Lesson 8: Check for cameras.

This is quite an obvious one really, but one that plenty of people, myself included, forget all too often. If you’re participating in a gangbang, or some other sexual activity of the group variety, you might want to first check that you’re not being filmed.

For someone to record you without permission, when you’re down to your birthday suit and engaging in a wee bit of how’s-your-father, is a gross violation of trust and an invasion of privacy. That’s a given.

But if such a film did get out, in which you’re doing the bad thing with a single member of the opposite sex, it’s hardly going to be a life-ending, front-page-news-kind of revelation. Most blokes, and possibly even their parents, would probably be somewhat proud. Different story for girls, obvs, but the issue of sexism and double standards in sexual behaviour is outside of the remit of this little blog post.

But if the video were to feature a rather small Asian chick taking on four rather large Caucasian penises, on an inflatable mattress on the floor of a starkly-lit living room in a suburb of Western Sydney, well that might be a problem. And apparently, I now know, such a video does exist.

So here’s how it went down. I’d been chatting online to the male half of this couple for a few days. He’d told me about his girl’s fantasy of being DP’d and dominated by a group of guys and I was bang up for it (so to speak). So late on a Saturday afternoon I’d driven out west somewhere, I forget the exact suburb, and met him and two other guys in a seedy sports bar.

The male half of the couple, the ringleader, was a well-built and reasonably friendly Lebanese guy. One of the other two dudes was a skinny ginger-haired fella who seemed fairly normal and unassuming but turned out to be an extremely strict and kinda pervy (even by my standards) dom. The last guy was a shy twenty-something who turned out to pack a fricken ridiculous penis. Like, the kind that can seriously deprive its owner’s brain of blood flow when excited.

So the four of us sat through an awkward get-to-know-you drink in this lame-arse bar, before convoying it back to the ringleader’s pad. Once there we sat even more awkwardly in his overly-bright living room, arranged on chairs around a mattress that had been placed, somewhat unromantically, in the centre of the room.

But when Lucy walked in, everything – the long drive, the uncomfortable drink in the nasty sports-bar, the horribly un-classy mattress on the floor – suddenly seemed worth it. She was stunning. A gorgeous Asian girl with a beautiful face, tiny waist and bum, and a completely disproportionate rack. She seemed demure and innocent at first, but as she took a large swig from a bottle of tequila and started to strip, it was quickly apparent that her looks were highly deceiving.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: this ain’t an erotic lit blog, so I’ll skip the details of the hours that followed. Suffice to say, Lucy realised her DP fantasy (several times) and a jolly good time was had by all. Actually, that’s not quite true: our donkey-dicked young friend’s nerves had gotten the better of him and he’d never quite managed to rise to the occasion. He’d spent most of the night watching and furiously trying to beat some life into his old fella, and had eventually managed to get it up for long enough for a few frantic thrusts before his admittedly impressive erection retreated once more.

So anyway, we all cleaned up, got dressed and said our g’byes. A couple of weeks later Lucy got hold of me on Facebook. Apparently I’d been her favourite and she was keen to see me again. She turned out to be really cool girl and we started hanging out regularly. She’d dumped her boyfriend, the ringleader, when he started trying to set up ever larger and more frequent gangbangs. It was getting pretty creepy, she said. An unnatural obsession.

This was all fine until she called me one night in a horrible state. She’d had a row with him when she’d tried to get a load of her things back – clothes, shoes and so on – and he’d made a disturbing confession. He’d filmed our little party in its entirety on a hidden camera. The dirty fucker! Whilst he hadn’t explicitly made any blackmail- or revenge-style threats, the subtext seemed clear: forget about your stuff and don’t call me again, or who knows where that video might end up?

Well, what can you do? The guy hadn’t actually made any threats and hadn’t – as far as I know – broken any laws. We couldn’t exactly get the police to bust down his doors to recover the video. I told Lucy not to worry about it, and since then I’ve tried to do the same.

So far, as far as I know, the film hasn’t come to light. Maybe he deleted it. Maybe he still watches it alone and bats off to it. But maybe it’s out there, on some amateur porn site or doing the rounds on social media, and I might one day stumble across it myself. And there I’d see a younger me on a dirty blow-up mattress, underneath a crazy Asian girl who’s taking dicks in every hole. Jesus, I really hope that doesn’t happen. It would be bad enough for me and the other guys, but it could be a life-wrecker for Lucy.

