think how lucky I was not to elect to go under the knife given the number of nightmare stories you read about botched boob jobs.  I was just reading a bout a girl who’s implants burst, leaking fluid which collected under her arm pit.

She was implanted with silicone gel implants made by Poly Implant Prosthese who were closed down by the French Authorities.  The company had gone out of business after being accused of fraudulently using non-approved silicone gel for almost 10 years.

Stories like this one should certainly make you think twice before you undertake a breast augmentation operation, you can read the full story here

Tramp In The Woods

SuzeI wonder if we humans instinctively have a homing instinct? Strange question I know but after many years away I have returned to the place I spent my formative years in. Indeed my family home is only a mile away from where I am.

From the age of about 2 to my late teens I spent my time in this area. I know most of it well and cannot walk a street without a memory of some sort related to it. It’s a kind of comforting feeling despite the fact that many years have passed and so have some of the people I knew and loved.

But for me there is nowhere like it. I never left home and did the university thing or took time out to travel the world and when I was unable to stay in the area and had to live within my means I missed it very much.

So to be able to return some years late with Alex was wonderful. I never take a day for granted as I look out of our windows over rolling heather covered landscape. Simply watching the sun rise and set over the hills from our windows makes you feel alive and lucky.

Alex and I Try to walk whenever we can. We spend hours sat on our backsides at the PC’s and rarely take advantage of the wonderful countryside right on our doorstep.

Just walking in the fresh air is enough to lift your spirits

With the sun beating down as I walk across the open field with the birds singing and the butterflies doing butterfly things I feel at peace and to be honest quite randy. Does that seem strange? To be feeling aroused whilst out walking is a tad unusual I know but that’s me, and Alex is at work so I can’t release all that libido just yet.

I continued my walk which really did take its toll by the end I was sweating heavily a combination of the sun and my pyrexia due to the infection. By the time I got back home I didn’t so much feel like a bit onanism but a shower and a rest. Lol

As the days pass and I feel better I’m hoping to take advantage of this new found locomotive arousal. 😉

Would Porn Be Better If It Had A Plot?

FuckedI really do despair at some pornography. I mean I know it’s not going to be Oscar winning material but really the lack of imagination displayed in some productions is staggering. An endless stream of the same old positions, blow jobs, anal, ATM … yada yada yada. It isn’t erotic. I’d find it difficult to have a wank to some of the dross that comes out of some studios now.

Thankfully there are some studios that seem to understand that not all consumers are 18 years old, male and looking to cum in about three minutes. They realise that if not a full-blown story then they should at least provide the viewer with a context within which to view the scene or scenes. We don’t need Dostoyevsky but sexuality isn’t all about getting hard and getting off. I want to feel that the people involved arrived at the scene from somewhere and had a life before. They were not spontaneously created from the ether and materialised fully formed cocks to attention and pussies waiting to be filled just as the cameras rolled.

All media is a fiction so don’t argue that porn is a fiction too. All fiction has to feel as if it could be real, even if we know it cannot actually be true. Take Alice and her trip down the rabbit hole. Her experiences are fantastic, magical and unbelievable. But we want to believe them and allow ourselves to do so because of two things. Firstly because they set us free from the mundane and expected and secondly because there is enough reality in them to make belief an acceptable deceit.

I have had some pretty amazing experiences in my life but never once has a women I have never met before been waiting in a room to strip for me, suck my cock and then beg me to fuck her up the ass. Frankly if that did happen I’d probably run a mile. I mean what sort of person solicits rough anal sex from a total stranger on a first date and doesn’t insist on a condom. That sort of scenario leaves me totally cold.

In my life I have encountered any number of amazing preludes to sexual encounters the sum of which would keep a porn studio going for years with fresh and interesting cut scenes to give their productions some context and therefore depth. So why do some (and again I stress not all) porn studios and producers insist on a format of 6 scenes per DVD of exactly the same scene, just with different girls.

