Tuesday, March 23, 2010

Oxbridge Blues - Part II

The problem with pseudo-celebrities is that they believe that they are entitled to have sex with you because of who they think they are. Ladies and gentlemen, do not be fooled. These are normal people like you and me. Have you ever met an Old Blue? They are draping with self-importance, which becomes pathetic when you’re a fat thirty-something. A blue might last forever, but your right to sleep with attractive women has a very short life span.

Knowing Blues old and young I can say that it is a very fine line between humility and being a completely egocentric cock. Having attended functions with said Blues, I am less than impressed by some of their behaviour. An old blue, mid-piss on the side of a college, turned around and asked if I would like for him to piss on me. No, no I don’t think I would like that. And I’m sure the Pembroke Porters don’t like you having a wee on their college either. Do these men believe that they are immune to the rules of common decency? I might like sex, but I don’t like arseholes, and I am willing to maintain a pretty extensive degree of standards when it comes to who I will and will not sleep with. I may have a lot of sex, but at least I’m not ashamed of the people I’ve slept with. They are for the most part completely decent and amazing people. How can I tell with one-night stands? Well I just can, ok? Put that in your pipe and smoke it.

In short, if you wouldn’t tell your best friend about the person you’re about to sleep with, walk away. That’s what I do, I think WWBFT? What Would Best Friend Think? Luckily she often thinks my adventures are brilliant, but if I feel like it’s something I’m not going to want to tell her I bid my prospect adieu. Everyone wakes up next to a “what the hell was I thinking?” kind of person, but we can grow from this. Drink a bit less. My new years resolution was to never drink a VK ever again. Broke that the first week back at uni, but I’m still cutting back, as I’m sure lots of sugar and alcohol can’t be good for you. I like to wake up to a hot guy, not heart palpitations.

Not all Blues are like this, and speaking of waking up next to hot men, and of old Blues, I shall tell you about one of the nicer ones. There was a function recently that brought a few of them to town, and me being out in town that night, happened to run into a group of Blues, new and old. There was a recently graduated Blue that I knew from his time here, but with whom I had never slept with. He was charming, but not overtly. Witty and a bit of a quirk, not to mention previous athletic prowess. He had gone a little soft around the edges after retiring from 6 hours of training, 5 days a week, but was still very handsome and I was fairly certain he would not mistake me for a wall and try to piss on me.

“What’s your poison?” he asked, leaning over my shoulder from behind as I queued at the bar. I could feel his breath on my cheek, he smelled like Giorgio Armani and Stella.

“Sleazy men, apparently.” I said an octave lower than he would be able to hear over the music.


“G and T, please.” I smiled at him. He moved past me towards the bar and ordered our drinks. This man was actually far from some of his sleazy counterparts, and I enjoyed our conversation, subsequent dancing, and his inevitable come on.

“Your place or mine?” he said into my ear during an interlude between songs.

“Who said I wanted to sleep with you?” I asked, pulling my head away from his, but keeping the same proximity from our waists down.

“So you don’t?” he asked, unsurprised.

“I didn’t say that, I just asked what made you think that.” I said, raising an eyebrow.

He pretended to think for a moment, then looked me in the eyes and said, “Oh, just intuition I suppose,” and then kissed me. The quality of the following ten minutes of kissing on the dance floor was the green light into my bedroom.

“Back to mine, then?” I asked.

“Where’s yours?” I told him. “Ha, no way. We’ll go to where I’m staying, it’s just down the road.”

“Maybe I want to go to mine.”


“Convenience … don’t exactly want to be walking home in this in the morning, do I?” I said, gesturing to my outfit, which would never pass in the day for anything but what it was – being the outfit from the night before, of course.

“Come on, I’ll give you money for a taxi if that’s all you’re worried about.” Hm, sounded familiar. Hopefully he wouldn’t be making any back door propositions.

“Why don’t we just pay for a taxi now?”

“Ah, go on then. If you’re going to be a spoiled brat about it.”

“I am. And what do you mean, ‘go on then’? I’m not paying for this taxi.”

“Then we can walk.”

“Fine, I’ll pay for the taxi.”

He laughed, “Let’s go you nutter, I’ll swing for the ride.” Cue to another infamous taxi-ride snog-fest. I’m sure they aren’t unique to my experiences, but I find myself in the situation quite often.

Time between my door closing and my dress hitting the floor, approximately :21. Decent. “Let’s take a shower,” he said, between kisses as he effortlessly unclasped my bra while simultaneously making his way out of his outfit.

My shower is not made for two people. In fact, it’s barely made for one person. It is, however, rather conducive to a larger than average man with a small woman wrapped around his waist. Go figure.

Just foreplay in the shower, and we saved sex for the bed, which we fell into without drying ourselves, dampening the sheets with moisture and the remnants of the Original Source shower gel we had lathered all over each other.

The sex made up for my previous Blues experience, and I found my tsunami of love (‘not the size of the boat, the motion of the ocean’ reference in case you missed “Oxbridge Blues - Part I”).

Blues are like big, testosterone-filled snowflakes – no two of them are the same. I’m sure they’ll love the reference and comparison to delicate pieces of falling ice. They have, however, confirmed my assertion that older is wiser and generally much better in bed. So if you want to sleep with a Blue, go for an Old Blue I say. Just not one of the fat, obnoxious ones.

The Underground Gang

In case it wasn’t clear, the majority of my close friends are male. Some are ex-boyfriends, some were friends-turned one night stands after being out drunk together and getting crazy one night, but most of them are just friends and never have been, and probably never will be, lovers. I enjoy the company of men for a multitude of reasons:

1. They rarely get jealous
2. They don’t like to talk about other boys and how much they do or do not like them and whether or not they think that boy likes them back.
3. They like to watch and talk about sports.
4. They more often than not find me attractive, which is always a boost to the self-esteem.
5. In short, they are not female.

I do not have a problem with girls. They usually have a problem with me oddly enough. Because I get along with men better than I generally do with women, and thus surround myself with men, this can often ignite jealousy or resentment in other girls, especially if one of the said men surrounding me is their boyfriend or a boy they would like to make their boyfriend. More often than not, I pose absolutely no threat to these girls, but having been on the other side of the jealous girlfriend equation, I completely understand where they are coming from.

Don’t get me wrong, I have many female acquaintances. I am in an exclusively female drinking society and love those girls to bits. However, in terms of genuine relationships with people outside of the drinking and partying realm, that short list is almost exclusively male, with one brilliant and quirky exception. Here is my short list:

1. Lad Boy (see “Forget Diamonds …”)
2. Dr. Boy (see “To Love One’s Self")

I was running out of ways to describe people as Something Boy, and frankly quite bored of it. Scanning my room my eyes fixated on the tube map pinned to my message board. Thus, the remainder of my male posse shall be named after tube stations appropriate to their personalities.