I realise as I write that this story is kinda anti-climactic. I apologise that it’s just sorta tailed off. You might have been expecting a terrible, humiliating finale, in which the video went viral and Lucy became an unwitting ‘internet sensation’ or something along those lines. For the sake of the story that might’ve been quite cool, but for Lucy’s sake and my own, I’m rather glad there’s no big climax. No pun intended.

So yes, my advice to any would-be gangbangers: make sure you’re not being filmed. Easier said than done I guess, unless you’re planning to turn up to a party with a bunch of camera-detecting equipment. And even as I type it’s dawning on me that there could have been countless cameras hidden in any of the various debauched situations I’ve found myself in since then. Who knows how many amateur pornos I’ve starred in? I could have my own website, for all I know.

The only lesson I can really draw, therefore, is that if such a video surfacing would seriously mess up your life, then don’t go to sex parties. At all. Cameras are seriously easy to hide and you never know who could be watching. There are a lot of creepy people out there.

But if the prospect of becoming some amateur porn fan’s next wank fantasy is OK by you, then by all means, go nuts!

Lesson 7: Got kids? For God’s sake, get a bedroom door lock.

Children are great, aren’t they? 


In certain situations, however, the patter of their tiny feet can be a slightly less than welcome sound. Like, say, when you’re mid-way through a threesome with their parents. Just as an example.

I’d been chatting to the female half of a couple for a while when they got in touch on a Friday night. I’d had four or five beers and, although I’m ashamed to admit it and (hypocritically) would never condone it, when they invited me to join then I drove straight over without thinking twice. 

That’s bad Bunburying, but it’s by the by. This particular lesson isn’t about the perils of drink-driving.

So I arrived at their place, somewhere out west, in one piece. Karen (let’s call her) answered the door and I was immediately glad I’d made the drive. Blonde, very pretty, and with bolt-ons that were out of all proportion to her petite frame. Not really my type usually, I’ve gotta say (I prefer brunettes), but still extremely sexy and a very nice surprise when you’re all-time used to people looking way hotter in their photos than in the flesh.

We had a drink and a line or two, then pretty quickly took the party to the bedroom.

Mark, whose slightly puny body made his claims to be in the army seem rather dubious, was one of those sit-and-watch types. You get those quite a lot and I’ve never completely understood it. I mean, I can see why they might enjoy sitting back for a bit and watching their partner being pleasured by someone else, but surely after a while you’d want to be getting in on the action as well? Maybe that’s just me.

So Karen and I are going at it, and boy, she ain’t the quiet type. She was one of those multi-orgasmic girls – don’t you love just love ’em? Mark’s just sitting on the corner of the bed quietly while his missus groans and pants and shouts all kinds of unrepeatable things, and I must admit that I’m having a grand old time.

And then the door opens.

Now Karen had told me that they had a young family, but when I got the invitation I guess I assumed they’d been packed off to the grandparents or a friend’s. And when I laid my peepers on her tiny waist and flat stomach all thoughts of littluns had gone clean out the window.

So when a sleepy-looking five year-old girl appeared in the doorway while I was enthusiastically banging her highly-vocal mother from behind, I was more than a little surprised. So much so that I fell, or possibly jumped, straight off the bed and lay in a sweating, terrified heap on the carpet beside it.

I hardly dared breathe, expecting a little face to lean over at any moment and ask mummy and daddy why there was a funny naked man on the floor. But Mark, in stark contrast to me, was as cool as a particularly chilled and unflappable cucumber. 

Over the sound of my frantically beating heart I heard him walk over to his daughter and calmly tell her, “Come on honey, back to bed”, before escorting her gently out of the room. Composure under pressure. Perhaps he was in the army after all, I reasoned, as my heart rate slowly returned to normal.

Karen wasn’t finished with me yet though. No sooner was the door closed than she was bee-lining for my cock as if nothing had happened.

“Are you sure we shouldn’t just call it a night, babe?”

“Shut up and fuck me”.

Wow. Mother of the year right there, huh?

And so the shagging recommenced. The door opened again a couple of minutes later, triggering a minor aftershock of heart tremors, but it was only Mark.

“All good. She was just sleepwalking. Does it all the time. She won’t remember a thing.” 

Despite his reassurances my heart was no longer really in this little threesome. I concentrated on cumming ASAP and once that was out the way I was pulling my clothes back on sharpish. There’s really nothing like the presence of children to kill one’s libido, despite what certain former members of the British parliamentary and entertainment establishments would have you believe.

