NEW BLOG COMING SOON

I’ve got this theory that, when you start getting smug about a sector of your life going well, it spontaneously falls to pieces.

For the past 10 months I have been the very smug and loved-up girlfriend of Empire State Penis guy. Last Friday I actually said the words “he adores me” when talking about our relationship to my friend.

And then on Saturday morning he broke up with me.

Was quite comic timing to be fair – the last Snapchat on my story was “when bae no longer loves you” because he made me go to a Horror House the night before. And then he broke up with me because we “fight too much” and, in future, he may no longer love me.

Irony.

I have spent the week mourning and acting as if my pet had died (which is actually impossible, since I’m terrified of all animals except for donkeys). But now I’m taking back control.

I have decided to take a few months off from blogging, but will return in the new year with a new blog: Love and the London Girl. It will track my dating faux pas (of which there are usually many), as well as my rants about sex/why certain men are trash.

Fun.

So I’ll see you on January 1st at loveandthelondongirl.wordpress.com

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Out with a bang

Like all good things in life (namely, sex), this blog must now come to an end. It seems rather silly to be writing a blog about the sex life of a single Exeter student when I am now loved up and living in London. Alas.

This blog has ultimately served its purpose from my Declaration. In the space of one crazy year, I have managed to have sex, blow off (sometimes literally) the fuckboys in my life and find a perfect gentleman whose penis incidentally looks like the Empire State Building. I don’t think I could have done any of that without this blog making me see that sex can be funny and that it doesn’t have to be the serious and scary act that American high school TV shows led me to believe.

But I’m not quite finished yet.  Before I go, I want to draw attention to something rather puzzling that I noticed a few nights ago whilst having sex with my boyfriend.

The sex itself was fantastic. Usually, I would let him take full credit because I am no certified Sexpert. But now that I think about it, I have learned to do things with my hips that any Olympic athlete would rate a solid 7/10. Let’s just say, I’m quite a fan of being on top.

So the sex was going well. But then after a while he, you know, “finished”. And then he pulled out of me faster than a hand out of a cookie jar. It was, to use my favourite phrase, an “ejaculation and evacuation”. He seemed to have completely forgotten that I was still turned on and nearing climax, because suddenly he was too sleepy to talk or do anything other than sleep (OK, he did give me a cuddle, too).

Unfortunately, Drunk Me decided to take this lying down (literally) and I just lay on the bed in silence, getting rather upset whilst he slept soundly next to me. It just doesn’t seem right that we should have sex and then, when he finishes, for the act to be over. In the past, when I’ve finished first (I told you he was good), I then lie on my back and he continues until he’s finished too.

Now, I know that guys can’t do that – once they’ve finished, they can’t go again for 10 minutes or so. But he could still have done something else to me. Or he didn’t even have to drive my car himself, he could have just kissed me whilst I drove my car – that would have been hot too. It just felt like my pleasure wasn’t important to him, and I suddenly realised that sex is actually a rather selfish act when it, ahem, comes down to it.

I wanted to leave you with this story because it reminded me of the purpose of sex, something I realised whilst writing this blog. The point of sex is to have fun (well, that and making babies). If you want to have sex with 3 different guys every day for the rest of your life, then go for it (although that could result in a UTI, so stock up on cranberry juice). Don’t let anyone judge you for your actions and don’t judge yourself. Sex is about connecting with someone and caring about their needs, to an extent, but it is also about finding out what you enjoy and doing it.

So on that note, this blog draws to a close. May your lives be filled with love, laughs and multiple orgasms.

The Exeter Girl

Let’s talk about sexts, baby

I am having such a Taylor Swift “Way I Loved You” dilemma. Well, OK, it’s not quite the same because I am still very happy with Empire State Penis guy and I have absolutely no desire to be with my ex.

The only parallel between me and my ex-favourite singer, Swifty, is that we both complain that our boyfriend is too much of  gentleman.

