“See that field?”
“I once sucked a guy off in that field.”
“See that bus stop?”
Why do I feel compelled to give people the sexual bus tours of my filthy past? My guy is both tolerant of my wittering and enthused by the idea of getting blow jobs in interesting places, so he’s heard more than his fair share of stories. As with all my favourite stories they usually start ‘we were drinking cider’ and end with ‘he came in my mouth.’
Truth is, while there’s something delicious in having a secret – knowing I can walk past a place and savour the intimate knowledge that I spat jizz out of a car window at exactly that spot – it’s far more fun to relive the moments with someone else, and inspire them to create some new moments with me.
Fucking in the park
Some of these places are areas I visit regularly. Every single time I see my parents I walk past a park where I shared a midnight picnic and doggy-style fuck right in the middle of the lawn. It was OK back then: no lights or CCTV. Just an expanse of space and the cover of darkness to shield our fumbling lust and dirty-quick shagging. The build up to it lasted an hour. Flirting, snogging, dipping my fingers in my cunt and putting them – one by one – into his eager mouth. By the time we’d decided we couldn’t wait longer, we were so wound up that the sex lasted less than a minute. A trembling, desperate one-two-three-done that stuck in my mind for weeks afterwards. When I walk past the park I can still feel his breath on my neck and his hands at my knickers.
Finding somewhere to fuck
Another place I see far less regularly, but when I do I’m overcome by a wave of the same emotions I felt on that day: nervous, edgy sexual need, and the delicious knowledge that we might just get caught.
He was a guy I never fucked, but who filled my thoughts for a good few months during college. He had a natural sexual confidence combined with a nerdy look – very much my type. He also had a girlfriend who cared for him little, and fucked him even less. He used to drive me to places where we could be alone, then let me suck the frustration out of his swollen dick. We usually stuck to night time, but on this particular day we couldn’t wait until later. On a spurious errand, he whisked me out of the house and we drove up and down the main road, eyes peeled for a turnoff that led somewhere remote.
A few missed opportunities, and a couple of false starts later (“Is this OK?” “Mate, this is someone’s driveway.” “Do you think they’d mind?” “Fuck’s sake – I’m going to keep driving.”) we found somewhere passable, and got out of the car to perform the same fumble we’d only ever done before in the dark.
That place, you know
There are a hundred of these places dotted around. The dark alley. The patch of woodland. That weird off-street cupboard where I fucked number 14. The bushes outside the hall where we had a Halloween disco, and I had to take out my plastic vampire teeth before he’d let me near his dick.
Each and every one of these places gives me a thrill when I walk past it – particularly if it’s daytime and I only knew the spot at dusk. Watching people wander through, I get a shiver of guilt, knowing their feet are touching the exact same place my knees rested as I stared up at horny boys. I get sad when I spot the sight-lines of new CCTV cameras, or buildings that weren’t there before, closing down possibilities of future fucks even as they rekindle the memories of old ones.
Above all that park – the place I spent so much of my wasted youth. Where we’d chip in twenty pence each to gather enough money for a packet of fags, and smoke two’s on them until we burnt our lips. Where we kissed each other’s boyfriends and fucked in the dark. Where a guy I once loved took me gently and quickly over a concrete wall, and others let me touch their cocks through the soft fabric of high-90s-fashion sports trousers. In that park we drank vodka and flirted, had fights and made drama and performed a parody of a soap-opera of adult life. We were practicing the things we thought we’d be doing when we grew up.
This weekend the boy and I visited a different park and made a new memory. I can still taste it, but when it fades I’ll just hop on a train and go back there. Picturing him pulling his dick out of his trousers and pushing the tip of it into my mouth. Remembering the awkward position I squatted in to avoid getting mud on my clothes, and the whispered delight with which he told me he was coming. I don’t mind growing up if I can take these memories with me.
Many thanks to @sexblogofsorts, who provided inspiration for this post when I was panicking on Twitter with no ideas on what to write about. If you’ve ever got a blog suggestion, or a topic you’d like me to cover, please do get in touch. If it weren’t for topic suggestions from readers, I’d never have covered squirting, and I wouldn’t have something exciting about splosh fetishes sitting in my drafts folder this very minute.