I thanked Mark and Karen for their hospitality, assuring them that of course I’d love to do it again some time soon. And then I was out the door and driving home, desperately trying to process what the fuck had just happened.

What if the little girl had seen me? Would she have remembered it? Could she have ended up traumatised, forever haunted by images of her mother playing some bizarre naked game with a man that wasn’t her daddy?

I can only believe that she was sleepwalking. How else could her parents have stayed so calm? If that were my kid and I thought there was any chance they’d seen anything I’d have been freaking the fuck out. 

But wait a second; if that had been my kid I wouldn’t have been hosting a menage-a-trois in the first bloody place! Who does that? What kind of parent invites a stranger into their house for a threesome when their kids are asleep down the hall? 

I feel kinda bad saying these things about them, as they seemed like decent enough people and they were always very polite and friendly to me. And to be fair, Karen was an awesome shag, at least to begin with. But really people, if you want a threesome, shell out for a babysitter, for goodness’ sake.

At the very least, fit a sturdy lock on your bedroom door. And maybe cool it with the groaning and screaming, just a bit.

Here endeth Lesson 7. 

Lesson 6: Week-old sushi doesn’t make for successful Tinder dates

Here’s why I try to eat sensibly before meeting girls from the interwebs these days.

I’d managed to snag a date with a very hot girl I’d been hassling (I mean, wooing) for a while. Her name was Selena. 27, blonde, slim, big boobs, very pretty face and a wicked sense of humour.

As usual I was running late. I’d been hanging around in the Apple Store on Sydney’s George St, playing Angry Birds or some other crappy game while I waited for my iPhone to charge, and had lost track of time. I was also starving.

I caught the train up to Kings Cross and bolted up the escalators, wondering what to eat. I was thinking that a quick Maccas, as much as I despise them, would do the job, but as I dashed through the station foyer I noticed a sushi kiosk.

Aha, the healthy option! Why stuff fat-laden, processed crap down your throat when you can treat your temple-like body to a delicious, Omega 3-packed, fresh salmon roll?

Unfortunately, upon closer inspection, said salmon roll was rather less delicious and fresh than I’d hoped. In fact, it had a distinctly grey hue and a rather overpowering aroma, whilst the rice was somewhat on the crispy side.

Hmm, probably shouldn’t eat that, advised wise old Brain Number One.

Fuck it, yelled impulsive Brain Number Two from his home between my legs. We don’t have time for this bullshit!

As is usually (OK, always) the case, the smaller of my two organs was victorious in the debate. I wolfed down two-thirds of the roll as quickly as I could whilst striding down the Cross’s delightfully sleazy, neon-lit, junkie-strewn main drag. It was repulsive and, hungry as I was, I just couldn’t bring myself to force any more of the stinking matter down my gullet.

I got to the bar ten minutes late, stressing I’d already blown my chances of copulation. I needn’t have worried; Selena was running even later than me. Ten minutes and half a beer later she breezed in, leaving a wake of stares from lusty blokes and envious girls behind her. I mentally high-fived myself and ordered her a drink.

Almost immediately it all started to go wrong. We were getting on well and there was definite chemistry, but as she told me about her job (music industry, daahling) my stomach suddenly executed a perfect double somersault.

I fought back a rising tide of nausea and attempted to nod and smile at the appropriate moments, but I could feel beads of sweat starting to form on my forehead.

As Selena launched into a diatribe on her boss my tummy was preparing its second effort, a triple back-flip with twist. I gagged, thinking I was about to hurl right there in her lap, but somehow managed to suppress it. Selena appeared not to notice.

“Would you excuse me for a moment?”

I attempted a cool saunter as I walked away from the table, but as soon as I turned the corner I ran for my life to the loo. Fortunately the cubicle was vacant. I didn’t even have time to shut the door before I was heaving my guts out. Wow, that’s a lot of vomit for two bites of a sushi roll, I thought to myself, as if somehow proud of my offering.

Immediately I felt better, so I popped a chewie and rejoined Selena, who seemed none the wiser. For ten minutes or so I was fine, but before too long the nausea was back and this time it was pissed off and taking no prisoners.

“Are you alright babe? You’re looking kinda pale.”

“Me? Nah, I’m fine, don’t worry. Please, continue.”

