Naked

It takes a certain kind of person to take their clothes off in public, in front of a bunch of strangers. For money.

And then, it takes a whole different kind of person to take their clothes off in public, in front of their friends (the ones they will have to make eye contact with again under sober circumstances). For free.

And enjoy it.

In my defense, I will say it was for a friend’s birthday. I was a little drunk. And there were a group of us taking our clothes off – maybe not all off, nor with as much wild abandon – but we were definitely egging each other on. So what can I say, safety in numbers.

Or so I tell myself.

The thing is, I love being naked. I love the frankness of nudity, the lack of guile, the insouciance of being able to say to the world at large here-I-am-and-here-are-my-jiggly-bits. (Note: I do try to keep in okay shape generally, just so it’s not too much of an imposition if there’s an audience involved.)

I sleep naked, I do the dishes naked, I blog naked and if I could go out naked (save a pair of Fendi boots, in case the temperature drops), I would.

It is the purest of pleasures to feel my body interact with the atoms around it – my tiny body-hairs bristling against the cold, my malleable bottom negotiating a wooden stool, my arm coming to blows with an unexpected corner, leaving a stain.

It feels authentic, elemental, natural. Like I am having a conversation with the universe.

I suppose some part of this philosophy translates into a fierce aversion to all things underwear. I don’t understand the need for tights, pantyhose or pieces of string obstructing the flow of air to vital body parts that need to stay fresh and spontaneous. Who knows when or where I might desire a quick poke? Or a surreptitious wank? Or just a bracing gust of wind between my cheeks, for that matter.

It’s a compromise really, but my reasoning is this: if I have to wear clothes for the sake of everyone else’s sanity, I will be as naked as possible underneath them. For myself.

Granted, I would freeze my arse off – literally – in a city that had a real winter i.e. Chicago, New York, London, Tokyo. But thankfully, here in Hong Kong everyone just likes to pretend. So they can wear minks. And eat cake. And sniff in disdain at those of us who wear cardigans from Giordano.

I was not always such a self-actualised naturist. I grew up with the typical brand of Singaporean propriety forced down my throat. My BeeDees bras were cotton, my uniforms below the knee, my buttons done up to my collarbone. Nudity was shameful and my dad would berate my mom frequently for just walking to the kitchen to get a drink in her t-shirt and underwear.

What will the children think, he would scold.

Of course, all my brother and I thought was, oh there’s Mom in her t-shirt and underwear getting a drink. My parents were about 15 years into their marriage at that point so Mom’s underwear didn’t quite consist of a blood-red garter and an Agent Provocateur thong, if you know what I mean.

Anyway the risk of censure didn’t stop me from rolling myself up in a carpet without a stitch when I was ten or regularly kicking off my pyjama bottoms in the middle of the night when I was twelve or once, standing outside in a storm until my clothes soaked through and stuck to me like a second skin.

But it took years of active defiance to get over all that social conditioning. And I can’t say I’ve looked back since.

Which brings us to a neon-lighted stage in an undisclosed Wanchai location with my tits hanging out, I suppose. It’s a slow night. We have the bar to ourselves, save the mamasan and a few working girls, who are all avidly watching or participating anyway. My Brazilian Girls CD is playing and I’m watching another friend en deshabille spanking one of the bargirls with a star-shaped riding crop.

We’re all laughing. The liberal vodka shots have just begun to hit, we’re flushed, we can barely walk straight, we’re happy and now, we’re best of friends.

Funny how a bit of tits and arse will do that for people.

Sash's Greatest Hits 2006

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Enlightenment

Ah! We all need a little help joining the dots sometimes. Thanks Edie.

Just a little postscript on the topic. I watched some porn the other day where a woman lifted one of her breasts to her mouth and lapped at it happily. What a nifty trick! You have to be at least a D-cup though, C gets you as far as your chin.

I should know.

