Crusty Cock, Cunnilingus and Bare Ass Exhibitionism on Oxford Street Part 1

Crusty Cock, Cunnilingus and Bare Ass Exhibitionism on Oxford Street
Part 1

The boss is on holiday so I leave work early; 5:50 instead of 6:00.

Then again I got to work twenty minutes late this morning so rightfully I should have stayed thirty minutes more. Whatever.

I didn’t take lunch and in the whole scheme of things does it really, really matter? I think not.

They day is over. I’m all glammed up. I’m looking fierce. I’m wearing a short brown Lederhosen skirt, brown stockings, brown clogs, and a low cut pink and brown striped v-neck shirt that shows off my tits just right.

I’m also wearing an Agent Provocateur pink bra (size 34DD) with matching pink & white lace panties.

Small pink diamond earrings and an unassuming pink necklace match brilliantly my fingernails, which are also painted a dark mauve.

I’m wearing make-up, but not too much. I’m going for the understated natural beauty look. Hints of pink & brown blended eye shadow along pink lip gloss and just a tad of eyeliner adorn my face.

Fuck me, I look great!

I’m walking to the tube and my phone rings. Shit. It’s him. CS. There’s a feeling deep in the pit of my stomach telling me that he’s going to cancel again.

It’s a familiar story. He’ll make a date, promise to be there then back out at the last very last minute. Then I’m the idiot for accepting his apology. I’m even more of an idiot for agreeing to go out at a later date.

So I’m shocked when CS says, “I’m just getting on the tube now. Be there in thirty minutes.”

“Okay see you soon,” I reply. I hang up and flip the mobile closed. I’m grinning from ear to ear.

It’s finally kicking off: My date with CS; my former boss; big time TV producer; married; two kids; two BAFTAs and by night a closet cross dresser. Or as he prefers to be called, a tranny.

We were supposed to meet up the previous week but he backed out. After about 8 times of him backing out in the past 6 months, you think I’d get the hint. He likes the idea of extreme flirting: net sex & phone sex. The reality, however, scares him shitless. He’s scared to cheat on his wife. He’s even more scared to delve into the world of transvestism.

See, I’m the first person in 12 years that he’s told about his cross-dressing. Apparently, his wife doesn’t even know. I often think, “Why me? Why did he tell me?” Maybe I’m just a gullible mug ready to listen to any bleeding heart story? Maybe I’m just a friendly face? Or maybe on some deeper level we understand each other?

Back in the 90’s CS was in a relationship with another male to female transvestite up in Grimsby. The relationship ended when his lover Stephan(ie) killed herself. Then for reasons I can’t fathom CS decided that he wanted to live a “normal” life.

He met a girl, got married and had 2 kids. Happily ever after? Well, if you consider happy being a philandering closet cross-dresser, then there you go. Well, at least he has a BAFTA or two.

The first 7 times CS cancelled his dates on me I took it in stride. I’m the sort of person who is VERY reluctant to give someone a second chance. Let alone a third, fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh and 8th chance.

Usually I’m not so bothered to pursue someone. But I really, really wanted to fuck him. Moreover, I wanted to fuck him before 2007. Be it lofty or not it, was my goal to fuck CS before the end of 2006. And if I got to fuck him while he’s wearing a skirt, all the better. I don’t know when that became my goal, or more importantly why. I, however, wanted to fuck him more than anyone else in 2006, including the BFE.

The 7th time he cancelled on me (2 weeks ago) I freaked out. I sent him a text saying, “Game over.” I just got tired of all his flirting that ultimately leads nowhere. It’s like he’s just leading me on.

I then sent the red lacy camisole and knickers that I had bought for his birthday to him at work. I didn’t put it in the post. Oh, no, I put it in a Tesco’s bag and gave it to my friend Goldie works in the same office as CS.

“Put this on CS’s desk.” I said, dropping the bag in front of her as we waited for our lunch at Wagamama a fortnight ago.

“What is it?” Goldie asked.

“It’s knickers and a camisole?”

“Yours?”

“No they’re way too big for me. They’re his size.”

“What?”

“Oh yeah, he’s cross dresser. Don’t tell anyone, though.”