I know, I know *cue the you-don’t-know-how-lucky-you-are criticism*. The thing is, my boyfriend is the perfect gentleman. He never tries to do sexual things with me in public (minus the occasional cheeky bum grab. Yum.), he doesn’t continually make sexual jokes and he has never asked me to send him a picture.

These are all reasons that I love him. But at the same time, there seems to be a bit of a Madonna-Whore complex going on. I love and respect his Madonna-ness, but I would also like us to turn up the heat.

Obviously, when we are together the heat is so turned up that the oven is on fire. I have never had this kind of chemistry with someone before, where I want to kiss them All. The. Time.

But we are currently doing Long Distance, which is a bit of a game-changer. I can no longer go round his house wearing see-through tops and little else (under a coat, of course, I don’t want to give the Exeter locals the impression that I rent by the hour). I now have a drawer full of condoms that may never see the light of day again (well, they probably wouldn’t anyways because I have the IUD in, but it’s still a tragic metaphor for my sexlessness).

I am a pretty sexual person, and I have little regard for social acceptableness. And this is why I want to start sexting my gorgeous boyfriend.

The only problem is, he has never braoched the subject with me. I’m not really sure it’s his cup of Earl Grey – he’s just too… gentlemanly to send me a sexy message. Plus he works long hours so, unless I launch some sort of Work From Home-esque sexy Operation, I don’t see how he’d have time.

If one of my friends came to me with this dilemma, I think I’d suggest sending a cheeky snapchat wearing not much…But as it stands, I am not a fan of my body (teeny tits, multiple tan-and-burn lines and a very pale nether regions are not the best combination) so I need a new plan.

Should I ask him about it? But surely that just takes the spontaneity out of it…I don’t want him to feel obliged to start sexting me. So I think I’ll start off with a throwaway comment, something like “I’m horny and I miss you”.

No, I’m kidding. I’ll go got something more discreet like “I miss being with you” and then add a suggestive emoji. Oooo, MAYBE A WINK FACE!!!

The worst that can happen is he says “yeah, me too. OK, night.”

I have pretty much nothing to lose, so I’ll try it tonight.

Keep you posted,

The Exeter Girl

 

Toothpaste Kisses

After a little hiccup in self-confidence, I decided the best way to get over my Penis Fear would be to get back on the saddle. So for the last week, I have been brushing up on my Sexpertise (I knew that £18 spent on Sex for Dummies wouldn’t go to waste) and preparing for My Next Sexual Encounter.

This brings us to a couple of nights ago. My boyfriend and I were kissing and watching Netflix (whoever said Netflix & Chill was dead?) and one thing led to another and suddenly I was lying on top of him. It’s odd that I felt so nervous about having sex in my head, but when it actually came to it (tehe, no pun intended) I felt fine.

But then my boyfriend decided to explore my nether regions. And not with his Empire State Penis. His face started going downtown and suddenly I was feeling another kind of fear. I’ve told you guys before that I’m not a huge fan of cunnilingus because I’m unsure how I taste down there. My ex boyfriend, to his credit, claims I taste like chicken (a reminder that you are what you eat) but my new boyfriend has never seemed very excited about my taste. In fact, he’s told me point-blank that he doesn’t like tasting vaginas.

So you can see why my brain was suddenly screaming ‘GET OUT NOW’. So I did what any normal girl would do; I excused myself to “go to the loo” (though not actually, of course, peeing because I have learned that guys can still taste your pee if they go down on you within 5 minutes) and I tried to freshen up. I wasn’t really sure what to use down there – I’ve read that you shouldn’t wash with soap/shampoo because it gives you thrush. Plus I can’t imagine soap tasting very nice. So I was thinking about what would taste nice, and my eyes settled on a big tube of Colgate toothpaste.

Full disclosure: I thought this was a brilliant idea. I literally thought I had cracked the code to minty-fresh nether regions and planned to contact Cosmopolitan to share my new discovery.

Alas, I was mistaken.

