Girl on the Net

It’s a huge gamble, both of us know that, so we’re careful to tiptoe gently around the implications. I haven’t seen this guy in many many years, and he lives far enough away that we can’t just catch up over a drink. A visit? For three nights? It’s a huge gamble. But he asks me at exactly the right point – says ‘shall I come and stay for a bit?’ when I’m feeling brave and horny. So I bury the doubts, keep my expectations low, embrace the knowledge that life is far more fun if you gamble sometimes and tell him ‘fuck it, yes.’

Low expectations

If I think about it, in the days before his arrival, the main thing I’m expecting is for us to have a reasonably good time. I’m confident that we’ll still have stuff in common, and I know that if we get bored of each other, London’s a big city in which to play. There’s definitely a part of me that reckons we might fuck. Awkwardly, of course, like two people who don’t know each other that well, but we might do it anyway. Then maybe try again the next day if we decide we both had fun the first time round.

Those are my expectations, and I make a conscious effort to try and keep them low. This is a gamble, after all, so there’s only a small chance that this best case scenario will happen.

If I’d allowed myself to raise those expectations, I might have pictured something even better. We manage to have easy conversation and fun and a laugh. We flirt a bit, and it gives me that kick of triumph, knowing that a hot guy wants to flirt with me. Perhaps we get into some interesting chats. I can find out a little about what he likes in bed, and maybe store some ideas up to wank about later down the line.

Gamble, though, remember? Roll the dice but keep your expectations low. We’ll have fun, get drunk, catch up. Maybe shag once or twice in that hurried, awkward way. Low expectations, less potential for disappointment: I was looking forward to it.

Wildest dreams

If I’d allowed myself to look forward a bit more boldly, though, my more ambitious dreams might have gone a little like this…

He turns up at the station looking hot as hell: bright hair, tight trousers, filthy smile and facial piercings that can absolutely ruin my life. When we arrive at mine, we pour drinks and catch up. Flirt. Try to work out exactly how long it is since the last time we saw each other.

We put on music, get a bit wrecked, skirt around the edges of possibilities for a while. Then he pops upstairs to slip into something more comfortable, which turns out to be ruinous for my aching cunt because it’s much much fucking tighter. Once suitably attired, he unpacks two sets of UV strip lights to set the mood, and tells me he’s definitely up for it.

That evening, he puts some porn on the telly and lets me go to town on his dick. I can feel the muscles in his thighs trembling when I get to the good bits, and fuck me I have so missed doing this.

When I beg him to fuck me, I ask for the first stroke really fucking slowly so I can savour it. He obliges. I die. And then I die again, when I come unexpectedly quick and hard. And fuck me twice, I have missed this too: coming around someone’s dick.

I let him pick the music, and I don’t care what it is, because we’re making out on cushions on the floor and the room is hazy and cosy and it smells like sex and both of us. And sorry, but fuck my whole fucking life I’ve missed this too.

I ask if I can kiss his neck while he’s concentrating on something else and he tells me ‘you’re welcome to do – and touch – whatever you like’, so I’m back to being kid-in-a-sweetshop eager about the possibilities of someone else’s body. He smells so good: different, hot. Like men. How I’ve missed them.

At one point he fucks me so hard I tap out.  

And all weekend we talk and make out and drink and make out and fuck and smoke and touch each other and at one point he wants to return the favour for all the head I’ve given him, so he tells me to go grab a dildo I like and buries it deep in my cunt, lapping at my clit and hand-fucking me while I watch porn.

Later, much later, he goes home. I drop him at the station, watch him walk away along the concourse, turn away… then turn back again for another quick look. It’s rude not to double-take, when someone’s that disgracefully hot on purpose. I drink in the sight of him from behind, wearing lovely tight jeans to remind me what I won.

The moral of this story? Roll those fucking dice.