“Because it sells!”  I hear the adult industry shout. OK, it does. But so do tins of baked beans. No matter how much you like beans one day you will get sick of them and yearn for something different, exciting and  new. Once you have one of these dull and dreary porn movies there’s no need to buy another because they are all the same. If more of the porn industry tried a little bit harder they would sell a lot more product.

Doesn’t that make commercial sense.

Hard In The Woods

Rebcecca Demornay“Shortcut”

“Be sure to come straight back when it’s finished.”

“Yes mum.”

“I’m serious come straight back, and don’t cut through the woods, it’ll be dark and it’s dangerous.”

“Mother. I’m thirty two. Stop, well, mothering me!”

“OK. Have fun dear.”


The school reunion went well enough. On the whole the class was as she’d expected them to be. Some surprises but mainly people growing up as she imagined them to. On the whole settled, a couple very successful and one complete dick head.

Despite a couple of inappropriate proposals from old classmates, one of them a woman, it was uneventful and Ellen left alone and with her ears still ringing to the sounds of cheery farewells. She decided to cut through the woods and save herself a good half hour’s walk.

The familiar path that she had used so often as a young girl to travel to and from school looked a little more overgrown than she remembered it. Probably because today’s children were more used to being ferried to school in a car than trudging through the twelve acre wood.

An owl hooted on queue as she stepped into the deep shadows under the trees. It wasn’t completely dark, the leaves had all but fallen and the mood was full. But Ellen had brought a torch and used it occasionally on the more tortuous parts of the path, especially as it started to dip down towards the stream that cut the wood in half.

There was a noise behind her. It sounded like the snapping of a branch but in slow motion. It made her start, her heart pounded, thumping in her ears. She laughed to herself and slowly her heart rate decreased until she was accompanied only by the sound of her own footsteps on the deep carpet of leaves.

After few dozen paces she turned on the torch and looked down. The softness under her feet told her that she had left the path. Not a great idea as the ground was slopping steeply now as she neared the stream and the centre of the wood.

Then she felt something rough stroke her cheek. She turned round, hand raised and ready to strike with her long, red false nails.

There was nothing there. Yet she could hear a faint whisper on the breeze that seemed to be calling her name.

Ellen gulped and as is traditional at times like this told her self to stop imagining things. She found the path again and continued towards the noise of the stream.

The old wooden bridge that crossed the water had been repaired recently. Some of the old timbers were still in place but health and safety dictated the handrail was more robust than it had been when she used to lean over the edge and watch for fish as a schoolgirl. As she looked over the edge and took her first step onto the bridge a voice said softly “Hello again.”

Ellen’s heart beat so hard it nearly leapt from her mouth. She was looking at a man. He was about her age with olive brown skin and flowing dark chestnut hair. She shone the torch into his eyes which glittered green in the torch light.


“You probably don’t remember me. I used to walk you home sometimes from school.” He said softly. His words brushed against her skin like a gentle spring breeze.

Ellen tried to work out if she could kick the guy in the nuts before barging past him and running to her mother’s house. However she’d not been to the gym for a few months and he looked fit so it would have to be an accurate kick …

“You don’t remember me do you?” he said. Ellen’s mind cried out “Fucking weirdo.”

It was then she noticed something. His skin wasn’t one colour, it seemed to be composed of a texture akin to polished wood. The contours of his face almost sculpted, the strong neck perfectly carved, his broad chest solid and sturdy. His abdomen flexible but solid, creaking slowly as he moved … and that thick hard trunk of …

“You haven’t got any clothes on.”

“Clothes?” He asked quizzically “Oh, yes, it’s autumn.”

She was transfixed, but not with fear. A strange familiarity lulled her. She remembered a vague presence from her solitary walks home from school. Always at her shoulder, supportive, friendly. Ready to catch her when she fell as she occasionally did on the path …

His arms were around her again now, not in friendship but holding her with a strength and purpose that excited her. His fingers opened her long coat and slipped inside her blouse unbuttoning the front in fluid and brisk movements. She was falling now, back into the soft bed of golden litter. The damp smell of the leaves mingled with the green woody smell his smooth warm skin exuded.

