Javier

It all begins in Spain; once again, on my year abroad. It was one of my first nights out in the country, and my long-term boyfriend had very recently and unceremoniously given me the boot – something about not loving me enough to make a trans-national relationship work. Well, his loss was most certainly my gain, because on that fateful Wednesday night, at a ‘botellón’ (fancy name for organised street-drinking session), I met Javier.

My two good girl-friends, Amy and Fliss, were looking for love (or maybe something more short-lived) and I, still wallowing in my break-up, decided to be their wing(wo)man. Confidently inebriated, I approached the nearest group of guys and engaged them in conversation. A shy girl at heart, this show of courage was most unusual for me, which is probably why – even the next day – I blacked out the conversation itself. I remember flashbacks; I know I told them about my puppy, and that they thought her photo was cute, but that’s about it. Anyway, after a while I began to wonder why Amy and Fliss hadn’t joined me with the guys, so made my excuses and set off in pursuit of my friends. They told me they were most unimpressed by my choice of men-folk as the whole group was apparently ugly except for one, who was all over me. Maybe it was my blurred vision but I hadn’t clocked the man or his supposed advances either.

As we joined the queue to enter the club, we were joined by the guys I’d been talking to before, only this time I had my eyes wide open. Let me tell you, drunk or not, he was a sight to behold. It took my eyes a good minute to sweep up and down his body, taking in the big brown eyes; square, masculine jaw; rugged stubble; broad shoulders; and his height. Ohhh, his height. Javier was certainly all man. And the girls weren’t wrong: before I knew it, he had his arm playfully around my shoulders and we were chatting up a storm. His sure knowledge of English made up for the butterflies in my stomach (or maybe somewhere lower). On the dance floor he was true to the stereotypical Spaniard with absolutely no regard for personal space, and the feel of his body and hardness against mine was almost too much to bear. After a couple of hours of dancing and tension, he took me to the bar, leaned in and kissed me, a long, deep, lip-biting kiss full of passion and promise. I couldn’t take it anymore.

When we got back to my flat, I excused myself to use the toilet and pointed him in the direction of my bedroom. I went for a wee, freshened up and had a bit of a pep-talk with myself in the mirror (“Come on, you can do this; show him the inner sex-goddess!”). By the time I got to my room, I was burning with desire and ready for anything. But nothing had prepared me for the sight of him lying there, naked except for his tiny white Calvin Kleins. His bronzed, muscled body was like something out of an advert, and his cheeky lopsided smile was all the persuasion I needed to whip off my bag and shoes and straddle him on my bed.

love... V

Three's Company

For those of you not ‘in the know’, Erasmus is a scheme set up to allow European students in the third year of their degree to travel to another European country for a year; to study, teach, or work. I spent my Erasmus year in a gorgeous city in Spain, and it was the most wonderful year of my life to date; in fact I doubt that will ever change.

Now I don’t want to sound like the archetypal gap-year student here and preach about ‘finding myself’, but the truth is that it was a time of huge self-discovery for me, and opened my eyes to a great number of new experiences, people, and most of all possibilities. I made it my mission to say ‘yes’ to each and every opportunity that presented itself – from skinny-dipping to dancing under the stars at an orange farm – and, as a result, many of my stories come from this time spent abroad.

This one in particular started out as a regular night for my group of friends; drinks on our roof-terrace before heading into town to an underground club. We hadn’t been before, and hadn’t heard of anyone else who’d been either, but it was an adventure and we were more than willing to go along for the ride.

Upon entry, we discovered that this was a lesbian club; nothing unusual for me as I’m from an extremely cosmopolitan city myself, although it was a novelty for some of my friends. The music was as loud as the beer was cheap, and this suited us perfectly. After an hour or two of shaking my stuff on the dance floor, I got chatting to what I thought was a lovely (straight) couple – fantastic! I relished any opportunity to practise my Spanish. He was nothing particularly special, but she was gorgeous; a twenty-something Brazilian who’d been in Spain for just two years, her long dark hair and thick eyelashes were mesmerising. However, when I asked how long they’d been together, they replied that they were just good friends. I remember this striking me as odd due to the blatant attraction between the two.

When she asked if I’d like to go to the bathroom, it seemed like a normal request; you know us girls, we’re always going together. When he followed us, it seemed perfectly natural; of course, he needed to go as well. When he joined us in the ladies’, now that’s when I realised something was afoot. Maybe if I’d drunk less beer, or if I hadn’t been on my year abroad, or if I wasn’t in such an experimental state of mind, I wouldn’t have gone ahead with it. But for whatever reason, I did. No words were spoken, no agreement was made, but somehow we all seemed to know what was happening.

