50 Shades of Grey in Dubai

So, EL James’ 50 Shades of Grey might be the bestselling book of all time, and I’m sure many of you will have had a peek into the world of BDSM by reading it but, let’s face it, it’s fiction. A woman in her late forties has put her fantasy on paper, but many people are questioning if her account is an accurate portrayal of this sexual preference. I’m by no means an expert, but I can tell you my story of my latest foray into the BDSM world.

Sexually, I’ve always been adventurous. Trying new things in the bedroom brings a great sense of excitement, anticipation and satisfaction to me. Role play, voyeurism, exhibitionism etc. all make regular appearances in my sex life. Handcuffs and blindfolds had popped up on occasion, but it’s always been more Ann Summers than Christian Grey’s Red Room. That was until an opportunity arose for me to take it a step further…

I was back in contact with an ex-lover of mine, Mr. X.X. (I’ll leave you to guess which of the men I’ve blogged about it might be), and recent text messages I’d received from him suggested he was interested in engaging in a little BDSM. But, unlike Anastasia Steele, I wasn’t to be the submissive one in this relationship. Instead, I assumed the role of Christian Grey, albeit a poorer, female version.

Initially, when Mr. X.X told me he needed disciplining, I was a little hesitant. After all, the times when we had been seeing each other were tumultuous and I wasn’t keen on giving without receiving. I weighed it up in my mind and decided I could take advantage of the opportunity, and so I agreed to discipline him, as long as I called the shots as to where and when it would happen.

Our first session was a last minute arrangement – my plans for the evening had been cancelled, so I decided I’d fill the gap with a little kinky fun. I sent Mr. X.X a text message telling him I would be coming over that evening and, if he had plans, to change them. He immediately agreed and, already, the control excited me.

I was unprepared for the session with Mr. X.X, so I nipped to the mall to pick up a couple of bits and pieces before heading over to his place. About an hour before I was due to turn up at his door, Mr. X.X sent me a message saying he wouldn’t be able to make it due to work commitments. His lack of respect for my time irritated me, so I granted him an extra hour and told him if he didn’t comply, the deal was off. He agreed.

I’ll admit, as I made my way over to Mr. X.X’s apartment, I felt nervous. I’d slept with him several times before, but this was different. This was entering into world I had little experience of, and I felt like I was about to lose my virginity all over again. I hadn’t really planned what I’d do to discipline Mr. X.X and, with no accessories, I was worried my performance would be poor.

Just after 10pm I knocked on Mr. X.X’s door. As he opened it, I pushed past him and strode in. One look at him and I knew I had it in me to punish him. Suddenly, I found my irritation at his lack of respect for my time, rise to the surface. I grabbed his chin, pushed him against the wall, and told him not to fuck with me. He cowered and apologised, which only infuriated me even more. I needed to smoke.

Having run out of cigarettes, I demanded Mr. X.X give me his pack. As he did so, I told him he had the time it took me to smoke a cigarette to get naked and on the bed. As I inhaled the smoke, I wondered how long the irritation I was showing had been bubbling beneath the surface. Was it just Mr. X.X or had I been suppressing something deeper? Ordinarily, I’m fairly calm and rarely lose my temper. Before I could overthink it, I’d finished my cigarette and headed back in to teach Mr. X.X a lesson for disrespecting me.

Like a good student, Mr. X.X had undressed and was laid out on the bed. I ripped the duvet off him, pulled out some silk scarves from my handbag and proceeded to tie him up. I started with his hands, tying them together above his head, and then moved onto his feet. As I made sure the bow was tight, I told him he wasn’t allowed to speak, that the only words he could say were the safe words. He nodded in agreement.

Before blindfolding him, I stripped down to my basque, stockings and heels. I was most definitely in the mood for teasing. I looked him up and down, deciding what my next move would be. I told him he was pathetic for trying to waste my time earlier, and forced him to apologise. Like a good student, he did so. I definitely got a kick out of being dominant over him.

I blindfolded Mr. X.X before straddling him. I now had complete power over him and oh, how I loved it. At that moment, I could have done anything to him and he would have had to take whatever it was I gave him... Then my onslaught began. I dug my nails into his chest and dragged them all the way to his hips, watching Mr. X.X wince as I did so. It felt so satisfying. I had no idea I was a sadist, but I took complete pleasure in seeing the marks my nails left behind in their wake. 

Each time Mr. X.X squirmed, I slapped him and cursed him for being so pathetic. He’d apologise, and so I’d slap him for disobeying me – talking when I hadn’t given him permission to do so. I continued scratching him all over his body, occasionally breaking it up with light licks or kisses. But, before he could begin to enjoy my more gentle touches, I’d dig my nails in again.

After I was satisfied that I’d covered every inch of Mr. X.X’s chest in scratch marks, I then ordered him to lay on his stomach. Watching him struggle to turn over whilst tied up amused me greatly. He was so weak and pathetic, and knowing that was my doing pleased me no end. I continued my assault on his back, occasionally smacking his buttocks, leaving a red-raw handprint on his skin. I then took to biting – neck, shoulders, bottom – any piece of flesh I could sink my teeth into was fair game.

I ordered Mr. X.X to flip over onto his back again, and told him I was going for a cigarette. I left him bound and blindfolded on the bed and headed out onto the balcony. When I returned, he was in the same position I’d left him in. I straddled him once more and gently kissed his lips before biting them.

I removed his blindfold and kissed him again before thrusting my breasts in his face. I could feel his hard-on between my legs and I knew he wanted to be inside me. But, I decided to drag the teasing out... I continued to push my breasts in his face. He opened his mouth, attempting to taste them but, instead, he was met with a slap. I instructed him to keep his tongue to himself. He obeyed.

By this point, I was incredibly turned on and I desperately wanted to slip him inside me, but I knew there was still more pleasure to be had before doing so. I kissed, I licked, I bit and I scratched, never allowing Mr. X.X to detect a pattern. I crept down to his hips and acted as though I was about to give him a blow-job. With my lips millimetres away from his cock, my breath caressing his skin, I grabbed his balls and swooped down to bite his thighs. He let out a hiss of pain, which only triggered me to slap him once more.

I resumed my straddling position and, again, pushed my breasts in his face. After a few minutes of doing so, I could feel his hips bucking. I knew he’d be able to feel how wet I was, and I didn’t want him to know he had the ability to do that to me. I ordered him to stop bucking. He obeyed.

Eventually, for the first time that evening, I took hold of his hard-on and placed it between my legs. As I kissed his lips and bit is neck, I felt him trying to inch into me. I told him, in no uncertain terms, that trying to enter me would not be tolerated. He obeyed. 

I would decide if, and when, I wanted to fuck him - he would not have a say. This was my game; he would play by my rules. Each time I felt him try to push into me, I’d lift my hips up. It was one step forward, two steps back for Mr. X.X and I was revelling in it.

For his good behaviour, I pulled my breasts out of my basque and let his tongue explore my nipples. Then, without warning, I pushed my hips down until Mr. X.X was all the way inside me. Never had it felt so good. Whilst I may have been teasing Mr. X.X, I had also worked myself into a frenzy.

We bucked like animals until I came. It was, by far, the best sex session I’d ever had with Mr. X.X. But, after two hours of being tied up, he couldn’t take any more and said the safe words. The second I untied him, we went back to being our usual, argumentative selves. How two people, who dislike each other so much, can have great sex like that, I have no idea. 

I dressed and we shared a cigarette on the balcony before I left. As I walked home, I replayed the session in my mind. I wasn’t sure how I’d performed as a Dominatrix and I was back to feeling like I’d just lost my virginity – satisfied and elated but insecure. Personally, I really enjoyed myself and I was ready to take it to the next level but, not knowing his limits, I was unsure of how far I could go, so I planned to take it just a little bit further each session.

I won’t give away what happened next in this post, I’ll save the next Mr. X.X story for another day, but I think Mr. X.X and I can already give Anastasia Steele and Christian Grey a run for their money.

Sex with a sociopath

My choice in men is, at best, questionable and, at worst, downright madness. Recently, the latter has been more applicable. Just as men love a crazy girl because the sex is hot, I love a crazy guy for the same reason. But, this time, I went beyond sleeping with a guy who was just a little kooky... I was involved with sexual sociopath.

From the offset, I knew this guy had deep, psychological issues. It was obvious. His lack of charm and affection, his tendency to blow hot and cold and his preference for kinky bedroom activities were all indicators of his dark personality. Although, it took some time for me to realize just how dark he was…

At first, I mistook him for being a stoic – seemingly unmoved whether I treated him with affection or aversion. Then I considered that, perhaps, like many men I’d been involved with in the past, he was a player. But it soon dawned on me that he was certainly no player, even though he tried to convince me otherwise.

It wasn’t his sexual deviancy that led me to believe he was a misguided soul, rather his inability to amalgamate sexual activity with any kind of emotion. It occurred to me that, during the handful of times we’d been intimate, we had only kissed a couple of times, both of which I’m fairly certain I had initiated. And there was only one occasion where we had fallen asleep whilst cuddled up to one another – a moment he will likely consider to be one of weakness.

Ordinarily, I’d think very little of such an embrace but, because this slight showing of affection was so out of character, it held a small amount of significance to me. Either consciously or subconsciously, I think he sensed that because, when we awoke in the morning, he threw me out of his apartment in the most ungentlemanly manner. Needless to say, it was the last time we were intimate.

When I looked back over our fucked-up affair, I realise how imbalanced he was. He’s incredibly ambitious and creative, but also fastidious and detached. If I hadn’t been physically and, to some extent, emotionally involved with him, it’s likely I’d have described him as intelligent. However, his lack of social skills and emotional detachment were so severe that I questioned his overall aptitude.