3. Shoreditch: Because he’s just that kind of guy. But in a less pretentious way.
4. Heathrow Terminal 3/T3: Because he’s foreign and would be chuffed to be nicknamed after a Terminator movie.
5. Goodge Street/Goodge: Because it was the goofiest sounding station I could find.
6. Cockfosters/Foster: Because every time I get on a Picadilly train service that is going towards Cockfosters I have a silent chuckle whenever the posh voice comes on and says “This is a Picadilly line train to (deliberate pause?) Cockfosters.” Likewise, this boy unintentionally makes me laugh with his awkwardness and incessant requests that I sleep with him.
7. Westminster/Wes: One of my favourite places in London. One of my favourite boys in Oxbridge.
8. Briony: the only female on the list. Neighbor in college, confidant, partner in crime, fellow alcoholic. Why Briony? Because looking at her you’d think her name was something posh like that. Also because it would probably annoy her to know that I named her as such in any kind of story.

None of the great eight know that I am the sex blogger. I have slept with none of them, almost slept with one of them, and would probably sleep with four of them. Not at the same time of course.

The tube stops and I went out Saturday night for a friend’s birthday, and of course to watch the rugby (Fuck off France! Johnny Wilkinson I love you.) I was the last to arrive, as I am chronically late to everything.

“Alright half-pint?” Goodge asked. More a comment on my size than my drinking ability – I can drink half of them under the table, particularly Shoreditch and Wes. Goodge is ridiculously tall, just accentuating the goofiness, so it was good that he was sitting down and I could bend down to him to kiss him hello. Not so good that I was wearing a dress and nearly flashed the rest of the party (“I see London, I see France …” Wes teased.) Considering our “party” consisted entirely of boys and yours truly, I don’t think they would have minded a peep show. I was wearing tights anyway – a girl’s next best friend after Lads.

I turned to the birthday boy next. “What’s this one? 47?”

“Who invited her?” he asked before pulling me in for a massive hug and pursing his lips out for a birthday kiss. Birthday Boy (BB) isn’t one of the tube posse. We rarely see him due to his course schedule, but it’s always a party when we do see him. And by “party” I mean absolute and total mayhem in celebration of his brief glimpse at the outside of his department walls.

I’ll spare the details of the greetings of each and every boy, as they were all pretty identical. A brief summary though:

Shorditch: You’re blocking the telly.

Wes: Oh-rite babes? (He liked to hype up his East London accent for my entertainment.)

T3: Hullo. (Read: foreign)

Foster: Hey there miss.

Foster is the biggest sweetheart of the group, and it is a common goal of the group to get Mr. Foster laid. He isn’t unattractive, so it’s puzzling as to why we’re usually unsuccessful in this quest. Often being the nearest single lady at hand, it’s often suggested that, should we fail to find someone else, it’s on me to get the job done. Ta, fellas. In an effort to help Foster, I’ve tried to figure out just what it is that puts me off of him. It’s just a vibe. A very distinct “I do not want to sleep with this boy” vibe. Poor Foster, I do love him … as a friend (cringing men everywhere).

Shoreditch is the kind of boy, who when drunk, will constantly say, “If we were both single … Pffffffff … Man. We would be AH-MAZING together.” Sure, Shoreditch. I always laugh, which to him means “Yes, we would have fantastic, wild sex together. I want you!” To me, I am literally just laughing at him, and the notion of sex together.

T3 is foreign and loves to dance like a spastic. As his English improves, so does his entertainment value.

Then there’s Wes. The first time we met I found him extremely attractive, and then for whatever reason I didn’t see him for about two months, and the next time I did he had a girlfriend. Bugger.

My romantic detachment from these boys makes our pub sessions much more enjoyable I must say. Less enjoyable for Foster, but he’ll live.

We took turns buying rounds for the group and BB and by the end of the match we were rowdier than anyone intended to be that early in the night and were over emotional after England’s loss, cursing at the telly and throwing beer everywhere.

We involuntarily left the pub after leaving them with broken glass and spilt beer to clean up, and took Hurricane Tube down the road to a college bar that had cheap drinks and a dart board with which to arm ourselves with sharp objects to drunkenly flail into the air.

Briony had come to meet us at the college bar we were in and sat drinking her diet coke and vodka and having what was probably one giant awkward conversation in the corner with Foster. Separately they are fantastic conversationalists, but together they manage to click into some kind of socially inept mode in which he unsuccessfully propositions her and she shoots him down, yet keeps talking to him, thus encouraging him to proposition time and again. It’s a vicious, and rather awkward circle.

The amount of lager I have consumed at this point could be enough to kill a Welshman and I am too drunk to even incoherently text Shag Buddy to meet me at mine. Goodge takes away my dart-playing rights and I ceremoniously take away my own drinking rights by pouring my Stella into Foster’s Guiness. I overhear Wes on the phone to his girlfriend telling her to come over.

“B! Let’s DOOO ONE!” I slur to Briony.

It isn’t that I dislike Wes’ girlfriend, we would probably be friends under different circumstances, but she looks at me the way I use to look at girls I thought were after my boyfriend. I am not after Wes in the least. We do have a rather banter-rific relationship at the moment, but nothing else. Nothing like him drunkenly kissing me and then telling me he has feelings for me and then apologising endlessly for it. No, nothing like that … Taxiiiiii!

Saturday, March 20, 2010

Forget Diamonds - Lads are a Girl's Best Friend

“Where did you end up the other night then?” I had been expecting this call since the morning after the other night. It was my best friend, a boy we shall refer to as Lad Boy.

“I ended up staying with your friend, T.”

Lad Boy laughed into the phone. “Ahh, that’s brilliant. So you managed to find a place to stay then?” We had been a bit far out from my college and I had been whinging about the taxi fare home all evening. “Go out on the pulllll,” Lad Boy suggested. “That’s what I’m going to do!”

“Yeah, alright then,” I said jokingly, and then Lad Boy introduced me to his friend, T. T was not the kind of guy who immediately catches my attention. He was carrying on about three different conversations at once, and had been speaking to Lad Boy for about two minutes with me sitting there before he reached his hand out to introduce himself.

“I’m sorry, we haven’t met.”

“No, we haven’t.”

“I’m T.” (Obviously he didn’t introduce himself as “T” – I rarely trust men who only use a letter for their name. Unless their name is Jay – but for the sake of the blog, his name is T.)

“(My name here), nice to meet you.”


And that was the extent of our conversation until approximately an hour later when he would come to the table with a tray of shots and offer me one. “Would you like a shot?” “Yes, please” was all that was exchanged, bar the Sambuca (or “death in a glass” as I call it.)

I spent most of the night with Lad Boy, doing shots and yelling over the music to each other. People would occasionally join in the conversation, but would be bored quickly with our incessant recalling of other nights we’d been out partying, and our outrageous demands that the DJ plug in my iPhone and play my music. I hate people like us.

Eventually we paired off to other conversations and other groups of friends, and somewhere between me deciding to walk to the next club and him jumping in a taxi full of girls, Lad Boy and I were separated.

Jump to half an hour later where I’m talking with Extreme-Sports Boy, another one of my good male friends (I haven’t slept with him, nor Lad Boy). T comes up to us to say goodbye – mostly to ES Boy, he barely knows me.

“Aww, don’t go!” I drunkenly demand. I hate the point in the night where people start to leave. It has quite the domino effect, and I was keen to keep this particular party going.