But by then the sickness had taken on a life of its own, and was heading in both directions, north and south, with furious determination. Green-faced, I excused myself and ran for the loo again, not even bothering to try and play it cool this time.

Mass evacuation occurred at both ends, and I sat on the bowl for a while, groaning weakly to myself.

Eventually I felt a little more human. I tidied myself up, double-dropped some more gum and went back to the bar. Selena looked none-too-impressed at having spent most of our date on her own.

I decided to fess up, hoping that the sushi roll story would elicit some sympathy, and for ten minutes or so things seemed to be back on track. I allowed myself to enjoy a small rush of optimism. Could this disaster of a date actually lead to some sexy time after all? And more importantly, would I be up to the job?

My stomach decided to answer these questions for me, with a triumphant pike to reverse double somersault. Once more I found myself back in the toilets, marveling at how much puke the human body can produce.

When I returned to the bar, Selena was nowhere to be seen. I called her phone: straight to voicemail. I fired off a few messages, first casually apologetic, then increasingly irate. No answer.

And that was that. I never saw her again. Actually I did once, at a music festival, but she waltzed straight past me without so much as a glance. Maybe she saw me, maybe she didn’t, but the result was the same: a huge, yawning gulf of sexlessness between us.

These days I choose my pre-date meals a little more carefully. Nothing smelly or spicy, nothing too heavy, and definitely nothing that’s a suspicious shade of grey and smells like a Vietnamese fish market at the end of a particularly long, hot day of trading.

Obvious really, but yet another lesson I had to learn the hard way.

Thanks for reading.

Lesson 5: Before you suck, check who it’s attached to.

Here’s a quick story about the perils of drug-taking in group sex situations.

I’d been dating Lucy for a few weeks and we’d recently had an insanely hot foursome with a fantastic couple, Dan and Lena, who I’d met online.

To help you picture the scene I’ll describe the key protagonists. Lucy’s a tall, willowy brunette; beautiful in a pale, sultry kinda way. Lena’s a gorgeous Asian girl, slim but perfectly curvy. And Dan’s a totally awesome, totally enormous army dude, ripped as fuck.

It had been Lena’s birthday and we’d popped in to the restaurant where she’d been celebrating with Dan and their friends. After a couple of drinks we headed back to mine, and en route Lena had called to ask if she could join us. That was a tough question to answer: “See you in five”, I practically yelped in excitement.

The three of us got naked pretty quickly. I won’t go into too many details; this isn’t meant to be one of those erotic fiction-type blogs. I would offer one observation, however. There really aren’t too many more pleasurable experiences a young chap can enjoy than having a hot girl riding him reverse cow-girl while another hottie licks her clit and plays with his balls. Most definitely one for the wank-bank; only wish we’d filmed it.

A few loud, sweat-soaked orgasms later, Lena’s phone rang. Dan had gone out with his mates after the dinner and consumed a frankly rather irresponsible quantity of MDMA, and was now keen to get in on the action. It would have been pretty rude to tell a bloke he can’t join his wife in a group sex session, so I agreed that he should come over pronto.

Twenty minutes later he staggered in, a big, sweaty, grinning mess. Oblivious to my requests to keep his voice down for the sake of the neighbours, Dan bellowed and guffawed for a while about his night out, before stripping down and joining us on the bed.

More debauchery followed, until the four of us collapsed back on the pillows, exhausted and happy. I lay on my back with my arms around the girls, a huge smile on my face.

After a few moments, I felt a warm, wet sensation on one of my fingers. I ain’t gonna lie: it wasn’t altogether disagreeable. It was being gently sucked, slowly and sensually, and in my post-coital bliss I was mighty happy for it to continue. I turned to kiss Lucy on my left, and then kissed Lena on my right.

It took a while for the penny to drop, but eventually it occurred to me that neither of the girls had had any digits in their mouths as I kissed them. And if it wasn’t them that was doing the sucking, then that could only leave….oh shit.

I looked across and sure enough, there was Dan, eyes closed in pleasure, my index finger second knuckle-deep in his mouth.

At that exact moment, Dan opened his eyes. There was a pause that stretched for eternity, in which he stared wide-eyed at me as the realisation slowly dawned that he was sucking another man’s pointer.

And then he sprang up, his face a picture of horror and embarrassment. Ever seen that bit in Planes, Trains and Automobiles where Steve Martin and John Candy wake up and find themselves spooning? No? Well you should; it’s a classic. And this was just like that.