During the time we spent together, and when we conversed, he demonstrated a lack of concern towards my feelings. Despite my expectations being low to begin with, he remained unable to express even the slightest bit of respect for me. On the occasions when I pointed out he was treating me with contempt, in no way did he seem to feel guilty or show remorse. It was as though he was cut off from any sort of feelings beyond those of sexual gratification.


Whilst he may be a sociopath, that’s not to say he’s a demon – think Russell Brand (with less sex appeal) rather than Dexter. I never felt threatened by him, but I realised his lack of concern for anyone but himself could have been hurtful. Women who do become emotionally involved with him will be manipulated, chewed up and spat out. No amount of pleading or attempts to reason with him will change this.

Dr. Martha Stout, a Harvard Medical School psychiatrist, listed out some characteristics of a sociopath in her book ‘The Sociopath Next Door’. These characteristics included; egocentricity, callousness, exaggerated sexuality, an antagonistic nature, a depreciating attitude toward the opposite sex and a lack of interest in bonding with a sexual partner. All of these traits, unarguably, applied to this guy. Sociopaths are known for being oversexed, and whilst I don’t think he’s a player (he lacks the charm needed to enrapture a woman), I do think he’ll do whatever it takes to satisfy his carnal desires.

He’s like Aladdin’s cave - a deep character with so many hidden treasures but unlikely to let anyone explore it - touch anything and it will all cave in. Whilst no-strings attached sex can be great, if you never let anyone scratch beyond the surface, you’ll never experience some of life’s more intense pleasures...

Ramadan Revelry

Most people in the UK would probably think Dubai during Ramadan is like spending an entire month in a Nigerian prison – insufferable. Perhaps for some it conjures up images of arid land, where pilgrims walk miles across the desert for a sip of water at sunset. But once the sun goes down, this couldn’t be farther from the truth.

Everyday, at sundown, the city comes alive. Lebanese restaurants are packed with Arabs eating meat kebabs and smoking apple sheesha. Malls are filled with Filipinos in their fast-food restaurants. And pubs, of course, are crammed with parched Brits who fill up on pork and beer.

Whilst this doesn’t sound like anything out of the ordinary, there is one thing missing that takes the buzz out of the city – music. There are no club nights, karaoke sessions or gigs during Ramadan, meaning most nights out are abruptly cut short by midnight, when pubs and bars throw out the drunks and shut the doors. But, there is a silver lining…

Ramadan is when most house-parties come alive. But these aren’t just any old house parties. No, these parties compensate for lost time. They go on all night and sometimes all day, there are themes, DJs and enough duty free booze to open up a Thresher’s. Dubai expat parties, during the month of Ramadan, are as close as you’ll come to reliving the debauchery of your university’s fresher night, which is why I, as a seasoned expat, seek out these soirees.

Of course, when an event invitation to a friend’s housewarming party popped up on Facebook, I immediately penned it into my diary. I then called Miss. E.D., telling her she would be coming with me. It didn’t take much persuasion, after one look at the attending list, she agreed and, later that week, we delved deeper and had a good look at who would be attending.

Scouring through Facebook profile pictures, Miss. E.D. and I discussed who we had our sights set on. There were three categories of men; ‘abso-fucking-lutely’, ‘wouldn’t kick him out of bed’ and ‘not with a barge pole’. Thankfully, not many of the confirmed attendees fell into the latter category, so we thought we were onto a winner.

On the day of the house-warming party, our girlfriend, Miss. G.G. called us saying she had broken up with her boyfriend. In our minds, the best comfort we could offer her was to invite her along to the party. After some initial hesitation, Miss. G.G. agreed, and so the three of us met at a local bar before heading to the house-warming.

I’d made little preparation for that evening. As sod’s law has it, every time I make an effort, I never get lucky, but if I leave my legs to look like cacti, and throw on the only dress on my floor that doesn’t need washing, I’m guaranteed to pull. After Mr. S.P. had told me to date other guys, and with so many hotties in attendance, I just had to risk it and hope I wouldn’t get too carried away by revealing my legs to one of these eligible bachelors.

As the three of us reached the 33rd floor, we could smell the cigarette smoke and hear bursts of laughter over loud house music. We knew we had the right place. I walked in first and spotted Mr. O.C., my friend who had invited us. I’ve known Mr. O.C. for almost ten years; we lived together in a million pound, six bedroom house in an affluent North London suburb for two years, when we were students. We used to have the most raucous parties that, seemingly, half the university would turn up to, so Mr. O.C. was well aware of what I could get up to.

After greeting us and showing us to the fully-stocked kitchen, Mr. O.C. introduced us to some of his friends. They were friendly guys, but they weren’t the ones we had our eye on. So after a few minutes, we moved back into the kitchen to refill and meet some new people.

I’d had my eye on one particular guy all evening, Mr. T.B., but I was feeling too shy to make a move. Mr. T.B. is Mr. O.C.’s flat mate. He was tall, stocky and had a smile to die for - exactly my type of man. I begged Mr. O.C. to introduce us but, when he brought over Mr. T.B. to where the girls and I were, I couldn’t say anything, which is not like me at all. After a minute or two of idle chit-chat amongst all of us, Mr. T.B. left us to it and I wanted to face-palm. Instead, I opted for another drink.

Several vodkas later and too many meet-and-greets to count, I noticed Miss. E.D. chatting to a toned, blue-eyed man in the corner of the kitchen. She was looking right at him, giggling, and I pretty much knew then that I probably wouldn’t see much more of her that evening. And I was right.

With Miss. E.D. having left the party with a beautiful stranger, I decided to look for Miss. G.G. I walked around the apartment five times but I couldn’t spot her. Had she gone home? I then looked for Mr. O.C., but I couldn’t spot him either. I helped myself to more vodka to compensate being alone.

From here on in, it becomes a little hazy, because the next thing I remember is snogging Mr. T.B. I don’t think much time had elapsed between looking for my friends and sharing a kiss with Mr. T.B. And I have no idea how we even started chatting, let alone snogging. All I remember are his hands sliding down my back and over my bum. Fuck. Bloody Spanx. It was then Miss G.G. reappeared with a huge grin on her face, but I didn’t stop to quiz her, I ran straight to the bathroom, pulled my Spanx off and asked her to hold onto them for me. I then reassumed lip action with Mr. T.B.

Shortly afterwards, Miss. G.G. left the party. I had no idea what time it was, nor did I care, I could have kissed Mr. T.B. all night. Despite being a big guy, he was incredibly gentle and his kiss was so moreish. In fact, it was close to perfect – not too aggressive or too soft, no teeth, excessive tongue action or drool, just perfect, affectionate touches. A few minutes later, Mr. T.B. suggested we go to bed, to which I agreed.

We went into Mr. T.B.’s bedroom and, there on his bed, was one of his friend’s completely sparked out. We managed to wake him and move him to a sofa in the living room, so we could snuggle in bed. And we did. Mr. T.B. was so cuddly; I just wanted to squeeze him. But then the effcts of the alcohol set in and I started to feel a little queasy. I immediately got out of bed and sat on one of the three sofas in the living room. I was too scared to go back to Mr. T.B.’s room in case I was ill, so I ended up passing out on the sofa.

I woke up a couple of hours later to my breasts being groped. I then felt the presence of someone else on the sofa with me. Was it Mr. T.B.? I opened my eye just enough to see who it was... It was Mr. T.B.’s friend who we’d moved from his bed to the living room. Still being out of it, I didn't say a word, I just shut my eye and nodded off back to sleep.

I woke up in the morning to find Mr. T.B.’s friend sleeping on the floor next to the sofa I was on, rather than on one of the other two sofas available. I got up, stepped over him and crept back into Mr. T.B.’s bedroom to retrieve my clutch bag. Mr. T.B. was awake. He looked at me, smiled and made a space for me in his bed. I explained to him I’d crashed on the sofa and then we picked up where we left off – snuggling.

We cuddled for hours, watched DVDs, chatted and ate pizza in bed. It was the perfect day. And Mr. T.B. was such a gentleman; he didn’t try to fuck, finger or grope me. I held him tight and decided he was definitely someone I wanted to see again.

Several episodes of Only Fools And Horses later, at about 8pm that evening, Mr. T.B. and I became a little more passionate. There was some seriously heavy petting for a while and then, despite my protests due to being in between waxes, I ended up fully naked.

By this time, the Only Fools And Horses DVD had come to an end and was now back at the menu, playing the theme tune on loop. Yes, I had sex to the Only Fools And Horses theme tune. Mr. T.B. and I laughed about it. It could have been worse, I suppose. It could have been Star Wars.

Despite having only known him a few hours, I was already smitten with Mr. T.B. There was something about him that made me think that this could actually go somewhere. He was so attentive, asking if I was warm enough, if he could get me another drink, if I wanted a Panadol etc. Something I found very rare in Dubai’s men. Perhaps because he had lived in the sandpit for less than a year, he had not yet adopted the Dubai Dickhead Syndrome (DDS). I hoped he never would.

Even though I didn't want to leave Mr. T.B.’s bed, it was time to go home, and he very kindly offered to drive me back, instead of leaving me to grab a taxi - another very sweet gesture. On the way to mine, Mr. T.B. and I decided we’d head to a juice bar before saying our goodbyes. We sat and chatted some more, sharing our juices (FRUIT JUICES!!!) with each other. Then Mr. T.B. asked me on a date…

I wanted to throw my arms around his neck and kiss him all over, but I refrained and coolly accepted his invitation. We finished our fruit juices and continued our conversation. As we left the juice bar, we swapped phone numbers and agreed to meet in a few days time. I was super excited. I gave Mr. T.B. a farewell kiss and headed back upstairs to my apartment, totally elated.

