Phoebe Henderson www.phoebehenderson.blogspot.com published this post a while ago and then closed her blog down. I thought I’d lost my amazing story forever. But she opened her blog again and my Bad sex diary was retrieved, saved for posterity, and as a lesson to us all…
The worst fuck I ever had took place in Stalybridge. Not that I can blame the crapness of the shag on that North-Western town, not that far from Manchester. But Stalybridge, or ‘Stalyvegas’ as some of the locals call it, will always be associated in my mind with a masterclass in bad sex.
It was our second date. I was feeling quite proud of myself for getting that far. I had been on a lot of first dates previously, and whether or not they ended in a fuck, they rarely progressed beyond ‘I’ll give you a call’. So, sat in his living room, sipping white wine, I felt almost smug.
Mr Skinny was in the kitchen, slaving over a hot stove. I often go for tall, skinny men. It is not my ideal body type- I really prefer a bit of muscle- but there is something about their gawkiness, the way their limbs go on forever, the way they can be hyperactive and all over the place, that attracts me to skinny men despite myself. I sat back and enjoyed being waited on for once. The wine was starting to loosen me up. Which, let’s face it, is what wine is for.
Then Mr Skinny spoiled everything, by bounding into the room, sitting himself beside me and proceeding to slobber all over my face like a labrador on heat. I can still hear the slurping noise he made, now, as he attacked my face with his mouth, and mauled me from all directions with his skinny hands at the end of his skinny octopus arms. Suddenly I didn’t feel quite so suave.
This was the point at which I should have made a run for it. I could have come up with an excuse: a sudden headache, period pains, a meeting I had forgotten about in the morning. But no. I just sat there and let him grope and suck . What an idiot. Thankfully we were interrupted by dinner. I have never been so happy to see a vegetarian lasagne in my life. Seconds? Yes please. More wine? You bet. Anything to put off the inevitable.
But evening always turns to night in the end. And with it the slow ascent to bed. I had missed my last train by now. I was running out of options. When I walked into his room I was faced with another heart-crushing disappointment. The walls were covered with Star Wars posters. Yes. Star Wars. Oh, and a signed Manchester City shirt. I felt like I had walked into an eleven year old boy’s bedroom. I started to feel a bit sick.
I could have refused to share his bed. But he might have taken umbrage, and kicked me out onto the cold, Stalybridge streets. I took my chances and undressed, slipping between his slightly grubby sheets. He continued to slurp and probe and lick and even, sadly speak.
‘Now I am going to make horrible dirty love to you’ he said, in a low husky voice taken straight from the crappest porno you could ever imagine, that might be sold from the back of a van in the local market. ‘Horrible’ was an accurate term. ‘Little Mr Skinny’ turned out to be the skinniest most ineffectual penis I have ever encountered. It felt like he was poking my vagina with a pencil, a narrow pencil at that. I never checked, but I am sure the condoms he used must have been ‘extra skinny’ too. But it was too late. Any resistance now would constitute making a scene, and I am not that kind of girl. So I did what women have been doing for centuries. I lay back and thought of a tiny grasshopper, scratching around in the reeds. Thankfully it did not last long.
In the morning he left for work at the crack of dawn. Someone said ‘I will email you’ (not even ‘call’). I crept out a few minutes later, not before stealing an Ali G DVD from his shelves, in a desperate attempt to salvage something from the wreckage.
I haven’t been back to Stalybridge since.