Minister Mentor

Obviously, someone has too much time on his hands and not enough imagination to know what to do with it.

As a few of you may or may not have noticed recently, a dysfunctional individual has insisted on flooding my comment box with remarks that are vulgar and offensive. Never mind that I have a ban list as long as my arm or an inbox of complaints from friendly readers, but I broke a nail whilst pressing 'delete' to one of the comments in question and I'm annoyed now.

There's simply no excuse for bad manners or ruining my manicure. Unless there's a safe-word in place.

Ok so, we need to talk.

I'm not here to win a popularity contest, I blog as a form of personal expression and because I need something (else) to keep my fingers busy. I'll be the first to admit that what I write may not be to everyone's taste, and I'm happy to recieve both positive and negative responses as long as you articulate them thoughtfully.

But I'm bored of the same old same old. Put some creative consideration into calling me a slut already. Otherwise, go away. And take your poodle with you.

Frankly, I'm not so much perturbed by the content of these comments as much as the effect it has on the other people of Sashville. These pervy pacifists come from all over the world to the blog to play, wank, laugh, commiserate etc. in comforting anonymity. Having them gird up their lions and lob weapons of (m)ass destruction at my detractors is not horny. In fact, it lowers the tone of the entire site.

And secretly, I hate it when someone else gets more attention than I do. Heh.

So enough. Rather than close the comment box altogether, I've decided to use moderation for now, which just means that it will take a little longer for your comments to be registered in the box but they will get there eventually I promise. Please don't let this defeat you from saying what you want to say though. I enjoy reading what you think, especially if there's cum involved.

That said, I have deleted the offensive comments in question as well as those that have been mounted in defense of me - thanks :) but I like my way better - hope you understand.

Love XOXO,
Your Minister Mentor

Puppies

“You have to meet Carrie. She’s got great puppies,” he says, gesturing with both hands cupped around his chest.

Puppies? I look skeptical.

I wonder about the origins of the term ‘puppies’. Tits (from titillate, teats) I understand. Or jugs (milk-bearing vessels) even. Rack (hanging frame, medieval torture device) a little less so, but British people say this a lot and since they claim to be an authority in the English language, I’ll let it slide just this once. God love that (ex-) colony mindset.

But back to puppies – Daschund or Shar-pei, is there even a difference – the term suggests a certain vulnerable quality, does it not? However when Carrie’s puppies are duly presented in front of me for inspection, there is nothing at all vulnerable about them.

Springing from her chest in two smooth, perfectly-symmetrical orbs and barely encased by a skimpy lace top, the puppies are armed. And very dangerous.

“A ‘Warning: Do Not Feed’ label would have been more appropriate don’t you think”, I mutter to my friend under my breath, jabbing him in the side with my elbow.

But for all my ungraciousness, even I have to admit that the reviews are spot-on. Attached human notwithstanding, the puppies are exquisite – slightly-raised mounds on top, subtle swellings that peek out from the side and a shaded valley down the middle that appears tantalising soft.

It’s not difficult to pinpoint the tight little buttons of arousal underneath the merciless fabric and I am helpless to tear my eyes away. Its Darwinian - the long-term survival and reproductive well-bring of our species depends on puppies like these.

Of course as I barely know Carrie, etiquette dictates that I only ogle at her chest when she is not looking. When we do engage in actual conversation, I make sure to plumb the portals of her eyes and make engaging noises about her outfit and uh, intellect.

In truth, all I'm really thinking is how those puppies really need a good toilet training. A hard pinch when they've been bad, an affectionate squeeze when they've been good and voluminous squirts of cum for everything in between.

So I'll come clean. You know how there are ass-men, ab-girls and the odd stiletto-fetishist, well I am a true-blue tit-girl, which means to say I love breasts and everything about them. Always have, always will.