My vagina was on fire. I can’t remember anything from GCSE Biology (other than the equation for photosynthesis, which has come in so handy in real-life situations) but I’m pretty sure that toothpaste is either an acid/alkaline. Don’t ask me what that means, but I think that explains why it was having some sort of chemical reaction down there.

I waited in the bathroom for just over five minutes, trying to wash off the toothpaste & not cry out in pain (to no avail). So in the end I waddled back into the bedroom, told my boyfriend I’d done a “very silly thing” and let him giggle at the dilemma. In the end, we started kissing and the burning turned into a pleasant tingle (probably helped by the fact my boyfriend is an Adonis), so I did let him go down on me…

And let me tell you, ladies, it was not worth the agony. He still stopped after two minutes and smiled, saying it “tasted really strange” with the toothpaste mixing with my natural taste. “Strange”. Fan-bloody-tastic.

So now my Penis Fear has been replaced by a Tongue Phobia. Sigh.

The new plan is to start eating super healthily and drink lots of cranberry juice and make my own Innocent smoothies. According to Yahoo Answers that’s the only way to change the way you taste down there.

Wish me luck,

The Exeter Girl

Can’t Keep My Hands To Myself (But He Can)

There comes a point in every relationship, where one of you has a little wobble in self-confidence. I’m currently at that point. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not having a Gabby-from-Love-Island crisis of not thinking my body is aesthetically pleasing (that ship sailed long ago, and I’ve grown to love my tiny tits and wobbly bum). Instead, I’m beginning to think I’m not the Sexpert I thought I was…

Maybe it’s the long distance that’s making my brain whir into over(thinking)-drive. My boyfriend and I are set to graduate in just over a week and then we will forever be parted by 1000s of miles of grass and trees (OK, I’m exaggerating – I live in London and he lives in Brighton. But still, that’s a commute and a half). So now that I have this big sex-shaped hole in my life, I’m looking back and remembering all the times my performance wasn’t quite up to scratch. Like…

A. The time I was on top and he was moving me, then he said “I’ll let you take the reins for a bit”, clearly expecting me to morph into a Sex Goddess and front-ways-cowgirl the life out of him. But then after less than 10 seconds of me trying to move my hips in time with his (the logistics still puzzle me to this day) he took over again. Mission not-so-accomplished.

B. Speaking of not accomplishing missions, E.S.G. rarely orgasms from sex. Now, this is not a fault of his – he has a slight reputation for being amazing in bed & orgasming after around half an hour. Yet with me, he often gives up and then I have to give him a Wii-remote-style handjob or attempt a blowjob (OK, to be fair to me, I am actually quite good at those).

C. That time he told me I was only the third best person he’d slept with. I know it was many months ago, but it’s still playing on my mind. He has since claimed that I am now the ‘best’, but that just doesn’t add up. He and his ex used to have sex FIVE TIMES a day. Now, that would imply that he was having a hoot and a half with her – something my failed attempts at reverse cow-girling (/any position) cannot live up to. I also think he was just throwing me a bone after he found my copy of Sex for Dummies (mortifying day. We do not dwell.)

I’m clearly a freak in the streets, lady in the sheets. What a conundrum.

Keep you posted,

The Exeter Girl

The Night I Channelled My Inner Kim K

It is a well-known fact that alcohol transforms you into a wannabe porn star. The other night, my boyfriend and I were drunk-watching 13 Reasons Why (10/10 would not recommend to a friend – you completely miss what’s happening and then have to rewatch the episode when you’re hungover…which makes you even more emotional and more likely to cry). We were lying on his sofa and then his hands started travelling places, which felt very illicit and exciting because we were sitting in a communal area and, technically, anyone could have walked in on us.

Then Drunk Me decided it would be a great idea to have sex on the sofa (putting down a towel first, of course, so his Empire State Penis wouldn’t cost the house their deposit). I’m not exaggerating when I say that this is the best sex I’ve ever had and I think it was because

A. I felt like I was starring in a porn video – one of the ones in the College category (typical plot line of: couple start watching a film, couple start having sex)

B. There was a 1% chance that people could see us through the curtains because they were sheer and therefore transparent. But I found that oddly hot (unlike my boyfriend, who was a wee bit nervy, bless him).

