Over the Spring Bank Holiday, I was invited to a night of naughtiness. Without time to think, or more aptly think of an excuse, I agreed. I was actually excited.
It was fancy dress (of sorts), I had three hours to organise a costume, get ready and somehow fit in the weekly shop. Why the weekly shop? Well, if I was to arrive home in the early hours of a Sunday morning without a fully stocked kitchen, it would not be a pretty sight. I like my morning after to be as enjoyable as the night before...
We, a female friend and I, arrived with little time to spare. I was her beard for the evening. The place was packed, wall to wall were uniforms, costumes albeit some very little costumes, but importantly laughter. I relaxed, had a drink and spent the next hour as a happy voyeur.
Thankfully I hadn't brought the big pants with me, though the small lacy pair I was wearing were sopping not long after we arrived. I always think that maybe being a voyeur is enough for me. But not for long.
I danced, I kissed, I touched.
In a playroom I found myself undressing a man in a military uniform, almost in a dreamlike sequence, some hand play, a reach for a condom, and I was on top of him, grinding his penis with my vagina. Before I came to orgasm, I had a sweeping realisation that I wasn't going to. Can I assume my days of anonymous sex were no longer hitting it? Surely not. For the love of a good orgasm though, I couldn't switch off my thoughts. He climaxed. We kissed. He looked eager to finish me off, but it seemed more for his satisfaction than mine.
I drank more, watched more. Shared a taxi back to someone's hotel suite, wanked off a pretty boy and called a taxi before almost definitely passing out.
My libido needs to be located and sharpish!
As it happens, I didn't manage to fit in the weekly shop, and the dulling-of-inhibitions-hangover was cured by a man, on a motorbike with food in disposable containers.
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