I know, I’m being a bitch by telling one of his co-workers. But after all, she’s my pal and I was in bitch mode. At that point I sort of didn’t care who knew about CS’s cross dressing. As far as I’m concerned that’s his asshole tax for blowing me off 7 times.

The next day while I was at work and he instant messaged me.

CS
Hello

Anjelika
Hi

CS
How are you?

Anjelika
Ok

CS
I got your gift. It’s lovely. Thank you.

Anjelika
You’re on my shit list.

I was actually tired of his shit. I didn’t want to talk to him. So I just signed off. The next day instant messaged me again.

CS
Hello.

Anjelika
Yeah?

CS
What do I have to do to get off your shit list?

Anjelika
I don’t have time for this. You figure it out!

I signed off and went back into the editing suite.

The next day in the evening while I was at home watching TV my mobile rang. It was him. The disturbing thing is when I get a phone call on my mobile a picture of the person calling me pops up. So the first thing I saw was a picture of him.

I let my mobile ring and ring until voicemail picked up.

He didn’t leave a message so I sent him a text:

Dec 20, 2006 22:23
From: AJ <+447XXXXXXXXX>
CS, what do you want?


Dec 20, 2006 22:26
From: CS <+447XXXXXXXXX>
Meet 2morrow?

Dec 20, 2006 22:35
From: AJ <+447XXXXXXXXX>
Enough of your games. If I
actually believed that you’d
turn up I MIGHT consider it.

My phone rang again. I let it go to voicemail. He left me a message. He said that he’s not playing any games and that his wife gave him a green card to go “Christmas shopping” tomorrow evening. He wants me to meet him at 6:15.

I somehow expected him to sound worried or concerned. I thought I’d hear a pang of fear in his voice, but none of that! If anything he sounded smug; confident like he couldn’t care less if I meet him or not. What’s that all about?

So here it is, 5:50 and CS just called me to say he’s getting on the tube.

It’s all kicking off. I get on the Northern line and luckily get a seat. I re-apply my pink lip gloss while simultaneously scanning through the London Lite to see if they’ve published any more entries of my blog.

I try to imagine how tonight will go. Basically he has an hour to meet me then he has to spend the rest of the night shopping. Shit. There’s not a lot you can do in an hour in a pub. So maybe we’ll just talk there. The one thing I can’t count on is having a lot of time with him.

I meet him at the Moon Under the Water bar on Charring Cross Road. As I approach the entrance I hear him call my name. I turn around. There he is: Tall, handsome, blonde. His hair is slightly shorter than when I last saw him. I think I preferred it a bit longer even though the haircut looks nice. Very corporate. He’s in nondescript blue suit with a light blue shirt and dark blue tie. He’s carrying a black backpack and a white plastic John Lewis bag.

“Hey,” I say without a single hint of bitch mode.

“How’s it going?” He asks.

“Yeah, pretty good just getting ready for Christmas.”

“Yeah, I have to get something for my wife and kids tonight.”

If there’s anything that kills the mood when you’re with your mistress it’s bringing up the wife and kids. Not that I’m officially a mistress or anything, but still!

“Why did you pick this bar?” I asked, changing the subject.

“I didn’t know where else to go,” he confesses, “It’s near the shops as well.”

“I know a few pubs near Soho Square, let’s go there,” I suggest.

“Okay, I need to hit a cash machine first.”

He seems weird. Apprehensive; discombobulated; not very relaxed.

We walk by three cash machines all with massive queues. Shit, looking for these cash machines is eating into my one-hour of alone time with him.

We finally finds a Lloyd’s bank on Oxford Street. Even though it has just as long queue as the other three ATMs I have to concede that it’s Christmas time. Every ATM has a long queue of people in front of it.

CS seems slightly more relaxed once we’re in the queue, but we have a completely superficial conversation about the lack of cash machines in central London. We both agree that New York is much better.

By the time we find a bar that isn’t overcrowded and actually sit down with our drinks our hour of alone-time has boiled down to 25 minutes. Brilliant.

I waste no time drinking my Cosmo. In fact I drink it a little too fast. It actually took longer for the bartender to make the Cosmo than it did for me to drink it. Mental note: order 2 Cosmos at a time next time.

The Cosmo was just okay. London bars suck at making mixed drinks. That’s one thing I miss about New York: the killer Cosmos.