C. Due to the excitement of the whole anyone-could-walk-in-or-watch-from-the-window, my nether regions were Niagara Falls-ing and sex was easier and less painful than ever before (although alcohol also helps with that).

The scandalous behaviour didn’t end there. When Empire State Penis guy’s protest that he felt uncomfortable with the whoe Sofa Sex Situ fianlly won me over, we practicaly ran to the bedroom to pick up where we left off. We tried positions that Sober Us wouldn’t usually attempt (reverse cowgirl took on a whole new meaning) and then we thought it would be a hoot and a half to video it.

Even Drunk Me was a wee bit dubious – not because I thought he would send it to anyone, but because I’ve seen my bum and it still has a white triangle from my bikini bottoms last year. Not very aesthetically pleasing. In fact, what I’ve learned from the Sex Tape is that my whole body is so white I could be a Cullen.

My extreme whiteness aside (I seriously need to learn to fake tan my back), the Sex Tape was really fun. I felt even more like I was in a porn video because I kind of was. I felt like Kim K (only without being exposed to the world). Afterwards, we watched the videos back, which was odddly amusing when you’re a Drunk Skunk, and then I made him delete them (I trust him, but I can imagine his mates taking his phone like in 13 Reasons Why).

From that night I have realised that Drunk Me has no qualms, and I’m slyly proud of my Slutty Alter Ego.

Keep you posted,

The Exeter Girl

The IUD aka Introducing Unlimited Dick

I am aware that I have been AWOL. Dissertation and exam stress temporarily took over my life and both myself and my vagina have been inactive.

But that’s all about to change because I have now been fitted with an IUD (a copper coil, for those not familiar with contraceptive lingo). It all started a few weeks ago, when I was having sex with Empire State Penis Guy and our condom broke so, the next day, I had to go to the Walk In Clinic to take the morning after pill.

Now, this wouldn’t be a big deal, if it wasn’t for the fact that the doctor who gave me the morning after pill was the same one who gave me it a few weeks before. The first time I’d taken the pill, she had asked me if I wanted to be put on some stable contraception and I had said “No, I’m pretty sure I can handle condoms. I’m a safety girl” (Quoting Pretty Woman is essential during any sexual cock-ups)

But now the same doctor asked again why I was taking the morning after pill again and I had to admit that I’m not such a condom expert. In fact, condoms hate my vagina and always seem to be breaking or wrinkling up. With this in mind, I decided to have the coil fitted.

I’ve tried the Pill in the past, but it made me an actual psycopath – I was constatnly crying and going on walks to a pond, where I would sit and cry over everything/nothing. There was no way I was going through that again.

So here I am with the IUD inside of me. I won’t lie, I freaked out at first – especially because it was so painful. I felt like Bella in Breaking Dawn, when she’s pregnant with the vampire child that is eating her insides. Plus I was panicking that this piece of copper inside of me makes me ‘unnatural’ and a bit Stepford Wives-esque – I now have a piece of metal inside of me. I am a robot.

However, after a few days, I have realised that the IUD is incredible. I can’t feel it inside me anymore and I can now have unprotected sex in all the places I’ve always wanted to:

A. The shower.

B. The bath.

C. The sea.

At school, they told us that condoms don’t work in water (although, I’ve since heard that they do…our sex ed was insufficient, to say the least). But now I don’t have to worry about that because I can have sex anywhere and at any time, without having to awkwardly knock on my housemate’s door and ask for a condom.

This feels pretty empowering. If I’m a machine, then that’s fine: from now on, I can be a sex machine. I no longer have to worry about being safe or have nightmares after the condom breaks. The IUD has taken me to a condom-less world and, boy, do I feel free.