Over the next couple of days, Mr. T.B. and I exchanged text messages. On the second day, he sent me a text telling me he’d call me later that evening, which I assumed was to arrange our date. I stared at my phone until he called. We had a little chat and then Mr. T.B. said;

“I’m sorry, I can’t make it tomorrow.”
“Oh, ok.”
“I’ve got a lot on and my friend arrives from Australia on Thursday, so I need to prepare everything.”
“Ok, no worries, hon.”
“I might be around over the weekend, but if not then maybe sometime next week.”
“Ok. Well, I’m off to India on Tuesday but hopefully I’ll see you before then.”

Gutted.

I knew this meant he didn't want to see me, but I desperately held onto the hope that I’d see Mr. T.B. over the weekend. But, when I text him on Thursday afternoon, asking him how he was and if he was around, I received no response. And, two weeks later, he still hasn’t responded.

I’m not sure why, but his rejection stung. I was convinced he was different. And he’d asked me out on a date at a non-obligatorily moment. We were mid conversation, so it wasn’t an ‘I’ve-got-nothing-else-to-say-before-I-leave’ incident, surely?

I wracked my brains trying to figure out what happened between the juice bar and the phone call, but I could think of no reason. It’s terrible form for a guy to ask a girl out and not follow through. If you don’t want to go out on a date with me, do not ask me out, no matter how awkward the ‘goodbye’ moment is. Now, I’m forced to dwell on why you decided to change your mind and if I should contact you again, rather than just filing you away into the ‘Good One Night Stand’ memory.

So, guys, don't be so gutless and man the fuck up. Us girls will think more of you if you say 'thanks, but no thanks', rather than building our hopes up and then leaving us to come crashing down. And you wonder why we turn into emotional psychos. Jeez.

Warts and all

Mr. S.P. and I had been dating for two months and, although we hadn’t had the exclusivity chat, I was fairly certain we were both serious about one another and that I’d soon be changing my Facebook relationship status to ‘In a relationship’, despite Mr.S.P. and I not even being Facebook friends yet.

It had been more than two years since I last had a boyfriend, and it felt quite strange transitioning from referring to Mr.S.P. as ‘this guy I’m seeing’ to ‘my boyfriend’. Nevertheless, I was smitten with Mr.S.P. and I was ready to swap my alcohol-fuelled nights out with the girls for long love-making sessions with him.

As a new couple, we had been very careful when it came to contraception. Mr. S.P. was so worried about any accidents that if his member so much as brushed my thigh, he’d start panicking. One day, during a particularly vigorous session with me on top, I pulled off Mr. S.P. to switch positions, when he noticed the condom had split. Rather than taking it off and putting a new one on, he stared at it in disbelief and immediately stopped our passionate embrace.

To Mr. S.P., this was a nightmare come true. He ranted obsessively about how he'd definitely impregnated me, that I'd have to take the morning after pill and how we'd have to abstain until we changed our method of contraception. I had to explain that it was highly unlikely I was pregnant, as he hadn't climaxed and I was at the least fertile time in my cycle. I also told him I wouldn't be taking the morning after pill as it isn't available in the UAE and that we didn't have much choice but to use condoms as I'm allergic to the hormones in the contraceptive pill. Mr. S.P. vowed celibacy if that was the case, stating that he'd rather be sexless than have any accidents.

This led us to our first argument of our relationship - I felt he was being irrational, and he felt I was being careless. With both of us being far too stubborn to agree upon a solution, I rolled over to one side of the bed and he the other. I soon realised I had effectively let him win.

Mr. S.P. rolled out of bed, pulled on his shorts and T-shirt and told me he was going to the shop to pick up some ingredients to make breakfast. As soon as I heard him shut the door behind him, I took the opportunity to make sure he didn't ignore my point of view...

I pulled out the little sexy nurses outfit that was in my overnight bag and slipped it on. I fixed my hair and make-up, put on red fishnet stockings and finished the outfit with my red high heels. I knew it wouldn't be long before Mr. S.P. would be back from the convenience store, so I sat provocatively on a ledge at the top of his stairs. Two minutes later, I heard his key in the door.

Mr. S.P. called out and I asked him to come upstairs as I needed his opinion on something. I heard him making his way up the stairs, so I pushed my chest out and pulled my stomach in. The second he clocked me, I could see his eyes light up an I'd knew I'd won. I stood up and gave him a twirl, he hot-footed it up the last flight of stairs, said "wow" and grabbed me by the waist. He pulled me in and kissed me, before making me twirl for him again. He led me to the bedroom, pushed me onto the bed and began kissing my neck. I'd definitely won. He pulled out the condoms, slipped one on and slid inside me before I could even muster the words "fuck me".

Still in my outfit and heels, the sex was incredibly passionate. I could see how excited Mr. S.P. was and it didn't take much longer for him to come. Although I didn't have an orgasm, I was just pleased to have had my way. Men are so predictable, that it took little thought or effort to make him change his mind. We joked about it afterwards but that wasn't the end of it...

A few days later, Mr. S.P. came over to my place for the night. Strangely, we didn't have sex that evening but, at the time, I put it down to tiredness and being in a real relationship, where your libido drops and sex dwindles. After all, he is seventeen years older than me. I went to sleep thinking I'd get my fix in the morning.

As soon as I woke up, I started giving Mr. S.P. little kisses, hoping that his morning glory would turn into something more pleasurable for both of us. But he had other ideas and turned away, mumbling something about needing a lie in. I wasn't happy. Was this pay back for my art of seduction that I had meticulously planned the other day? Was he really that worried about it? Or did he just feel he could now stop pretending to act like a guy seventeen years his junior to keep up with me?

I sat up in bed and began reading my book, but after half an hour of page turning whilst running out of time before I had to head to work, I decided enough was enough and headed into the shower. As soon as I emerged, Mr. S.P. told me we need to talk and that I wouldn't like it. I immediately thought he was going to dump me, and so I embraced myself for the inevitable.

"I think you've given me genital warts" were the words that poured out of Mr. S.P.'s mouth. He then continued to tell me how he could have only got it from me, as he'd not slept with anyone else. I stood in front of him; wet, naked and open-mouthed. The first thing that popped into my head was that I hadn't noticed that I ever had genital warts. Then I realised, I didn't have genital warts. I'd only been to the doctor to be tested for STDs two weeks earlier and I was given the all clear.

When I told Mr. S.P. about my trip to the gynaecologist, he quizzed me about what, exactly, I was tested for. When I told him I had several tests but I wasn't sure what each one was for, he flipped.

"Oh that's just so typical of you, isn't it? You go to the doctor to get tested and you don't think to ask what you're getting tested for!"

It was at this point I wanted to slap him, but I turned away and counted to ten before giving him a piece of my mind. Mr. S.P. continued to the lay the blame on me and then he told me to look at him whilst he was talking to me. Was I eight years old being told off by my dad? It certainly felt like it, but I guess this is what I get for dating a single-dad who is almost two decades my senior.

Mr. S.P. then demanded I inspect the 'genital wart', pulling away the duvet and grabbing his member. I rolled my eyes, asking myself what the hell I was doing and why I, a girl who had never had genital warts, was inspecting my new boyfriend's penis for a suspect zit. I agreed to take a look, but there was nothing except a small red dot on the shaft. It certainly wasn't a wart and it didn't look like a sore. Yep, I'd been accused of giving Mr. S.P. genital warts when all he had was a bloody zit on his cock. If this is what a relationship is, I don't want it.

Being the hypochondriac that he is, Mr. S.P. moaned and moaned about this tiny spot as though it were terminal cancer. There was nothing I could say or do to reassure him, so I let him bang on about it, whilst I remained silent. I'm sure this was his way of punishing me because the condom broke. It was him trying to point out how careless I am, how mature he is and how we must abstain. Obviously, we didn't have sex that morning (the accusation of me giving him genital warts totally ruined the moment) and I wouldn't be seeing him for another eight weeks, as he was heading to Europe for his summer holiday, so it was going to be a long, dry summer in the desert for me!

Funnily enough, a couple of weeks later, Mr. S.P. told me the 'genital wart' had miraculously disappeared without treatment. I didn't receive an apology though, but it's definitely something I'll be bringing up when I next see him. I refuse to be a scapegoat for every health issue he has. I might be careless, but I still have my health and my youth on my side...

Third Time Lucky

I’d tipped my wardrobe upside-down searching for the right outfit for my third outfit with Mr. S.P. I wanted something playful, flirty, flattering and sexy. I opted for my, incredibly short and low-cut, navy wrap dress that has little red polka dots on it. Teamed with red heels and red lips, I was fairly certain this was the outfit that would stay in Mr. S.P.’s mind.

With my hair in curls and smouldering, dark eyes, I felt confident. Perhaps it had been Mr. S.P.’s perusal of me that had given me an extra boost. I felt excited and I prayed that, on this date, there would be chemistry. If there wasn’t so much as a quick snog, I thought, I wouldn’t continue seeing Mr. S.P. This was the third, and final, chance.

In the taxi, I kept checking my hair and make-up. Dubai’s summer heat made it incredibly difficult to look flawless after stepping outside for more than half a minute. I also wondered what Mr. S.P. had in store for me on this date. He’d asked me to bring a bikini and comfy clothes with me, which made me think we might be dipping into a pool or that he’d booked an evening at the spa. Neither of those guesses were right…

As the taxi approached the hotel, I finally felt a flutter in my tummy. I savoured the feeling, fearing I may not feel it again for a while. I walked into the restaurant and coolly took a seat at the bar. Mr. S.P. hadn’t arrived yet and I was aware that most of the men in the bar were staring at my cleavage.