“I’ll be right back, why don’t you two talk to each other?” ES Boy said, putting a hand on each of our shoulders and pushing us towards each other.

“Wait, no! Don’t leave me!” I yelled to ES Boy, but to no avail. He had disappeared into the sea of fellow clubbers, leaving me with this shot-buying stranger.

His conversational matchmaking failed, unless by “talk to each other” he meant “makeout with each other,” in which case the match was successfully made.

T was a fantastic kisser, and any and all concern that he was somewhat of a stranger flew out the window. If Lad Boy and ES Boy deemed him worthy enough to be their friend, I certainly saw him as worthy of a snog. My desire to keep our party together and dance at the club until closing time soon transformed into a desire to get T into bed. Apparently the feeling was mutual, as after a bit of dancing and kissing on the dance floor he stopped, grabbed my hands and said, “I’m going home, would you like to come?”

We hailed a taxi and the majority of our foreplay for the evening ensued in the backseat. I do feel bad for the taxi drivers who get me as a passenger sometimes. Better than someone who gets sick in the taxi, no?

From taxi (which T paid for, naturally), to front door, to bedroom, to bed is a bit of a blur. I had lost all articles of clothing except my knickers by the time we were in bed though, but even those only saw minimal sheet time.

T was a perfect example of how kissing directly correlates to abilities in bed. He is quite possibly the best kisser I’ve ever had: gentle but firm; not too much tongue; soft lips. I could make out with that boy forever. We kissed for most of the time we were getting it on as well, which made things even better. We had sex twice and then passed out in each other’s arms.

“Are you too hot?” I asked as I began to doze off with my head on his chest and my arms wrapped around his body.

“No, this is perfect. I’m like a baby, I can sleep anywhere.” I momentarily paused to wonder if babies could actually sleep anywhere. Dogs, maybe. But babies? I wouldn’t think that you would want your baby sleeping just anywhere. “The baby’s tired? … Yeah, just put him down anywhere.” These are the thoughts that run through my mind as I lie naked, falling asleep on an attractive man.

T might be able to sleep anywhere, but I for one am a nightmare to sleep with (no pun intended. Is that even a pun?) I steal the covers, roll around, occasionally I’ve been known to talk in my sleep. If I fall asleep on my back I’ll snore embarrassingly. I woke up, sprawled out like a starfish next to T. It was cold that morning, so I rolled over and got back into position on T’s chest, as he hadn’t moved at all. This must have been T-speak for “let’s have sex again” because he wrapped his arm around me, kissed me on the forehead and started stroking my arm. My hand slipped down onto his hip bone and I mindlessly ran my fingers up and down his side as I lay there half asleep. Approximately a minute later he was situated on top of me and some of the best morning sex I’ve ever ensued.

After another hours sleep or so, we both got a bit restless and eventually turned to talk to each other.

“Morning,” he said.

“Hi there.”

“Sleep well?”


“Where do you live then?” I told him. “Fucking hell, that’s miles away.”

“I know, why do you think I came home with you? No way was I going to make it all the way back there last night.”

He laughed, “I hope it was worth it.”

“Definitely.” I said, winking at him.

“I suppose you want a lift home then?”

“Yes pleeeaase.”

“What do I get for being your personal taxi service?”

“Petrol money?” I asked earnestly, then smiled and pulled him on top of me.

Back to the telephone conversation with Lad Boy:

“So you went home with T? Did anything happen?”

“Not really.” I don’t know why I felt the need to lie to Lad Boy. I usually tell him about guys I pull, but seeing as it was one of his friends, it felt a bit more awkward than usual.

“Did you kiss him?” he asked, and I could hear him smiling over the phone.


“Did you sleep with him?” he didn’t sound like he was smiling anymore.

“… Nnno …”

“Why did you say it like that?”

“Well I didn’t sleep with him in the sexual sense, but we did share a bed.”

“Oh!” he was back to his original tone and we carried on with banter as usual, dropping the T thing.

I suspected Lad Boy knew that I had slept with T, but we didn’t talk about it often. If I mentioned I was going towards T’s part of town, Lad Boy would always tease, “To see T??”

“No, you bell end.”

Lad Boy is the closest thing to a boyfriend I have at the moment. A boyfriend without benefits is basically what he is. Why “Lad” Boy? Well, he is your stereotypical lad’s lad. Drinks out of his shoe, gets belligerently drunk, and goes for cute little blondes. I foresee a future as a Banker Wanker, or maybe he’ll work for the Treasury, or be PM. Whatever he does, he will be one successful lad, and I’ll be happy to watch him become the Lad of Lads as one of his best mates. Regardless, I think it’s probably best to steer clear of his mates from here on out. Excluding T of course. I mean, I’ve already slept with him. The damage is done. Besides, I have a date with him next week.


Ask me anything http://formspring.me/sexatoxbridge

To Love One's Self

"To love one's self is the beginning of a life-long romance." - Oscar Wilde

I don’t like to sleep with the men I date. Rather, I like to engage in date-like situations with friend and then go off to sleep with a fuck buddy. It’s much less complicated than a relationship and it keeps things simple. I had an ideal night about two weeks ago:

6:30 pm Cycling home from the library I realised I was hungry and lack of food in the fridge meant that I’d have to go shopping. Option B was to just duck into a pub to grab a bite.

6:35 I’m in a pub alone. Walking in to a room mostly dominated by men is always a self-esteem booster as most of them will stare a bit, some smile, a couple may even say hello as you walk by. The gestures are always returned with a smile, or if they’re cute, a return “hello.”

6:37 Order a pint of Aspall and the soup of the day. Go find a well-lit corner to sit and read in while I wait for my food.

6:45 Food comes, but am now writing about sex so I push the soup aside and let it cool while I scribble on about-


Cut to me taking a break in this story to maniacally tear my room apart to find this notebook. There are now clothes strewn about everywhere, my bed is perpendicular to where it had been and shelves have been annihilated. Didn’t find the paper in any of the obscure places I thought I may have hidden it, but I did find a condom that a guy I slept with a couple weeks ago left behind and it expired in 09-2009. What a knob. Good thing we used my condoms.

I eventually recovered the scribbling. It was in my backpack where I stuffed it after the dinner-for-one I’m writing about.

Sometimes I really wonder about myself …


-while I scribble on about exactly what I’m ranting about right now. Here is the first sentence:

“As odd as it may sound, I would rather go out to eat in a restaurant by myself than with a date.”

This is very true. I went out on a date the other night and inadvertently ordered something that cannot be gracefully eaten with a knife and a fork.

“Just use your hands,” he suggested.

Yes, but then it’s all over my hands and I don’t really like touching food (neurotic, I know), and it has onions and garlic in it so it’s going to make my breath smell bad, and I want to sleep with this person tonight so garlic breath would be a disaster. This entire train of thought occurred while he sat waiting for me to pick up my food. I eventually offered it to him, saying I wasn’t hungry. He declined, but luckily men aren’t like women and self-conscious of their eating so he happily finished his meal while I consumed the better half of our bottle of Chardonnay. (The sex later that night was fantastic in case you were wondering.)