Having said that, the coil does raise the important question: What is the acceptable way of asing your partner to get checked for STIs? Empire State Penis Guy and I have been exclusively sleeping together for over 6 months now, so I’m sure he hasn’t picked up anything new, but he’s had quite a few partners before me. And now we are going to have lots of unproteted sex, so what if he gives me herpes (this is literally my biggest qualm) ? True, he has no symptoms, but he could have latent herpes. I’ve read about it on Yahoo Answers. It’s a real thing.

But even if he does go and get checked, he won’t get his results for another 3 weeks. And my vagina and I are too impatient for that.

Fears about imminent herpes infection aside, I would highly recommend the IUD and I’m v excited (in all senses of the word) for future sexcapades.

Keep you posted,

The Exeter Girl

The Herpes Hypothesis

This morning I woke up, convinced I had herpes. True, I didn’t have those big red spots that they show you on picture cards during Sex Ed at school, but it was a bit itchy and there were little white bumps.

Now, I know that the likelihod of me having herpes is minimal. Condoms are my best friend, and the only time a penis has touched my vagina was when Empire State Penis Guy rested his penis against me back in mid-November (I remember the date because I thought the penis-graze could result in pregnancy, so took a morning after pill).

So this morning, when I saw the bumps, I freaked out. I did what any sane person would do and went to the Walk-In Centre.

After an hour’s wait, spent eyeing up the others in the oh-so-crowded Waiting Room (and, mortifyingly, recognising a boy from my English seminar), a gorgeous doctor called my name. He was tall, blonde and looked like a young version of Carlisle from Twilight. I thought it was nice to have a cute doctor escort me to the female doctor, who would carry out my examination.

So I followed Dr Dreamy to a room, and expected him to wait outside. But he opened the door for me and walked in. Then took a seat at his desk and asked the 7 words you don’t want to be asked by a male doctor at a Sexual Health Clinic: “So, what can I do for you?”

I mean, the honest answer to that would have been ‘Please send me back to the Waiting Room so I can talk about my problems with a doctor who also has a vagina’. But I felt a bit bad for the guy – he must have gone to Medical School for 6 years, and I’d feel a bit rude to turn him away. So I told him all about my Herpes Hypothesis, and that I’d probably had latent herpes since November that was coming to the surface now.

He typed away at his computer, then asked the string of embarrassing questions we all just love (“Are you sexually active?”, “When was the last time you had sex?” and, of course, “Have you done anal?”)

And then after that, he went out to get a female nurse to supervise, as he was going to check out my nether regions to see if I did, in fact, have herpes.

As I took off my ‘I Heart Nerds’ pants, I couldn’t help but feel mortified that I hadn’t shaved down there in preparation for this examination. I also hadn’t shaved my legs. Not ideal. I know that’s ridiculous – why should I care about not shaving, just because it’s a male doctor? (I’m gonna blame that on internalised patriarchy…)

So there I was, lying on the couch, with my legs in the restraints (it always feels very 50 Shades) and Dr Dreamy started swabbing and inserting things into my vagina. It was very odd. Part of me felt like I was cheating on my boyfriend – a stranger just met my vagina! It’s like a ONS, but for educational purposes (and without any sex of course).

But the worst thing, was Dr Dreamy’s pause when he inspected my vagina and he asked me to point out the bumps. So I did, and he looked closer and said that they were just glands! Aka skin that everyone has down there. Mortifying.

After the examination, I hurriedly got dressed and sat down on the chair whilst he went and sent off the samples to the lab. I made the mistake of leaning backwards and accidentally set off the Clinic’s panic alarm, so I had a nurse run in within a minute. Then Dr Dreamy himself came in, laughing at my idiocy.

The good news is that he doesn’t think I have any STIs. The bad news is that my arm is now killing from the HIV test he threw in for lols.

Keep you posted,

The Exeter Girl

Oxytocin: The Ultimate Shit-Stirrer

I’m afraid that my fears of becoming a clingy girlfriend have, officially, become reality.

