Number 16 was a rare find – a genuinely good mate with whom I spent many a brilliant hour getting utterly pissed and chatting about anything and everything.
The first time we had sex was a complete accident – I don’t think either of us had entertained the notion until one night, after downing enough tequila to fell an elephant, we ended up snogging mid-karaoke in a dirty pub at 2 am.
Oh. We’re doing this, are we? OK.
That initial shag eventually led to a comfortable routine – beer, more beer, yet more beer and then a pissed stumble back to his flat where we’d swap stories of past sexual conquests, smoke an obscene number of fags, then undress each other and fuck like we were playing tennis.
I don’t want to describe a specific incident, but I would like to make an observation – number 16 made noises.
The sex itself was vanilla – frantic, hot, pissed and desperate. We’d both decide we’d had enough of drinking and went into his room to strip off. And while we were stripping he’d talk, and while he was cupping my tits in his hands he’d talk, and when we were fucking he’d talk. And it was so. Fucking. Good.
He spoke to me, he moaned, he said ‘oh yes’ when I did something nice. He sucked in big gulps of breath while I had his cock in my mouth. He sighed. He moaned a bit more. He went ‘ugh’ when he came.
Number 16 said things and talked dirty. He told me he was hard, that he loved how it felt when he was inside me. He told me how wet I was. He asked me if I liked it. He groaned and sighed and climaxed with vocal, lusty relief.
Good lord the world could do with more vocal boys. Vocal boys make me feel so good. I love the challenge of doing things to make them go ‘aaah’ and if I get that feedback I’m going to keep doing it again and again. If I could request anything from the gentlemen of this world it’d be to turn up the fucking volume.
You don’t have to shout it from the rooftops, you don’t have to scream and cry and wail like a mourning widow. But don’t lie there in silence, humping me stoically with a face of concentration like you’re solving a particularly difficult crossword puzzle. Come on boys – make some noise.
We’re still mates. He has a girlfriend now and is almost like a proper grown-up. They go on holiday and have dates and are serious with each other, and when we get together for beers he tells me about her and I’m pleased that he’s got the secure happiness which, let’s be frank, I can’t give to guys.
But I still look at him and want to tear him apart.
I see his sexy, filthy hands gripped round a pint glass and remember how he’d take his rings off before plunging his fingers into my cunt.
How he’d hold my hair back so he could watch me taking the length of his cock into my mouth.
How he’d squeeze my tits nice and hard, and tell me that I liked it.
I mostly remember the noisy sex – what he sounded like. What he’d say to me, how he’d moan and sigh. Best of all that wonderful, audible moment when he’d shudder and – with a muffled cry – come deep inside me so hard I could feel it.
Number 15 fucks me slowly. So so slowly.
I have no idea why – he’s so dominant, and angry, and beats me hard with belts. When we’re playing he’ll fuck me with his hands so quickly that I tense up and writhe. He straps me with such force that I yelp, and occasionally beg him to stop.
The pace before sex is quick, and hard, and he feels like the kind of guy who’d push me up against a wall and shag me with a frantic desperation that would make my head spin.
But when we’re fucking, he holds back and takes his time. He kneels between my legs and puts the tip of his cock inside me and then, as I beg him for more of it, he slowly pushes harder, filling me up with his huge, rock-solid dick.
I don’t think I realised how good that could be until I met number 15.
With his hands gripping my thighs, he pulls me down further onto his cock as I wriggle and force myself onto him. He leans down into me and fucks me with long, slow strokes. He makes me wait for it, and he makes me work for it, and he pushes me back down if I grip him and thrust my cunt up further onto him.
Number 15 places his hands either side of my head as he shoves himself further into me. Did I mention that he’s huge? His cock is long and thick and always rock solid. With slow, intimidating control, he leaves me shuddering with frustration and squirming as I try to fill myself with all of it.
As I start making muffled sounds of frustration, and gripping his back to pull him harder onto me – deeper, and further into me – he picks up the pace. Not enough – not nearly enough – but slightly faster, so I can get more from him by pushing my hips up and shoving myself onto him. Harder. Faster.
I get a bit loud because I need him to speed up. I can’t get there without it. I need it harder, and faster, and I know that if he’d just do it for a few seconds I’d be there, and the need to be there is so deliciously painful. It aches right through my cunt – the need to come. It hurts.
I cry out.
And I grip him harder.