Dan was mortified, jabbering how he’d thought it was one of the girl’s fingers. To be fair, my hands are pretty slim and girly, and in his mandy-induced state I guess it might have been easy to miss the dark hairs and unmanicured nails. The rest of us just pissed ourselves with laughter and before too long Dan joined in too. After all, what’s a little finger job between friends.

So yes, the moral of the story: look before you suck. Prior to inserting an appendage into your mouth (or any other orifice), it’s worth checking who said appendage belongs to. It’s only polite really.

Or, I suppose, just keep your eyes shut tight and go with it. Whatever flips your pancake.

Lesson 4: Coke and zombies don’t mix well at sex clubs

I’d always wanted to go to a sex club.

Well, not always, but certainly for a while. I had an image, shaped by porn and that Tom Cruise movie, Eyes Wide Shut (which pretty much was just porn, now I think about it) of beautiful bodies, softly lit by oil lamps and candles, writhing together in slow, sensual abandon on soft Egyptian cotton sheets.

Everyone super hot. Everything super classy.

The reality was something of a disappointment.

I went with my then-girlfriend, a sexy little Asian chick, who for the purposes of this story I’ll call Bex. She’d been a couple of times before and had had plenty of experience in groups and such like. I was her eager student.

I can’t even begin to describe how excited I was. A couple of weeks before I’d been treated to my first ever threesome with one of her friends, and I was still buzzing from it. Sex with two girls was incredible enough. Sex in a club full of girls therefore was going to be out of this world.

As the time to leave approached, my excitement started to give way to nervousness. This was a pretty big deal. At this point, Bex pulled out some coke and we each did a line. Just to get us in the mood, she said.

Big mistake.

I could write half a dozen posts, probably more, about what a shit idea it is to do coke in group sex situations, but I’ll leave that rant for another time. Just take my word for it, for the time being, that when you’re already sorta nervous about a new experience, particularly one of the sexual variety, cocaine isn’t always the best thing to take.

So we jumped in a cab and headed to the club. It was located in Sydney’s inner west, a venue that’s no longer open for business. Not that I’d be rushing back there if it was.

Sex clubs are quite sneaky. There’s always a big thick door – no glass – and you pay your money before you get a chance to see who’s already in there. That way, by the time you’ve gone in and realised there’s no one remotely hot inside, you’ve already paid your 80 bucks and it’s too late to change your mind.

So yep, that’s what happened with us. My fantasies of countless naked supermodels, all desperate for my penis, abruptly burst as we arrived at the top of the staircase and looked out on a room full of octogenarians. OK, maybe I’m exaggerating a tad, but as we walked into the room it honestly felt like we’d taken a wrong turn and ended up in a nursing home.

Bex gripped my hand tightly and led me to the bar, scores of rheumy old eyeballs eye-fucking the shit out of us every step of the way. We knocked back a couple of doubles in an attempt to settle our nerves and then sought refuge in a small, semi-private room, just off the main area. There was a viewing window in the wall, but at least we could be somewhat alone.

The room had a single bed, on which we sat and quickly polished off most of a bottle of wine. By this time we were starting to feel a bit more chilled, and we decided we’d have a little fun. Sure, there was definitely no one we fancied (or were even not completely repulsed by) in the club, but that didn’t mean we couldn’t enjoy each other.

Pretty soon we were naked and, despite the coke, the old fella was standing to attention. Bex was lying on her back, looking up at me. My back was to the doorway. I grabbed her legs and lined myself up, and that’s when I felt it. The feeling I was being watched. I froze.

Slowly I looked back over my shoulder. And there they were. Three or four wrinkly old faces, peering in through the window. Another two or three in the doorway. Eyes wide, unblinking. Saliva pooling at the edges of crusty-lipped mouths.

It was that scene from countless zombie movies, where the living dead appear outside the house. Open-mouthed, groaning softly. Terrifying yet oddly passive, hesitant to take the first step inside.

“They won’t come in,” I told myself. “They can’t cross the threshold unless they’re invited. No wait, that’s vampires. Shit.”

Panicking, I turned back around and tried to block them out, but my boner was already turning tail and running for the hills. I tried to focus on Bex, hoping the un-dead behind me would get bored and stagger off. She was staring intently into my eyes, as if terrified at what she might see if she looked past me.

For a moment I thought the zombies had taken the hint, but suddenly I felt a hand on my waist. Frail and leathery, light as a feather. I swatted it away but it returned moments later, stronger this time and more insistent.