I ordered a white wine and, as soon as I put the glass to my lips, Mr. S.P. appeared. He looked cute, with a huge smile on his face. He greeted me with a kiss on the cheek and a compliment on my outfit. I don’t think it was how I looked that made Mr. S.P. smile, I think it was more that I had the confidence to wear the dress in the first place.

As usual, I was immediately comfortable in Mr. S.P.’s company and we chatted without stopping, only pausing to order another wine. Several vinos later and we were famished. We relocated to a table by the window and began studying the menu. Three courses and several more glasses of wine later, and we were both having a great time together.

I begged Mr. S.P. to let me in on what we’d be doing in the next part of our date, but my begging was futile. We did, however, decide it was time to move on to the next part of the date and the suspense was killing me. As soon as we’d hopped into a taxi and Mr. S.P. had told the taxi driver where to go, I knew we were going to Mr. S.P.’s place. But why did he tell me to bring a bikini?

When we arrived at Mr. S.P.’s, he poured me a drink and told me to put on my bikini and wait downstairs until he was ready. At this point, I had absolutely no idea what was happening. It was the first time I’d been to his place and, as I changed into my bikini, I looked around and noticed how immaculate and neatly placed everything was. Then I heard my name being called from upstairs.

I walked up the marble steps and onto the landing. Mr. S.P. took my hand and led me to the bedroom. Bearing in mind we hadn’t even shared a kiss, I was wondering what to expect. As I took a step into his room, I could see he had filled it with candles. Whilst, admittedly, I did find it a little corny, it also filled me with delight. No guy had ever made that much effort for me before and I was really touched.

On the bed, Mr. S.P. had laid out a massage mat and he’d lined up all his massage oils on the bedside table. He asked me if I was ok and then told me to lie down on my front. Surprisingly, I didn’t feel awkward, which must have been something to do with the wine. Mr. S.P. let me choose some music to play from my iPhone, and then he began to massage my back.

His hands were warm and soft and his touch was gentle but effective. As his hands worked my body, I felt it tingle. As soon as he unhooked my bikini top, I knew I wanted his hands to explore the rest of my body. And as he caressed me, I drifted off into an ethereal state. It was quite possibly the best massage I had ever experienced.

As soon as Mr. S.P. had finished, I pulled myself up. His groin was level with my face, but he leant down and we finally shared our first kiss. Whilst it was most certainly passionate, he wasn’t the best kisser I’d ever come across. What pops into my mind when I think of that kiss is... teeth. After a minute or two, Mr. S.P. was lying on top of me and I was feeling the full force of his kissing. I pushed him up by his chest to control the force, which seemed to help, and we shared a slightly more delicate kiss.

I was already topless from the massage, so I felt it was only fair to pull Mr. S.P.’s t-shirt off. His body impressed me. Despite his slender frame, he was perfectly toned without having overdone it. It was very sexy, and when he pushed his chest against mine, I immediately knew I wanted to have him.

I continued to strip him, until he was completely naked and I received, yet another, pleasant surprise. Mr. S.P. may have not been the 6’3” guy I’d normally go for, but he most definitely made up for his shortcomings. I could not have been more pleased with the result when I pulled off his boxer shorts.

Mr. S.P.’s length and width were exactly what I would have hoped for and, just like his apartment, everything was clean and tidy. I could have squealed and clapped with delight! However, I managed to contain myself, instead showing my appreciation through the act of fellatio. And Mr. S.P. loved it.

Mr. S.P. then returned the favour, and I’m fairly certain I expressed my appreciation just as much as he had to me. Four minutes and one orgasm later, I was aching for him, but he had other ideas and teased me with his fingers instead. He flicked his tongue over my nipples and watched as I arched my back in pure pleasure. Enough was enough. For both of us. Mr. S.P. leaned over to his top draw and pulled out a condom. As soon as he’d put it on, he was sliding inside me.

Initially, Mr. S.P.’s size made it a little uncomfortable, but I soon became used to it and the sex was fun, caring and adventurous. It was all going so smoothly for the first time you sleep with someone, perhaps even too smoothly. There were no bumped heads, bitten lips or bruised thighs. But, as usual, my love-life cannot be without drama and, as Mr. S.P. flipped me over, I noticed blood on the sheets. At first we ignored it, but then it began to look like a murder scene.

I rushed to his bathroom to wash off and wondered what the hell was happening. It couldn’t possibly be my period, that was still another 10 days away. Had his size torn me? Had I developed polycystic ovaries? What was going on? Every time I stopped bleeding, Mr. S.P. and I would have sex again but then I’d begin bleeding. Again.

It was frustrating, irritating and, not to mention, embarrassing. Eventually, we gave up and decided to just snuggle in bed instead. It was still nice, and Mr. S.P. made sure to reassure me that it hadn't put him off me. He was concerned about my wellbeing though, which made me fall for him a little bit more. I was now completely smitten and so I decided to go to the doctor, to make sure everything was in working order, before the next time Mr. S.P. and I would get into bed…

London Lover

He’s been my on/off lover for almost eight years and, whilst we’ve never been boyfriend and girlfriend as such, I find my feelings for J are stronger than they have been for any man I’ve been involved with. I can’t bear to not have him in my life, not matter how difficult he makes it for me.

Having not heard from J for almost five months, I’d almost resigned myself to the fact that he and I are best off apart. I don’t want to wait around for him and he has his own life and family now. But on a recent trip back home, I couldn’t help myself and ended up trying to contact him one last time.

I’d lost my original UK number that J had saved, so I had to text him from my new one, which he didn’t have. I knew the curiosity of not knowing who the message was from would be too much for him and that he’d reply… he did. Within five minutes. I’d been calling and texting him for five months without a response and now he can reply in five minutes!

Our texts went back and forth until I finally told him it was me. Cue the barrage of texts explaining why he couldn’t reply to me in the past and how hard it had been for him to not reply. He then goes on to tell me sex with me is the best he’s ever had and always will be. If you knew J, you’d have been touched by that too.

An hour later, J called me. He told me how he’d missed me and how much he wanted to see me, even if it would only be for an hour. I caved in and agreed to meet him the next day….

In the past, I’d have always made my way to his house in Shepherd’s Bush but that’s no longer possible, so we arranged to meet at a train station in London. I didn’t like the fact I’d have to meet him somewhere else. I missed walking past my old flat, down his street and through his gate. I missed the anticipation of him opening the door and seeing that gorgeous smile. I missed him grabbing me as soon as I walked in and giving me a passionate kiss. It just wasn’t the same.

I still had butterflies before meeting J. I always do. He’s one of only two men that have ever made me feel that way. He picked me up from the station and the second I got into the car with him, I melted. I’d been angry with him the entire past five months and now I was putty in his hands. He looked gorgeous and all I could think of was planting my lips on his, but I wasn’t going to make that move this time.

We drove away from the station to a quiet park. It was a beautiful, sunny bank holiday Monday in London. It was so peaceful, and fluffy white clouds sailed through the perfect blue sky in the gentle breeze. We got out of the car and went for a walk, but we’d barely taken twenty steps before J grabbed me and gave me a kiss.

Nothing had changed. The chemistry between us was, undeniably, still there. Next thing I knew, we were traipsing through the woods to find a secluded spot. Pinned up against a tree, completely out of sight from passersby, we kissed more passionately. I knew what was going to happen. I’d been unsure earlier, but had prepared anyway, but now it was inevitable.

J’s hand made its way up my leg, over my thigh to my derriere. He was pleasantly surprised that I wasn’t wearing any underwear and it made our rendezvous smoother, given the location. J unzipped the front of my dress and put his mouth to my breasts. Nobody could do to me what J was doing. After more than seven years of sleeping together, he knew my body like the back of his hand. He knew how to make me melt and he used it.

All of my feelings for J resurfaced, and I couldn’t get enough of him. I knew it was dangerous territory but I couldn’t control myself. His kisses made me so weak. We had sex against the tree, and I held onto J so tightly. I never wanted to let him go. It was an amazing encounter and one I will never forget.

Afterwards, we went for a few drinks at a pub. For the first time in a long time, we spent time together where we weren’t fucking like animals. We talked, and for the first time since he told me he was having a baby, I saw things clearly. We both laid our cards on the table. We were a couple in love with far too many barriers to overcome to make it work.

J had matured greatly since having his son. He’d become the guy I’d move back to the UK for. The guy I could finally be honest with. It’d taken us over seven years to get there, but we’d made it. It’s just a shame there are too many obstacles in the way to make it happen. But that doesn’t stop me loving him. Or hoping that one day it might work out, despite knowing, in my hearts of hearts, that it never will.

We parted on a good note and J promised to keep in touch with me more regularly. Not because I asked him to, but because he wanted to. I wanted to cry when he left the pub. I’d missed him so much and the few hours we had spent together were so amazing. But, I was happy that we’d kissed and made up. Literally.

Since I’ve been back in Dubai, J has kept his word and been in contact with me. And for the first time ever, he was the one to arrange a Skype date. But now I’m wondering what I want from this relationship. Are we friends with occasional benefits or are we something more? Is this the ‘happy ever after’ fairytale every girl dreams of or is it going to be a complete mess?

