Monday, 18 April 2011

Ready and willing, make me dirty!

Although I'll freely admit to being as explicit as your average sex blogger is on occasion (and even more explicit than a few, due to the fact that I have no shame in saying certain words!), I've never considered myself dirty. It's not a word with good connotations - not just the adjective in the common parlance, but also in sexual context - having a dirty mind is all right (a little dodgy, perhaps, but usually cheeky enough to get away with), but being a dirty man is not - it implies the lecherous older gent upon hearing the phrase. And being a dirty girl means that you love Benedict Cumberbatch. But some people will freely admit to being dirty.

I don't. I don't think I am. The ironies of the Innocent in my name are pretty obvious, but I've never considered myself too 'dirty'. Sex is messy, but I like to consider it good clean fun - and if you place a negative adjective in front of it, then it makes it seem wrong... and there's nothing wrong with sex. Er, right?

So I surprised myself the other day.

My sister and I were out in town buying a birthday present for our 15-year-old cousin. Or attempting to. We had no idea what to buy her. It was easy when she was young and cute - I bought her a toy squid when she was 4 and she loved it - but at 15, no idea. None at all. We looked in all the shops, and by the time we'd found something in Waterstone's (it was my suggestion, but still the last shop we tried, as my sister gets distracted by shiny things), I was basically drying out. I hadn't had a drink for hours and it was very hot. And I get thirsty quickly. And it was 3pm and I hadn't had lunch. So we headed for Starbucks.

There was a brief cry of my sister's name from somewhere, and having located the course, she introduced me (or rather, briefly introduced, but then tried to distract attention elsewhere) to a friend of hers, allegedly from the amateur dramatics group she was part of - although I can't recall seeing her on stage. Not that I pay too much attention to that group, mind you - their productions are usually pretty awful, especially as they've started penning their own recently. But this girl had some sort of effect on me. I'm not sure what it was.

She entered the coffee shop with us, I got my sandwich and water, and we all sat down. I shot a quick glance back at this girl (whose name I've forgotten, but it's not important for the purposes of this entry), and suddenly the revelation hit me: I wanted to have dirty sex with her. That's what I wanted to do. It was so unusual: not actually being overly physically attracted to someone (although I didn't find her unattractive; there wasn't anything about her I'd usually go for), but wanting to have sex with her. And dirrrrty sex.

I could picture it in my eyes. The room would be dark. Something oppressive, like out of film noir. I'd be on top of her - deep inside her. We'd both be naked, our clothes strewn on the floor in a fit of animalistic lust (although maybe she'd still have her shoes on), and we'd be banging together fast. Hard. Every thrust with a moan of pleasure, or possibly a grunt in my case (I don't grunt! Why did I even think of that?). It just came to me. I don't know where from. But the scene was there. And I wanted it.

Of course I didn't do anything about it. I put it from my head. I didn't know anything about this girl. She could have been married to a staunch Catholic warlord with a serious temper problem for all I knew. I never asked, so I never found out. But I didn't want to find out. I just wanted to fuck her.


I didn't want to half an hour later, when I was walking home with a hopefully suitable present in my hand, and the forming stages of a planned CD-R of "ch00ns" to bolster the lameness of the last-minute gift decision. I'd kind of forgotten about the whole incident. And yet, for a short time, with one unfortunate young lady as my focus, I just felt dirty.


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