What variety, you ask? Unlike the male philosophy of 'bigger is better', I'm more along the lines of 'size is nice'. Carrie must have been a D at least and you don't see me complaining. But you know what they say - anything more than a handful is a waste. (Replace 'handful' with 'mouthful' depending on which you use more often of course.)

Well my take is this: I have a C-cup hand, a B-cup mouth and people are starving in Somalia. So I'm much more likely to value subtle curvature and defiance to gravity over a set of trophies from Cathay Bowlerama. I like to think so anyway.

I have an equal opportunity policy about breasts – like most people I’m usually more pleased to be granted access than anything else – but naturally, I have personal preferences: I like perky tits that spring to the touch. And I do enjoy cupping the fullness of tear-shaped tits from the side and lifting them from the bottom. Nipples, I prefer to be lightly rouged and pointing straight or slightly upwards with a little plumpness around the areolae. Cleavage should be subtle and inviting, but nothing a mamasan could lose her handkerchief in.

Perhaps what I like most of all is mobility – breasts that bounce, wiggle, attack, sway to the music and nipples that point, twist, brace and spring to attention. I want to be inspired by bouncing balls, swaying pendulums and ripening papayas...

Anyway...

These thoughts bring me back sharply to the specimens in front of me. Yes, the puppies. We are in a club now and it’s dark so it’s legal to look for as long and hard as I like. On closer observation, I notice that the puppies maintain a remarkable sang-froid while Carrie stomps up a storm in her precarious high heels and Dior hot pants.

I turn to my friend suddenly, catching him off-guard with my suspicions. It is only then that he admits – a tad guiltily – he’s known all along that the puppies are surgically enhanced, if not completely manufactured.

“They’re not great puppies if they’re fake!” I whisper, outraged. We’re on holiday far from home but coming from the continent of confident, natural small-breasted women, the Asian in me is not impressed.

"But you’d still fuck her, right…” he asks hopefully.

I shoot him a look through narrowed eyes. We head back to the hotel and say no more on the subject.

On Kissing

'Kiss me’, I whispered.

I had timed my request perfectly. Anthony’s eyes, amber in the light, burned into me. My knees were pushed close to my chest, my pussy soaked with the juice of my earlier orgasms and his cock nudged insistently at my arse. Usually by this point I’d be yelling for him to ‘give it to me deep!’ and bracing for impact.

Yet tonight, I stilled the shudders coursing through my body and offered my face up towards him. A light sheen of sweat coated my features, yet my mouth felt dry, a result of significant fluid loss (we had been fucking for a while now). My tongue moved slovenly across my lips.

He started with little papery kisses, our lips merely flirting with each other. Yet the minute he saw my neck begin to arch and my eyes flutter closed, he broke contact. At this sudden disruption, my eyes would pop open like an antique doll held suddenly upright.

He began to alternate the onslaught of his kisses with his cock, which began to probe and pressure my arse to yield. I gasped repeatedly. And as I fought for air, he smothered me with kiss after kiss. Caught between twisting my face away to breathe and returning his kisses, I made small cries of frustration at the back of my throat.

He let the kisses deepen, his tongue chasing mine into my mouth and then retreating just as quickly. The game was exhilarating and for a while, I forgot all else, including the fact that I was still being held in a very vulnerable position.

Then with his lips held against me, he fucked me. His cock slid right up the canal in a smooth motion and stayed there. My head thrashed helplessly from side to side, every nerve ending on fire. And as my arse struggled to adjust to the intrusion, he rained tender kisses on my forehead and my neck.

Steady, relax, I’m here, it’s ok, his kisses seemed to say whilst his cock bullied me mercilessly into submission. The juxtaposition of rough and gentle sensations sent me deeper and deeper into paroxysms of ecstasy.

Let’s get this straight. Most women like to be kissed. I for one, love to be kissed and will volunteer myself for the activity almost anytime, anywhere. Airports, taxis, bars, educational instutions, moving platforms. I draw the line at my parent’s bedroom though – especially if they’re sitting a few feet away watching the Discovery Channel.