I’ve been considering moving back to the UK for J, but my life in Dubai is pretty good, I’d hate to uproot myself and then two weeks later find out it’s not going to work. It’s taken so long for us to get this far, I’m not sure I can wait another 7 years to find out if it’s going to work for us. I guess all I can do is wait and see. I’m not putting my life on hold for J, but if there’s progress, I’ll definitely go with the flow…

Mad, Bad and Dangerous to Know

My sex life is so sporadic, it’s practically non-existent. But, when the opportunity does arise, so to speak, you can guarantee it’s dramatic. I don’t think I’ve had one romantic encounter this year that hasn’t involved some sort of secrecy or surprise. My little black book has turned into a who’s who of freaks and cheats. So, it will come as no shock that the encounter I’m about to tell you about involves burns, bruises and a bout of bat-shit craziness.

One Saturday night, I went out with my American friend, Mr. Y.C., for a few quiet drinks at our favourite bar. Nights out with Mr. Y.C. are always good fun – no drama, great company and lots of dancing. However, although this particular evening started off that way, it certainly didn’t end in the same like that.

After a few drinks, I noticed a group of people turn up at the bar. As always, I had a good look to check out if there were any cute guys amongst them. Unexpectedly, I locked eyes with one of them, and it took me a good few seconds to realise why… It was Mr. P.L. He acknowledged me with a nod and walked past me to the bar. I immediately knew my fairly subdued night out with Mr. Y.C. would be turned on its head. And it was.

I tried to ignore the fact that Mr. P.L. was in the bar, but he made it pretty difficult. Every time I looked away from Mr. Y.C., Mr. P.L. was directly in my eye line. It annoyed me beyond belief. I was so fed up of pretending not to see him, I strode over and asked him what, exactly, his problem was. As always, with Mr. P.L., there wasn’t a normal response. At first he looked at me and smiled, which only infuriated me further. I asked him the question again and he proceeded to tell me to “fuck off”. Eugh. It was his standard response to everything.

Now I was angry. I’m a little hazy about what actually happened, but I think I must have grabbed his arm and given him an earful. Ordinarily, I’d have walked away from a guy at this stage but, no, I just couldn’t let it go. That’s definitely his influence on me. Instead, and I’m not a 100% sure how it happened, I scratched Mr. P.L.’s face. Oh, he was not happy. In fact, he was maaaad! First, he tried telling the bouncers to throw me out but they were having none of it, as I was a regular and they knew me well.

When the bouncers refused to throw me out, Mr. P.L. threatened to call the police, exclaiming to the bouncer that I’d abused him. As much as I’d have liked to have called Mr. P.L.’s bluff, I knew he was mental enough to call the police, even if it did result in the pair of us being thrown in the clink, so I took the opportunity to make my way home.

When I reached my building, I thought I’d text Mr. P.L.. Not to apologise. Not to demand an apology. Nope. I text him to tell him I knew he wanted me. I’m not sure what possessed me or how I could even think it was a remotely good idea, I just did it. His response? “Come”. It was already 3.30am, but I decided I’d make the ten minute walk to his apartment.

When I arrived, I rang the doorbell but he didn’t answer. I knocked. Still no answer. So, I thought I’d see if he was one of these people who left his front door open. Bingo! I let myself in. He wasn’t there, so I thought I’d have a cigarette on his balcony. I really should have just gone home, but sense seemed to escape me.

Mr. P.L. returned, and before I could put my cigarette out and turn around, he had me pinned up against the wall. This resulted in a fairly offensive fag burn on my finger, which is still lingering five weeks later. But I was drunk and taken aback (not sure why) by Mr. P.L.’s force that I barely noticed it until the next morning.

We kissed, we fought and we stripped. It was just as rough as it had been on New Year’s, if not more so. Our conversations were filthy, bordering on pornographic, and our inhibitions were non-existent. Mr. P.L. told me how he wanted me to turn up at his place the next day in nothing but a coat. That request stayed in my mind. I told him I’d planned to do that after our last encounter, but he was a dick and didn’t deserve it.

The sex itself was good, but Mr. P.L. can’t judge the fine line between pleasure and pain. I’m not sure if he pushed it to make me fight back, because every time he hurt me, I’d go wild and attack him, something he obviously enjoyed. He also asked me why I’d slept with one of his good friends, which I refused to answer. Mr. P.L. also took great pleasure in telling me how lucky I was to have him sleep with me. Apparently he’s a very desirable man, a statement I couldn’t take seriously.

I woke up the next morning to snoring that sounded as though it belonged on a farm. It was 7am, so I tip-toed out of Mr. P.L.’s apartment, hearing still intact, and hot-footed it home to get ready for work. It wasn’t until later in the day that I noticed the fingerprint bruises on my arm. My colleagues enquired what had happened to me, joking they could find out who’d done it by taking scans of said fingerprints. They were very prominent. But it wasn’t only my arms that were bruised – my hips, breasts and legs all bore the brunt of my encounter with Mr. P.L.. There was no way I’d be putting a bikini on that weekend.

The following two weeks there was a little bit of banter over text message between Mr. P.L. and I, until one night, I took it too far. That’s right, I’m the one who acted like a nutter. I was in the mood to get laid, and with nobody else on the scene at the time, I thought it appropriate to try and hook up with Mr. P.L.. I text him to find out where he was, but I didn’t get a response. Remembering his little speech about how he wanted me to turn up at his door, I proceeded to tell him I was going to come over anyway. And so I did.

It was 1am and I was intoxicated. Yet again. I rang the bell, to which there was no answer, so I rang again. And again. And again. I knocked. I tried calling. I generally acted like a psychotic desperado. Maybe I am… Mr. P.L. didn’t respond to me, which only infuriated me even more (it’s becoming a pattern). I text him telling him I was happy to sit outside his door all night and ring the bell. Ok, it was a complete lie, I was embarrassed being out there for five minutes, but I thought it might encourage him to open the door. It didn’t.

I continued to text him, but this time I was angry. I insulted him, told him he'd picked the wrong girl and then explained that I’d screwed one of his best friends two months earlier because he was better him. I can’t imagine why I thought that was a good idea, but it seemed so at the time. Then, I told him to look out for the blog. I knew he’d hate that, as my last post about him was the reason we hated each other in the first place. Thirty (yes, THIRTY) minutes later, I resigned myself to the fact that I would not be getting laid that night, and so I made my way home.

The next morning, I received a text from Mr. P.L. telling me I was insane and not to contact him again. I had to laugh. Here was a mental guy calling me insane. I’d have been incredibly embarrassed at my previous night’s behaviour had I actually liked Mr. P.L. Truth is, I don’t. In fact, I despise him. He was just a temporary distraction from the guy I do actually want to be with - J. I also knew my behaviour was completely out of character, and I would never have done it had he not requested it!

Needless to say, I’ve not spoken to Mr. P.L. since. When you’re called insane by someone far more mental than yourself, you know it’s time to reign it in. Although, after a few drinks, my sanity may well go out of the window again…

Mysterious Man - Part Two

I'd been thinking about Mr. M.M for two weeks. Sure, I couldn't remember his name or how we began chatting, but I did remember how fabulous the sex was. Nobody had made me feel that way before apart from J, and that's because we'd been sleeping together for over seven years. As much as I pined for a repeat performance with Mr. M.M, I resigned myself into believing it was one of those beautiful, once-in-a-lifetime, romantic moments.

Which is why on, what was shaping up to be, an incredibly unsuccessful night out with Miss E.D, I was surprised to be greeted by a very handsome Mr. M.M. He was as cute as I remembered, if not more so, and I immediately felt my heart beat that little bit faster. The second I recognised him, my jaw dropped. He looked surprised that I looked surprised. This, I thought, must be fate.

Mr. M.M had no problem introducing me to his friend who seemed to; a) know Mr. M.M is married and b) be well aware of his extra-marital activity with me. Whilst I found it odd that Mr. M.M hadn’t tried to hide his cheating tendencies, it also made the situation easier. I didn’t have to lie or bite my tongue in case his friend caught a whiff of what had happened and reported it back to Mr. M.M’s wife. In fact, it meant I could be downright flirtatious. And I was.

Several drinks later, it was time to leave. Whilst Miss E.D. and my other friends argued about whose apartment to go back to for an afterparty, Mr. M.M and I quietly slipped into a taxi and eloped back to his place. Apparently, his wife was away on holiday for two weeks and he intended on making full use of a free apartment. Although, in my mind, whilst I had been flirtatious throughout the evening, I only intended to head back to his apartment for a few innocent drinks...

Back at Mr. M.M’s, we chatted about our families and music tastes. He then started spinning some tunes on his decks whilst I hung out of his 27th floor window, smoking cigarettes, until he played a tune I loved, and then I’d have a little dance in his living room. His apartment was like a bachelor pad. It was minimalistic and didn’t really seem to have a woman’s touch. In fact, I had forgotten he was married until I spotted a row of cards on a book shelf saying “Congratulations” and “Mum to be”. For some reason, I didn’t let those cards register in my mind until the next day. I, subconsciously, completely glossed over them.

Amidst the drinking, dancing and DJing, Mr. M.M caught me off guard, grabbed me around the waist, and kissed me. It was hot. And whilst I knew where the kiss would lead, there was just no way I could resist him. Remembering how good our previous encounter had been, all my morals (the few I have) went out of the window. The kiss was amazing and, when I say amazing, I mean absolutely perfect. Even thinking about it makes me horny.

After a lot of kissing, we ended up on the sofa. Naked. It was already 6am and the early sunrise lit the room beautifully. Mr. M.M looked at me in a way which made me feel like we were totally in love with each other. The chemistry was immense and as soon as he entered me, I felt this huge rush. It was as if love, lust, passion and desire rushed through my body at that very instant. It gave me such a high, it intensified the experience even more. A feeling I’d only ever experienced with J before this.