But, THAT is why I enjoy eating by myself. I can sit there and be as neurotic as I like with my eating habits and not worry about coriander in my teeth or bad breath.

7:08 I finish the soup and write a bit more before heading back to college where I’m meeting up with Doctor Boy. Or, Dr. B as I shall now call him.

Back-story on the Doc: At an event where there was copious amounts of unlimited alcohol, Dr. B and I attached at the lips for the later half of the night. When the event ended we hailed a taxi and with complete disregard for the driver, continued to make out for the duration of the ride. Dr. B wanted to stop and get chips but I didn’t really fancy cleaning up smashed potatoes from my floor in the morning so I directed the driver to my front door.

Sometimes, and probably often for Dr. B, boys get so drunk that they cannot shag. This night was one of those times. We woke up naked with lots of wrapped condoms strewn about, unused. I’m usually up for morning sex – but it didn’t seem that Dr. B was going to be able to get up in any sense of the phrase, as he was in an absolute state. This, quite frankly, was fine with me as I had consumed my share of alcohol the previous night and was quite hungover myself.

This encounter was on the brink of the end of term and so we parted ways for a decent stretch of time. I went home for summer holiday and came back with a boyfriend. Once I dumped that boyfriend the Dr had a girlfriend, and still does. We enjoy each other’s company though so we frequently get together for a drink and some awkward sexual tension.

8:01 Drop off my backpack with the notepad so snooping doctors don’t find it.

8:04 Meet Dr. B in the college bar, get some pints, go situate ourselves in front of the telly.

8:05 I’m bored of football. Conversation moves to the night we hooked up.

8:06 We’ve recalled all the details, or rather lack of details to remember.

8:07 “Have you dumped your girlfriend yet?”

“Ha, no not yet.”

8:08 I text a Boy I’ve been sleeping with. He says to come over.

8:09 I call a cab.

Just kidding, I finished watching the football, had a few more pints, and talked nonsense with the doctor some more. He is an incredibly charming and funny young man with whom I will gladly jump in the sack with once he’s single. Considering how much we talk about eventually hooking up though, not sure I’d ever date him. I certainly wouldn’t want my boyfriend making plans for after our inevitable breakup while we were still together. And how do I know they’ll inevitably breakup? Because he talks about “after I break up with …” all the time. Also, they haven’t even announced the relationship on facebook. That’s not a real relationship. If you’re relationship status doesn’t link you to your significant other and you are looking for “Whatever I Can Get” you aren’t what can legally be described as a boyfriend. Or at least not a boyfriend I would want.

10:00 Dr. B and I have walked to a pub and I’m on my fourth pint. He’s on his sixth. The pub is in the direction of where I’m eventually going, so as long as I’m en route to sex it’s all good. I told the Other Boy I’d be at his around 10 or so, more the “or so” than 10 it seems.

10:47 I’m close enough to the Other Boy’s house that I bid Dr. B adieu and make my way towards Shagville, population soon to be 2.

11:01 That pub was much further away from his house than I thought. I’m bad with distances.

11:05 I get to Other Boy’s house. (He doesn’t have many distinguishing qualities to make an interesting name out of. Shag Buddy isn’t that appropriate – we’re not really friends. SB is better than OB though.) He tries to start some sort of banal conversation but this quickly turns to kissing as I lose layers of clothing.

11:07 We’re both completely naked and in bed. The reason I keep calling SB is because he’s pretty decent in bed. Not the best sex I’ve ever had, but it’s fun, and he constantly tells me how gorgeous I am.

11:09 We’re having sex. Sometimes I’m just not into foreplay. Actually I’m usually quite keen to get to business. SB has good stamina as well, so it wasn’t as if it was going to be over quickly.

11:29 We take a breather.

11:30 SB is putting on another condom. He positions himself above me, stops for a second and says, “You are fucking gorgeous.”

11:51 We fall asleep. I’m little spoon. I like the smell of his deodorant, and my arm will inevitably smell like it after having him wrapped around me all night.

2:37 I need to go to the bathroom. Try to carefully peel his arm off of me and quietly crawl out of bed.

“Are you okay?” he asks in a very coherent voice, as if he hadn’t been snoring in my ear five minutes earlier.

“Yeah, yeah. Just need the toilet.” I kiss him and he falls back to sleep. I slip my dress on and make my way upstairs. In the bathroom as I’m washing my hands his housemate barges in and immediately has a look of shock on his face. I’m guessing he did not know I was in the house, or that his housemate was sleeping with me (I met SB through this particular housemate).

“Uh, sorry! Sorry.”

“It’s okay, I was done,” and luckily dressed. “See you later.”

“Yeah, uh, bye?”

I headed downstairs and slipped back under SB’s arm, dress still on. I don’t like to sleep naked when I’m staying with a boy. I also don’t like to be watched while I dress, so best to be halfway dressed before you get up.

7:00 One of our alarms goes off. I need to be somewhere by ten and he has to write an essay.

7:00.5 We are making out and he is pushing the hem of my dress up above my waist.

7:01 Repeat of 11:30 last night.

7:18 We’re asleep again. The dress is still on.

8:00 Another alarm goes off. It is ignored.

9:00 Alarm no. 3 goes off, we have sex again.

9:32 I realise I have 28 minutes to get across town.

9:33 I realise that I am going to miss my 10 am lecture.

9:34 The dress is off and on the floor.

9:44 We are asleep, all alarms are turned off.

12:00 We wake up. Serious debate over whether we should get to work or have one more go at it. He’s out of condoms so it’s the former. I get dressed and he walks me to the door and kisses me goodbye.

“See you soon.”

“If you’re lucky,” I say over my shoulder as I walk out the door.

Thus ended the perfect night. Dinner with an attractive, smart, funny, intelligent person – I’m really my own best company. Beers and footie with Dr. Boy who has great banter and makes me laugh. Then sex with a boy who adores me and is good in bed.

This isn’t to say I never sleep with men I go out on dates with. That would make me, to be blunt, a complete bitch if I did that. I do like the boys I date, but when you start sleeping with someone and consistently hanging out with them so many complications arise. Too many for my busy schedule. Thus, I go out with male friends quite frequently in what could be considered a “date-like” situation, but we take turns buying rounds, talk about sports, talk about other girls, talk about school – if I were a man the relationship would be described as a “Bromance.”

It’s as if my dating life and sex life are two separate things sometimes. It’s rare that I’ve found someone I want to date AND sleep with. Don’t get me wrong, most of the male friends I hang out with would sleep with me given the opportunity, but it’s not their number one agenda. Or maybe it is. I don’t know. Either way, I have many functioning relationships with men my age that don’t involve sex. I’ve had one-night stands with some friends, and guess what? We’re still friends. Some of them even have girlfriends now that I’m friends with (we keep the one-night-stand-thing on the downlow by the way).

It’s hard to have a relationship with someone you weren’t friends with to begin with. I was dumped by someone recently, who asked, “Can we go back to being friends?”

