People call me BC. Big Cat. A nickname I've had since I was a boy. However, during my years at Art College I was known as 'Fluffer'. These are my diaries of that time. Fluffer's tales.
*
Imogen, my long-term girlfriend, had dumped me. With a lack of pride that shames me still, I continued chasing her like some desperate puppy until eventually she got some work experience in Berlin; in an architect's office with her big sister's boyfriend. Of course, I called her the day she got back to see if she wanted a drink.
Well she met me, but only to lay it on the line with a brutality that crushed all hopes of us ever getting back together. She spent the whole evening marvelling at what great sex she'd had with her sister's (now ex) boyfriend.
So, my best friend all through college was a fine-art student called Sara. She rang me the morning after I'd met Imogen to find out how I'd got on and was brilliantly furious on my behalf when I told her what happened. She demanded I come and stay with her that weekend. Her boyfriend, in her words, was, "getting on my tits" and had been "chucked out." Though to be honest he didn't live with her, and in fact his flat was downstairs from hers, so he'd not been chucked far.
Sara really was a very good friend, and despite being sexy (small and fit and classically pretty, picture a pocket-sized Natalie Wood) we'd just never clicked romantically. Not sure why as we both thought the other attractive. At least I found her attractive. And I heard her describe me on the phone once as "The big bloke. Looks like a sexy fucking... lion." It was just if we ever tried to kiss or anything, we got the giggles. Also I guess we really valued having an uncomplicated friend of the opposite sex when it came to bitching and talking about sex, which was pretty much all we did.
Sara was unusually uninhibited for a girl, but I was still surprised when she answered her front door naked except for a bath towel hanging down in front of her. She let me in explaining she was just about to have a bath, and twisted and yelped as I attempted to peep under while she tried to re-arrange it toga-style.
"Well this is making me feel much better already!" I announced as she led me up the communal stairs to her flat, her hands clasping the towel to her bottom as we went. She stopped on a half-landing at the bathroom door and pointed me up to the kitchen, then winked and gave me a cheeky flash of buttock. I lunged. She squealed, and slammed (and locked!) the bathroom door.
Half an hour later found us in her kitchen drinking peppermint tea while she monologued about her monstrous, rugger-chap boyfriend. I enjoyed the break from my own misery for a while, but inevitably the subject got round to my ex.
Sara, as usual, was way more interested in the sordid details than in my proclamations of undying love. After less than a minute of my winsome moaning she curled a lip and held up her hand. "So what was so good about her Berliner sex anyway?"
I sighed.
"No seriously though, you should learn from this, what was so much better with this other guy than with you? You used to have great sex I thought?"
"You're not helping."
Sara sketched in a notebook with a biro. Like all the time. Dark, etched blue lines of some part of a cat probably. She was obsessed with drawing cats. She snorted. "No, come on, tell me. It will do you good to get it all out."
"Well... Imogen came. A lot."
"Obviously. But how? Come on. Details."
Another sigh from me. "Apparently he was very good with his tongue. She had her first ever oral orgasm—"
"What do you mean, first ever?" No-one does aggressive confusion like Sara. But I knew that would get her attention. She loved "head talk", and would make me tell her any time I had any, or gave any. "But you used to go down on her all the time. You mean she never came?"
I shrugged. "When I asked her if she faked orgasms for me, she said, 'Not all the time.'"
Sara blared a laugh. Her eyes filled mine for a moment, then she sighed. "Fuck," she announced, and patted my cheek in a condescending way only she could get away with. She frowned at her drawing.
"But what did he do that was so good? Licking is licking. It's not rocket science."
"She wouldn't tell me."
"Oh sweetie, you didn't actually ask her?" She covered her mouth.
"Well she wasn't volunteering the information."
"Fucksake, that is the saddest thing I ever heard." She sketched what looked like buttocks now, then waved her pen at me. "What I don't understand is how can you lick a girl and not make her cum? Maybe she just never liked you... But I have to say even then..."
"Oh please shut up... Are you drawing an arse?"
"Yep."
Silence. We sipped. She put down her pen and cleared her throat. "Can I ask you a personal question?" She didn't wait for an answer. "When you go down, what exactly are you doing? No I know you're like licking the general area but... well you do know where a clit is don't you?"
My delayed reply spoke volumes.
"Oh shit, you are joking."
Again nothing from me. To be honest. I thought I knew too, but now she actually asked me, I realised I couldn't say for definite. I'm embarrassed to admit I spent the first few years of sexual maturity kind of guessing. What can I say, I was only fucking twenty.
"But surely, we've talked about... I mean, how you could not... Oh bloody hell! "
She picked up her pen, flapped her pad to a clean page and started drawing something else.
"Another bottom?" I asked. She shook her head and giggled as a pair of what looked like frogs legs appeared on the page, then a female torso and head above.