As we made love on the sofa, I remember thinking how I never wanted it to end. We moved to the bedroom, although Mr. M.M was careful to expose me to as little of his wife as possible, and so we headed for the spare room. We continued our session and, in between all the kissing, Mr. M.M and I agreed we’d spend the entirety of the next day in bed. We did. And we soaked up every inch of one another.

I left the next day, totally elated. It had been the most passionate and intense sexual encounter I’d had in a long time. With my head in the clouds, I completely forgot about my favourite watch that I’d left on Mr. M.M’s dining table, and it wasn’t until I made it back to my place that I realised I wasn’t wearing it.

Without wanting to appear like some kind of crazy, obsessed stalker, I thought the best way to get it back would be to email Mr. M.M. I Googled his name and up popped his phone number and email address. For a moment, I did consider sending him a text message, but I realised I would be far too tempted to continue messaging him even after I received my watch. I sent him an email. I was very nonchalant in my message but, secretly, I’d hoped it may result in another rendezvous before his wife came back from her holiday. Unfortunately, it didn’t. Instead, my beloved watch was sent back to me via courier.

I’ve not heard from Mr. M.M since. To be honest, I’m glad I haven’t. As much as I thoroughly enjoyed the experience, I do feel bad for his pregnant wife. Although I’m grateful he didn’t hide the fact he was married, as he’s the kind of guy I could totally fall for had he been single. As it was, his audacity put me off wanting to pursue him, making it far easier for me not to become emotionally attached to him. He’s clearly a dog and, whilst he says all the right things to make you melt, he will always be a scoundrel...

Mysterious Man - Part One

One warm, sunny day in March, some of the world's top DJs descended upon a beach in Dubai. It was set to be a fabulous night at an amazing location, and so many groups of friends gathered at the beach to drink heavily, dance like they'd never danced before and have a whale of a time.

My group of friends were one of those to hit the sand, and the night truly lived up to its expectations. Arriving when the sun was still shining, I was in a great mood. The atmosphere was chilled out but you could feel it heating up, ready for a party. Some people were sat on towels and sunloungers along the shoreline, others were queueing up at the bar for a drink and some were already on the sandy dancefloor grooving away to eclectic beats.

Miss G.G and I rocked up to the bar, to buy a bottle of vodka, before settling down on towels along the shore. As the sunset, more and more people filled the beach. More of our friends joined us and our vodka was diminishing at an unimaginable rate. By the time all of our friends had arrived, I was already quite tipsy.

Another friend of mine, Miss S.S, took me on regular scouts of the entire venue, looking for hot men. I remember falling flat on my face three times. On one of those occasions, I had a beer in my hand and managed to spill it all over my own head. The night was reckless and feckless. It was unashamedly debaucherous, but everyone was having a good time.

Towards the end of the night, I remember chatting to a cute stranger, Mr.M.M. I don't recall much of our conversation, but I do remember discovering he was married. Shortly after finding out he had a wife, I walked off, but he pursued me and persuaded me to continue talking to him. We left the area where my friends were keeping a beady eye on me, and headed off for a stroll along the beach before heading to the bar for a drink.

Mr.M.M and I must have been chatting for quite some time because when we returned to where my friends were, it was as if they'd never been stood there at all. All that was left was my handbag perched on the table and an empty bottle of vodka slung on the sand. Mr.M.M and I decided to sprawl ourselves out on a sunlounger and chat some more. It would have been incredibly romantic if we weren't both completely annihilated.

As the gentle waves washed over our feet and the moon lit our faces, we had a little kiss. That kiss quickly turned into a passionate embrace, so we decided it was time to leave and both jumped into a cab together. As much as I wanted to rip his clothes off, I didn't intend to take him home, but it ended up happening anyway.

Back at my place, we continued drinking. We sat on my balcony, smoking and sharing stories about our felines. Mr.M.M loved my kitten and, as I've said before, love me, love my pussy. After a lengthy conversation, covering all sorts of topics, we moved to the bedroom, where we really got to know each other.

It was amazing. So much so, I'd go as far as to say it's the best I've had in a long while. He was strong, energetic and loving all at the same time. We weren't shy when it came to telling each other how much we were enjoying ourselves. It was intense, and we both knew we both felt how good it was.

When Mr.M.M left the next morning, it didn't surprise me that he didn't take my number, and there was absolutely no way I was going to ask him for his. It was what it was - a beautiful encounter that I would look back on fondly in the future... Until I realised I didn't even know his name. Or how I'd struck up conversation with him. I didn't even know what he did for work. All I could remember was that he used to have a cat named Captain Cocoa.

Over the next week, I wracked my brain trying to figure out who he was. I Facebooked what I thought was his first name, in the hope we'd have friends in common and his picture would pop up. It didn't. I quizzed all of my friends who were out that night, begging them for a lead as to who this beautiful stranger was, but they had no idea either.

Miss S.S thought it was possible she had his business card but, when she looked, she couldn't find it. My friends also had conflicting ideas of what Mr.M.M's name was. There was no hope, and so I resigned myself to the fact that I'd never find out who he was and, instead, I'd just have to cherish what I could remember...

The Sex Pest

There are some men who should just not be allowed out. And definitely nowhere near women.

A couple of weeks ago, I was out in my favourite bar when a cute guy, Mr. C.G, started chatting to me. He wasn’t my usual type as he was only two or three inches taller than me (shallow, I know) but he was good-looking and had this cheeky smile and a glint in his eye. So, when he kept telling me how much he wanted to take me out on a date, I agreed to give him my number. We swapped digits and he text me that night. Keen, I thought. But, hey, it’s rare I have that kind of attention lavished upon me and there was no way I was going to give it up that easily.

Over the next week or so, Mr. C.G and I kept texting each other. Nothing to write home about, more along the lines of when we were going to meet up again. So, eventually, when the time came to meet up, I was excited about going on a date for the first time in a very long time. And the fact he was really keen to take me out was an added bonus. He let me decide where we go, so as a low-maintenance kinda gal, I picked a venue that was laid back and good for food and cider (he’s also from South West England).

The date started off well and Mr. C.G was even cuter than I remembered. We chatted away, only stopping to laugh out loud or take a sip of cider. There was the odd cheeky comment from him but nothing that completely shocked me. That was until I asked him why he moved to Dubai. Now, that’s a fairly normal question out here – What’s your name? What do you do? How long have you been here? Why did you move here? It’s totally standard, but Mr. C.G retorted with “How about I tell you when you show me your boobs?”.

I nearly spat my cider all over his crisp white shirt. I didn’t know whether to laugh hysterically (I would have done if he wasn’t serious) or run for the hills. I don’t usually embarrass very easily, but I’m not going to lie, I felt my face go red and my eyes immediately look away from him. I brushed him off and conversation seemed to go back to normal. I put it down as a blip and continued with the date, albeit a bit cautiously.

I know I have decent sized breasts, and I do like to flaunt them in low cut tops, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to unhook my bra and shove them in your face in the middle of a bar. Feel free to be complimentary but don’t refuse to answer a question I’ve asked because I won’t let you see my nipples.

Anyway, back in the swing of the conversation and Mr. C.G asked me if I had my own place. Another standard Dubai question. I explained that I did but that I rented out my spare room. I reciprocated and asked him the same question, to which he replied that he lived with people and therefore “should we book a hotel room for the night?”.

Yes, he actually asked me that. Resisting the urge to pour my cider over him and make a scene in the bar, I looked at him with raised eyebrows but he just smiled. I told him there would be no need to book a hotel room as I was going back to my place. Alone. He didn’t try to persuade me otherwise, for which I was grateful. I was so close to slapping him, if he opened his mouth one more time he’d have probably found himself completely humiliated in a packed pub. I put down some money for the bill, said goodnight and walked out.

In the taxi home, I started picking myself apart – Are the low-cut tops the reason I attract men that are the dregs of society? Am I too domineering that normal, sweet guys are scared off? Do I come across as some kind of wanton nymphomaniac? I welled up thinking of J and how, even though we weren’t serious, he would have never said anything like that to me. Apart from when we were fighting, he’d always be respectful and he’d always make me feel wanted beyond just sex.

But then I realised I was looking at J through rose-tinted glasses. I loved him so much, I painted him out to be this wonderful guy when, in reality, he treated me so badly over the years that I’m surprised I gave him the time of day. In comparison, Mr. C.G really wasn’t that bad, despite being a bit of a cock.

Perhaps the calibre of men I date have something to do with where I meet them. My favourite bar is hardly known for being a classy joint. Having said that, the guys I have met in more elegant places have been egotistical wankers anyway. I just can’t win.

Seriously, why do I always attract the losers? They shouldn't be allowed within 50ft of a woman. I'd love to know what Mr. C.G's success rate is and, if it's anything above zero, who the hell these women are! Perhaps they shouldn't be allowed within 50ft of a man...

The Sex Prep Process

My sex life is so sporadic that, most of the time, I'm caught off-guard. Now, I love spontaneous sex - I love the thrill and the excitement of it - but, as I'm never prepared for it, it does make me feel self-conscious. I think it's because after so many years of arranged sex with J, and having the time to get ready for a session, anything else makes me a little apprehensive.

For example, two of the three times I've had sex this year, I've been between waxes. I hate shaving with a passion, which means two weeks out of every six, my legs are more Harold Bishop than Heidi Klum. I would have never have seen J in that state. I always used to make sure I was waxed, threaded and polished to within an inch of my life. I never left him any room to criticise me.

I'd also have a Brazilian or Hollywood done before seeing him. He never knew what he was going to get when he undressed me, and that excited him.

