Friday, 3 December 2010

who's filling your christmas stocking?

Ok so last night I did the unthinkable. I'm sure I'm not the first and I won't be the last to disgrace to do this. I peed in the proverbial swimming pool. I mixed business with pleasure, and ended up with more than my usual serving of Christmas cheer at the annual work Christmas party.

Our offices consist of  5 floors of more than 1600 people. So let them loose with a glamour theme complete with rat pack singers, roulette and black jack tables, unlimited alcohol and minimal food and there is always, always bound to be more than a quick canoodle going on under the mistletoe.

The night started out relatively innocently, I dressed up in a LBD, killer heels and complete with lots of bling, red lipstick and wine permanently in hand. Before the night was midway through I'd had a quickie wedding with a friend of mine, lost all my money on red and was dancing up a storm. As the clock was getting closer to midnight I thought I'd make a quick and graceful exit rather than a decidedly disgraceful one later.

Standing in the coat line I came across he who shall now be known as Mr Charismatic. Tall. Skinny. Blonde. Blue eyes with hooded lids. Big Hands. Big Feet. Cute. Completely not my type. But there was that unmistakable spark. A match was lit and I wasn't about to blow it out after the time I'd spent with my fireplace untended to. The phrase 'Why Not?' sprung to mind and I went with it. After a few shared compliments over outfits and a quick chat on the debauchery of the night he walked me to the tube before offering to buy me a few drinks. Cue an hour later and we had thrown the mistletoe away and seemed to be searching for it under each other's clothes in a dark, secluded corner of the bar, so much so that the bar manager asked us to leave. Not my proudest moment. Next thing I knew we were in the back of the cab and I was reaching for his stocking  and he was unwrapping me like the unexpected Christmas gift I was.

Back home and 4 and half shags later I was left feeling less than satisfied. Sure I'd enjoyed it, it was random, fun and exhilarating and naughty but I still  felt a bit like Lily Allen lying in the wet patch of the bed feeling sorry for herself. At some point in the proceedings it had turned teenager both in style and technique on his end.  Bringing up the following issues:

1)      Bareback ride anyone? - He was doggedly persistent about not wearing protection. But once he realised it wasn't on if it wasn't on he soon got with the program, but every time he still tried to angle for a bareback ride. When in this day and age with the prevalence of stds and over nasties did it ever become ok to shag a stranger without protection? I found this almost as disturbing as his kissing technique
2)  Pash rash- His kissing technique, well what there was of it that is. It involved a mashing, nashing of teeth against my lips. I now have several blood blisters in my mouth from his voracious nashing snogging. I also have gravel rash on my lips and chin. He would basically try to eat my lips and beat up my tonque with his. I almost wanted to say out loud '1,2,3,4 I declare a tongue war'
3) Holiday Hickeys – they were never cool in highschool and when u have to work the next day, sporting a bright bruise on your neck is like holding a neon sign above your head saying 'I'm a whore' or 'please consider me the office bike'. Not good, but this guy loved vacuuming, with this mouth. To the point I am now sporting not just one but multiple hickies on my neck and bruising to boot. I have whiplash, and not in a good way 
4)   Dexterity -His dexterity below the belt involved a rather rough poking and twisting of his fingers and somehow I think he mistook my cries of discomfort for being in the throes of passion. I gave a few gentle instructions, but he was fingering with the frustrated ministrations of a sex starved teenager

5)   Oh Oh OH – perhaps the most distracting thing about the whole situation? His girlish scream and whimper when it came to the point of orgasm. It literally stopped mine in its tracks. He was a louder groaner and moaner than I was and pretty sure my flatmates heard every thrust and throb.

Sadly I didn't have a lot of OH OH Ohs throughout the night and ended up resorting to faking quite a few which I hate, but he was just so mortifyingly bad with some of his technique I didn't know what else to do. I'm sure there are a range of things which shape a guys sexual experience but these days when I've given feedback it's been met with aggression, disdain and insulted glares. Would a guy really prefer a girl to be unsatisfied and fake it? If so, I might just abstain for a while because the only Oh Oh Ohs I'll be making is when I'm skipping the yellow brick road to orgasmville.

In the meantime I'll be walking with my head down and navigating corridors with furtive looks in a bid to avoid an awkward lift encounter which is bound to happen. That's the last time I take a free gift without shaking first for what's inside.

Merry xmas all
Ho ho ho xx

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