I looked down and my eyes travelled back from the hand, up along the vein-laced forearm, past a quivering bingo-wing to the torso – mercifully clad in a towel – and from there to a smiling, hollow-eyed, gargoyle-like face, bordered by frizzy, dyed-blonde hair.

I’m pretty sure I let out a small shriek at this stage. With that we leapt up, grabbed our clothes as quickly as we could and bolted out the door, pushing past clawing hands like explorers through jungle vines.

We made our escape to a darkened upstairs area that to our relief was empty, and sat down on one of the sofas. Perhaps we were sobbing; it’s hard to recall. Fortunately there was still wine left and we drank it quickly, holding each other until our breathing had returned to normal.

Suddenly, we heard footsteps on the staircase. They’re back. Rooted to the spot, unable to breathe, we stared at the stairs. Silhouetted in the lights from below appeared two shapes. “Please don’t hurt us,” I wanted to cry, but my voice failed me.

And then, as they walked into the light, we saw them.

I couldn’t believe my eyes. They were hot! OK, not really hot, but compared to the shuffling cadavers downstairs they were Brangelina. She was late 30s; an elegant, tight-bodied brunette. He was – oh who gives a shit what he was!? She was sexy, and the night was saved.

They explained that they’d seen our escape, and as the only other couple under fifty had thought it best to follow. They were friendly and fun, and before long the girls were kissing. Finally, things were happening!

There was a sex swing in the corner and we moved over to it, the girls taking turns to sit and play with each other. It was hot, we were all there and everything was perfect.

Except one thing was missing. My erection.

The poor little bastard, already made jittery by the white devil, must have been so spooked by the attack of the living dead that he’d fled the area completely. For the rest of the night he lay cowering under a bed somewhere in my psyche, praying for the morning to come.

No amount of prodding or tugging could rouse him. The combined attention of two hot, naked women failed to elicit the faintest glimmer of interest. My night was over.

After a while the other girl lost interest and turned her attention to her man, and at that point Bex and I made our excuses and left. My tail firmly between my legs (hanging rather limply and dejectedly, I might add) I led Bex back through the retirement village and out into the sorry Sydney night.

And that was the end of that. We got a cab home and vowed never to return. A promise we broke soon after, but for a while at least the night’s lesson had been well-learnt: sex clubs are stressful enough, without adding coke to the mix.

So if any of you are considering a visit to a sex club, do yourself a favour and go easy on the charlie. And for God’s sake, don’t forget to bring an axe or at least a large kitchen knife for when the zombies attack.

Thanks for reading, and good luck.

Lesson 3: Sometimes, hiding and running away is the decent thing to do.

I admit it: I’m a bit of a pussy.

I generally avoid confrontation at all costs and I’d be completely rubbish in a fight. So it would be perfectly understandable for you to assume that my actions in this story, in which I hid and ran away from an online date, were down to cowardice alone.

However, I’m going to attempt to argue that my hasty, furtive retreat was in fact an act of chivalry and sensitivity of which Mr D’arcy himself would be proud. I’ll let you, gentle reader, make up your own mind.

So here’s what happened.

It started, as most of my stories seem to, with me in a typically horny mood, browsing for girls on a sex site.

I guess I must have already tried without success to chat to the profiles with pics, because I’d resorted to trawling the ones without any kind of photo evidence at all. Desperate times and all that.

After sending out a bunch of hopeful messages to hot-sounding girls and receiving a big fat nothing in return I was ready to give up.

But suddenly, my heart leapt. The little ‘new mail’ icon was blinking. Success! It’s tragic how much dopamine my brain releases when it sees that little winking symbol, particularly when I’m horny and I’ve been trying unsuccessfully to get a response for a while. The fact that the message was from a girl without a face OR body photos therefore didn’t put me off in the slightest. Besides, she sounded gorgeous: “slim/petite” and “highly attractive” (her words). Modest too, obviously. She was also Asian, which instantly doubled her appeal (yep, I’m very much prone to the old Yellow Fever, I have to admit).

We struck up a bit of a to-and-fro email conversation and eventually swapped numbers. I tried a few times to cajole photos out of her, but she dodged my requests. “Privacy reasons”, she explained. “But don’t worry, I promise you won’t be disappointed”. That was enough for me. I was so desperate for action that I decided to take her word for it, and we arranged to meet in a nearby hotel, toute suite.