Se felt herself opening her legs and inviting him between them. Her provocatively short skirt, meant to titillate her ex classmates proving to be eminently practical. He was constantly moving, his skin smooth, yet with a rough edge, abrading her skin, slightly uncomfortable against her inner thighs.

The bulk of his torso, broad, strong and muscular spreading her legs was generating a flow of juices from her pussy that rivalled that of the stream only a few metres away. She could feel a thick, long member pressing between them and wanted it inside her.

His hands enclosed her breasts in a way that told her he possessed them, at least for now and he was in control. He rubbed his erect phallus between them sticky fluid oozing from the end, coating her stomach. Her nails ran down his smooth back carving their marks in its surface.

Then finally as she became desperate and she was ready to demand that he fill her immediately she felt her panties pushed to one side and a member of a width and length she had never before experienced thrust into her sopping cunt.

With slow rocking thrusts like the swaying of an oak in a storm she was fucked into a joyous oblivion of orgasm in a few moments. A state that was brought to a crescendo as she came with the cry of a wild night time creature and was filled with his gushing seed.


When the house was quiet and Ellen was snoring gently in her bed her mother crept into the room and gently stroked her tousled hair. She smiled at her sleeping daughter and thought, as her mother had before her that sometimes it did a girl good to ignore her mother’s advice and find out for herself what lay out in the woods at night.

Fucking In The Woods

Wood NyphmWhile we were out on Sunday I had the urge to drag Suze into the woods and fuck her against a tree. I’m sure she wouldn’t have minded, not one little bit. However it was cold and raining and she’s a little under the weather so no the best of ideas.

Sometimes the things that seem like the hottest of ideas really aren’t the most practical. 🙁

Hard And Long

CoupleSexual sophistication increases with age. Well it does if you are doing it right. Just getting all the plumbing to work together when you start out is a challenge but we all get the hang of it, more or less, after a while.

It’s then that you start to realise that all those things that you thought you knew about sex before you actually had sex were not necessarily accurate, or enjoyable, or objectionable, or in any way like you thought they’d be. There’s only one way to find out what you like in the bedroom (or car, or anywhere else) and that’s to try it.

Leaving everything else to one side there’s a misconception that pervades the pre-sexual stage of any group of young people – duration. It goes without saying that nobody wants to cum too soon. A hasty climax and disappointing floppiness before your partner is satisfied is not usually desirable. So the conclusion usually derived from this is that vigour and duration of sex is everything.

Your sex life will be a lot richer when you realise that this is not necessarily the case. If sex is always wild, vigorous and lasts for an hour the novelty soon wears thin. Indeed it’s rare that two people always want to fuck the same way every single night. We all have different mood and differing energy levels. Sometimes we want a gentle comforting screw and other times a marathon gymnastic sex session.

Even caviar gets boring if you eat it every day.

Fucking After Hours

The fantasy I’m about to describe is just that, fantasy. However it’s one that’s based on an incident I remember from when I was scraping to make ends meet as a teenager and is based partly on a girl I met and partly on the flood of memories that washed over me on walking into the garage yesterday to get a new tyre fitted.

You see I worked for a time as a motor mechanic, before entering my chosen career, in a small garage. There’s a smell about a small repair shop that the larger places don’t have. The dealerships, while performing the same function tend to be cleaner, more pleasant places to work, while small workshops are dingy, damp, cold places, even in the height of summer. They smell of oil, grease, rubber and degreaser.

So when I smell a hot engine, or a new tyre, or gearbox oil things happen to me.

It was late one March afternoon. The phone rang in the small brick office in the corner of the workshop. A raucous cacophony because it was connected to an ancient bell fixed high on a wall outside.

It was the owner of the dark blue Audi parked in the middle of the floor. He wasn’t going to get back to pick it up today, it would be tomorrow morning. Was that OK? No problem.

The car was still being valetted by the contract cleaner we employed for that task. I left the office to begin securing the place ready to leave for the evening. The sound of the vacuum cleaner scouring the carpets masked my footsteps. I tapped on the glass of the rear passenger window. The cleaner looked up startled, “Sorry” I apologised. She turned the vacuum cleaner off.