We all entered the same bathroom stall (yes, it was very crowded) and they started kissing. Then he kissed me. Then she kissed me. I’d kissed female friends before for jokes, or dares, or as a bargaining chip to make male friends do the same, but this was different; this was the first time that being with a girl wasn’t justified by anyone’s ulterior motive. And I have to admit that it wasn’t bad; in fact, her lips were soft and patient and giving. As we kissed, he unzipped his jeans and positioned himself behind me; condom first of course. His hands reached round to my breasts as he slid into me from behind, my face all the while pressed against hers.

As he slowly and deliberately fucked me from behind, she let her hands fall down my body, across my breasts and down the centre of my stomach to between my legs, where she stimulated me with the sureness and accuracy of someone who’s done it many times before and knows how it feels. I actually found myself more consumed by what she was doing than by the man inside me. Perhaps it was the novelty factor, or my amazement at what was happening, but I found myself wanting to please her too. So when he withdrew, I leant in to kiss her, and dropped my lips to her neck, her chest, and slowly made my way down her torso. My heart was beating wildly as I contemplated my next move, but part of me really wanted to know what it was like to do this to a girl; above all, maybe, because I wanted to know what men were experiencing when they did it to me. I got closer and, before I had time to think too hard, went for it. Kissing and licking her, I found myself more in tune to how it would feel for her, trying to recreate things I myself liked to be done, and maybe trying even harder to please her than I usually would a man. Is that to say I prefer women? I’d still say no.

Perhaps gay relationships have an advantage over straight ones; having the same sexual organs as your partner means you know how everything feels. You know what’ll tip them over the edge and what to avoid. Boyfriends of mine in the past have marvelled at how quickly I can make myself come (and complained at how long it can take me when they’re at the wheel), and that accuracy can surely only come from years of experimentation and knowing exactly what you like.

But despite women being more gentle, soft and smooth, there’s something about men’s ruggedness; the scratch of stubble against my skin, the hard pressure of an erection against my thigh, that means I’ll never switch sides. That’s not to say I don’t understand why one would...

love... V

The Portaloo (beware: not for the squeamish)

Festivals are funny places. With a free flow of alcohol, dancing and our favourite music, it’s no wonder we sometimes take the opportunity to comport ourselves outside of what is considered the ‘norm’.

Picture the scene: my then-boyfriend Harry and I had landed at a music festival, after travelling around Europe with several friends. Skint students at the time, accommodation throughout the trip had consisted of a variety of hostels, with three to six bunkbeds in each room, and virtually no privacy. My relationship with Harry was highly physical, it was a very hot summer, and we were both more than ready to jump on each other as soon as the opportunity arose.

On our first night at the festival, we were dancing in a field to reggae music, drinking cheap cocktails and ‘feeling the love’, if you want to put it that way. Imagine the dilemma: some friends were already back at our shared campsite, the fields were full of party-goers and there was no obvious privacy for miles... except... “No”, I told him. “We can’t!” But eventually desire won out and we made our stealthy way to the line of reeking portaloos.

Don’t ask me what possessed me to do it. Usually, I’m a clean freak who can’t go two hours without washing my hands. But, I did it. I told him I wasn’t going to touch a thing in there, so he sat on the closed loo seat and I straddled him, one foot on either side of the raised ‘throne’. Luckily, the relief of having some release after so long soon made me forget where we were; I could have been in heaven or... well, I’m struggling to think of a place worse than a portaloo here, but you get the idea.
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 Suddenly, my worst nightmares were confirmed: moving my hand away from its position on the shoulder of his white T-shirt, I noticed a dark patch where it had been. Now you have to bear in mind that this was at night, in a small enclosure, so I was all but blind. But there, on his shoulder, was the unmistakeable dark smudge. “No”, I thought: “No, this isn’t happening to me!” I had to be sure so, tentatively, I lifted my hand to my nose, waiting for the putrid smell of someone else’s poo. But it didn’t smell! Inebriated and confused, it took us another minute or two to realise that between our bodies, creeping up the fabric of both of our T-shirts, was more of the dark substance.

As you can imagine, that killed the mood, and all we wanted to do was head back to camp and shower. So, one by one, we snuck out of the portaloo onto the path leading towards ‘home’. Only then, under the clarity of the floodlights, did we see that it was blood. My first thought was that I’d come onto a freak period, but there was far too much of it for that. It was dripping down my legs in two sinister streaks, soaked into both of our clothes, running down my arms and even in my hair. I’ve never seen so much in my life. We looked like we’d just murdered someone.

Reaching the showers before our camp, we both headed into the freezing water, fully-clothed, shame-faced and completely mystified. I was having some pretty scary thoughts when, through the shower wall, Harry shrieked. Running into his shower, I found him staring at his foreskin, which had torn away from the head. I believe they call this phenomenon a snapped ‘Banjo string’.

