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.