CS orders something that looks like a Chocolate Martini but is actually something else completely. Before we order a second round of drinks He hands me the John Lewis bag he’d been carrying.

“I got you something for Christmas. I didn’t wrap it. Sorry.”

“That’s okay,” I say, feeling truly flattered that he got me something.

“I hope I got the right size.”

I opened up the bag and inside was a white & pink flowery camisole and matching knickers.

“I hope you like.”

“I love it!” I’m gushing, I know, but I feel truly flattered.

I’m feeling decidedly tipsy as I’m downing my second drink. We’re sitting close together at an L-shaped table. I’m feeling brazen and slightly drunk. I’m looking into his eyes thinking, “Please kiss me.” Somehow my Jedi Mind Trick doesn’t work. Instead I blurt out with,

“How much money do you make?”

“I’m not going to tell you that.”

Ok so it’s okay for him to tell me he’s a tranny but salaries are off the table?!? Right! I sooooo do not understand English Culture.

“Well, okay. About how much do you make? Do you make more than 100K?”

He looks at me slightly offended, “I was making more than that ten years ago.”

“Oh sorry, I had no clue.”

“Why are you asking?”

“Just curious.”

Awkward pause.

“Why does your wife work? She doesn’t even need to.”

“I don’t know. She only works part time.”

“Oh. But still if you have the choice to work or not too, I would just not. Then I could focus on the things I really want to do.”

“Like what?” He asks.

“Be a writer.”

“A writer?”

“Yeah, that’s what I went to college for. I’m doing fuck all with my degree now. Don’t get me wrong I love working in TV, but I’m really in it for the money.”

“I had lunch last week with one heads of another network,” he declares as if I should find this news earth-shattering.

“Which one?”

“[______]”

“Yeah, I hear they don’t pay a lot,” I say, trying not to sound too discouraging.

“They don’t.”

“How did your lunch / interview go?”

“I think it went okay, but I dunno. I might have gone on too much about [__ the TV show he produces __],”

“See, you’re the sort of person who has big, sort of grand ideas. But strangely you get caught up in all the technical details.” I tell him.

I know how much he loves to be analyzed so I go on,

“CS, you’re really intelligent. Maybe too intelligent for what you’re doing. You spend most of your time at work bored shitless even though you’re great at what you’re doing.”

He takes a sip of his drink, “I know. They’re trying to push me out. I can feel it. Eagle Eye is scrutinizing everything I’m doing. It leave me second guessing everything.”

I love when he’s vulnerable.

I reach for his hand under the table. I lean forward.

“I want to kiss you,” I say in a really seductive voice.

He looks back at me almost apologetically and says, “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Shit balls! Fuck. Shit. Fuuuuuuck. That is like THE WORST sort of rejection you can get from a guy. Clearly he isn’t drunk enough.

This is going to take lots more persistence and my hour with him is now officially over.

[End of part one. Part two coming soon! It's taking me ages to type out.]

Naive Year Resolutions

1. Be punctual (I am late for everything).

2. Put at least 20% of salary into savings.

3. Buy (another) property.

4. Stop sleeping with married men.

5. Swim 40 lengths at least twice a week.

6. Stop drinking Coke.

7. Drink more water. 2 liters per day.

8. Get a book deal. Become a published author.

9. Set up second bedroom as an office.

10. Don’t buy any more clothes until I buy bespoke closets.

11. Brush dog’s teeth at least once a week.

12. Re-focus on diet. Lose another lose 1.5 stones before April. Then another half stone before September.

13. Keep nails well manicured at all times.

14. Don’t sweat the petty things. Let go of things that don't matter.

15. Go to bed before midnight.

16. Update blog at least one a week.

17. Spend 30-minutes a day writing.

18. Make friends with more girls; a least one a month.

19. Take a two-week holiday.

20. Fuck a celebrity

Back on the iTunes Store

Hey,

I'm back on the iTunes Store. I'm guessing I was banned for sexual content, but I was never give a reason why. I changed some of the titles of podcasts, but the content remains the same. So while I'm testing the waters, I'm going to try not to put up any podcasts that are too racy.


CLICK HERE TO SUBSCRIBE TO MY NEW PODCAST



And before you ask, no those are't my lips. My lips are fuller and more sexy.

Say My Name, Bitch!

Say My Name, Bitch!