I got to the bar, ordered a beer and found a vantage point where I could observe the entrance. I was nervous but excited, convinced as I was that I was about to meet (and bang) an absolute cracker.

And then she appeared. It had to be her; she was wearing the blue dress she’d described in her last text message, and was looking around uncertainly. But the blue dress was where the similarities with her self-description began and ended.

I won’t dwell on her appearance. Suffice to say, her profile description was either a bare-faced lie or she was even more self-deluded than those first-round bomb-out talent show hopefuls we all love to laugh at.

So now, what to do? She’s scanning the room and I’ve got seconds to decide. Do I put my looks-obsessed preconceptions aside and stroll up, get acquainted and potentially meet someone who, whilst perhaps not being my type physically, could be great fun and a potential friend for life? Or do I quickly turn before she’s had a chance to spot my face and run for my life?

Yeah, right. Tough choice. I was out the balcony doors quicker than you can say “shallow, cowardly douche bag”.

I was trapped, but I’d bought myself valuable time. I watched her wandering, increasingly forlornly, around the bar, before taking out her phone and dialling a number. My phone rang. Obviously I didn’t answer. As she walked through the doors at the far end of the balcony I slipped back inside and then practically ran across the bar and down the stairs to safety.

There’s a second act to that tale, in which I then jumped in my car and drove off to see another girl who I’d been chatting to the same day, but I can’t be bothered to go into that right now. Long story short, she wasn’t much better than the first one and I ended up, much later, alone in bed. Probably for the best.

But anyway, back to my blue-dressed blind date.

Now, was my escape really just the reprehensible, self-interested act of a snivelling coward? Yeah, probably. But at least consider what would have happened if I’d stayed. We’d most likely have had a few drinks and a laugh, and perhaps I’d have tried to get drunk enough to find her attractive, but sooner or later I would have had to make my excuses and leave. I know I said earlier that I was feeling pretty desperate for a shag, but I was definitely not that desperate.

But then I would have had to endure the ever-awkward “well it was great to meet you but I’m pretty tired, so I’m just gonna go home now” goodbye. God I hate those. Because everyone understands the sub-text. I might as well be saying, “you are physically repulsive and you’re offending my eyeballs”. The effect is the same if you ask me.

An alternative tactic would have been complete honesty. People I know who are far more direct and honest than me have had no problem simply saying, “I’m afraid I don’t find you attractive”. But I just can’t do that. “You’re really cool but I’m just not feeling it”: a marginally softer let-down but one that’s still too excruciating for me to bear.

I suppose it still comes down to cowardice. Either way, whether I’d run away or stayed and then made a lame excuse, my actions were driven by fear. Fear of the awkwardness, the confrontation, that awful disappointed look in their eyes…

But I also think it was, at least in some part, down to a concern for this poor girl’s feelings. Yeah sure, I hear you say. But it’s true. I honestly don’t like hurting people one bit, and I try to avoid it at all costs.

The way I see it, her feelings would have been more bruised if I’d stayed and then trotted out the aforementioned get-away excuse. We had met with the specific intention of sex (as opposed to dating and/or friendship) and if I’d told her I wasn’t up for it there and then, it could only have been because I didn’t find her attractive. And no one likes hearing that they’re not attractive.

When I got home I listened to the voicemail she’d left. She accused me of having got cold feet and being too chicken-shit to even show up. She suggested I go and acquire carnal knowledge of myself for having wasted her time. And she pointed out that at the end of the day, it was my loss.

All of which made me feel much, much better about what I’d done.

Because this way, in her mind it was all about me and my cowardice. Her self-image remained intact. She hadn’t been spurned because I hadn’t even turned up. I was the pussy and she was still the slim/petite, very attractive Asian girl in a blue dress.

So really, it was a win-win situation. I got away, and no one got hurt.

And now I ask you: what would you have done?

What truly was the honourable thing to do? Stay and hurt her feelings? Or run for the hills and let her believe that the failings were all mine?

Sure, I know that ultimately I was (and am) a coward, but I still maintain I did the right thing that day.

So hurray for me.

Oh wait, there’s supposed to be a lesson in all this, isn’t there? I nearly forgot. Well I guess the lesson could be to always consider people’s feelings. And that sometimes doing something a bit dodgy is OK if you’re doing it for the right reasons.

Or it could be that we’ll believe anything if it helps us keep our own self-image intact.

Decide for yourself.