Last week, Empire State Penis guy and I had sex and then cuddled for a bit, and then he wanted to go to sleep. So he did the classic Hug and Roll (cheers, Ross from Friends) and I lay in bed feeling really blue and wanting more cuddles. So I rolled back towards him and cuddled his back – effectively spooning him (which is tricky when your boyfriend is taller and more muscly than you – had a bit of a leg-wrapped-around-his-tummy situ going on).

He laughed and said “Gosh, you’re so clingy tonight” and then I rolled away and slept. But this has now happened three times. I have become a clingy koala bear and he is my bamboo tree.

But it turns out that it’s not my fault – it’s apparently a science thing. I was watching Crazy Ex-Girlfriend (if you haven’t seen this then you seriously need to re-evaluate your life) and the main character develops feelings for the guy she’s sleeping with. Then one of the other characters tells her that women grow more attached to the guy they are sleeping with because of this hormone called Oxytocin. Apparently it is released when we have sex (or something like that) and that’s the reason we get so clingy.

It makes total sense now that I think about it – this is why Sally is all cuddly with Harry after they have sex, whilst he just lays there hating life.

harry sally

But what makes this situation even worse is that I keep verbal vomiting and saying ‘I love you’. The other night, a very drunk Empire State Penis guy called me up and told me he loved me. And I said I felt the same way, even though I was sober so that was a risky move.

The next day he (thankfully) remembered what he’d said and assured me that Sober Him felt the same way. But since that night…Nothing. He hasn’t said it once! Whereas I’m dropping ‘I love you’ or some variation (‘love you / love ya’ etc) left, right and centre!

It’s all just very confusing. But at least I can blame it on biology.

Keep you posted,

The Exeter Girl

 

Post-Sex Sadness: What’s Up?

I’m a pretty happy person. Don’t get me wrong, I can get into horrideously shit moods (or ‘shmoods’ as I call them) but, generally, I’m pretty positive about stuff.

That’s why I used to find it so confusing when, post-orgasm, I would either

A. Start crying, or

B. Want to curl up into the foetal position and be left alone for a few decades.

I’m not scientist, and there are some amazing articles out there if you want to know some of the possible sciencey reasons behind it.

What I know, is that my Sex Sadness was because of the situation itself.

Let’s take a little trip down the not-so-happy memory lane…

  1. The first time I had an orgasm. I was 18 (no judgement, please) and we were just passionately kissing (OK, I judge me, too). So there I was, lying on top of him and grinding against what felt like a deodrant can, when I suddenly climaxed. And then immediately afterwards I wanted to cry, so he left and I sobbed. For two hours. This sadness was because I felt like I had just entered Womanhood and had to leave my old self behind. Note to self: orgasms don’t radically change your personality
  2. The Sex-in-Public Phase. A year after my first orgasm, I started dating another guy and suddenly had no qualms about doing sexual stuff in public. Winter Wonderland, Regent’s Park, the Zoo, St James’ Park…basically, you name a park in London and I’ve had sexy times there. But as soon as I’d orgasmed, I would start crying, or want to run away from my boyfriend. I’m pretty sure that was linked to feeling dutty after doing sexual things in such proximity to other people (including, in one memorable evening, an old couple who walked by and pointed. #SomeRegrets.
  3. The ONS. This was the guy who didn’t want to have sex, but he ‘drove my car’ (hands stuff) so violently that I think he broke my hymen. Well, it was like a scene from The Kingsman down there, anyways. The next day, when I was walking home with greasy hair and wearing his housemate’s pad, I felt so hollow and empty. It was horrid.

From these situations it’s pretty clear that I’ll feel sad after sexual stuff if I’m feeling judged.

Maybe that’s why I never feel sad after sexual stuff with Empire State Penis guy – because I’m happy just having sex in my creaky bed (even if that does drive my housemates crazy #sorrynotsorry)

Keep you posted,

The Exeter Girl