Goldilocks & the 3 C*cks

Nightclub beer gardens are my jam. I physically can’t settle in any social setting until I have the lay of the land and much to my friends dismay I love landing in the beer garden. In case you’re not convinced here are a few perks:

  • The bar isn’t as busy as the ones inside. 

  • There’s more space.

  • People are more relaxed. 

  • It’s easier to talk to the people you came with.

  • it’s not as hot as the pits of hell that inside is.

And, as on this particular evening, beer-gardens are great places to find people to fuck. 


I like the challenge of not taking out my phone when I’m waiting  for friends to come back from the bar/bathroom/talking to people I don’t want to socialise with. I refuse to need my phone. This leaves me open to actual conversations / drunk people watching / zoning out to contemplate what food to get on the way home.

Then I see him in the corner of my eye. 

Mr. Nice Guy. Too nice. The kind of guy you’d bring home to your mother for her to question why you’d date such a boring person. 

Me (In my head): “Don’t chat me up. Please, don’t chat me up”. 

Him: “Hello”.

Me (In my head): “Fuck”.

Me (Out loud): “Hi!”

Beautiful teeth. Good height. Stable background. Single. Can’t hold a conversation for shit. Not what I’m looking for. 

But earmarked - just encase. 

My friend comes back. We head inside. - Another bonus point for the beer gardens. Great conversation escapes.


Guy number two doesn’t take long to show up. Rough and ready. Tattoos, muscles. Filthy mind. Dominant. Funny and rearing to try all things kink.

Rough, carnal fucking for the taking.

He’s leaving though. Heading to a house party. Do I want to go? 

No, the nights not over yet. Might find something more.

I take his number though - just encase.

And then I see him. An old friend from a decade earlier.

Age has done him many favours. He’s hot.


I catch myself touching his arm. I’m not stopping him from pulling me close so people can squeeze by.  I’m liking this a little bit more than I should. But it’s late, I’m drunk and not in any fit state to control my emotions.


Between the alcohol, the laughter and the sexual chemistry everything’s a blur. I’m so caught up in the conversation that I don’t notice the beer garden clear out. We’re the last two standing. 

He asks me to kiss him (understands consent) so I do. And when we stop he tells me  “I’ve waited 14 years for this kiss”. (understands romantic gestures)  

Aaaaaand I’m done.

You know that drunken elation? Endorphins, alcohol, lust. It really is the best feeling in the world. 

I don't want it to end. Strangely for me I don’t even want sex. I just want to keep laughing and touching and kissing like teenagers until our jaws ache. 

He feels the same. 


I delight in having to stand on my tippietoes to kiss him while we wait on the taxi and laugh the whole way back to his.

Pinning each other up against anything sturdy and vertical, groping and and kissing, we’re stuck in limbo. Who’s more dominant? Are we having sex? How far will we let this go? 

We laugh, tell stories of old times, drink, listen to music and kiss. Long, slow sessions in complete contrast to how fast everything is moving. Laugh some more. Kiss some more. Get handsy. Agree it’s time for bed.

Him: “You look adorable in your dickie-bow”.

Me: “I bet you think I’d look better in nothing but a dickie bow”

Him: “You’re not wrong. Hold on a sec”.

As he closes the door of the ensuite it hits me. How funny would it be to remove everything but my bowtie before he gets back? 

My logic - beyond hilarious.

All I can do is laugh as I watch his brain put the pieces together. My clothes strewn across the floor, me hidden from the neck down under the duvet. I don't think I’ve ever seen a man strip so fast.


Sex. More sex. Oral sex. Him on top. Me on top. On the bed. In the shower. On the bed again. My head between his legs, his between mine. A night of exploring, tasting, touching, trying. Figuring each other out.

A million and one things happened. I’d love to share them all. But you know when you meet a guy you like, really like, and you’re friends are sick of listening to the details? Somehow, after one night this guy is that guy.

So I’ll spare you the insignificant details.

I fell asleep that night, content, curled up in his arms. Woke up to more sex, more laughter, more kissing. We chatted and took naps. I made crackers and cheese on his chest while straddling him. We attempted to out pun each other and I panicked slightly. 

Do I tell him about this blog? 

No. That’s more of a 5th date conversation.


8pm. 

That’s the time he brought me home. We kissed goodbye. Not like the night before. A really comfortable “see you later”  kind of kiss.

We made no plans for a second meeting. His freudian slips of “next time” led me to believe we would see each other again. 

Walking to my front door, I’m quietly confident. He’ll text.

Won’t he?