A man, an almost man and a never-gonna-happen man

NSFW and TMI warnings. Seriously folks, I am totally oversharing here, so feel free to skip this one if you don’t enjoy reading about Connor’s sex life.

I’m back, bitches.

My first year in London was such a Year of Men. In the ten years before I moved to London, I’d been with three guys in total. I’d had a seven-year freeze from 2007 to 2014 when there’d been no guys at all.

And then I moved to London and slept with eleven men in the first year and went on dates with two more. I was living a life I never really believed was possible. I was feeling feelings I hadn’t felt before and I was confident in a way I hadn’t been before and I was seeing myself in a whole new light. And then Dad died and the wind went completely out of my sails and I buried myself in work and shut the world out and gained three stone and didn’t really try with men, though I kept telling myself I would.

But now I’m back.

I don’t know if you all remember my birthday man from last year. On my 36th birthday, I was super-broke and living in a hostel, and didn’t really know anyone well enough to spend the day with, so it was shaping up to be a depressing day, but I decided to give myself a present of a man, so I got on my apps and after a bit of work I found a maths teacher who invited me to his place. He was thrillingly hot, masculine and dominant. And kinky. I celebrated my birthday on my knees, wearing a gimp mask he put on me without asking. He tried to fit a dog collar around my neck too. He also gave me my first ever dose of poppers. I left his house on a high, feeling disgusted but also glorying at my transgression and at his hotness.

The maths teacher has never really been out of touch since. Over the last eleven months, he has messaged me at least once every three weeks or so and we’ve arranged to meet again at least three times, though it hasn’t happened. Until now. He has been very keen though. It is gratifying to have a handsome, successful, hard-bodied young man gagging to see you naked again.

As I’ve managed to get London Connor off the ground again now it’s 2018, it was time to get back on the sex horse again and the maths teacher was a relatively easy place to start. So for the first time in eleven months, I didn’t wait for a message from him. I sent the message and we set up a date. Like, not a date in the wine-and-a-meal sense, more a date in the arrive-at-his-house-and-be-naked-within-two-minutes sense of the word date.

In our months of messaging, I had got the message across that maybe gimp masks and dog collars weren’t necessarily my thing. And so this week’s meet-up was quite different from last year’s one.

Don’t get me wrong, he was still very dominant, but I like that. But this time was much more my kind of pace.

I was on a high for the next three days. It’s good to be back. It’s good to be London Connor again.

And I was sucking Strepsils for 48 hours afterwards because a large penis hitting the back of one’s throat can leave one rather sore.


I’ve been talking to other men online too. One man seemed both polite and eager and we exchanged numbers. His desires were unorthodox. But men who like men who look like me tend to have unorthodox desires. I usually go for the dominant man, but this man wanted me to dominate. I thought that this might be a fun experiment.

He very specifically wanted me to sit on his chest so that he would struggle to breathe. I’m quite used to that. I’ve been with at least three other men who wanted that, and I’m happy to do it. Sitting doesn’t take much effort for me. I think being squeezed/smothered/crushed/enveloped in fat is actually quite a common fetish in the chubby chaser scene. But this man wanted more than that. He wanted me to sit on his chest and pin his arms down over his head and lean forward and batter his face with my belly. He asked on a number of occasions that I be sure to let him struggle and beg to be let go for a while before I actually got off him. After that, I would give him a blow job.

That would be new. He described the scene over and over again in his messages. It was such a specific fantasy and one he’d clearly been harbouring for years. It would be shame to disappoint him.

He asked if I could wear nothing but a g-string and a pair of Doc Martens while smothering him with my belly. I told him I didn’t own either, but would be happy to wear anything he provided. I really am very accommodating.

Over the week while we messaged back and forth, making arrangements to meet in his place in far North London, he kept suggesting that we talk on the phone. Ugh. No. I don’t want to discuss his fantasies on the phone. I kept making up excuses for why we couldn’t speak on the phone.

I can’t stand phone sex. I’m fine with sexting. You can send a dirty picture or text someone that you’re touching yourself while you’re actually marking essays or watching Netflix. But phone sex requires more of your attention. And who talks on the phone nowadays anyway?

It was 11:00 on Sunday morning and I was due to meet this man at 2:00 in his house. He phoned me and this time I answered. He sounded nice – polite, a little posh. He wanted to make sure I was coming. I asked if it would be OK if I didn’t get there  till 2:30. He told me he’d prefer I was there at 2:00 because he had to go out at 5:00. What on earth did he think we’d be doing that would take three hours? How much smothering could I possibly do? I said it was fine. It was over an hour away, but I could get plenty of reading done on the Tube. He asked, “Do I detect a Scottish accent?” LOL No he didn’t. He asked to make sure I’d wear something tight. I agreed to. My phone reception was bad and I had to shower, so I ended the call.

What follows is a transcript of our WhatsApp chat at 11:30 am.

HIM: I was just thinking I would be more comfortable if we get the chance to chat first over maybe a drink or a pub lunch and especially as you’re travelling far. Can we rearrange for another weekend if that’s ok? The weekend after next?

ME: Oh. That’s a pity. But if you need that to feel comfortable, that’s fine. I understand. I don’t have any plans for that weekend. So let’s say yes.

HIM: I’m mega keen but I’m respectful and would be good to chat a bit first and get to know each other well too. If all goes well, maybe we could meet up regularly.

ME: Sure. I get it. It’s good to be people as well as objects. No problem.

HIM: I’m genuine and well aware of your journey to get here too.

ME: I know. Thanks

HIM: Would you like a quick chat on the mobile?

ME: Reception is really bad here. And I don’t really like talking on the phone.

HIM: Oh shame. How come you don’t like the phone?

ME: I didn’t think anyone did. It’s weird. For me.

HIM: What didn’t anyone do?

ME: Like talking on the phone. It’s very 1950s.

HIM: Well, when you’re far away, it’s better than text and you get to know someone better. Are you good with me enjoying and being turned on by your fat?

ME: Yes. Totally. I like men liking my fat.

HIM: I will love your fat. Will make me cum so hard.

Anyway, that was last weekend. I’m still due to meet him next weekend.

My life is entirely surreal to me.


I was getting on the 118 bus outside Brixton station the other day. I sat down at the back of the bus, trying to make my feet as small as possible, as there were two bags of half-eaten McDonalds on the floor.

A good-looking slender young man sat down opposite me, also pulling his feet in to avoid the half-eaten burgers. I got the book I’m reading at the moment out of my bag. He looked across and said, “That’s a great book.” I agreed and told him I only had five pages to go. He commented that I must already know the twist then. He smiled at me and got a book out of his bag to read himself. I cursed myself inwardly. I hadn’t read his book. I couldn’t comment.

He looked very happy to be reading. But I was in Hell opposite him and found it hard to get through those last five pages. I was getting off the bus in ten minutes and I needed him to know that we would be perfect for each other. I tried to think of a sentence with lots of words with the letter ‘r’ so I could say it and he’d know I was Irish and then he’d ask where I was from and we’d talk and laugh and exchange numbers and then we’d meet again and chat about books and then chastely cuddle and then maybe eventually move to the next step – of reading to each other in bed.

But I couldn’t think of the right sentence and I just sat there pretending to read until we got to my stop. It wasn’t to be. I’m not Katherine Heigl and the 118 bus isn’t where RomComs start.

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