…Actually, no. But perhaps this phrase needs a little explaining…

Nothing quite lifts your mood than spending a night in with your boys and recounting all the hilarious (and morbidly horrifying) sexual encounters you’ve had over the years. One of us had been put in a body stocking and tied up with bits of rope like a joint of gammon, while another had had their wrists handcuffed to their ankles like a tribal hog roast, whilst having their hole tickled until it opened up like a corridor. We also came across the topic of guys that mistake the mattress for a gymnastics matt…

Unfortunately, I’d come across more than one flexible Felicity in my time. The first being a couple of years ago when we were “invited” to this party over at a mansion in North London. And yeah, I quote marked ‘invited’ – because the term should be used looser than . It was more a case that a friend of ours had been invited and being fresh off the plane from Barcelona, I dragged my friend Nick along to help me gatecrash it. We snuck in through the side door and before you knew it we were flrting with a DJ in the bathroom, doing shots with a supermodel in the kitchen and exchanging sex gossip with reality TV stars in the sauna. I was definitely #Living…


The house was gorgeous, ceiling to floor marble in places, a lift, more bathrooms than you can count on two hands and an underground pool. I’d never been anywhere like it – and there I was, uninvited, mincing around with my Aussiebums crawling up my arse, telling strangers that I liked their ‘V’ lines. I mean there’s having face and then there’s being Jim Carey (’cause damn that’s a lot of face).

The stranger that I’d complimented responded by dragging me into one of the many bathrooms. The fact that he was so forward didn’t even seem to ring alarm bells in my head. And it didn’t seem to bother me that he was twitching and panting like a warthog. Still these things don’t seem that important when you’re young, naive and horny.

So he dropped his trousers. And I’m holding up my monocle looking for his penis, which when somebody doesn’t have a belly that hangs down to their knees isn’t really something you should have to look for. But regardless of size, this wasn’t the embarrassing part of the experience. He then proceeds to spin, drop and clap his hands to the floor like a Pussycat Doll in the ‘When I Grow Up’ video.


So I played with him cautiously (not wanting to lose my entire arm), before he whipped his trousers back up again and bounced out the door way like Tigger on poppers… at a Lady Gaga concert… 


The second case of a bendy Brenda that I encountered was when I was still young, stupid and high. Hence why I was on my knees in a play area of some Vauxhall club on a Thursday night (I was just looking for my keys – honest). So I’m fooling around with this guy, when this long, hairless penis comes poking through the gloryhole. I mean, I’m all one for a bit if personal grooming but this looked like the manhood of a donkey with alopecia. It looked like the result of an unfortunate confusion between Veet and shaving foam. It looked like a preteen with Elephantisis. Then it disappeared back through the hole and then there was a sudden knock on the door. Forget being tugged off in a dark room by a stranger I was way more excited to find out who the owner of the mysterious bald eagle was. After making sure he was attractive enough, the guy I was with let him in – and sure enough he was attractive.

He dropped his jeans quicker than you could say “hungry Helen” and slammed the sole of his trainer onto the ceiling.


As if the queen just Kimberly Wyatt-ed in front of me! Scarlet for her! So she’s just casually standing there with a leg at a 180 degree angle, being rimmed. Like he was just waiting for the bus or something. I was like Mena Suvari in headlights; totally stunned. Never saw it coming! Until she glances over and winks at me – that was it…


So I gave her a polite smile as I manoeuvred my way around her – leg still in the air… and still get licked out like a tom cat tucking into an open sachet of Sheeba.
“I’ve just gotta get a drink…” I mumbled as I squeezed out the door and ran away erratically like the melodramatic white girl in every horror movie. If I’d have tripped over my own foot then it would have just been way too cliché.

Other posts you might like:
>> The Circle of (Vauxhall) Life
>> Last Crack Den on the Left
>> The No-Sleep Sleepover