Grassing myself up II: how I took it further than I ever dreamed

Over the next couple of years, whenever I felt horny, rather than reaching out for the nearest guy - I was, after all, no great beauty and painfully shy - I reached for paper and pen. The pent-up pleasure burst as soon as the story was finished, often spectacularly so, and I busied myself rereading and rewriting, honing and refining to further intensify my responses. Though I found the writing arduous, I painstakingly wrote several intricately woven tales - again all sadly lost - in which I violently, passionately, lovingly, lost my virginity. I rarely wrote anything in which I didn't get laid, being somehow unable to find the enthusiasm for everyday prose. I'm the same now. It takes that unmistakeable tingle in my gut to cause me to flip open my iPad and tap merrily away with my right hand - while the left assiduously plays out the action on my usually naked body; hence I do prefer to write erotica in the nude.

Then, understandably, the urge to write left me: I was getting fucked for real. The sexual frustration that inspired my imagination was being sated in the real world of sweaty, spunky flesh and blood. Stories had no fertile ground to grow in. I forgot I ever wrote at all.

One day I found my adolescent scribblings and, afraid someone would find them and believe they were reading a factual actual diary, I burnt them. And here's a lesson to all of you: never destroy something you have created; it will leave an irreparable hole in your heart.

When one particularly rare relationship turned sour, I was inconsolable. Unable to sleep, I sat up night after night, the facts, the uncertainties, and the unthinkable possibilities, whirling around inside my throbbing head. In desperation, I picked up a pen and began to write it all down, in the hope it would quell the voices, exorcise the torment. And it worked. Over the following nights, I read the sheaf of papers over and over, constantly adding notes, details, sketches, jokes, hopes, fears - in fact, whatever came to mind - in an unstoppable raging stream of consciousness. With sex again absent, I wrote a little story, a semi-autobiographical tale in which I described what was to be the final fuck of my unravelling relationship and, as the sun came up and I dotted the final i and crossed the final tee, I wanked myself silly. And then I slept. Bliss.

Over the following weeks, I honed, I refined, then typed it up, burnt the sheaf of papers and stored my deliciously candid and squalid history in a secure vault on my iPad. 

I joined a dating site. Really. No shame in that, apparently, though it still vaguely shames me somehow. A pleasant chap I was exchanging emails with commented on my turn of phrase and asked if I'd ever considered writing - 'you know, stories and stuff?' - and said I ought to try. He sheepishly added that he had joined a story site and had a few pieces posted there. A what? I asked. A story site, he said again, and gave me the URL. I went there. Spent the night there. I joined. Wrote a brief-yet-intimate bio. Incredibly, the site had an adult section. I had had never imagined the like. Having read a selection, I posted my story in all its 5,000 word intimate anonymity then navigated to my page and read it, as though eavesdropping on someone else. I wanked. While doing so, I got a message from a guy who said he'd read it and wanked. Then another wrote saying something similar. And another. And another. And a girl. And another. And so on. By the time I climaxed, of the two hundred people who'd read it, around ten had taken the time to write and say it had made them cum. What a buzz! Close my eyes. Pinch that nipple. Slide in those eager fingers. Rub that glistening clit. Oh, fuck... Yes, yes, fucking yes! I came again too.

A while later, after many heady cyber sessions and not a little candid camming, I met one of the guys for sex. We fucked in his car. It was the most thrilling thing I've ever done. When I got home, I posted carefully edited photos of his cock slipping between my tits, my lips, and into my you-know on a sex story site we were both members of and - yes, you've guessed it - I wanked again even though I was still a little sore from the wonderful sucking and fucking I'd just received. Yes, this is the same plain and shy girl who, after being stimulated by an invasive stalk of grass, picked up a pen to explore and express her budding sexuality. What a story or two can do.

Over the next few days, and using the photos and a secretly-snapped video as eye-popping research material, I wrote it all down, and this time, for his sake and for his pleasure, I wrote from the male perspective. Several more days later, after much editing and soul-searching, I posted it. He loved it and wrote his own, from my perspective. It was weird, but somehow very hot. We met a couple of times more, and though it was still sexually very pleasurable (I still have the photos and short video of me sucking him off for souvenirs) the magic required for an actual relationship - and we both agreed on this - just wasn't there. Oh, well.

Since then, I've written lots of stories from the male POV and had some very good feedback. Perhaps around two-thirds of everything I've written is seen through a man's eyes. Go on. Take a look. Nip over to Amazon, click on one of my books and take a 'Look inside'.

Please let me know what you think. Oh, and clear your car out. You never know - you might just get lucky. 

Take care till next time,

Alexandra xxx