(Cheeks flushing red from anger here … and maybe from amount of alcohol consumed) “We weren’t friends before, so no, we cannot go ‘back’ to something we never were.” Like Lady GaGa says, “I don’t wanna be friends!” That’s just not a natural progression for me. If we were friends to begin with, things will generally go back to friendship with time.

The breakdown: I go on dates with myself, sleep with people I have no intention of dating, whether they’re friends or someone I’ve just met. I have serious relationships with men, they just don’t involve sex. Am I an absolute nutter or what?

Sunday, March 14, 2010

Around the World Part IIb: West Deutschland

As I began writing about West German Boy (West Bub), I realised that he’s a lot like East Bub and considered writing about some other nationality first, like an Australian, or the Czech Boy. However, this would require my chapters to go: I, IIa, III, IIb. My OCD won’t allow for such a break in numerical sequence.

Every German man reading my descriptions of a handsome, funny guy who is good in bed will naturally assume I’m talking about them, so I’m not worried about this particular German recognising himself. That’s one of the best things about Germans though, their confidence and assertiveness. West Bub simply came up and kissed me in the middle of a club one night. Cheeky, but effective.

The kissing incident wasn’t the first encounter we had, of course. We met earlier that night at a Christmas party. If I’m completely honest, it was not love at first sight. Or lust at first sight. It was definitely entertained at first sight though. West Bub was, in school terms, the class clown. Loud, drunk, and hilarious, he made everyone laugh. He was centre of attention, which doesn’t always suit me, as I like to be centre of attention, but it wasn’t long before we were both the centre of attention, dancing and making out in front of everyone in the club we had stumbled into after the party. Him: big, German, and wearing a Santa hat, and me: wearing a headband with mistletoe attached to it, were quite a sight on our own – but together we were one hot mess.

Eventually it was time to evacuate the dance floor and make our public displays of affection a little more private. Since it was December, and therefore about ten degrees too cold for the outfit I was wearing, West Bub hailed us a taxi back to mine. Having decorated my room with Christmas lights, the room had a festive ambiance, despite us having ditched our headwear. When I suggested we put on Christmas music he enthusiastically agreed and now every time I hear “All I Want for Christmas is You” I can’t help but be a little turned on.

How it never came up in conversation before the next morning is beyond me, but West Bub is not at my uni. He was just visiting a friend, so should we ever wish to sleep together again it would require a bit of travel on one of our parts. Luckily for me, West Bub enjoys traveling. And now he always has a bed to sleep in when he’s in town … as long as he agrees to wear the santa hat.

Tuesday, March 9, 2010

Around the World Part IIb: West Deutschland

As I began writing about West German Boy (West Bub), I realised that he’s a lot like East Bub and considered writing about some other nationality first, like an Australian, or the Czech Boy. However, this would require my chapters to go: I, IIa, III, IIb. My OCD won’t allow for such a break in numerical sequence.

Every German man reading my descriptions of a handsome, funny guy who is good in bed will naturally assume I’m talking about them, so I’m not worried about this particular German recognising himself. That’s one of the best things about Germans though, their confidence and assertiveness. West Bub simply came up and kissed me in the middle of a club one night. Cheeky, but effective.

The kissing incident wasn’t the first encounter we had, of course. We met earlier that night at a Christmas party. If I’m completely honest, it was not love at first sight. Or lust at first sight. It was definitely entertained at first sight though. West Bub was, in school terms, the class clown. Loud, drunk, and hilarious, he made everyone laugh. He was centre of attention, which doesn’t always suit me, as I like to be centre of attention, but it wasn’t long before we were both the centre of attention, dancing and making out in front of everyone in the club we had stumbled into after the party. Him: big, German, and wearing a Santa hat, and me: wearing a headband with mistletoe attached to it, were quite a sight on our own – but together we were one hot mess.

Eventually it was time to evacuate the dance floor and make our public displays of affection a little more private. Since it was December, and therefore about ten degrees too cold for the outfit I was wearing, West Bub hailed us a taxi back to mine. Having decorated my room with Christmas lights, the room had a festive ambiance, despite us having ditched our headwear. When I suggested we put on Christmas music he enthusiastically agreed and now every time I hear “All I Want for Christmas is You” I can’t help but be a little turned on.

How it never came up in conversation before the next morning is beyond me, but West Bub is not at my uni. He was just visiting a friend, so should we ever wish to sleep together again it would require a bit of travel on one of our parts. Luckily for me, West Bub enjoys traveling. And now he always has a bed to sleep in when he’s in town … as long as he agrees to wear the santa hat.

Saturday, March 6, 2010

Around the World Part IIa: Ostdeutchland

My favourite men in life have to be Germans. Always entertaining, and often attractive, Germans are the perfect men. The Germans I knew had a limited grasp on the English language, which I found endearing and entirely sexy. Their humour makes no sense to me, but they always seem to make me laugh. I have slept with two German men, one from the East and one from the West. In no particular order I will tell you the story of both, beginning with East Boy, or as google translates it, Ost Bub.

The biggest person I have ever slept with in terms of pure mass was from East Germany. He had a stereotypical German name that should have been accompanied by lederhosen and a stein to drink out beer out of. He had the biggest smile you’ve ever seen and his laugh would fill the room. We met through mutual friends, as you do, and often ended up in a group together at the pub on Fridays. After a particularly long afternoon in the pub, Ost Bub offered to walk me home. By the time we got back to my college, we had exhausted all the English he knew, so when we got to the gates of my college he said, “So, now we kiss?” Who could refuse an offer like that? Even his chat up lines were adorably and unintentionally hilarious. When things started to heat up he asked, “You can show me your room maybe?”

“Yeah, maybe.” I said, teasingly. He didn’t understand and immediately got the look of a puppy that had just been kicked in the face. “No, I mean yes. Um, let’s go to my room, yes?” I had begun unintentionally speaking like him, ending statements with unnecessary questions, but it didn’t matter, he was big and German and the best thing to happen to me that term.

I’m not sure how Ost Bub fit into his college accommodation, because he certainly did not fit into mine. Almost banging his head on the doorway, he had to duck his way into my room. It was even more entertaining trying to fit the two of us on my single bed. We eventually managed, and as I laid on top of him, it felt oddly similar to lying on my entire mattress. He wasn’t fat by any means, just massive. I was afraid he might actually crush me, so I stayed on top.

After removing some layers he said, “I have a condom in my bag, do you want it?”

  1. Cheeky, arrogant, or smart to carry condoms in your bag?
  1. No, I don’t want it. That’s yours, you can have it. Please wear it now though.

The sex with Ost Bub was as amazing as everything else we did together. Also hilarious. I’m not very tall, so the logistics of sleeping with someone almost a foot and a half taller than me made for some entertaining moments.

Sadly, Ost Bub is back in Deutchland working on his PhD. But I’ll never forget some of the funniest pub sessions and some of the greatest sex of my life.

Monday, March 1, 2010

Around the World Part I:Italy

The Oxbridge community consists of a variety of people from all around the world. A commonly mentioned fact from my blog is that I have slept with nine nationalities. I have therefore decided to dedicate part of this blog to those various foreigners.

Today, the Italian Stallion.