It wasn't only the waxing though. It also involved exfoliating, moisturising, manicures, pedicures, hair styling and outfit selection. It was a lengthy process, but I always wanted to make sure I looked my best. Getting naked in front of a guy can be pretty nerve-wracking but when I'm prepared, I feel far more confident and ready to let go of my inhibitions.

Underwear is another important factor in the preparation process. You don't want a Bridget Jones scenario where you finally take home a guy, only for him to find out you're wearing Spanx. Even if the sight of them hasn't completely turned him off, by the time you actually manage to pull them down, you can guarantee the moment will well and truly be over.

The other thing I find embarrassing is mismatched underwear. A sexy black bra will totally lose its effect when coupled with a pair of ugly beige pants. I've been caught out so many times with mismatched underwear and, in order to avoid it being noticed, I end up stripping far too quickly, which makes me look like some insatiable nymph rather than a sexy seductress. I find the best way to avoid this situation is simply by not wearing any knickers at all... and the boys love it!

Then there's the hair and make-up. I want to look good when you're fucking me, I don't want you to think I resemble Heather Trot after a night on the bullfrogs. And when we're having a post-coital cuddle, I want you to smell my coconut shampoo, not two days worth of stale cigarettes.

So, boys, when I get into bed with you and am not as smooth as a baby's backside, don't judge me and think I'm some sort of skanky, personal-hygeine-shy girl. I just wasn't planning to be in the sack with you that evening. Just be grateful you don't need to go through the same process - a shower, shit and shave and you're good to go.

No Strings Attached

After an awesome sex session with a hot guy recently, I started wondering if men can have completely emotionless sex. I thought back to the guys I'd slept with over the last couple of years, and I couldn't think of one I'd felt absolutely nothing for. Even if I didn't want to date them, I had a genuine affection for all of them.

Obviously, there are different types of affection. For example, with Mr.P.L, what really tipped me over the edge and made me find him more attractive was his book collection. It was a sign of an intelligent guy with an interest in culture and politics, something I find quite rare in many of Dubai's shallow men. I immediately wanted to connect with him on an emotional and intellectual level. Ok, I was drunk and it didn't really go to plan, but we did briefly chat about travel and politics in the morning.

Another example is that of Mr.A.P; a guy friend who, at the time, I had the hots for. I cared for him, as I do for all of my friends, and because I knew him, I felt I could let myself go a little. However, that's usually why I can't have emotionless sex. I have to know the guy, or at least know of him and have mutual friends, before taking him to the bedroom. In fact, over the last two years, I've only slept with one guy I didn't know. Physically, it was fine, but I didn't enjoy the experience as much as I could have done, as I didn't know him that well. It felt strange and sad.

That said, it wasn't a completely emotionless experience. I still wanted to get to know him and had spent several hours beforehand having a chat with him. Unfortunately, he didn't feel the same way and I never did find out any more about him.

Perhaps men just don't need to have the connection women do. I know most people will be saying "that's so obvious", but I don't believe it is. Ok, yes I think it is possible, for example with prostitutes, but when it comes to your average girl in a bar, do guys really not feel any emotion towards her at all? Do they just see her a piece of meat or do they actually think she's a decent girl and therefore sex might be a more enjoyable experience?

If it is purely physical, why would a man feel the need to stroke the girl's hair or face? Why would they kiss her etc? Surely these are more emotional signals? Or do guys do it just to please the woman at the time? Lull her into a false sense of security so she will sleep with him?

Personally, I'd prefer it if the guy I was with didn't pretend to like me if all he wanted was sex. At least then I can make an informed decision whether or not I want to have sex with him for the sake of sex's sake. But when you're made to feel like the only girl in the world for that night, only to be bitterly disappointed the next day... it's a very harsh realisation. Trust me, I've been there.

Maybe, with the world becoming more and more populated, eventually men will evolve into being more selective in who they chose as a mate and, therefore, more emotional when they do sleep with a woman. Then again, us ladies can only live in hope...

Don't Stop Me Now

So, I dropped off the radar for a few days – no Facebook, no blog, no foursquare and no mobile phone. It was blissful. Nobody could tell me what a psycho I was for blogging about our sexual escapades, nobody could accuse me of stalking them and all the back-stabbing gossipers would have nothing to talk about and actually have to do some work. Amazing.

Whilst enjoying my hibernation, it didn’t once cross my mind that people would be worried about my whereabouts. But little did I know what a fuss I was causing in the virtual world. Friends and acquaintances thought I’d been slung into the slammer, run over by a bus, deported from Dubai… the assumptions as to where I’d disappeared to were in overdrive. In reality, all I’d really done was taken my Facebook down. Strange how we rely on an online social network to keep up to date with our friends’ welfare. Me included. What happened to popping round someone’s house for a cup of tea and a chit-chat?

When people learnt I was alive and well, the next question on their lips was why I’d decided to drop off the radar. Truth is, it’s this blog. I’d never expected it to turn into the popular read it seems to be, I just wanted to share my experiences with my best friends back home, as I don’t always have the time to Skype them. I didn’t think two thousand people across the world would be interested in reading about my sex life and subsequently gossiping about it.

With the spotlight on me, it’s made it very difficult to blog the way I want to. I’ve received phone calls and emails advising me to stop writing what I write. Boys have begged me not to write about them, girls have told me to watch my back. I’ve had to delete posts or explain myself profusely just to keep other people happy, which is not what my blog is about. This blog is about sexual relationships and the truth behind them, not an airbrushed porno.

And to the people slating me behind my back, don’t think I don’t know. You might think you’re superior to me or have far higher morals and standards, but we both know that’s not true, so get off your high horse. And let’s stop pretending I’m the only person in Dubai with a sex life. There’s some crazy stuff that happens in this city, and I certainly don’t participate. At the end of the day, I’m just a normal girl trying to find the right man and encountering a number of wrong ones along the way.

The only reason I’ve decided to come back from my hiatus is because so many people genuinely enjoy reading my blog, and I’m not caving in for the haters. So, you can all expect to see more shamelessly salacious blog posts, only this time, nothing will be edited or taken down to please others.

How to be a dirty stop-out

I’ve become something of an expert when it comes to the Walk Of Shame. Earlier this month, I was caught out twice in the space of one week and, when I lived in Spain for a few months, the Walk Of Shame was so regular that it was no longer shameful. And that’s where the art of the Walk Of Shame lies - confidence.

When I initially moved to Dubai, I would nearly always take a guy back to my place just to avoid the Walk Of Shame. After a night of romping with a handsome man, the last thing you want is for strangers to see you with your make-up smeared, clothes creased and the non-Tigi version of bed head. The knowing smile and nod from a passerby always used to make me cringe, but there are ways to do the Walk Of Shame and avoid people staring.

First up, if you look like you’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards, then people will stare at you thinking you’re either; a) a dirty-stop out, b) a victim of a heinous crime or c) a homeless person. So, there are basic items that every young, free and single woman needs to stuff into her clutch bag to avoid this. These are:

1. Mints or gum – A handbag staple at all times, even if you are on your period. Leaving the house without mints is like leaving the house without money; nobody will want to be your friend. After all those vodkas and cigarettes, you will have breath like a warthog’s backside and no man in his right mind will want to come within five feet of you, let alone stick his tongue down your throat. So, invest and reap the benefits. Mints and gum are also excellent for the interim period between waking up and being able to brush your teeth.

2. Contraceptive – Nobody wants a life-long reminder of bumping uglies with a drunken stranger, so remember to take condoms and your pill with you.

3. A hair band – Not only is this important whilst in the sack with your latest squeeze - thought it was a pube you were picking off your tongue? No, it was one of your own hairs - it’s also important for your journey home. With no space for a hairbrush, sweep back those long locks into a ponytail. This will divert anyone’s attention from your bed head.

4. Cotton buds – You only need one or two, which means you won’t miss out on that all-important space in your bag. The reason you need cotton buds is to remove that black eyeliner that now makes you look like a panda. I never find tissue paper effectively removes those horrible crusty bits close to the lash line but a damp cotton bud works wonders.

5. Make-up – After washing your face and removing the remnants of last night’s make-up/human fluids, spruce yourself up with a little bit of foundation and/or blusher. It’ll make you feel a hundred times better and ready to face the outdoors.

6. Perfume – Woken up next to a beast and want to hot-foot it out before he wakes? Get out, woman, there’s no time for a shower! Clothes and hair smell of cigarette smoke? Spritz a bit of perfume on them to mask the smell. Also use as a deodorant. There is nothing worse than being sat next to someone on the metro who smells of sweat, even though you might be pleased it’s sex sweat. There’s also no need to take out the 250ml bottle of Gucci Rush your mum bought you for Xmas. Head to Debenham’s and ask them for a couple of samples that come in those small tubes - perfect handbag size!

7. Now, I guess for some of you there will be a number seven – spare underwear. I personally prefer to go commando, eliminating the need to carry underwear out with me. But, if you are a knicker wearer, take a spare pair with you. There’s nothing worse than having to endure wearing the same pair of pants two days in a row. Particularly ones that are covered in good-time juices.

With all these things in place, you’re more or less good to go. Just remember not to leave your clothes in a heap on the floor when you're giving him a sexy (read:drunk) strip tease to Paula Cole's Feelin' Love. Try to place them on the back of a chair to avoid creases, the sixteen year old boy look is never a good one.

Ok, I realise it’s far from ideal to wear last night’s clothes, but there’s nothing you can do about that so you'll just have to convince yourself that's what you planned to wear that day. For example, at 3pm on New Year’s Day, I left Mr. PL's place and walked across Dubai Marina in a full length, flowing white gown. In order to not look sheepish, and give the game away to passersby, I kept telling myself I was heading to a wedding. Only I’ll know that I’m not.