Needless to say, that was as far as our holiday lovemaking, or any for a long time after that, went. Was it worth it? Probably not, although Harry always was a bit highly strung...

love... V

Mamma Mía

We’re reaching far into the memory bank for this one; back to the days of my first boyfriend, Mark. After a long day on the beach, being subjected to lying nearly-naked next to each other in public for hours, followed by a long hot shower together, we were both driven nearly crazy with desire for each other. Leading me up the stairs to his bedroom, he closed the door and turned to face me. One hand went to the back of my head, caressing my dripping hair; the other to my chin, turning my face upwards towards his. Slowly, he leaned in to take my awaiting bottom lip between his teeth, before sliding his tongue into my mouth. He tasted divine. Patience was forgotten and I began to kiss back, furiously drawing him further into my mouth and running my hands through his still-damp hair.

His hands slid slowly down my back to my buttocks, which he squeezed tantalisingly before lifting me into his arms. My legs encircled his body as I began to roll my torso against his. Walking towards the bed, he laid me down before settling between my thighs and dropping his mouth to my neck, my ear, my collarbone... Down and down he went, laying kisses and nibbles in his wake, until he reached his destination, his tongue and teeth teasing and pleasing in equal measures. As I came, I said his name over and over, turning my face to the ceiling as my eyelids slid closed in ecstasy.

Apparently today was all about my pleasure, because as his head made its slow journey back up towards my own, he slid his fingers and then his penis easily into me. I let out a long, low groan of pleasure as he began to roll his hips towards and away from my body, each time causing my entire being to shiver with sheer anticipation. He took my left leg into the crook of his elbow and pushed it towards my body, allowing him to push deeper and deeper into me, picking up speed as our pleasure heightened. As his pace continued to increase, he pushed harder and harder into me and I thought I would explode.

At that moment, the bedroom door swung open to reveal his mother, innocently intending to put away his clean laundry. Caught in the moment between pleasure and panic, as if rudely awoken from an erotic dream, I struggled to regain composure as I said his name, trying to make him stop, as his back was turned to his mother and he hadn’t noticed her presence; but this only spurred him on, mistaking my protestations for lust-filled cries. “Mark, Mark!” I insisted, and with a huge groan – to my absolute mortification – he came, as his mother looked on in horrified shock.

Needless to say, my relationship with his mother was never the same after that day; the incident was never mentioned, but eye-contact was strictly avoided, and I knew my innocent ‘girl-next-door’ image had vanished forever... in her eyes anyway.

love... V

Number One: The Big V

It’s a rare case that anything works first time, so why should sex be any different? And even once you think you’ve gotten the hang of it with someone, it’s not all plain sailing. Just like that damned handle in the kitchen that’s always falling off – despite multiple repair jobs – it takes work and regular maintenance to keep everything running smoothly. Sex wouldn’t be what it is without the need to experiment, tweak and perfect your technique – after all, isn’t that half the fun?

Surprisingly (or maybe not), my first time was unremarkable. Back in the days when I was high on teenage hormones and perhaps a little something else, I was deeply in love with George, a beautiful and ambitious blonde-haired God, who was out of this world, much less my league (at least that’s what I saw at the time). Meeting every month or so at a well-known “rave” (glorified party in the woods), we’d made contact only a few precious times; including, to my great excitement, a kiss during Spin the Bottle. Other than that, I’d admired George from a very safe distance for a little under a year.

In any case, I’d been invited to his party through a couple of mutual friends, and had my heart set on taking full advantage. This was the night. As the party dwindled to a close, revellers slowly made their leave and George pulled me to one side, whispering how long he’d wanted this, and indulged me in a long, drawn-out kiss. Almost crazy with nervous anticipation, I followed him to his bedroom (typical, teenage, dirty) where we both got into bed. I don’t remember much about the incident itself, except that it was an anticlimax (excuse the pun). It didn’t hurt as much as the books say, but I remember feeling almost disgusted by his sweaty, inconsiderate body heavy on top of my own, and I certainly didn’t come.

Afterwards, I felt relieved that it was over, and extremely happy to be lying snuggled up to George at long last. However, two minutes later, he was on his way to the sofa protesting that we didn’t want to raise his friends’ suspicions. Alone, hurt and feeling strangely empty, I wondered if it would’ve been different if he’d known it was my first time, or if I’d been in a relationship; but I don’t know any girl who’s particularly enjoyed her first time, do you?

The next morning I was up before any of the other various passed-out teenagers, so began clearing up the house and rang my mum to ask for a lift home. Amidst piling beer cans into black bags, the doorbell rang and – being the only one awake – I went to answer it. A pretty blonde girl of my own age looked at me, bewildered, before asking where her boyfriend George was.

What’s the definition of ‘disaster’ again?

love... V

Mission Statement

For some women, singledom is a nightmare. For others, it is an opportunity; one which allows us the freedom to play, to explore, and ultimately to find out what makes us tick.

But whether you're someone who thrives in relationships, or who prefers single life, I hope that this no-holds-barred insight into my own sultry secrets will give you the confidence to let go, to give in to temptation and to discover your own elicit desires.

 love... V