“What’s up?”

“He’s not collecting this until tomorrow” I motioned toward the car.

“I’m nearly done, any chance of a cuppa in about ten minutes?”

“I think I can manage that.”

She disappeared back into the car, her round ass defined in a rather provocative way by her green overalls. Not that I was looking of course, OK yes I was looking, a lot. She’d been subcontracting to us for a few weeks and she was hot. Curly brown hair, permed, tied back, but hey that was in fashion at the time, a little mascara and on Fridays, red lipstick. Don’t ask me why Fridays were lipstick day, they just were. She always wore green overalls, which rather than androgynise her served to emphasise her more womanly features. Both of them. Look I was in my late teens, shoot me.

She finished up and came to claim her mug of tea from the corner of the workbench next to the sink which served as kitchen for the workshop. We sat down on the pair of old armchairs, covered in dust sheets, next to the wood burning stove that heated the place.

She clutched her mug in both hands. “Is it Friday yet?” she asked.

“Tomorrow.” I replied, tomorrow was lipstick day. But here lips were fine without it, more than fine. They were kissable, I’d venture to say pouting. Things began to stir as we talked. I was single, so was she, or I thought she was. I’d never been able to figure that one out and engaging her in conversation was difficult. We both worked hard and had little time for chat, until now.

“Brrr, is it getting cold?” she asked. “Or is it just because I’ve stopped working?”

“It’s getting a little chilly. Do you want me to move your chair closer to the heater?”

“That’d be nice.”

So I moved the chair, pulling it nearer to the stove. I turned to find her standing behind me, if she had been nine inches taller we’d have been nose-to-nose, as it was she stared up at me and breathed “Thank you”. She’d done it on purpose of course, but why? Flirting because she’d seen me eying her up? Teasing to teach me a lesson? Or maybe …

I stood to one side allowing her to sit, head now level with my restless crotch. No this isn’t a porn film, no she didn’t whip it out and have a good long suck on it. But she did stare at it, then up at me with dark brown eyes. I sat down in my own chair.

“Plans for the weekend?” I ventured, weakly.

“Not yet.”


“How about you Alex?”

“Nah, a quiet one I think”

“That’s a pity.”

“Huh?” I was still undecided, another tease?

She began to unfasten her overalls. Underneath she wore a lemon yellow T and stonewashed jeans. Her womanly charms peaked invitingly out. Oh shit, this was going to be such great wank material for later.

She unfastened her boots and removed them. “Give me a hand with these overalls, would you?”. I didn’t need to be asked twice. She wriggled her arms out leaning forward pushing her breasts against her T-shirt, nipples full and hard against the cotton fabric, then slid them down to her hips. I pulled the legs and with a little hop to allow them to pass under her ass she was free of them.

She drew up her feet, knees under her chin and began to massage her feet. “Shit these are like blocks of ice”. Go for it Alex, I though. I slid out of my chair and knelt on her overalls in front of her chair. She smiled as I took one foot in my hand and massaged it through the sock.

“Mmmmm. That’s nice.”

Now the other foot. She was almost purring like a cat.

After a few minutes I asked “Better?”

“Much better.” She slid her legs around my back, pulling me close as if I was trapped in a vice with jaws clad in skin-tight denim. My face was level with her inviting chest. I looked up, she bit one side of her lip. I slid my hand up inside her T-shirt, the rough skin of my fingers and palm rubbing against the softness of her belly, until I found a soft mound. Cupping it I smiled at her. Her mouth opened slightly as I squeezed my prize, she gasped when I rolled the nipple between my thumb and forefinger.

There’s a certain sensuousness in groping an unseen partner, or touching them without seeing what you’re touching. It’s a pleasure that both parties in the act share. I kneaded her breasts for a while, watching her writhe with enjoyment, a smile playing on her gorgeous lips.

The though of her flesh was too inviting to stop there. I lifted here T-Shirt and unveiled her pert mounds. Cupping one in each hand I licked them with a hard tongue, flicking each nipple.