When in Rome … get back on a plane to wherever the hell you came from.

Actually I’ve been to Italy and it was lovely. Sleeping with an Italian, however, left much to be desired. I think it was my choice of Italian, as I have no doubt that as a race they are probably fantastic lovers. Behind every stereotype is a stereotype, so I’m sure I just got the anomaly of the group.

In general, if someone is bad at kissing it’s game over. I should have stuck to those standards once Italian Boy attempted to devour my face. He was very attractive though, and I was curious to see how his enthusiasm would translate in the bedroom. Not so well as it turns out, mainly because it involved a lot more snogging. I couldn’t really focus on the sex because I was too busy trying to avoid his mouth by turning my head side to side in feigned enjoyment.

“Italian Stallions” perhaps refers to their stamina, which to his credit, and my dread, he had lots of. Luckily at some point I was able to maneuver myself into a position which made kissing difficult, if not impossible. The experience was exponentially better without the kissing, and I welcomed the break to subtly wipe the excess moisture off my face from his enthusiastic use of tongue when kissing.

After finishing significantly better than we started, it was time to escape before he got any ideas about further making out and sexual adventures. Once was enough, and luckily we were in his room so I didn’t have to have that awkward, “Right, could you leave now?” conversation that inevitably comes if I take someone back to mine.

Needless to say, I avoided the kiss goodbye. “Arrivederci” sufficed.

Drinking Societies

A major part of a student’s social life revolves around drinking. Not all students of course - some people are engineers. I do have friends who are tee-total, just for the sake of it, and I respect that. I tried to quit drinking once. It was the longest day of my life.

To celebrate our love of drinking we have drinking societies. The drinking society system is different at each university in terms of how the societies are formed, but in the end it’s just a bunch of people getting together to drink and pull. At Oxford, the societies are generally formed from sports teams. Hence, team-dates, or crew-dates if you’re a boat club. At Cambridge, the societies are sometimes sports-specific, but more often than not they’re to do with your college (where you live). Some of the societies are less exclusive than others, but it’s quite common that you have to be shoulder-tapped for an invite to be in one. The drinking societies are either entirely female or entirely male, with the idea that you go out with a drinking society of the opposite sex on a massive blind date hoping to pair off and pull.

A typical evening with your drinking society and your male counterparts will usually begin with going out for a meal. Generally this date is at a cheap restaurant that allows you to bring your own drinks, or which will sell you cheap wine. Or sometimes you go for a meal at your college’s hall. Typically everyone will have their own bottle of wine (white for me … I can’t quite pull off that rouge-tinted lips and teeth look). It’s best to ensure that you have a small wine glass, as over the course of the evening you will most likely be forced to down your entire drink more than once. This happens if someone stands up and declares a fine, for example “I fine anyone who is wearing a dress.” In which case all the ladies wearing a dress (so, all the ladies) will stand up and drink the contents of their glass.

Drinking a glass full of wine in one go is not what I’d call a pleasant experience. In fact it’s pretty awful really. But as it is the “rules” of your date, a girl’s got to do what a girl’s got to do. The most common way to get someone to drink is a game called “pennying” which often results in a war of retribution, with people pennying each other back and fourth, forcing them to consume glasses of wine en masse. Pennying is pretty much exactly how it sounds … you drop a penny into someone’s drink and then they must drink whatever is in the glass. It’s best, then, to strategically wait until someone has just finished pouring themselves a nice glass of vino and then casually lean over to drop the penny in their drink. If their hand is on the drink you can’t penny them, and if there is already a penny in their drink that is considered “double-pennying” – both of which are punishable by death. And by death I mean you must consume your drink. The idea behind pennying is that you wouldn’t want dear Elizabeth to die a terrible grape induced death. “The Queen is drowning!” “God save the Queen!” is often shouted as you attempt to consume your drink in one go. My, we are a patriotic bunch. Anything for Elizabeth of Windsor! Not logical really, as you just scoop her out of the bottom of your glass and throw her into another one.

As you can imagine, after downing a bottle of wine at dinner, possibly after having pre-drinks before dinner, everybody is quite tipsy and standards are lowering by the minute. The focus then shifts from drinking to pulling. Conveniently, you are often sat boy-girl-boy-girl at dinner, to ensure that everyone is given ample opportunity to meet the boy/girl of their dreams, or of their evening.

On one particular occasion, my drinking society was on a date at the college of another drinking society. After a lovely debauched meal in their grand hall we proceeded to the college bar to see just how much we could punish our livers. I had been sat next to a boy I’d known for a while through mutual friends and such, and when we got to the bar he offered to buy me a drink.

“That would be great, but could you tell me where the toilet is first?” Apparently to Swap Boy this translated to “I would like to have sex with you.” Which I did, but after a bottle of wine I desperately needed the loo as well.

“Sure thing, let me just show you where it is,” he said, escorting me out of the bar and into the hallway. Once out of sight he pulled me towards him and started kissing me.

Ways to handle this awkward situation, of me about to wet myself, and him about to drop his trousers, raced through my mind. There was really only one way forward so I locked my fingers through the belt loops on his hips, gently pushed him away and said, “That’s very nice of you and I would very much like to continue this conversation elsewhere … as soon as I’ve used the loo.” Then pressed my lips to his just to emphasise the hidden “wait here” message in my sentence, and swiftly made my move towards the ladies.

Not just a pretty face, Swap Boy got the message and was eagerly awaiting my return once I emerged back into the hallway. The trick to pulling whilst out with your drinking society is to do it at the end of the night when people are too drunk to notice who you leave with, or have left already with someone themselves. If you are like me and don’t like waiting, then the exchange often has to be swift and probably in public. Hence this being my only story of pulling while actually out with the drinking society. Too much trouble, and I like beds, not floors.

You aren’t fooling anyone if you disappear for half an hour with someone and emerge back in the group at roughly the same time as your missing counterpart. Drunkenly, you certainly like to feel that you’ve got away with something, but really the next day everybody knows what you did. I somehow managed to pull off a James Bond that night, as no one knows this story. Until now.

Before I could say “Hello,” Swap Boy was kissing me and pushing me towards a stairwell. We took a moment to come up for air and he grabbed my hand and pulled me up the stairs. It’s still a bit hazy to me exactly where it is we went. Possibly a common room, maybe a dining room, a library maybe? I don’t know, but the floor had carpeting which meant it was an acceptable makeshift bed.

When having sex somewhere you can potentially be caught it’s best to keep as much clothing on as possible, which is what we did. Pants off, and placed strategically close to where I could grab them, dress on. The excitement of having sex a floor above a group of your mates who have no idea what is going on probably made the sex seem a bit better than it was – which in the end was basically sex on the floor with most of our clothes on. Certainly better than any drunken sex we would have had hours later, if he would even have been able to have sex at that point, and so getting it out of the way early was ideal really. Almost like drinking a red bull, it gets you excited and all revved up and ready to go dancing. Which we did, and then drunkenly kissed goodbye around three in the morning before staggering home to our respective beds.

