Rugby

“How many men have you had in bed with you at any one time?” one of them challenged, pinching my right nipple through my bikini. I had another one trying to give me a hicky on my left breast, another one stroking the crack of my arse, and the rest were circling hungrily.

“Two.”

“We could break that record tonight.” I believed them. And I suspected it wouldn’t have been their first time to do so either. They were half a professional rugby team from the UK and there was an easy familiarity (hugs, high-fives, back-slaps) between them that had probably developed from sharing the same locker-room as well as not a few women.

“I’ll think about it,” I said, laughing casually in their faces.

And I’ll admit that for a few moments, I did think about it. They were young, mostly my age or below, but they would have been quick, strong fucks with top quality, alpha sperm. Yum.

It was difficult to ignore the bukkake bells that had begun ringing madly in my head. I was imagining S-A-S-H sprayed repeatedly in cursive all over my face. I was projecting Jackson Pollock…in a harem…squirting mayonnaise…on a huge salami sandwich…Help, Dr. Freud!

I was getting horny and more than a little carried away. I looked them over. They were prime tenderloin – everything you’d want from a cut of meat and more – with solid six-packs, broad deltoids, good stamina and from what I could feel, bulging packages beneath their trunks.

Who better to lose one’s gang-bang virginity with?

And as I pondered, they tried their best to persuade me – hoisting me up, spinning me, dunking me and then fingering me in the water whilst I shrieked with mock-indignation. I even lost my bikini bottom to the pool at one point, but all annoyance shamelessly melted away when the perpetrator, who bore an uncanny resemblance to David Beckham, sidled up next to me and said “sorry, I love you” whilst feeling up my bare arse.

All the attention was very flattering of course. To start with, there was nothing that felt more helplessly feminine than being manhandled by a team of big, burly guys. My ‘me-Jane’ complex (read: oh throw me over your shoulder, if you must) was asserting itself in full force and I grew more and more embarrassingly giggly as the evening wore on.

Ordinarily they wouldn’t have been my type - too young, too obvious. But for someone who grew up reasonably nerdy in Singapore i.e. straight As, braces, drama club, scraped through 2.4 – enough said, the idea that I had a team of seven well-conditioned jocks eating out of my hand (and pussy – underwater) was doing a good job of exorcising every single adolescent insecurity I ever had about boys, especially the ones that played ‘Sports’.

Oh yes, I was enjoying getting the last laugh.

That was until one of them asked me, in his thickest Brummie accent: “Can I rub my love-butter all over your tits?” And I fell from my newfound pedestal of social posturing back to earth.

Because I realised that while in my wildest fantasies The Seven Studs would have been legendary lovers who treated me with respect and dedicated themselves to my pleasure i.e. made me cum as many times as they did, the reality would be very different.

I had always felt empowered by my sexual encounters even if they were only one-night stands. Everything was conducted in the name of fun and mutually-gratifying good times. But the empowerment in this situation started when the guys flocked around propositioning me in the pool and stopped when it was clear I would just be an ejaculation device for Mr Love-Butter and Co.

And I guess I had reached a point in my life where it was ok to say No. Not so much No to sleeping with seven guys but No to myself; No to my animalistic urge to act on every impulse without any regard for consequences, No to jumping on every sexual bandwagon for the hell of it, simply because I could and especially No to waking up the next morning feeling absolutely shit for sleeping with guys nicknamed Weasel, Curly and I-kid-you-not Poodle who I never really fancied in the first place.

Because dear readers, I can finally say with conviction, that I have been there and done (a lot of) that. And I don’t need to prove to anyone, least of all myself, what a dirty chick I am. I am a dirty chick. And christ, this is a dirty blog.

This doesn’t mean that there aren’t tons of areas in the sexual landscape that I am not dying to explore – having barely touched the surface of being bisexual, threesomes, orgies, toys, bondage, role-play etc. – but I think I have just developed better judgment on which ones are worth the effort.

And you know, it feels kinda comforting to know that even *I* have my limits. Even though, I did manage to store seven phone numbers in my phone before going home to wank furiously.

What? Just in case it's all a phase! ;)