This week I was fortunate enough to be featured as a guest blogger by fellow sex blogger and author – Girlonthenet.com She’s wicked and albeit being super busy with Eroticon this week, managed to share some of my words! If you like justbadtiming.com, you’ll love GotN! Check out her books on Amazon.
Hope you enjoy the read!
Five years ago, I decided to write a blog about my sex life thinking no one would ever read it.
Today, I have published a sex memoir and have been talking about my most personal lapses of judgment, emotional disasters, and sexual trysts every minute of every day. You would think that sounds like amazing progress? It feels like it for sure, however, a couple of months before my book came out, I had a (quite understandable) existential crisis.
Would anyone want to fuck me now that the “threat” of it all being public one day loomed over anyone who came near me? Conversely, would people try to fuck me just to fulfil a weird white man’s fantasy of living forever through the words I might put down?
I was already overwhelmed by my “undateability” before the book project, and in a matter of weeks, I would certainly dig my own grave by telling the world just how much of a “slut” I’ve been all along.
The quotation marks above are only here to tell you that this was the voice of my inner self-sabotage bitch. She comes around every now and then to mess with my usually confident self. But she has a point. How would any of this public advertising of my life turn my future into part of the collateral damage? This was the mystery torturing me.
Faced with all these fears and confusion, I told myself, this is the point Christine. “You want to make people uncomfortable, you want the book to serve as talking springboard from which people can engage in deeply personal conversations with their loved ones when society might not usually give them a safe space to do so.” Such logic doesn’t always hold up to the inner bitch. So instead of wallowing, I said yes to the universe and went out for a drink with an old friend.
She was reading an early-bird copy of my book ahead of the launch, and we talked about some of women’s greatest difficulties when it comes to love, sex and Rock’n’Roll. One glass quickly turned into five, and we were pleasantly riding the night’s waves when we stumbled upon a couple of cute guys who by mere happenstance seemed to share our roadmap of bars to hit.
One of them was this adorable French tattoo artist who seemed to be interested in the nearness of me. We chatted a bit, as I observed his tall and lanky figure, covered in art as far as my eyes could see. We all decided to go to their local bar across the street only to notice that the power went out. Everyone was sitting there in the dark, drinking and actually talking to each other. It was quite heartwarming in its simplicity.
Shots ensued. Kisses in the dark ensued. Stolen glances turned up the heat just a little bit, and we were soon across yet another street inside the tattoo parlour he worked in. I was on the road, as usual, and staying on a friend’s couch. He lived quite far away, so this seemed practical. Except the tattoo parlour was on the same street as the last bar, and the power was out in the whole block. Both our phones were long dead.
So in this acute darkness, we began making out, to the sound of silence. And then it turned into this savage round of sex that I really wasn’t expecting from him. It’s like he turned into this wild animal, and in turn I set aside any self-awareness that had previously ruined my day.
Unfortunately for us, a tattoo parlour in a power outage is actually quite an awkward place for bestial intercourse. We managed to break one of the tables’ legs, and fly off it, still mid-coitus, only to land on top of each other three feet lower on the ground. We acted like nothing happened and relocated onto one of the chairs. My clitoris was actually becoming a little sore from the violence of our reciprocal want. After a couple hours of fierce passion in this pitch-black room, we decided as drunk lovers do, to call it a night and reconvene for a civilised dinner at a later date.
As I got back to my temporary home, the bitch in my head was really quiet. This total stranger, who listened to me “pitch” my book all night, was saying to his friend “this is the kind of girl you take out on the fanciest date” – which he later did – albeit knowing all the things I was earlier obsessing about.
So there they were, all my anxieties undone for a minute, by the benevolence of the universe. There was a sweet innocent boy capable of fucking me raw on a table in a blackout, willing to take me out on dates, and respectful of my project to uncover as much wilderness as possible. His mere existence was so comforting.
Don’t worry this isn’t some sort of epic love story, no. This is just a little welcome fling, that gave me a bit of strength. The strength I needed to prep for all the wildness my launches would bring (hopefully more on that soon: sex parties in penthouses, Tom Hardy lookalikes and champagne bubbles). I woke up that morning, quite hungover, to notice some black ink all over my toes. I facepalmed myself to the thought of him going over to clean up the mess we made, smiled and got into the shower.
Moral of the story here, if you really need one is: “DO IT.” Talk about your most vulnerable bits: your asexuality in a sexualised world, your want for traditionalism amidst the rise of non-conventionalism, your feminist need to see as many penises enter your vagina in your lifetime, whatever contradictions you live in, know that everyone faces their own in the too-oft silent confines of their souls. Sharing isn’t caring, sharing is needed.