“Stop” she said suddenly. My heart sank, but she wasn’t having second thoughts, “Lock the door”. I jumped up, ran over to the roller-shuttered entrance, dropped the padlock through the hasp and staple to prevent anyone outside from pulling the shutter up and dropped the latch on the door.

When I returned she was kneeling on the chair, jeans gone, wearing her yellow T and a pair of inconsequential pink panties. I stood in front of her, breathing heavily. Her hands grasped my overalls and one popper at a time opened them. I shrugged the overalls over my shoulder as she unfastened my jeans and pulled them down. My tight briefs were now the only thing between my cock and her expectant lips.

She grabbed the waistband and pulled my underwear down just far enough to release me. Her hands took hold of me, cupping my balls and squeezing them in her palm. The other hand slid back my foreskin to reveal a glistening head. She blew gently on the tip, cooling it, making me clench my butt cheeks and draw up my balls against the grip of her hand.

She drew a wet tongue slowly across her lips. “Fuck me.” Was her instruction.

She turned, still in the chair, kneeling, with her head over the backrest. I pulled her moist panties to one side and pressed myself against her opening. She leant back against me, impatient for my entry. Slowly I pressed forward, stopping when she cried out when only half my shaft was inside her. “Don’t stop, please.”

I pushed a little more feeling her stretch relishing the pressure. She was no virgin, but the sensation was sweet and intense. She cried out again when I was almost fully inside her, but this time I carried on until I was pressed against her buttocks.

My hands grasped her shoulders, I took control, the cold air in the workshop cooling my shaft at every withdrawal, only to have it warmed again by each deep, satisfying plunge into her hot wetness.

It wasn’t a marathon fuck, only a few minutes, but I was in control, which is where she wanted me. Whether my hands were on her hips as I ground into her, or on her shoulders allowing me to pull her back onto my cock with as much force as my intense desire demanded. She came, once, twice? And with a final thrust I came too, gyrating my hips hard against hers as muscular spasms gripped my loins.

I’ll leave you to decide what was real and what was fantasy. Some of the above did actually happen, she did exist, but more than that? I’m not saying.

School Sex Fiends

The telephone. email, the Internet and the Web have meant a revolution in the way that we communicate with each other as human beings. They have all enhanced and in some cases revolutionised the means by which we can spread ideas and absorb ideas, keep in touch and find information.

So when Friends Reunited came along it was obviously going to make a big difference to the way in which school reunions were viewed.

I’ve never been to a school reunion, we moved about a bit when I was a kid and I lost contact with a lot of the people who I went to school with. However I still have very fond memories of some of the girls at school at various stages of my intellectual and sexual development.

If it wasn’t for the fact that I’m with Suze I suppose I might have tried to look them up. I wonder what would have happened.

The years or decades that have passed since you left school would perhaps have changed you and the object of your affections in ways that neither of you would be conscious of yourself. But I suspect on meeting they would become very apparent. It’s OK carrying a torch for someone, but what if that person has changed so much that you no longer recognise them?

Have any of you guys hooked up with a school sweetheart? And what happened?

Naked Taxi Ride

SuzeI’ve often wondered what it would be like to be a fly on the wall of a late night taxi cab.  Picking up punters from the local clubs and bars.  I’m under no illusion that there would obviously be difficult customers who would argue about the cost of the fare and those who decide that that kebab they hastily ate after 16 pints of lager just isn’t staying down.

But there is another side to the late night taxing which could be quite interesting for a self confessed voyeur.  People watching the passengers as they attempt to make out in the back of the cab or try to cop a naughty feel and even more sexual acts.

I’ll hold my hands up and confess to being furtively frigged in the back of a taxi on my way home from a night club, at least once or twice.  I’ve even managed to get my hand down a guy’s waistband and play with his stiffening cock.

However, I’m sure there are far naughtier things going off in the back of cabs all over.  If you are reading this and drive a cab I would like to hear what the naughtiest thing that ever took place in your cab was or if you have been naughty I would like to know what you got up to.

Inspiration for this post came from this story which ran in The Metro Now I bet none of your reading this have been this naughty!  😉