In London, Canadian accents stick out like a turd in a punch bowl. Yesterday I overheard two girls on the Hammersmith & City line chatting. They were backpackers. Canadian. I could tell by the way one of them said, “Watch Oat!”

The girl with the very large backpack said to the girl with the smaller backpack,

“Yeah, but if you give a bloke a nickname he'll never be serious boyfriend material.”

“No, not true,” said the other girl, “What about that Welsh guy you dated last year?”

“Which one?”

“You dated more than one Welsh guy last year?”

“I lived in Wales!”

“For like a month!”

“Six weeks.”

“Whatever,” dismissed the smaller backpacker, “I’m talking about the Welsh guy you dated last year that had the nickname.”

“They all had nicknames. And none of them turned into serious relationships. Which is exactly my point. You can never have a serious relationship with someone you’ve given a nick name to.”

“That’s rubbish!”

Is it? I started thinking about my own dating and relationship life. Could it possibly be true that you can never have a serious relationship with someone you’ve given a nickname to?

I’m in some serious trouble because I give every guy I date a nickname. Wait, that’s not entirely true. Every guy I KNOW I give a nickname to, whether we’re dating or not. A few of the nicknamed include:

Carpenter Dan
Phat Dan
Van Dan
Fast Fingers Dan
Bob, the hairdresser
The BFE
Richard, the Roadie
Hot Rich
Richie Chef
Crazy Simon
Soda Simon
Eagle Eye
M.A.G.M. (the Mysterious Acoustic Guitar Man)

Hey, I'm a writer I like nicknaming people. But now that I think about the great loves of my life none of them have had nicknames. I’ve always called them by their first names.

Maybe giving a guy a nickname it is a way of keeping part of myself private; not facing the truth. Maybe it’s a way of devaluing their worth, e.g. I don’t value them enough to call them by their Christian name. It’s only the guys I’ve been infatuated with in who have received nicknames. The guys that I’ve been deeply in love with I call by their first name.

I guess when I nickname someone, I’m taking one tiny aspect of their life and magnifying it so that at least in my eyes it is their predominate aspect. Maybe that’s the way that I get out of really knowing people. Instead of delving deep, nicknaming them is a way of knowing them on a superficial level. Their nickname becomes a caricature of them.

I think I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve actually called the BFE by his real name. I can probably also count twice on one hand the number of times I’ve called the BFE by his real name to his face. Saying his name to his face seems so weird. So bizarre. It gives the situation a sort of unparalled gravity. Everything becomes so serious. And I just want some light-hearted fun.

Wow, I just answered my own dilemma! It’s rare that that happens.

True or False: I can have a serious relationship with someone to whom I’ve given a nickname.

Answer: False

Reasoning: In order to make a situation less serious I will often give someone a nickname. Nicknames partially mock the individual, but also assures that I only get to know that person on a certain level. I am usually not interested in learning about someone beyond the scope of their nickname. Doing so may invalidate their nickname.

For instance, if I learn that Bob the Hairdresser is an avid scuba diver, the image I have of him as a hairdressers will be ruined. Or if Hot Rich tells me the boring details of his quotidian life he may seem less ‘hot" thereby invalidating his nickname.


Nicknames reinforce a predetermined image in my head. In order to have a serious relationship with someone, I need to break through the superficiality and predetermined image. I need to delve deep in order to find the real deal


So maybe my goal in life is to meet someone who I don’t have the urge to nickname. I’m going to make that one of my New Year’s resolutions: Find someone who is dynamic enough that I wouldn't dare nickname.


2007 is looking good so far. And who would guess that Canadians could make me think so much!

Banned from iTunes

Banned from iTunes

Oh dear. Seems as if my podcasts have been banned from the iTunes store. I think this is becuase of strong sexual content. But HELLO! All the podcasts are marked "Explicit" and the podcasts are in the "Sexuality" section. What did they expect.

My podcast was the #1 Podcast in it's section for the most part of the week. I think some jealous bitches tried to take me down. I won't mention names (DAN SAVAGE !) but I thik removing me from the iTunes store was tactical.

I am going to see if I can rejoin the iTunes store with a PG version of my podcasts.