Most men on the other hand, are ambivalent about the concept. Often, it is just a means to an end. After all, a kiss is the most socially acceptable demonstration of interest and less likely to get you criminally convicted than say, flashing your pubes in a crowded club. (Although a girl like me would probably give you more respect for the latter approach. Then go home with your best friend. Of course.) The prevailing logic seems to be that the further men ram their tongues down your throat, the more they idiomatically – and you, literally – are gagging for it.

There is a rule, or more like a general correlation, that people who kiss well, fuck well. Still, I must say that it’s rare to find a man who kisses and fucks well. At the same time. I can’t tell you how many men I’ve met in the past that have used kissing as a crucial part of the pick-up and as a prelude to sex but not during the actual sex itself.

What gives? Is it too difficult to multi-task? Men, take note. If you really want to show a woman a good time – fuck her like a whore and kiss her like a princess. Not just once, but at frequent intervals. Yes, like you actually mean it.

Never underestimate the power of a good kiss. It’s a versatile little weapon to have in your arsenal – it can be casual, intimate, erotic, sensual, sexy, dirty, passionate – and pack enough punch to decimate a small village of beautiful, bloodthirsty Amazonian women. Or that'd be the plan anyway.

All the usual characteristics – fresh breath, adequate saliva, nifty tongue-work – notwithstanding, here are a few more things that really work for me:

1. Kiss Chic – A kiss isn’t just a kiss. It’s an overall look to be worn with your best 3-inch Manolos. I like kisses that include hands (caressing back of head, side of cheek, spine), neck (arched and exposed), eyes (half-lidded or completely closed), thighs (entwined), hair (messy), clothes (torn at seams), lungs (approaching asphyxiation). And are followed by a sultry strut along the pavement.

2. Sense of timing – A good kiss should be like an orchestral performance with an introduction, a climax, and a coda. It has its own rhythm. Nothing should feel rushed or contrived. I like to be steered effortlessly from zero to panting on the nearby pool table without realising how I got there.

3. Accessories – Lips and tongue are great, but my most memorable kisses have been accessorised with half-melted chocolate, Fisherman’s Friend, ice-cubes, secondhand cigarette smoke, fingers, toes and even the odd wedding ring thrown in for good measure. The less sanitary the better.

It’s sad to say but Hong Kong does not provide a conducive public environment for kissing, good or otherwise. Maybe it’s the fear of becoming roadkill. Or catching SARS. Or reducing ROI. Whatever the reason, I’ve been here more than a year and have yet to see anybody – lovesick teenagers on the Star Ferry included – actually lock lips and have a decent snog. There’s a lot of insincere bisous-bisous going on, which even the guy from my neighbourhood kebab shop dishes out (yech), but that doesn’t count.

Come to think of it. I’ve administered a blow-job in full view of passing traffic on an alleyway in SoHo but I’ve never been properly and publicly kissed in this city. How radical. I must try it sometime. When I’m feeling brave enough.

Takers anyone? :)

Video

Everyone should be a porn star at least once in their lives. It is healthy to actually see oneself immersed in the process of fucking, to discover through an objective medium exactly how and why people enjoy fucking you, and vice versa.

For best results, I prefer to have an external cinematographer present. Better angles. Better direction. And oh, here's a blowjob for all your trouble. However, filming each other can be a really rewarding and intimate experience as well.

He has brought a friend’s videocam with him and I am anxious to use it. We start in the afternoon when there is good light. It is a horny exercise being filmed. I am loathe to admit it but I have Paris Hilton syndrome – I am a camera-whore. I pout my lips and wiggle my bum trying doing my best to look suitably depraved and come-hither-esque.

We shoot for a bit and then review the footage. Ok so presumably my graceful cat-arch on all fours makes me look 5 months pregnant (and this is with me sucking my stomach in). And sadly, my bum isn't quite as perky as I think it is. But God bless him, he doesn't seem to notice.

