I think I might have a problem.
The thing is, I just really love erotica. Nubile virgins and dastardly millionaires, hulking fireman and grateful homeowners, saucy college girls and naughty professors, trysts with mysterious strangers on exotic islands.
It really gets my juices flowing.
I just love to touch myself while I read. I lose myself in an erotic reverie, sometimes for hours, my fingers circling in my own wetness, before finally collapsing exhausted and satisfied in orgasmic bliss.
What's the problem you ask? And well you might.
The problem isn't with the erotica, or not as such. I certainly don't feel ashamed or anything like that.
Its just that I've never found a man who could live up to it. To be blunt, I've never, yet, met a man who could make me come.
I enjoy sex.
I like feeling a man moving inside me. It just doesn't lead to anything and leaves me feeling frustrated and aroused until I can sneak off to the bathroom with my phone and give myself the pleasuring I need.
Now, I know what you're thinking, plenty of women can't come just from sex and, if you want to get technical, penile penetration isn't everything.
But it isn't just that, hands and even tongues, although better, don't quite do the trick either.
The first time a man went down on me, I thought, yes, this is it.
But it wasn't.
To begin with, it was amazing. It felt better than anything else I'd ever felt with a man, and it was always a favorite theme in my stories.
But in the real world, it didn't quite get me there either and in the end he lost interest.
And, to be honest, almost getting there but but not quite was almost worse than missing by a mile.
So, I've had a few boyfriends and a few one night stands, including one with a bad boy with a motorcycle who used to get my knickers wet just thinking about him.
But nothing really worked, nothing really, when it came down to it, nothing really got me off.
Motorcycle man was a particular disappointment. He used to work as a courier at the law firm where I was working at the time. He used to look so good in his tight leathers that I used to fantasise about him all the time.
I would picture his face as I read my stories. I was going through a bad boy phase at the time, more in terms of reading than real life you understand, and he fitted the bill just perfectly.
I would imagine him bending me over my desk, panties round my ankles, my tight little skirt hitched up over my arse while he slid his thick cock inside me. In my more naughty moments, I'd imagine the whole office watching as he fucked me deep and hard.
He used to give me so many delicious orgasms without him being in the room that I was convinced I'd be a trembling, quivering puddle of excitement as soon as he actually laid his hands on me.
Alas the reality didn't quite live up to the fantasy.
I'd popped out one lunchtime to get a coffee when I saw him leaning against a pillar, smoking a cigarette.
He looked so good, I just had to take my chance.
"Hey, do you mind if I take one of those?"
I didn't really smoke although I quite liked one now and again. It was just an excuse to approach him.
At first he looked annoyed to be asked but then he looked me up and down.
Normally, I'd be annoyed to be so blatantly checked out but it all fitted so well with my bad boy fantasy that it actually made me quiver.
I just really hoped he thought I was hot enough to give up a cigarette for. I was dressed professionally but my white top was quite tight and, I thought anyway, made my tits look perky underneath them.
He smiled, "Sure," he said.
He lit another cigarette with his Zippo lighter and passed it to me. It was the sort of thing that should only have impressed a teenage girl but it made me feel girly somehow and I enjoyed it.
I flirted outrageously with him as we smoked.
He didn't say much. Too cool, I thought. Too stupid, I tried not to think.
Finally, it was time to go. I made some comment about seeing him again and he asked me, very casually, for a drink that evening.
Maybe the problem was that I was too pushy, too forward. I didn't want a boyfriend. I just wanted him to fuck me.
But that isn't how the fantasy goes.
In the stories the girl is shy, virginal even. The good girl. She is seduced and whisked off her feet by a dark, irresistible passion she cannot control or explain.
She doesn't make the running.
She certainly doesn't suggest the boy invites her back to his flat after three drinks and some stilted conversation, dropping to her knees to suck him off the moment the door is closed.
She doesn't. But I did.
I quite like giving head. I know a lot of girls don't but I do. Maybe because there's zero expectation that its meant to make me come, so it takes the pressure off.
I liked feeling slutty, being the bad girl. It was exciting to be in a strange man's place, taking his dick in my mouth, living out my fantasies. I tried to ignore the relative squalor of where he lived.
True, he seemed a bit taken aback almost. Not complaining obviously but not the dominant, in control figure of my dreams.
The sex, when it came, was fine.
Not much more than that really. He didn't bend me over, slap my arse or call me his little slut.
He just fucked me mechanically and missionary style on his unmade bed.
There was no question of him going down on me, no foreplay beyond what I'd bestowed on him. Just a slightly overlong pause as he grudgingly fumbled with a condom.
Condoms also didn't feature in my fantasies but nor did getting pregnant or an STD. I don't want you to think I'm completely reckless.
There was, of course, no question of me coming and I'm not sure it would even have occurred to him that I might expect that.
I was glad when it was over.
I got dressed, made my excuses and left.
Bad boys and risky sex, it seemed, were not the answer.
After a while,I began to wonder if maybe I was a lesbian. If the problem was that I just wasn't into men.
It didn't seem likely. Most of the stories I liked were about men, most of my fantasies were about men and most of the people I fancied in real life were men.
But you never knew.
I did sometimes like to read about two girls together, exploring their sexualities in tight fitting lingerie and I must admit it got me going in a different kind of way to reading about men.
Only one way to be sure.
So one night I put on a tight little skirt and a dusky red biker jacket and headed across town to a lesbian bar I'd read about online. It sounded like an upscale place, nothing too dykey.
I was approached by a couple of women as I sat alone at the bar, sipping a margherita but I politely deflected their attention. They weren't what I was looking for at all. After a while I started to think about leaving, maybe this had all been a mistake, when a different girl walked up to me.