Lesson 2: Don’t let a tiny penis get in the way of a good time

First off, allow me to clarify. The tiny penis in question does not belong to me.

For this I’m eternally grateful. Life with a little fella can’t be much fun. At least, that’s what I’d always assumed, until my ex-girlfriend and I met John.

A bit of background for y’all. Sarah (not her real name, obvs) and I used to meet quite a few couples for foursomes. I love a good foursome, me. Sarah, not so much. Girls usually seem to get the short end of the stick in these situations. Couples in the swinging world often consist of a hot female, quite possibly a trophy wife or girlfriend, and an extremely average male. Usually, and not uncoincidentally, the guy’s one redeeming feature is the size of his bank balance. I like to think we were one of the exceptions to the rule, but obviously I would say that.

Anyway, Sarah would often find herself taking one for the team; putting up with an extremely unfulfilling, possibly even slightly revolting shag while I had a grand old time with the girl. This used to make me feel pretty bad, so to even things up I’d find hot guys for us to have consolation threesomes with. “MMFs”, as they call them in porn land. These weren’t entirely for Sarah’s benefit; whilst not remotely interested in guys I do still find it pretty damn sexy seeing a girl sucking another cock, especially if I’m fucking her at the same time. And I must admit that I find DP (double penetration, for those who haven’t spent as much time on porn sites as I have over the years) as sexy as all hell. But anyway, I digress.

It was in one of these MMF situations that we met John. Tall, well-built, good-looking and, according to his profile on the seedy adult dating site we used, packing eight and a half inches in the downstairs department. Sarah was frothing, and I was excited about seeing her have an amazing time.

We met John in the café around the corner from Sarah’s apartment and for once, unlike so many people on those sites, he looked just like his photos. Nice guy too: charming, funny and interesting. Game on, I thought. We had a couple of drinks and then Sarah suggested we took the party back to her place.

Back at hers we wasted no time and the clothes started coming off in a flurry. John was down to his undies pretty quickly and it was obvious Sarah couldn’t wait to get her hands on the massive weapon that he’d boasted of in his profile. She sank to her knees, grabbed his jocks and slowly pulled them down to reveal the monster within.

Except there was no monster.

Instead of eight and a half inches of solid meat Sarah found herself face to face with a pathetic little cocktail sausage. It was fully erect and I swear it couldn’t have been more than two inches. My heart sank for Sarah. I didn’t even have to look at her face to sense her crushing disappointment. To make things worse (although I guess for John it was supposed to make things better) this pathetic excuse for a penis was encircled in a weird, kinky little leather cock ring. Presumably it was supposed to bolster his old boy with extra blood flow, but it just gave it a sad, gimpy look that further diminished its stature.

At this point I wanted to yell, “You lying motherfucker! You promised us a huge cock. What the fuck is that little thing!?” I could tell Sarah was thinking the same thing. It would have been perfectly justified. This was false advertising at its most heinous. We should have kicked him and his sorry little willy straight out of the apartment.

Except we didn’t. We were far too polite. Too scared of hurting his feelings and causing a scene. Instead of showing him the door we showed him a jolly good time. John had a ball, although fortunately for Sarah his staying power was closely correlated to the size of his endowment and it was all over pretty quickly. No sooner had he shot his bolt than Sarah was pulling her clothes back on and thanking him for coming. He didn’t stick around long, probably realising he should quit while he was ahead rather than try for round two.

John left with a massive grin on his face. He’d got what he came for and he was a happy boy. And I bet the same trick had worked for him plenty of times before. The cunning little fucker must have known that most people would react just as we did. Sure, some couples might have called him out on it, and I’m sure he must have endured a few humiliations over the years. But I’d guess that the majority would have done as we did, simply to avoid the embarrassment and awkwardness of a confrontation.

And really, fair play to the guy I suppose. I mean, what are you supposed to do when you’ve been dealt a shitty hand in the poker game of penile dimensions? If you tell the truth on your profile you’re not gonna get a sniff. So you can either accept a life of celibacy and porn-fuelled self-abuse, or you can tell a porky and take the gamble that people are going to stay quiet and let you get your silly little rocks off. It worked with us and I bet it’s worked more than a few times since.

So there you have it friends. Lesson two. If you’ve been bequeathed with a microscopic member, do not despair. Just lie your arse off and rely on people’s good manners and fear of confrontation to ensure you can still get your diminutive little end away. It worked for John and it can work for you.

You’re welcome.