I tend to avoid athletic boys. With their muscles and their energy and their ability to go for hours I fear that they’ll put me to shame. The sex they have is impressive – powerful, beautiful and hard. The sex I have is desperate – moaning, panting, begging. It’s not about athleticism, it’s about lust.

But number 24 was athletic.

I met him at a posh event where he was surrounded by friends and I was surrounded by strangers. I was awkward in high-heels and a dress, and he was funny, fit, bald, with nerdy glasses and a quick mouth. I wasn’t completely smitten but I was getting there, and just drunk enough to approach someone who would otherwise fill me with terror. Someone who was far cooler than me, more attractive than me, more athletic than me. Number 24 was a lad – the sort of boy who won at sports day while girls like me were hiding behind the bleachers smoking fags and comparing fake injuries. He was holding the room with effortless confidence – drunk and getting drunker, leering and joking and scanning the party not for girls who looked pretty but girls who looked willing.

So I did what any slightly curious, drunk girl would do: I took him round the back of the building for a blow job.

The briefest of kisses ended with me on my knees in the mud, feet and knees wet through as I tore at his flies. He whispered in the dark – angry and lustful encouragement just loud enough for me to hear but not loud enough to give us away. When I put his dick in my mouth he already tasted salty with precome – rock solid. He held the back of my head and pushed me down until my lips touched the base of his dick and I choked.

“That’s it.” And he shoved it in harder. He wanted the control – he wanted me reeling, unbalanced in the mud, with nothing to grab onto but him. He wanted my hands cupping him and stroking as he thrust his dick harder into my mouth. I ran my hands over his unfamiliar body – solid thighs, a tight arse – a genuine honest-to-god six pack. Athletic though I wasn’t, he liked seeing my lustful take on blow jobs – he liked my pervy enthusiasm, and he liked it when I looked up into his face with eyes watering.

“I’m going to come.” I moaned as he said it – a choking, wet moan as I opened the mouth he was fucking to suck in the air that would take me through to the end. Excited by the thought of his hot spunk hitting the back of my throat. I sucked harder, pulling as much of his dick into my mouth as I could.

But he didn’t come in my mouth.

He pulled his cock out, and with one hand rubbed at it frantically. Pulling on my hair, he tipped my head back and looked into my eyes. He saw my face wet with spit and precome, and – with grunts and twitches – he came. Thick spurts of his spunk covered my cheeks, dripping into my open mouth, plastering loose strands of my hair. He didn’t just want to come – he wanted to come so that his friends would see, when we walked back inside, that he’d had me. He’d fucked me. And he’d left me covered in him.

Up to that point I was, despite the humiliation of having to avoid kissing people goodbye, still in my comfort zone. I’d showed the cool kids how the dirty goth girls can fuck. He’d humiliated me, but I’d had him – I’d owned him. I’d had his twitching prick in my mouth.

But later that night he followed me back to my hotel room and fucked me like an athlete. Flipping me over, picking me up, bending me over the desk and forcing his spit-lubed dick into my ass. Quick, curt thrusts punctuated by sharp exhales of breath. Porn fucking, with a porn audio track.

“You. Like. That” as he slapped me. “Fucking take it” as his cock slammed deeper into me, with him holding one of my legs at an angle so acute he could reach every inch of the inside of my cunt.

Muscular arms bending me into different shapes, holding me wide open so he could get at me. He couldn’t sit still when I sat on his dick. Instead he grabbed my arse and fucked the rhythm out of me, until it was all I could do to hold still, squeeze my cunt around his dick, and enjoy the rapid forceful pounding of his powerful hips.

It felt like a fight, like he wanted to show me what he could do. He was performing, like a gymnast performs a routine, like a runner sprints in front of a cheering crowd. He was faster, harder, stronger than me, and he wanted me to know it.

It wasn’t just a fuck – it was a competition. And although he was the most athletic, I think, on reflection, I won.

Sex isn’t always hearts, flowers, champagne and sky-high orgasms. To be honest sometimes it’s not even hot fumbling, high fives and a faceful of spunk. Often what might have been an excellent fuck is ruined by one of the two things that our race is miserably prone to:

• the laws of physics
• biological incompetence

To celebrate those fucks that go wrong, here are three true stories of bad things that have happened to me during sex:

1. Unbalanced

When people think of university they might think of dissertations, hippie students, or excessive masturbation in the library. I, on the other hand, am reminded of the exceptionally narrow beds in my first year halls of residence.

During my first year, I conscripted an eager boy to join me in testing just how much we could get up to on one of these beds, as a rebellion against the miserable cunt who designed them to deter any sex whatsoever.

We were only foiled once, during our first drunken attempt at buttsex. At the moment of climax my boy slapped my arse, slammed his dick home nice and hard and declared in a sexy, ecstatic moan: “I’m going to come in your ass.”

The good news is that he sort of did. The bad news: as my leg slipped from the side of the bed, the rest of his jizz sprayed elsewhere as he tumbled onto the bedroom floor, chipping a tooth on the way down.

Moral of the story: even during climax, concentrate.

2. Sex toys

I love sex toys – give me something new and shiny and I’m more than happy to stick it in my cunt to see how it feels. Once a guy bought some ben wa balls. Not normal balls – these were rubber-coated, and textured with short, soft spikes. Interesting.