And I writhe, and fuck him harder.
And I say please please pleasepleaseplease
And then he does. For one brilliant, wonderful moment he does. His cock is slamming into me with force and power and anger and lust and speed.
And I fall back, and my body tenses, and my cunt twitches. My back arches and I come all over his cock, and he can feel me writhe as I shudder all the frustration out of my body.
As I pant and smile and my eyelids droop with exhaustion he sits on my chest, with one hand on my neck and one hand gripping the base of his huge, still dripping cock.
He tells me to open my mouth.
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Sometimes sex is serious, and intimate, and meaningful. It’s passionate and intense and every shudder and pant and drip of sweat makes you fall that bit more in love with them, even if you’ve forgotten their name.
That was not how it was with 22. He was glorious and fun, although I’m going to refrain from the word ‘childlike’ – I don’t want to be put on a register.
22 was a cutie, and fucking him was a burst of unexpected joy. Like walking home through the park at midnight, and treating yourself to a cheeky go on the swings.
It was his birthday, and I didn’t know him that well but the birthday was a great way in. We were with friends who were preoccupied with drinking and having fun
“Do you fancy a birthday shag?” He looked more surprised than he should have been, but nodded. I grabbed his hand and dragged him into the lifts up to my room. Awkward chat ensued, as both of us realised that we didn’t have much to say to each other, or any idea what the other one would find sexy.
I’d done the equivalent of rocking up at his house, asking if he could come out to play, then realising I had no idea what he liked playing, or if he even had a BMX.
Luckily, he was fine with that – he just wanted to play, and was happy to do it without an awkward preamble or time-consuming seduction. He started unbuckling his belt as we got in through the door, and once it was closed he pushed me backwards onto the bed and started tearing at me. He was far more beautiful than I’d expected – the sort of muscles that make me suck my own stomach in and realise I don’t deserve this.
He kissed like a 16-year-old, and got excited each time we changed up. Everything we did was like him unwrapping another layer of a pass-the-parcel – his eyes lit up, he grinned, and tore back in. Sex with 22 was like playing in the park, and being rewarded with sweets when I got up enough speed on the roundabout.
He was enthusiastic in a way that’s pretty rare, and daring in a way that more men definitely should be. He pulled my hair and whispered things, and let me lick his armpits and squeeze the base of his cock to feel how hard he was before he put a condom on.
And when I was done, and tired, and ready to rejoin the party, he let me take him deep in my mouth, and he pushed my head down so my lips were right at the base of his cock while he twitched, and shuddered, and came into the back of my throat.
We only ever did it once.
Number 14 wears leather gloves. When we go out for dinner – we always go out for dinner – he makes a show of taking them off and putting them on the table beside him. He’s calm. I’ve never heard him raise his voice, or get agitated, or even visibly excited. Number 14 is the domliest dom I know, and I’ve never had sex with him.
Why is he on the list? I don’t usually include people I haven’t actually fucked, but the things he’s done deserve more credit than the catch-all title ‘play.’ Play can be anything from a quick spanking at a party to a full-blown throat-fucking in a dark alley. The latter, I think, deserves a bit more credit.
He likes to find places that are private but public. Hidden nooks and doorways where he can press me into the wall and order me not to make a sound. It’s incredible what a pair of leather gloves and a calm demeanour can do to stop me from making the noises I’d usually revel in.
On the hunt for one of these places once he found what looked like an abandoned room just outside the entrance to a block of flats – just a door in a wall that took us into a place no bigger than a cupboard, with broken glass bottles on the floor and no lights.
He put his hand over my mouth and whispered to me not to make a sound, then yanked my skirt up and my knickers down and touched me until I was trembling and could barely stand.
Every time someone walked past the door, or I breathed too loudly or made any noise, he grabbed my throat and stopped me breathing until they’d gone. He kept doing this, then stopping, then doing more, then stopping, until I was so weak and frustrated that I was crying, and had we been somewhere no one would have heard us I’d have been begging him to fuck me.
When I got to that point he pushed me down until I was squatting on the floor and shoved his cock into my mouth, always maintaining his total silence and calm.
He held my hair with his leather-gloved hands and shoved himself right into my throat. It didn’t take long – after a few minutes, just as I started to choke and bruise, he came hot and hard into the back of my mouth.
Ever the gentleman, he walked me to the train station and held me up when I stumbled.