In any case, my last two podcasts didn't go up on iTunes. Here they are if you'd like to listen:

CLICK HERE FOR: Speedating and Projectile Vomit

CLICK HERE FOR: Sometimes the Best Shag is the Worst Thing Ever

If you're enjoying the podcasts, drop me an e-mail. I'd love to hear from you.

More Podcasts

In case you're interested, more podcasts have been uploaded

- I'm a Screamer

- Horny at the Wrong Time

- Failed Lunch Attempt

- Juicy Red Lollypop

- Spilt Orange Juice

Horny at the Wrong Time

Horny at the Wrong Time

There hasn’t been too much sexy action this week. My Mom was in town and I was on the rag. That lethal combination means that I was REALLY horny but couldn’t do anything about it. Well, I mean I couldn’t do anything with anyone else.

I did have two big thrills this week. The first thrill was in Paris. I stayed in a 5-star luxury hotel off the Champes Elysee. Fantastic hotel room. Totally romantic, shame I went there with my mom.

Even though I was already horny, I then made the mistake of ordering a large plate of seafood. I must have had about 20 oysters. Yikes.

After dinner I was horny. I kept trying to think of ways that I could “lose” my mom and go on the prowl. Maybe I could sneak out of the hotel room and have a rendez -vous with someone.

That never came into fruition. I figured my libido could wait a few more days. I mean how often is it that my parents are in town?

After my mom went to bed I went into the bathroom. They had a shower head massage but you couldn’t focus the water into a narrow stream. Determined to orgasm, McGuyvered the shower head. I unscrewed the head from the coil hose so that the water was just flowing out of the hose. I turned up the water pressure and spread legs so that each leg was dangling off the side tub.

Next placed the hose 2 centimeters from my clit. BINGO instant orgasm. The water pressure and in the hotel was much better than the pressure here in my flat. When I came, it felt amazing. The feeling of warm water oozing on my pussy feels fantastic. I kept the hose in the same position and came two more times.

I had to come quietly because Mom was in the other sleeping. Sometimes the quiet orgasms are the best.

The next day, back in London, I ran into my ex at a night club. I’m not sure if I was glad to see him or if I were feeling horny.

When we stood close together in the club I rubbed my hand over his cock. He didn’t try to stop me. He had that look in his eyes. I could tell that he wanted me. I love having that sort of power over guys; when you know they want you.

The second thrill was the Test Site giant slide at the Tate Modern. What a rush, what a thrill. If you haven’t been there, go now!

Podcasting Help

A few people have mentioned they've been having trouble with the podcasts.

I'm still new to this. Here are the direct links to the podcasts. I'll figure out how it all works someday!





1. Phone Sex with CS

2. Anti-One is the Lonliest Number

3. Coda for the Anti-One

4. Out with the Old...

5. Heavy Petting on the Northern Line

6. Masturbation or Dirty Hair?

If you like what you hear or have any requests, e-mail me:

Masturbation or Dirty Hair

"It boils down to this: Do I masturbate? Or do I go out with dirty hair? "

I'm Podcasting

Well, I have jumped into the 21st century and have begun podcasting.

I'll try to keep it up as best as I can. It's quite time consuming.

Click here to listen to the podcasts and to subscribe to future podcasts.

And if you like what you hear, let me know.

Phone Sex with CS

Phone Sex with CS

"I actually dig the idea of him putting on a dress and fucking me. I dig the idea of giving him head under his skirt. It seems so crazy and naughty and off the wall that I would actually do that.”

A few day ago I got a phone call out of the blue from CS. In case you need your memory jogged, CS is my old boss. He heads a department at a particular Television Broadcast company. His hobbies include Welsh rugby, computer games and cross-dressing. As you would suspect wife and kids don’t know. I wonder, however, which is the worst secret:

A. That you’re a cross dresser or

B. You’re a cross dresser who has fucked half the girls in the office.

See Heavy Petting on the Northern Line for more info on him.

He was calling me from his back garden. His wife was asleep upstairs. We were having a sort of normal conversation about work, documentaries, stressful jobs etc when broke out with, “So how do you do this uh, phone sex thing?”

How fucking presumptuous! He calls me just for phone sex. Asshole. Or maybe I’m the asshole for taking the bait.

“I dunno,” I answered, “you called me, remember?”

“Oh yeah,”

“I wanna see you in drag.” I declared.