Not all people on these dates, or swaps, are out on the pull. One guy actually walked out during dinner once, declaring that the entire thing was “childish.” On the whole, however, they are immensely entertaining. As long as you remember to bring pennies.

Saturday, February 20, 2010

Safety First

I may have been a bit harsh on Rugby Blue. It wasn’t the fact that he wanted anal sex that was so outrageous really. I like a man who is adventurous and knows what he wants and is willing to ask for it. I also know what I want though, and that is most definitely not bum sex. Fair play to him for trying though. The fact that he wanted to do it without a condom was the bigger issue.

Appropriately, to coincide with the debut of this blog, last week was Contraceptive Awareness Week, or “Let’s not have babies or get chlamydia” week, as I interpreted it. If you are going to have sex with multiple partners it should be a given that you use condoms. Not to come off as some NHS advert or anything, but if you learn nothing more from what I’ve written than what I’m about to say then so be it:

No one will want to sleep with you if you have an STI.

How’s that for blowing the lid off things? Pretty obvious you would think, but the amount of men I’ve gone home with who don’t have condoms at hand is frankly appalling. Which is why I have my own. Also, since most guys probably pick up condoms they get for free from their college, having your own also ensures you have the kind that feel the best – which is the ultimate goal of the night anyways: max pleasure. Luckily Durex has condoms called “Max Pleasure,” but personally I prefer the “Feather Lite” ones.

I’d love to stay and chat more about STIs, but I have a big night ahead of me and must go shopping for something sexy. I’m thinking strapless dress and a pack of Feather Lites.


You know the theme-song from CSI by The Who? “Whoooo are you? Who-who, who-who”? That seems to be the question on some people’s minds. There has been the obvious association with Belle de Jour, probably because it’s the only notorious sex blog out there. This blog was not intended as a Belle de Jour Part Deux , though I very much enjoy her writing and am flattered by the comparison. Hopefully she won’t mind, but I suppose I could take a page out of her book and begin as she did by telling you a bit about myself.

The first thing you should know about me is that I am not a whore. I am not a man. I am not a Porter or a Don. I am a student. Why not tell you whether I’m at Oxford or Cambridge? Mainly because I was going for a broader readership really. People around college have actually taken little notice it seems, at least in my circle of friends. Luckily I was able to keep London commuters amused (or possibly angered) thanks to yesterday’s Evening Standard.

Don’t believe my stories? Well you choose to read this blog as much as I choose to write it, so that’s your prerogative. These are my experiences and my opinions and quite frankly I’m really not bothered if you dislike them or disagree with them. But I’m glad that so many people enjoy what I write, and I very much appreciate the kind things that people have said. Right now I'm just surprised that people are even interested in it at all.

If I’m honest, I had a minor panic attack yesterday after reading the Daily Mail. What if someone recognises my stories? What if I accidentally send an email to a reporter from my student email address? Or sign my name when writing from my sexatoxbridge email address? (ALMOST* did that this morning) This anonymous thing could get a bit tricky.

In terms of worrying over whether or not any of the men I write about recognise themselves, I’ve come to terms with the fact that they very well could do. Am I worried about them outing me? Absolutely not. Would you want to tell the world that you dumped your girlfriend a week after taking her virginity? Or that you have a small penis and like unprotected anal sex? I didn’t think so.

On a side note, if you did pick up the Evening Standard last night, and happened to come across their mention of me, you should know that they made a massive error when they said:

“She started blogging about her experiences after a funny incident with a client.”

Oh dear. I have never, and will never, take money for sex. Though I certainly do not judge those who do. Good Lord, a girl who likes sex and doesn’t get paid for it? It’s madness I say! But back to that sentence, the “client” they referred to was actually the first boyfriend I ever lived with. He didn’t pay me. But I did get free rent . . . Hmm, fine line? I don’t know. Also, I started blogging because it seemed like the most productive and entertaining form of procrastination whilst avoiding revision, not because of some outrageously funny one-off.

Lastly, this whole “closet nympho” thing has been blown a bit out of proportion I feel. Sex certainly doesn’t rule my life, I don’t solicit strange encounters online or anything like that. I like having sex because it is fun and often comedy ensues. Sex isn’t an illness for me, just a pastime.

Right then. Less talk, more sex! Next post won’t be so serious and reactionary. Get ready for Blues Part II. Row, row, row your boat . . .

Oxbridge Blues - Part I

The Oxbridge system is unique to anything in the world. These two institutions have been priming the world's most intelligent people in politics, medicine, literature, and science for over nine centuries. There are all kinds of celebrities around. Cambridge has Lily Cole. Oxford has those blokes from Harvard who invented Facebook. Anyone with a Blue in Rugby or Rowing certainly thinks they're a celebrity - but this is mostly an illusion created by local nightclub owners and harems of undergrad blue-tack.

I haven’t slept with any notorious celebrities, but as I mentioned before there has been the occasional blue. These weren’t your typical one-night stands. Ok one of them was a typical one-night stand, but the other one involved a couple of dates first. Oddly enough it wasn’t after any of these dates that I went home with the Rugby Blue, rather after a night out when I randomly ran into him at a club. I was drunk and he was wearing a suit – I love a man in a suit. One long taxi drive to what would later become the most inconvenient stride of pride (I don’t do walks of shame) ever, we arrived at his accommodation.

Life lesson learned from Rugby Blue: body mass and height is not a direct correlation to penis size, because if that were true Mr. Rugby Blue would have been short and fat. That’s no matter, I’m not prejudice or size-ist. It’s not the size of the boat, it’s the motion of the ocean, etc . . . Had he been a tsunami of love that could have made up for it, but it was more like slack tide really. Fairly average in my book of shags, but to be fair he only got once chance because he only had one condom (how pessimistic of him). This is when the inappropriateness ensued.

Because I'm not a huge fan of blow-jobs, or hand-jobs for that matter (pointless, any man will usually agree that they can do it better themselves. They’ve certainly had more practice than I have!), I saw the rest of my night with Rugby Blue going in one direction: sleep. Which we did, until he woke me up in the morning with this wonderful chat: “I don’t have a condom . . . but I want to put it . . . here” he said as he slapped my ass. Really? REALLY? Since when did being out of condoms equal anal sex? I am not going to lie to you, that is a one-way system, my friend. I kindly declined, claimed something about having to go to class and got dressed as quickly as humanly possible while he went back to sleep. On the way out I realised I had no money for a taxi, but spotted Rugby Blue's wallet on the desk.

"Can I borrow some money for a cab?" No answer. "If it's okay just lie there and do nothing." Got the go ahead and grabbed the eight quid I needed for a taxi home.

Maybe it was karma for grabbing some of Rugby Blue’s money as I left, but as I eventually made my way out I realised that I hadn’t a clue where the hell I was. I realised this of course whilst on the phone to the cab company, standing on a corner in a black dress, black jacket and black heels. I knew which college Rugby Blue was at and made an educated guess (I am highly educated after all), after which the cab company said, “We can’t drive through there this time of day, taxis aren’t allowed. If you walk to [disclosed location nearby] we can pick you up there.” Their option B involved walking through the city centre. I went through possible reasons for my attire at noon on a Tuesday and decided it was a perfectly decent outfit for a funeral, as if someone was going to stop me and ask, “Excuse me, are you just coming from a shag with a rugby boy?”