Still, for all my over-acting and flouncing about, the on-screen result seems rather tame. My breast-palpation scene turns out well, nice in a bovine kind of way and documenting the journey of his lone follicled finger in and around the crevices of my pussy doesn't exactly lift the human spirit like we want it to. But hey, we're working on it.

We agree to move on to fucking, starting off with me lying on my back. He half-kneels, half-sits in between my legs, pumping his cock hard into my body. He zooms in on my breasts which bounce in response to the shock of each thrust. He then shifts the focus to my face. I have crazy half-slits for eyes, my hair is in knots, my mouth is contorted into a grimace of sorts, I grip hard into the side of the pillow, my fingers leaving compressions in the stuffing.

He then holds the camera behind his back to do a close-up of the actual entry. The curtain-lips of my pussy flank his cock and you can see them gleam as they vibrate energetically to accomodate him. His balls are tight against his body and make gratifying slaps against me as he thrusts.

Then I begin to cum and he shifts the lens back to observe the changes in my body as I hit my peak. I give it all I've got. The tightening of my stomach, the flush around my neck, the beads of sweat on my upper lip - these are things I do not or cannot see by myself but the camera doesn’t miss a thing.

We do a few more positions and then finally, tired of all the twisting and stretching to get a good shot, our inner narcissists call it a day. Or ahem, 'a wrap' for all you MTV-types.

The best part to filming one's own porn movie is then being cuddled next to him post-shoot, watching the finished product. Like film critics, we point out the parts we like and the parts that maybe need a little editing or improvement. Its interesting to see what he likes about me and what I like about him. And overall, we agree we're pretty hot. Predictably this little exercise gets me throbbing wet all over again.

Can I help it if I turn myself on? (Don't answer that.) My fingers stray towards my pussy and I begin to have a fiddle. I notice his cock is hard as well.

Then we both spontaneously realise the added benefit of filming ourselves - it is remarkably gratifying (not to mention, economical - and if you're in Singapore, legal) to wank off to one’s own porn. And the actors fuck in the exact way you want them to do. Fancy that.

We lay back contentedly in our cosy little hotel room pleasuring ourselves until the evening before heading out for dinner. I make sure to burn a CD for myself before deleting it off the videocam. Might make a nice Christmas present for Mom.

Countdown - Five

Even though the events described all happened in the span of one very l-o-n-g night, I will post this series in parts to make it easier to read – and less intimidating for me to write! Here’s Part Number 1.

First there were five.

Two grown men, Anthony (yes, my Anthony) and Jon, bound to the chairs they were sitting on, facing the bed. They were our watchers and with their hands tied behind them, we had rendered them completely helpless, even to themselves.

My friend Bee, also in restraints, had her wrists strapped to the opposing sides of the bed, her torso laid bare for the plundering. She had clamped her legs shut though. If only she knew how beautiful she looked with her alabaster flesh registering ripple after ripple of miniature defiance. Or how her nipples presented themselves to our eyes like perfect little peas balanced precariously on satin pillows.

Then there was Jen, Bee’s friend and Jon’s girlfriend, whom I had met earlier that evening. I would soon find out that she was just as feisty naked as she was clothed. But for now, she looked extremely composed with her lithe compact body bent over the bed like a flower-stalk. Her head, a drooping blossom weighed down by a lush cornucopia of hair, was positioned precisely to plunder our birthday captive’s reluctantly-proffered bounty.

And finally there was me, standing around self-importantly pouring champagne, double-checking the restraints, making sure everyone was comfortable or well, as comfortable as they could be strapped to pieces of furniture.

It had been my idea after all, to get some bisexual girls together under the auspices of a surprise birthday party for Bee. And I suppose I felt somewhat responsible for everyone having a good time. The party itself had been a big hit. And we had pulled off the charade to every last choreographed detail. The entire event along with Bee’s completely unscripted 60-second scream and us getting warned at the bar for our ‘disrespectful behaviour’ would definitely go down in the annals of girly history.

