The Closest Thing to Love: Part 1


If a couple of idiots from TV hadn’t arrived in my town, I’d never have met her. Bit of a strange story, really.

You know those shows where “stuntmen”- who the show warns you not to impersonate- put mousetraps on their cocks or stand on stepladders in a field and get their mate to drive at them in their shitty, banged-out 1995 Nova? Well, a couple of those “celebrities” performed at a club near me in the latter half of 2010. They emerged to rock music and smashed fluorescent tubes over each other’s backs. One slammed a bottle of beer over the head of another and then one put on a “bungee thong”- the other pulled the elastic so far back he reached the other edge of the stage before letting go.

After the show, they had a photo session with the clubs patrons. I got them to sign a part of my anatomy. The club put the pictures on Facebook the day after, and there I was with these two blokes scrawling all over me.

That’s how EB and I first met- she saw my tag and added me. I thought, hello, blonde little number. You’re not too far away either. We’ll see what happens.

I never hold out much luck if the girl’s got the same postcode as me as local girls are- more often than not- psychos. But we talked online and she was different- well-intentioned, kind, innocent. We arranged to meet pretty soon after.

I’d met girls off Facebook before- sometimes they look like their profile pictures, sometimes not. I didn’t hold up much hope. But we met in a bar in the Northern Quarter and, to my relief, she was cute. Surprisingly large breasts for a girl as short as her. We got on well- there was something about her that made me comfortable, relaxed, in a way I’m not normally. She was good-looking in a girl-next-door way, not glamorous, not toned, but pretty and cuddly. I felt good about seeing her, but I was already texting someone. I was planning on staying single.

The other girl had kids and uni, so she was never available, but EB had no ties other than her course and job. So we saw a lot of each other, and any anxiety I’d felt on the first date had ebbed away. We went to the Printworks for date no.2. We sat on the poof chairs and talked until conversation dried up (which I always find it does).

I put my arm on her waist and she rested her head on my shoulder, face tilted toward me. She got prettier every second. We kissed. I called her fit and she called me “alright”, her way of ripping me, and I knew at that moment, with the warmth of her body calming me, that something was different- that the boxes were being ticked. Good looking. Good body. Kind and affectionate. Has time to see me. Likes me. No sign of being a crazy bitch. Not a smoker. Blonde.

Each time I saw her we got a little closer. She stayed over at mine when I was living at my folk’s house, and she wouldn’t put out. Normally it’s me being the hesitant one and the girl being pushy with me. She kept batting me off until eventually she gave me a handjob. That went on until her wrist hurt, and when we fell asleep I still hadn’t come.

The next week: a blowjob and a titfuck before going to the cinema. I fingered her for ages, normally something I find guarantees a female orgasm. Not that time, though. She’d broken my track record of fingering girls to climax. We missed the beginning of the movie. After, I went to bed alone and cried.

The week after: quiet sex in missionary at her parents’ massive house. I don’t think I ever lost my hard-on for her. Again, I couldn’t come, but when I used my hands she squirted all over her bed.

Women normally become uncomfortable when you show some sensitivity- when you’re affectionate instead of a ball-breaking clown who just wants to jizz in her. Not EB- she reciprocated with kisses and cuddles and oral. She’d let me do what I wanted, more or less. We were seen out together, we’d see friends together- things I’d not really done before.

She was easy to love.

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