Beyonce: THE SOFT, THE SAD & THE FUGLY

We’ve all had some dodgy sexual encounters, right? Well, most of us have. And let me tell you: I’ve had more than my fair share.

I for one never do threesomes. Not any more. Orgies—yeah, why not! But not threesomes. For me, a threesome is usually about two people who want to shag very much, and a third who they can’t get rid of, who obligation means must be invited (a boyfriend, for example). The other possibility is that it’s a couple inviting a third to join them, which rarely works out the way you want, because it’s all about them and you’re just something for them to use. If anyone’s going to be doing the using, it’s going to be me!

I once had the misfortune to take part in a particularly awkward threesome. One of the boys was young and inexperienced. He wanted to sleep with me but I think both of us were less interested in the third: a loud, chavvy thing, barely 5’6” tall, from Liverpool. But being polite, the boy let him join in. Big mistake. The Liverpuddlian wanted to get straight down to business.

‘Stick it in my mouth,’ he said to the boy, who had been enjoying kissing and touching with me.

Next thing I know, the chav has the boy’s pants down and is going for it, but the poor boy isn’t yet ‘in the mood’, as it were. But things only went downhill from there.

‘Are you gonna get hard, fella?’ he asked, about three times. Talk about piling on the pressure! If the chav had known fuck all about fuck (and, in this case, suck) he’d have understood the boy needed the soft, gentle approach to warm him up.

Luckily, after I’d finally managed to get rid of the Scouse Mouse (as I’ve called him ever since), things were much simpler. The boy had no trouble getting it up, but he wanted all the kissing and stroking and ruffling of hair first. Which, call me romantic if you want (I’ll kill you if you do, though), is half the fun, right? Just whacking it in, thrusting about and then coming is a little . . . dull. Maybe it’s just me, but the chase and the seduction is what gives me the buzz. An orgasm is a nice crescendo, a happy ending, but I can manage one of those on my own.

There have been others who score highly on my ‘Bad Shag’ list, of course. One guy I didn’t even shag, but I had been planning to. I think this happens a lot out there, but it was the first and last time it ever happened to me.

I was chatting to a guy on Fitlads. He was fit. Not super-duper fit, but boy-next-door fit. So I went to his house (a good six or seven miles away) for some good times and the bottle of champagne he said was chilling in his ice bucket. But when I got there and he opened his door, who should be stood there but a short, fat little man with paedo eyes, bottle of bubbly in hand and a towel round his waist.

Naturally I took one look at him, snatched the bubbly from his hand (as compensation, you understand) and marched in the opposite direction as he stood dumbfounded on the doorstep. How did he expect to get away with it? Did he expect me to be so horny and so desperate upon my arrival that I’d just shrug and do him anyway? As if!

He later tried the same trick again, with an entirely different picture I recognised from Blake Mason, but I was onto him right away. However, this second time there was a twist: he was messaging me and my best friend on Fitlads and asking if he could pay us for a threesome. This time it was my turn to be dumbfounded. Again: what did he think would happen? Did he honestly think we wouldn’t see through it? And was he that desperate that he needed a porn star’s picture and a wallet full of notes to get laid? Are men really that desperate?

I later learned he’d tried the same thing with at least four other friends of mine (all of them, except for me, blonde-haired and blue-eyed). More than half of them had fallen for the trick. I’m still unsure, to this day, how many of them stooped low enough to do him anyway when they realised their mistake.

But from these friends I built up a bit of a picture: he was big on orgies and threesomes, paid young boys and escorts to recruit shags for him, and he worked for the police! He nearly had a heart attack when I saw him on patrol at pride and pointed him out to a friend.

‘Will you ever sleep with me?’ he later asked me, when I bumped into him on a night out.

‘Flap your arms,’ I said. ‘Flap them as hard and as fast as you can. Because do you know what—the day I sleep with you is the day that pigs fly!’

He turned bright red. I think he finally got the message.