At least, they were interesting for the first five minutes or so until he pulled on the string holding them together. Instead of cooing with delight, I was left on the bed screaming ‘what the fuck?!’ as I realised that only one of the balls had come out with the string – the other was left inside me.

Luckily for me, I didn’t have to go to hospital to have it removed. It’s surprising what you can fish out of a vagina if you happen to have a teaspoon to hand.

Moral of this story: Don’t buy cheap sex toys off the internet.

3. Dark alleys

Fairly recently, I met an incredibly young-looking gentleman with whom I got quite pissed. After the initial pleasantries and gin, we retired to a nearby alleyway where I gave him an enthusiastic and fairly sloppy blow job. After a pleasant – if frantic – five minutes I picked up my bag, squeezed out of the narrow alley, and we went our separate ways.

No sooner had I parted from him than I smelt something horrible. Awful. I had no idea where it might have come from, but it seemed to be following me. After thoroughly checking the bottom of my shoes, my jeans, and any other conceivable area, I eventually realised that the smell was dog shit. Not just a bit – a lot. A Great Dane’s worth – all over my fucking bag.

After ditching the bag in the nearest bin, I sat miserably on the train home, wanting to vomit over the lingering scent in my nostrils. But above all I was praying desperately that the guy I’d just sucked off hadn’t noticed, and mistakenly thought the excitement of giving him head had led me to shit myself.

Moral of this story: Clean up after your fucking dog.

As I write this I am bleeding quite heavily from the ass.

Bear with me – it’s challenging enough writing when your hands are shaking with shock, without having to turn anal fissures into something resembling a sex post. But I love a challenge.

As I’ve said before, I love buttsex. It hurts and is dirty and brilliant.

Boys with a desperate urge to fuck me somewhere painful hit my ‘oh holy fuck yes spot’ like nothing else.

Just the sound of a guy spitting on his cock, followed by the feeling of the head pushing nice and tight up against my ass gives me a powerful kick-in-the-gut of lust.

“Roll over and put your face in the pillow. I don’t want the neighbours to hear you crying.”

And the main reason I like it is because I don’t really like it. I like that he wants to do it. I’d be happy never having an orgasm again if I knew I could be used by all the men I love, in all the ways they’d love to use me.

“Bite down on this, because I’m going to fuck you somewhere it really hurts.”

Turning it down

And I can’t say no. I can’t. I can pull away if it really hurts, and I can say “please use more lube” and I can say “I can’t, I can’t, please” but I’m always a tiny bit sad if I have to make the sexy things stop.

If he carries on I’m in pain and if he pulls away I’m disappointed. The only solution in these situations is to cover his dick with lube, smear it all over, fill my ass with it and hope I don’t scream loud enough to scare the cat.

Preventing injury

If you have similar issues, there are lots of things you can do to prevent buttsex injuries.

But there’s nothing you can do to stop the very real problem – being a complete moron.

Because yesterday, as I buried my face in the pillow and raged silent screams into this one boy’s bedlinen, all I wanted was for him to keep fucking me. To force his dick harder into me. To spit on it more, grip my hips in his beautiful big hands, and pull me back onto his thick cock with quick, hard strokes.

I wanted him to keep doing it, and doing it, and doing it. To call me a filthy girl and tell me I’d take it even though it hurt, and tell me I was good, and it’d be over soon.

And as he panted and grunted and shoved himself harder into me, it didn’t hurt nearly as much as the pain in the pit of my stomach, the pain that I’ll feel until he comes. I won’t be complete until I’ve heard him moaning and panting for the last few thrusts, while his cock is twitching and pumping spunk deep down inside me. That pain hurts far more than my ass hurts while he’s fucking it.

Who’s to blame?

Oh, society, why do you make me do these sexy things?

I’m joking – it is very loudly and clearly my fault. Just as the smoking is my fault, and the excessive drinking, and that one time at the age of nineteen when I discovered what coffee was, drank 18 cups in one day, then blacked out in a car park.

As in the rest of my life, the injuries I sustain at the hands of whatever ridiculous pervery is floating my boat this week are all self-inflicted. And I know this. And I know that sometimes it’s bad for me. But at the time I’d no more tell someone to stop than I’d turn down a cheque for a million quid.

But somewhere in the pit of my still-quite-queasy stomach, I have a feeling that I should stop. Not just on the one or two occasions where I’ve caused myself actual damage, but permanently. Perhaps, just as I should pack in the cigarettes I so idiotically enjoy, I should also stop fucking in a way that hurts me. Maybe I should learn when to say no. Maybe I should turn in early, sober and alone, with a good book that won’t make me wank before bedtime.

But it doesn’t really work like that, does it? There’s only so much sobriety and calm and reason one person can take. I like to think that the filthy fucking is a trade-off for the things that I haven’t done – properly experimented with class-A drugs, or been in a real-life fight. When I’m actually injured and bruised and broken I am miserable at myself for having no self-control. But I think I’d be far more miserable if I didn’t do any of this stuff at all.

So the answer can’t be to stop it all completely – I’d be sad and alone and miss out on the most fun I ever have without spending any money. I’d miss pushing the boundaries and scaring myself and the brilliant minute just after I’ve done something truly horrible when I turn to a boy and he grins and says “fuck, that was filthy. Let’s do it again.”

Disclaimer: This entry is being published a while after it was written, to preserve the anonymity of the boy in question, and prevent him from being so horrified that he never fucks me in the ass ever again. So thank you for you concern, I am completely fine now and no longer bleeding from the ass.