We had dinner, drinks and some dancing but the sexual tension between five of us was increasingly palpable. The girls couldn’t keep their hands off each other. And as hands and tongues strayed, Jon and Anthony looked on protectively.

By the time we got to Jon’s apartment, we were all extremely giggly. Perhaps from the champagne but more likely from the absurdity of the entire situation. You try asking 4 of your friends – two of whom, recent acquaintances – to sit still whilst you tie them up in their birthday suits and you see that you all don’t end up laughing.

Once everyone was suitably secured and positioned, you could feel the air change. It was as if the atmospheric molecules carrying high-pitched laughter and silly banter automatically rearranged themselves into dense, vaporous clouds that settled around everyone’s parted lips.

The men stopped fidgeting and held their breaths, concentrating now as the scene unfolded before them. I could hear Jen exhaling noisily as she began to lick and nibble on her captive in earnest. Bee was gasping quietly, taking shorter and quicker gulps of air as if she was running out.

“I won’t run away…let me go…let me go,” Bee pleaded insistently. She looked adorable as she struggled, her head tossing from side to side, casting her tangled net of hair wide over the white cotton sheets.

“No, you’re the birthday girl and this is for you.” I rained kisses on her from her lips down to her shaved mound. I ran my hands along the inside of her thighs. They parted with less resistance than I expected.

Her mons was flushed and her intimate petals were glossy with promise. From the numerous explicit discussions we’d had over the course of our friendship, I already knew what to do. I angled my fingers on each side of her clitoris, pulling the hood back and zoomed in on her favourite spot with my tongue, flicking it lightly but rapidly just the way she liked it. Soon I had her sighing and moaning in ecstasy.

“Bitty bittee bitteee…!!” Jen exclaimed with satisfaction as she moved down the bed and sucked hard on Bee’s toes, pulling each little manicured member out of her mouth with a little ‘pop’.
“Come onnn…let me to play too,” Bee groaned out of frustration. Her body was really convulsing now and I could see the restraints beginning to get in the way of her enjoyment. I motioned to Jen to release the Velcro on one of the straps.

As if to make up for lost time, Bee attacked me with her fingers, burying the length of them deep in my wet cunt all at once. I gasped involuntarily and stopped what I was doing. Jen, seeing me momentarily incapacitated, wrestled me down and sat triumphantly on my chest, her knees pinning my arms to the bed.

I suppose I had it coming.

“Yea! You go Jen!” cheered Jon. And then turned to his fellow spectator remarking: “Nothing beats a bit of lesbian bondage.”

I had almost forgotten about the men. They had somehow untied themselves (ok so I’m a girl, I don’t tie very good knots) and were now the absolute picture of bohemian decadence – naked with champage flute in one hand, cigarette in the other and jaded, lustful looks in both eyes.

I heard Anthony yell out from his seat. “Baby, are you going to let her do that to you?”

“No! But well, it's a bit err, difficult,” I said helplessly. I was torn between the conflicting urges of breaking free of Jen’s submission-hold and regaining control of the situation, lying there and letting Bee’s fingers continue working their magic, or persuading Jen to move upwards and sit on my face.

I picked the third option. And eventually all three of us rearranged ourselves into a triangle of pleasure, such that wherever there was a pussy there was a mouth or a finger (or occasionally both).

We began to make sex noises in unison. And I discovered that there was nothing more appealing than the collective sound of girls moaning, grunting, squealing. I could have closed my eyes and listened for a long time.

But before I could get too carried away, it was time for Bee to go. And as we scuttled about getting our clothes together, I nestled my face in her hair and whispered: “So did you have a Happy Birthday?”

“It was wonderful! I love you so much,” she said with a big, beautiful Bee smile and then was gone.

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! ;)