“You must be commenting on my outfit. Well actually, if you must know, my Aunt Mildred has died and I’m just on my way to the service.”

“Oh you poor thing! I do apologise for your loss.”

“Thanks for that . . . Oh and by the way, do you have any paracetemol per chance?”

Entirely likely scenario. One which luckily did not occur, because despite the qualifications on my CV, I had guessed wrong about where I was. After playing some more of the game “Guess Where I Woke Up” with the cab operator and finding some street signs, the operator finally said, “Ah yes I know where that is. That’s way out of town! How did you get there?”

“I teleported.” How do you think I got here?? Don’t judge me! Just take me home! I have a raging hangover and the sun is bright.

Ten minutes, and almost exactly eight quid later, I was finally home at my own college, and managed to make it from the taxi to my bed without anyone seeing my funeral attire. The next time I saw Rugby Blue I apologised for my petty theft and offered to buy him drinks to make up for it, but he kindly refused. What a gentleman. Minus that whole trying to do me up the bum thing. As one of my best male friends said, “no poo poo on the pee pee.” I couldn’t have said it better or more eloquently myself.

To Be Continued . . .

Next time: those guys who put an oar in the water and pull it

The V-Card

Despite my voracious appetite for sex, I was a relatively late-comer to the game (no pun intended). It wasn't that I was waiting for "the one" - but it certainly wasn't going to be just anyone. I had fairly simple standards, being that I wanted to be in a relationship and completely sober when I lost my virginity. Sounds easy enough, but it was that criteria that kept me celibate through my teenage years.

"Relationship" is a very negotiable and flexible term as it turns out. Sobriety is not, and I stuck to my guns on that one, though there were many drunken snogs on the way to the bedroom. My relationship with That Boy I eventually lost my virginity to was very sweet at times, but very drunk at others. In fact most of our relationship was getting pissed, going home together, snogging a bit, falling asleep, then spending Sunday mornings in bed talking. The rest of the week we'd be bogged down with work and spend our days in class and our evenings in the library, but Saturday night to Sunday afternoon was ours. He was well aware that I was a virgin and was extremely patient with that. After four months of making out, being a weekend couple, and watching Love Actually, I decided that my virginity wasn't going to lose itself and so That Boy would be the one to take it.

The decision to lose my virginity while sober allowed me to enjoy it immensely more than many subsequent encounters I've had. Contrary to popular belief, losing your virginity isn't always unpleasant and painful for girls, and my first time is still up there with some of the best shags I've had. The decision not to establish what kind of relationship That Boy and I had beforehand was probably an oversight I should have considered, because he dumped me a week later. A bit harsh really. I think I was more angry that I had finally had sex, but now and no one to do it with more than anything. Anyhow, I did what most young girls do after a breakup, and threw myself in to alcohol and disordered eating. I should have put those efforts towards more shagging, but I've since learned the error of my way.

Although I still think of That Boy every time I watch Love Actually, and though general consensus is that he is a heartless bastard, I in no way regret my first time. I was sober, with someone I had been with for a couple months, and the sex was good. I've heard worse stories. MUCH worse. Go watch The Rules of Attraction - if that doesn't terrify you into staying sober and a virgin while at Uni, I don't know what will. The first scene of that movie was enough to hold my virginity in tact through my first years of residence halls and swaps.

I've since reconciled what happened with That Boy . . . and we've had a couple nights together since then. Those stories will have to wait for my Sex in Public and Sex in Hotels entries though. Until then . . .

Sex Ed


I am a student in the United Kingdom, currently engaged in an Oxbridge education. What I'm reading at uni is slightly different to what I study, as I consider myself a bit like a researcher of sex. There is no A-Level for sex education, but that's no matter as I was still a virgin when I was 18 and wouldn't have been able to even answer a multiple choice question on how to give a hand-job. However, after swiping the ol' v-card I made up for lost time and began engaging in what I've come to consider a close examination into the sociology and psychology of sex.

I have what can only be explained as aggressive OCD, and it manifests itself in various ways. Oddly enough, cleaning is not one of them. My room looks like an explosion of clothes and dishes, but each subject in my binder is colour-coded and in backwards chronological order. I can go months without vacuuming, but am fanatic about personal hygeine and will without question casually suggest some foreplay in the shower if a guy smells like anything other than soap and cologne.

For what is being advertised as a sex column, I realise that this has started off on a rather prude note. I promise from here onwards it will be anything but. I enjoy sex. A lot. I am unapologetically and unquestionably a closet nympho. Not in the literal and clinical sense of the word, but if I have the opportunity to have sex with an attractive, relatively normal man, I probably will. The thing is, I am surrounded by these kind of opportunities. I'm not going to generalise and say that all men want to do is have sex, but I would say a man's priorities in life are usually food and sex, and they will gladly eat or have sex whenever the opportunity arises. Sure, there's the occasional time when he is too tired, but it's been my experience that if you're there, and you're willing, game on. This knowledge has given me a strong sense of power in that sex has now come down to the basic question: do I want it tonight or not? I have never thought, 'I would like to have sex now' and ended up home alone wondering where it all went wrong. The fact that I am a fairly attractive woman helps - but that's not a requirement, especially if alcohol is involved. Add the pressure of the average Oxbridge work week and you've got a lot of horny, drunk students on your hands who are all more than willing to drown their sorrows in a case of VK and in the arms of a stranger.

In the Oxbridge system, most of us are too busy to actually acquire (let alone maintain) a relationship, and most students like myself are happy to play couple for a night, have a lie in together, and then call it quits. My education has been filled with revising, exams, and one night stands. The latter of which take some of the tension away that builds up from stressing over the other two. I've never had an unpleasant encounter really, all of them have been pleasant, tender and quite frankly more intimate than some sex I've had with boyfriends. For one night you can be whoever you want with that stranger, and often what people want to be is a lover. People aren't always looking for a porn style one-off, and I've never been asked to do anything perverted. Except for the rugby blue who wanted to do anal. (If I don't give head, what makes you think I'm going to let you put that there? More on Blues later.) No, generally people want a shag, a cuddle, morning sex, and then to part ways. If I've left before morning it's been of my own accord, but generally some post coital spooning is in order.

I would not go so far as to say I'm embarrassed or ashamed about what I've done. A bit shocked at my success rate, maybe, but no regrets. However, in keeping with the OCD theme, I like to compartmentalise my life. Discussing sex over coffee and lecture notes can get awkward, and despite the sexual revolution coming and coming and coming and . . . well, people are still a bit repressed despite our self-proclaimed sexual freedom. Women are still sluts and blue-tack and such if they like sex. Statistically speaking, I have slept with nine different nationalities (British men and German men are the best, and typically have the biggest penises). The men I've slept with have been almost exactly 50/50 in terms of an older to younger ratio (older is definitely wiser and better). It's all been a laugh, a laugh which I now wish to share with the world.

Stay tuned to read about the sexiest research to come out of one of the world's top universities as I shag my way through term.