Last but not least, when you hit the road, hold your head up high, stride confidently and think to yourself what an awesome sex session you've just had. Act like an embarrassed, dirty stop-out and you’ll look like one.

Happy shagging!

Ho Ho Ho

No, I'm not still in the Christmas spirit. I'm talking about the competition - the perfectly manicured women that are in abundance in all of Dubai's bars and clubs. Yes, the prostitutes.

I'd never really considered them competition before, but I now realise that's quite naive, and they're just as much competition as the next girl. I guess the image that pops into my head when I think of the word 'prostitute', is the toothless crack addicts I used to see hanging around King's Cross on my way to work at 7.30am, offering guys blow jobs for a fiver. Not what I'd class as competition!

Here in Dubai, the prostitutes I see hang out in classy watering holes, wear tight dresses that hug their curves and are waxed, polished and threaded to within an inch of their life. They have their flirting techniques down to an absolute tee; sultry glances and flirty smiles. Their opening lines are rehearsed to perfection and they manage to pull every night. How can I possibly compete with that?

You may think that type of guy I go for is not the kind of guy to sleep with a prostitute. But you're wrong. The majority of my male friends (regular British men in their late twenties to early forties) have all slept with a prostitute. Some more frequently than others. And, no, my male friends aren't complete animals or sex addicts. This just goes to show how alluring a prostitute can be. Especially considering the men have to empty their pockets to take them home.

Sometimes the prostitutes even manage to take home a guy who had no intention of sleeping with a hooker in the first place. They play it coy and aren't upfront about what they're up to. And just when the guy thinks he's hit the jackpot - BAM! That'll be a thousand dirhams, please. Poor unsuspecting guy either runs off home with his dick inbetween his legs, or he's coaxed into coughing up the money.

All of this activity wreaks havoc on my love life. For example, at a bar with a couple of friends last night, I scanned the room for talent. The only guy I spotted, that I quite liked the look of, was at the bar. But I didn't approach him because he was talking to a hooker. How do I know she was a hooker? Well, a guy once told me how to spot them - what they wear, how they act etc. I'd been in Dubai for years and was oblivious to the sex industry right before my eyes. Now, I spot them everywhere I go.

I was once out at Dubai's most notorious hooker joint, The Rattlesnake, with a couple of male friends. We were having an awesome night, and as the boys claimed they had never been to this particular bar, I insisted that we went there. For comedy value if nothing else. As soon as we walked in, the girls pounced on the boys; sidling up to them and whispering in their ears. It amused me greatly, especially as I was the only woman in the place that wasn't a prostitute.

One of the girls, a striking Iranian with beautiful green eyes and shiny jet-black hair, took a particular fancy to one of the lads I was with and was all over him. When she caught me gawking at them, she asked if the man in question was my boyfriend. Feeling sorry for my friend, who looked a little scared, I told her that he was. She then went on to ask why he was talking to her, was the other guy single and was he really my boyfriend. Now I felt sorry for her, and so I told her he wasn't my boyfriend. Then, she lost it...

She began ranting at me, telling me how I was messing up her business, that she needed to make money and asking me why I was there. She told me to be serious and tell her if either one of the guys I was with was single. I was shocked. I only went out for a few jars and laughs with the boys, not a bitch-fight with a hooker! There was nothing else to do except laugh and then tell her to back off.

So, if the prostitute saw me as being competition, then I guess she's also mine...

I guess there a lot of guys who sleep with prostitutes because they know exactly what they're getting - sex. There's no emotional attachment that comes with sleeping with a girl who isn't a hooker. Quite often, I think when a man has a one night stand with a girl, he immediately assumes she wants much more - a relationship, marriage and babies. And because he's used her for a one night stand, he feels guilty. To hide this, and not seem like a total wanker, he gives the girl his number or takes hers. He never calls her, but if she calls him to go out for a drink, he'll feel emotionally smothered. None of these feelings are felt when sleeping with a hooker.

Most Western men won't have an issue with handing over 1000 Dirhams to get their dicks wet without all the hassle. If he took a girl out to dinner to get into her knickers, it'd cost him near enough the same anyway, so I can see why they'd take the easy option.

Then there are the guys who love the thrill of it. So much so, they'd rather fuck a hooker than their own girlfriend. I will never truly understand why a man would do that, to me it makes absolutely no sense. Can't they role play with their partner? Or find a new thrill; like sex outdoors? That would definitely be a thrill in this city!

So, until Dubai authorities actually do something about the sex industry in this city, it looks like I'm stuck shooing away hookers, from a potential partner, with my clutch bag.

To blog or not to blog?

With Dubai seemingly the size of a Kyrgyzstani village, it’s rare I meet a guy who hasn’t read my blog. Or at least heard tales of its salaciousness. Some friends warned me that this would happen, and that I’m best to refrain from blogging because a guy won’t date a girl with an explicit blog. This is true, however the men who usually have an issue with me blogging are the ones who have something to hide. They’re usually either married or have several women on the go at once. Or both! So, actually, my blog has served as a wanker deterrent. Although, admittedly, it’s not always 100% reliable.

There have been occasions where I have been intimate with men who do not want me to blog about them. My response is a loud snort. Imagine! A sex and dating blogger being asked not to write about her sex and dating shenanigans. Shall we ask Bob Geldof not sing about starving children in Africa too? At the end of the day, if you don’t want me to blog about what happens between us, then I suggest you don’t date/sleep with me. Yes, it really is that simple.

Except it’s not that simple, because you’re a dog and you can’t resist nuzzling your face into my ample cleavage. You’re dying to feel my tongue roam all over your body and you're desperate to be into me... if you catch my drift. Well then, clearly your genitals are far more powerful than your common sense, if you have any at all. Not that I mind; I get what I want and I have excellent blogging material. Just don’t beg me to remove a post because your girlfriend might find out what happened that night. If you’re not smart enough to dodge a blog post by a girl who told you she’d write about you then, quite frankly, you don’t deserve a girlfriend. And when she finds out and leaves you, please don’t call me expecting to fill the gaping sexual hole (no pun intended) she’s left in your life.

Now, there are exceptions to the rule and, on the extremely rare occasion that I have not blogged about our little rendezvous, you can count yourself damn lucky. This either means a) I actually think you’re alright, b) we have too many friends in common that it could get messy, c) I want to fuck you again or d) I feel sorry for you. That’s not to say I won’t ever blog about it – if you get on the wrong side of me, I will probably end up posting it.

Some people might think that’s pretty harsh, but my advice is that if you don’t want people knowing about something you’ve done; DON’T DO IT! If you know you're doing something wrong, then you should pay the conequences...

Drink Dating

Alcohol: the maker and breaker of my entire love-life. Since J walked out of my life, I depend on the stuff to have my animal urges satisfied. In fact, I can’t remember the last time I hooked up with a guy for the first time without being, at least a little bit, tipsy. It’s like some kind of confidence-boost potion that brings out my don’t-give-a-fuck attitude.

There’s very little chance I’d come onto a guy if I’m not intoxicated; quite frankly, it scares the hell out of me. But a little bit of Dutch courage and I’m unstoppable. And if I’ve had a big night, I’ve been known to make some very daring and, what some might call, stupid decisions. I enjoy the feel good factor that comes with drinking, which is why most of us enjoy a drink from time to time I suppose, but I’m also becoming more and more concerned that I only get lucky when I’m wasted.

I’m by no means a wall flower when I’m sober, so why is it that I can’t approach a guy I’m interested in without a couple of drinks? Has society shaped me into being a twenty-something binge drinker or am I the only one that suffers from this dependency? Don’t get me wrong, I can go without booze for a fair amount of time but, when I’m off the wagon, I quite often take it too far. Perhaps I try too hard to keep up my party girl image… Health issues, puking in my handbag and stumbling around in 5 inch stilettos aside (although I am much better at managing the heels these days), binge drinking is a personality disorder in many ways, yet most of us are guilty of it.

Who hasn’t been drunk and thought it was a good idea to bed their friend or colleague? And why do TV programmes promote it? In the TV show Friends, Monica was drunk when she and Chandler first got together, something which she wouldn’t have done had she been sober. Ok, their story (yes, I’m aware it’s fictional) ended up being a happy one but, in reality, how many of us end up living happily ever after with our drunken one night stand? My guess is very few.

Instead, I suppose most of us have ended up in messy situations – waking up the next morning, realising you’re naked and the man next to you is your best friend’s boyfriend or your boss. Then comes that sinking stomach feeling and you wrack your brains trying to figure how the hell you’re going to get out of the situation. You pray that nobody saw you go home together and that the other person won’t mention it to anyone else. It’s embarrassing, it’s not big and it’s certainly not clever. So why do we do it? Personally, I think I crave the risk, the secrecy and the drama. At least that’s the only explanation I really have, otherwise it’s just crazy, irrational behaviour.

Maybe it’s just the way we roll in Dubai. After all, in London, I could go internet dating, saving me from being publicly humiliated when rejected. Yes, I definitely have a fear of rejection; who doesn’t? I guess when I’m drunk I can laugh off being rejected or proceed to throw insults at the guy in question and then cringe about it the next day, blaming it on the booze. And that’s exactly what alcohol has become – a barrier, a safety net, protecting my feelings.

I’m worried what all of this says about my personality. I also worry that one day I’m going to end up doing something I shouldn’t and hurting people around me, which I really, really don’t want to do. It’s bad enough waking up with a hangover, let alone waking up with a hangover and guilt. But how do I get out of this vicious cycle? Or am I just over-analysing something that’s a bit of fun? Something tells me this could be a case for a shrink…