First time down

What I should be doing right now is writing a presentation for a potentially very important interview on Friday. That is what I should do, that would be the sensible thing do, as you may know that is never the path I take. Instead I am writing, with no agenda or goal in sight, just writing. I tend to take to the keyboard when things are troubling me or when I find myself in a state of flux. You will be happy to know that on this occasion there is no ‘mystery girl’ involved (somewhat regrettably) and I have no particular axe to grind, I just feel like expressing myself and it was either this or telling my life story in Doncaster market through the medium of interpretive dance. At least this way I don’t have to subject the good folk of South Yorkshire to the sight of me in a leotard.

So. If I’m not ranting and this is not going to be a love story, what is left? How about making people smile? People don’t smile enough and I think we all should more. A long time ago I asked my Facebook friends to suggest, if I was to write a book what would it be about and the unanimous response was ‘The life and times of Damien Oliver’ so here’s a snippet to whet the appetite:

First time down

I have no idea why I thought about this, or why I was compelled to tell you about the first attempt at advanced communication…….cunning linguist?.......oh ok as my mate Gaz would say ‘mopping out’ a girl. Everyone remembers losing their virginity but as that is a bit of a boring story in my case (even if it did involve a town centre window sill, an impatient bus driver and a girl dressed as an elf) my first time ‘going south’ was much more entertaining. I met a girl at a party, she was particularly out of my league but at that age, 17ish, I was more confident than Ashley Cole and almost as much of a cock. Due to copious amounts of alcohol somehow this princess decided I was good enough and agreed to accompany me to my friends flat for a night of unbridled passion or more likely a drunken fumble. Having had a couple of encounters of this kind by this time I had this ridiculous self image of some kind of world class cock-smith, in my head I was a match for Don Johnson (very much en-vogue at the time) or possible an early Russell Brand. I was smooth, but ill prepared. As things got heated and Pedro popped up to see what all the fuss was about I decided it was time to put his hat on. I took a prophylactic out of the special pocket in my jeans which I can only presume was deigned solely for this purpose and seductively opened it with my teeth, like James Corden opening a Double Decker. Along with the condom came something I wasn’t I wasn’t expecting, the pungent aroma of chicken madras. Just before we left the party a I asked my friend Neal for protection and, as he is a good friend he duly obliged, unfortunately Neal is as well as being a great friend. Also a bit of a twat and gave me one from his curry flavoured collection. As it happens I wasn’t the only one who wasn’t keen on the smell and Pedro retreated faster than a Frenchman at wartime. Being the gent I am I could not bear to see this poor girl left unsatisfied and decided to try drinking from the furry cup for the very first time. I’d seen it in some ‘specialist’ movies and decided to take a crack at it. So with all the flair and grace of a baboon tying a balloon I slid off her knickers (black as I remember, strange I remember that but I don’t remember her name) and went to work. I was on my knees and she was flat on her back on the living room carpet, taking in the ambience of the two candles on the fireplace and the romantic sounds of East 17 on the stereo. I started lapping it up, not stopping to take a breath and responding to her moans of pleasure……or so I thought. I was young and eager and in that situation sounds of pleasure and pain are not dissimilar. What had actually happened was that in my haste to bring the lady to orgasm I had stated to push her around the living room floor like a Jack Russell pushing a football. The call came for me to stop when her journey across she shagpile was brought to an abrupt end by the immovable skirting board. That was not the end of this poor girls pain, as she stood up, slightly shaken I noticed her back. Oh dear. She had carpet burns from her buttocks to her shoulder blades, just imagine the colour of Alex Ferguson’s nose and you will be about there. I tried suggesting I put some cream on or something but the only thing to hand was a tube of deep heat and for some reason she didn’t really take to that idea. In fact the only thing she wanted was her mum and after a quick and awkward 2am telephone call that is what she got. Her mum arrived shortly after, I found her quite rude, she hardly said two words to me. But she took her daughter home (or possibly hospital) and that was the last I saw of either of them. So let this be a lesson to you, if you find yourself with only curried condoms do yourself a favour, slip it up her bum and if she complains just let her know it could be worse. You could go down on her.

If anyone likes this I may have another instalment of My Sexual Misadventures, watch this space!..............