I need to get some fucking sleep!!

Went out for a party last night for a website called www.beautifulpeople.net. For those who aren't in the know, it's a dating site where you upload your face picture and the current members get to vote you in or out depending on how beautiful they think you are. Votes range from "Yes! Certainly!!" to "No! Not at all". I know, it sounds naff, doesn't it? lol. I joined up in April 2005 when it first started in the UK (of course I got voted in!!!) and had a blast of a summer with the crazy people I met on there. One memorable "party" involved taking a bouncy castle, ice-cream machine, lots of weed and even more alcohol to Hampstead Heath. We did get our fair share of disapproving tuts from the matriarchal elite who pass through there with their Third-World-looking starving chihuahuas. We all also ended up having sex (lots of sex!!) with each other - one-on-one, boy-girl, boy-boy, girl-girl, girl-girl-boy, girl-boy-girl, boy-girl-boy, boy-boy-girl-boy-girl-girl etc. If I'd drawn a map/chart, it would have looked like a spider's web woven whilst good old spidey was on crystal meth.

Annnyway - the party last night was held at Mahiki which, as everyone knows, is one of the "high end" clubs, frequented by celebrities, royalty and your stereotypical Euro-trash, that is no more than a glorified cattle market. I decided to go pretty last minute but got there in good time to bump into Tom* - one of my boy-girl-girl flings from the heady days of 2005. Tom's a very odd guy - no, seriously, extremely odd. He's got the strongest Scottish brogue I've ever heard so you can't understand a fucking word of what he's saying but then you kind of get lost looking at the physical "perfection" he embodies and, suddenly, verbal communication doesn't seem to be all that important any more. But no, this isn't about Tom - sure, we exchanged numbers again and mumbled vague suggestions about going to another party later that night together, but it pretty much ended there. You see, Tom, as beautiful as he is, has a certain problem referred to as "coke dick" - you know, when a guy's had so much fucking coke that his member can't do more than wilt sadly, no matter how hard you try to coax it into something a bit more, erm, "substantial". So no Tom action.

I did, however, start chatting to a guy I thought was Tom's friend who I later found out had only just met Tom at the bar earlier in the evening. Harry* - smart clued up air-force guy, 41, divorced, two kids, tall (very tall!) with yummy hazel eyes. When Tom et al decided to go on to a house party elsewhere, Harry and I decided to stick it out for a bit longer. We got chatting politics and one drink led to another ... To be fair, Harry was a perfect gentleman who walked me to Victoria to catch my train - AFTER he somehow managed to guide/lure me into his flat nearby with heavenly promises of food (actual food!) - pitta bread, humous, cherry tomatoes and fresh watercress (drooling even now). I never did get to finish the food - I somehow ended up naked in Harry's bed with him giving me an all over massage that felt bloody marvellous. Then followed six hours of really intense, really sweaty sex. His oral skills couldn't be faulted (tres enthusiastic) and I think I managed to lose count of how many fingers he had. It could have been ten, could have been fifty - all I know is that they were all over, everywhere. The only thing I could possibly fault is the taste of his cum (yes, I swallow - unless it really is nigh on impossible to do so without being sick!) - what is it with healthy guys on great diets who have the most bitter tasting stuff emanating from their dicks?! Very odd. But then again, that's one fault out of a series of faultless sessions of sex.

One interesting thing he said to me - when he first laid eyes on me in the club and spoke to me, he thought I was a butter-wouldn't-melt kinda girl. Why do all the men I end up shagging think this? Do I give off some kind of Virgin Mary vibe? I don't mind, not really - it's just that think of all the other cute guys (and girls!) I could have ended up shagging if only they realised that my posh-lady act was a front in the real world for a really debased, depraved, roving sexuality. I think I might have to get a tshirt that says, "Totally fuckable, and yes, "butter" would definitely melt and dribble down this posh girl's chin". Silly, but it might do the trick :)

I finally left Harry's at 7 a.m. this morning exhausted and happy. Which starts to beg the question- what am I doing up writing about this when I should be catching up on some well-deserved shut eye?! A perfectly reasonable question, the answer to which is that I've been masturbating pretty much non-stop since I got home. Yes, slutty and crazy - a great combination :)

PS - I never did get Harry's number. Or his last name. I can't even remember his address (that's how dazed and confused I was when I left!). Chances are I'm never going to see or speak to him ever again - a true and proper one night stand with a complete and total stranger. Probably for the best though - that'll be a great way of sticking to my "one-time" rule ...