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Dry Humping Care Bears

Updated: Feb 3

Sex and alcohol come hand in hand.


I didn’t think about sex much as a youngster; I managed to avoid it until I was 17. Having heard all sorts of disgusting stories depicting frantic tongue action, fanny lickers and spotty boys with uncomfortably sharp finger nails. There were no tales of gentle snogs and soft caresses. it was more a painful tit squeeze here and a hideous love bite. I had no interest in dry humping Care Bears under my quilt like some girls at school boasted about. The thought of letting anyone near my lady garden made me feel terribly sick. I had no urges to speak of, but, certain fiddling’s in the darker parts were expected of me as I grew older. In order to fit in with my gang of sex obsessed Take That fans, I had to feign a level of interest in all things clammy and squishy. I wanted to be accepted and not come across a prude, in fact, I didn’t want to come across anything at all.


DIY sexy time was my first delving into this unknown world. I'd been learning about it on snack breaks between Maths and Science, I'd listened in on a conversation about female masturbation. I remember the girls were sharing a packet of Mistrels, the sound of the bag being squashed made bits of the dialogue cut out like a badly tuned radio, what I got from it was, one of the girls had made herself feel funny after rubbing her under-carriage vigorously in her cubby house,

"it’s what boys do....

....if they like you" she said


"you have to rub yer fanny"


I nearly choked on my Chelsea bun, it sounded like a weird thing to do but I tried that night and was disappointed. I think I missed a vital part, or the girls failed to mention... I was supposed to think sexy thoughts when partaking in the downstairs guitar solo, Instead I laid there thinking about how I could get my hands on a Blue Peter badge and why my sandwiches didn’t have the crusts cut off that morning.


I ended up with a sore fanny and a fading curiosity in anything sexual.


As years passed, the tight parting between my legs started to crack open, not because I wanted it open, more because everyone else’s cracks were open and I thought best to follow suit. I guessed I had to. I had a few experiences on park benches, a few grinds on sofas. The more I exchanged fluids the more relaxed I became about it all. By 1991 boys no longer needed a crow bar to prise my knick knacks off, all they needed was 3 pints of strong lager and a drag on a Marlboro Light.


Alcohol by this point had become my sex aid. Booze softened me and made my underwear more accessible. I was shy without booze, scared of fingers, tongues and erections. But with a trip to the Off License and a flash of a fake ID, I would be rolling around in a field with anyone that took my fancy.


My vagina became available during pub opening hours, I should have hung a mini chalk board on my pants displaying opening times and helpful information, closed Mondays, slippery when wet, look but don’t touch, men at work. Let's just say alcohol made me an easy target. My guard was down and my confidence was up. These youthful hook ups were innocent. I never had sex with anyone and knew if things felt wrong, or I felt pressurised, when to make my excuses and leave.


I had many short term boyfriends but had never done the deed. I didn’t want to get pregnant and the whole thing seemed pointless. I was concerned that if I allowed a sausage to be hidden it meant the end of my youth. So, I stayed with boys for short periods, and dumped them before the question of rumpy pumpy time ever came up.


Then at college I got a my first serious boyfriend, he was sweet and loving, we passed time sneaking around smoking hash and heavy petting. A typical first love, teenage romance, we called each other cute names and bunked off college together to suck each other’s faces off in the park or back seat of my car. It took me 18 months of various ‘bases’ to reach a point where I thought I should give in. I took the pill a month before and bought some condoms, I was responsible in this one area of my life, I loved him and thought by waiting he would respect me and not think I was a slag. Yay.

My parents went away, we got drunk, of course, then I switched off the lights in my* bedroom before we got down to business.

*Parents Bedroom (sorry)

I was worried about sex, I thought it would hurt or something would get punctured. I was scared of bleeding or farting. I took a big gulp of beer from the bottle on the bedside table and lay back on the bed. I tried to relax but my body was stiff, all corners, awkward and angled. I took a deep breath and clenched my teeth. He wriggled around a bit then made a noise that resembled an over-zealous tennis player and it was game, set and match. It hurt, not in a scream out sort of way, I swallowed and winced. Probably not the best sexy face ever, wincing.


‘That was, er, nice’ I said.

‘Let’s do it again in a minute’ my proud boyfriend smiled


But, I couldn’t stomach a second serve.


I found the experience a bit sticky and embarrassing. Too much rummaging and panting for my liking. I was too self-aware and perhaps, still too young. There seemed to be a lot of awkward rubbing which I found a bit boring. It reminded me of a school trip a few years earlier to a farm near Oxford where we had all lined up to milk a cow. There was a lot of pulling, changing of hand positions and grip pressure until the milk pumped out. My boyfriend may as well have Mooed when he climaxed. It felt animalistic to me. But everyone seemed to want it and I felt it only right to oblige, supply and demand. Like a milk round.




to be continued....


it's stayed that way until I gave up drinking. But having 3 kids gets in the way of everything. Now the nearest my husband gets to anything sexy is when I dress up in my inflatable penis costume. Poor man.


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