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Multiple orgasms. Unexpected hairs.

One of the very last times I slept with someone, back when sex between consenting single people was still allowed, I woke the following morning with a couple of urges that needed to be fulfilled.

Grasping between and behind my legs I eventually encountered something long, thin, and disconcertingly unfamiliar. Groping around delicately, I pinched the end of a what turned out to be a hair between my fingertips and pulled inch after tickling inch of it from my puckered balloon knot. Similar to a string of anal beads, except without the knobbly bits, perhaps fortunately. It wasn't entirely an unpleasant sensation, but I'm not convinced I'd subscribe to the YouTube channel.

There was more to come. Well, there wasn't, because those urges had been wonderfully mutual upon waking, but there were, unbeknownst to me, further treats in my lunchbox.

It's quite difficult to describe the sensation of pulling what feels like a two foot long hair out from inside one's cock. But anyone who has experienced the slow withdrawal of something that definitely should not have been there in the first place will have an inkling. In this case it was faintly delicious and appallingly baffling, deeply uncomfortable and yet strangely thrilling, and a mystery that could never be repeated. Though actually it happened on the following morning too. Perhaps my spam javelin contains some sort of a Shark*?

*It's a vacuum cleaner that's particularly good at sucking up hair. You don't have to follow @bumblingd on Twitter for this shizzle. But you probably should.

In many ways, the sensation was a little like the feeling of satisfaction and fulfilment that can follow a sneeze that's been building, edging tantalisingly towards a climactic explosion. And everyone knows that sneezes are basically orgasms, right? Seriously. Why else would snuff have been so popular in times gone by? The tension. The growing inevitability. The fact that sometimes they take you by surprise and sometimes they evaporate on the cusp of Elysium, despite the promise of the journey. The delightful fact that sometimes they're multiple...

Not for me, clearly. I'm inherently but unattractively capable of multiple sneezing bouts. Multiple orgasms, however, remain unattainable. To be honest, if I could do that I should probably be in a circus. Galloping around the ring, bareback on a plumed white stallion and spurting spaff like a faulty Karcher connected to a man milk reservoir. Although I can't see families applauding this kind of performance. Even if ponchos were made available for the first few rows.

I'm not sure that's the sort of job I should be looking for, mind, and it would be quite tricky to find, even using Boolean search terms. But I need to find a job, because writing's only my side gig and there's a declining market for embittered grey dudes with unspecified skills. Although they are a very special set of unspecified skills. Especially if there's a plumed white stallion available. I will find it. And I will kill it.

Actually, I won't. I love animals. Including horses, though they're big, dumb, beautiful creatures that occasionally go absolute shitcakes at the sight of a crisp packet. I'm perhaps just a bit frightened of them. And their owners.

Horses... You see, this is where I'm struggling. I think I've written about all the dates I'm ever going to write about. Which means that I only have snippets, but not a story. If I really worked on it I could probably fluff out a few more paragraphs about the salty and aggressively direct equestrian who spent our first three dates encouraging me to tie her up and spank her, but there's nothing to see here. Well, there's a hint of wash-greyed underwear and a sad-eyed Shitzhu watching from the corner of the room in the denouement of date four, but if ever two middle aged singles felt the disappointment of desultory BDSM, it was on that rainy Basingstoke afternoon. Although perhaps that's Basingstoke for you, and where a dodgy horse segue gets you.

I'll join in with fantasy bondage and role play in the bedroom happily, if that ruffles your truffles. And finding out and fulfilling a partner's fantasies always has the potential to take things to a whole new place, so to speak. But I've always found "What's your fantasy?" a tough question to answer when somebody has asked it of me, possibly with a twinkle in their eye. I should probably prepare a stock answer involving Maya Jama and Gillian Anderson, a tightrope, pugil sticks, a small lido full of raspberry sorbet and some spirited ejaculation from atop a circus horse, but it wouldn't really be true. And anyway, Billy Smart's taken an injunction out against me. 

Point is, I'm probably living my dream already. If we're discussing sexual fantasies, there's a good chance we're thinking about getting naked and doing all the sex, if we haven't already. And for me that's about mutual desire, and joyous exploration, so my fantasy's being fulfilled. If boundaries or opportunities present themselves, set some KPIs and deliver on deadline in a focused manner. 

Hang on. Have I copied and pasted the wrong phrase entirely into that job application I just sent? I was clearly distracted. I didn't want to work in Stevenage anyway. Let's not worry about that now, though. I'm sure my Jobseeker's Allowance of £74.35 a week will pay the mortgage and all the bills until I find something more suitable. No stress.

I digress. Losing one's job does tend to diminish libido somewhat, and this combined with spring and summer isolation tends to stymie even the most persistent of fantasies, raspberry sorbet notwithstanding. But when more gainfully employed in times past, and thus more inclined towards bedroom high jinx, exploration of fantasies has led to some startling situations.

We'll gloss over Delphine, the Parisian with a thing about celery, perhaps thankful that I wasn't planning to make risotto that weekend.  And I've already written a little about Zeta, whose penchant for knife play was a little too cutting edge for me.  But perhaps there's just enough time to mention Alexandra. Although it wasn't so much what tickled her fancy, as the way she shared the information with me.

We'd met in a shop, not long after I was first newly single. And while nothing was ever formalised, or even casualised, we became infrequent friends with benefits in the sense that we occasionally bumped into each other and all our clothes fell off. A show-jumper from Bulgaria, Alexandra was striking, deep-voiced and physically both strong and assertive. Sex felt like a faintly aggressive transactional athletics contest. Which isn't necessarily always a terrible thing, but can leave bruises in strange places. I didn't even know I had fetlocks or could develop saddle-rash until then.

Be that as it may, we were dressing after just such an occasion, and while my mind was on knee-strapping bandages and arnica salve, Alexandra asked me about my fantasies. I mumbled something unmemorable which probably didn't mention healing ointment or not being repeatedly body-slammed with Eastern European enthusiasm, before asking, as is polite, what hers were.

I shall always remember the moment she turned to me, afternoon sunlight dappling the sweat glistening across her rippling shoulder muscles, and with the voice of an angel, provided that angel was the love child of Tommy Vance and Mola Ram, and had grown up on a diet of gravel, fixed her eyes on mine and barked "Anal!"

I'm only glad this revelation came up on our exit, rather than our entrance. I don't think I've ever heard a request for wish fulfilment delivered in a more terrifying manner. It was shouted like an order from a particularly brutal horse trainer, and like a nervous foal, Little BD might just have crumpled had circumstances suggested the immediate possibility of joining that rodeo.

You can lead a horse to water, but yelling at him won't make him drink.  On balance, I'd rather take the circus option. Or pull another hair out of my arse.

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