OK, admittedly I was initially way freaked out by the cross-dresser thing. When he told me I tried to play if off like the cool New Yorker I am. Secretly, I was freaked. The more I started thinking about it, more comfortable I got with the idea. So now I actually dig the idea of him putting on a dress and fucking me. I dig the idea of giving him head under his skirt. It seems so wrong, but so right. It seems so crazy and naughty and off the wall that I would actually do that.

He tells me that he’d love to dress up for me. At the same time he seems self-conscious. He starts planning out what he’d wear if we were to fuck.” What’s bizarre is that he goes in to intricate detail. *I* don’t even think about what I’m going to wear when I’m fucking someone and I love fashion.

He tells me that he’d wear fishnet stockings. Black high heel patent-leather shoes, black crotchless knickers, lacy black boostier and then he sends me a link to a tight-fitting red dress on Ebay. He also told me that he would wear bright red lipstick. What a fucking train wreck!

“Ew!” I said, “That sounds really tarty. Like a really bad outfit. I don’t go fort tarty. I go for classy. Aim higher. Also pointy shoes are horrible. Only whores wear pointy-toed shoes.”

He seems embarrassed albeit impressed with summation of his outfit. He says that I’m the sort of guidance that he needs for his transvestitism.

He goes on to say that he loves to dress up. He likes the idea that he can dress up as a woman and be sexually attractive. I’m not so sure about that. He’s only borderline attractive as a man. As a woman he must be a right munter. But who am I to hold any judgments?

He asks me to describe what I’m wearing. I was so unglamorous. I was wearing sweat pants a gray athletic Harvard T-shirt. No bra. No knickers. I figure why lie about it? He seemed disappointed that I wasn’t wearing something more sexy; but hey, I was home with the dog, why bother dressing up for that?

He tells me that he would love to go down on me; to place his mouth on my pussy; flick my clit with his tongue and simultaneously place his thumb in my cunt and twist it while he’s licking me out.

I get incredibly horny, but I don’t let on that I’m playing with myself. I want to run to the other room and get the vibrator, but frankly I’m too lazy. So I grab the neatest phallic-shaped item: my hair brush. I use the non-bristly side of the brush to get myself off. I straddle the brush and move my hips up and down. He’s on the phone whispering the filth he would do to me; how he would love to come inside me; flip me over; fuck me doggie style; fuck my mouth; sit on my face; let me fuck him with a strap on. It all sounds good. And so I cum quietly. Apart from two little sighs he was none the wiser.

I tell him I have to go walk the dog. That's my favorite excuse. He seems perplexed by the sudden departure. I don’t care, though. It’s all about getting *ME* off.

Coda for the Anti-One

Coda for the Anti-One

“I just wanted to wring his fucking neck”

Surprisingly, I have received as much e-mail and instant messages for “Anti-one is the Lonliest number” as the, “I Fucked a Girl and Stole her Skirt” entry. I say surprisingly because there wasn’t a stitch of sex in it and I assumed most people would skip it. I suppose I’ve hit a chord or the Anti-One is a universal experience that everyone can relate to.

That being said, I got an instant message from someone who reads this blog. I don’t want to mention his name because my intent is not to embarrass him. I, however, got SO ANGRY talking to him. Now, I should apologize to the man who messaged me. My strong reaction here isn’t about you, per se. I’m reacting to all the present, past & future Anti-Ones.

He admitted to me that he was some girl’s Anti-One. I just wanted to wring his fucking neck on behalf of the poor girl pining away at him. To go further, he said he realizes when he’s pushes the girl to the limit; to that point where she’s about to say, “Fuck you get out of my life.” He then goes out of his way to woo her back into his good graces. Soon enough he puts his guard up again because he can’t imagine himself “being with her.” What an asshole.

Listen guys, if you know that you’re someone’s Anti-One, just stop. Stop!

Stop the flirting. Stop innuendo. Stop the broken promises. Stop with your bullshit. At the end of the day it’s about fulfilling your own ego. How selfish. You all should be lined up and shot.

Don’t try to convince us that there might be a chance a something (whether it be a relationship or a shag) when you know it’s not going to happen. The kindest thing you can do, and I say this with a lot love, is fuck off! Leave us alone and find your mind-fucking ego-groupies elsewhere.