It’s an undeniable fact that a frankly worrying amount of my sex life can be summed up and/or rationalised in just four simple words;
‘Fuck it, why not?’
A key instigating factor for any sexual endeavour should be, of course, that it’s fun for all involved. This really ought to go without saying, though I do occasionally feel that some individuals need reminding. But that’s a discussion for another time. Suffice to say: Sex should be fun. If it’s not, then something has gone badly wrong somewhere down the line.
But in addition to this basic requirement, I often find myself considering a separate and almost equally important category that needs to be fulfilled;
‘Will this make for a good anecdote?’
Sex is a truly wonderful thing. I’d go as far as to say that – when it’s done well – it’s quite simply one of the most enjoyable and satisfying things that it’s possible to do. But it’s also fleeting. It’s a firework. Burns bright briefly and then is over. The duration is finite – 10 minutes if you’re unlucky, 40 minutes if you’re lucky and an entire weekend if you can cope with the Sting (which is, very possibly, the worst joke I’ve ever written – and it’s up against some stiff competition). Once the physical act is over what you have left is the memory. Hopefully a good one. But the best memories are the ones that are *shared*. To share a memory is, to a degree, to relive it – or at least the nearest your mind can create.
All of which is essentially a long and convoluted way of explaining that, for me, sex has a strong social aspect. It exists beyond the act itself when it is discussed with friends over drinks, deconstructed with partners, or indeed, shared with strangers on the internet. And if you’re going to be sharing your tales, you’d damn well better hope they’re more interesting than ‘…and then, we fucked.’ Which is precisely why, ultimately, I often find myself considering the anecdotal aspect.
Why am I sharing this needless and unnecessary cod-philosophical pondering? Because today, for the first time in months due to lockdowns, the shops are reopening in the UK and, because we’ve had literally nothing else to feel excited or optimistic about in over a year, it’s proven to be a hot topic of conversation among friends which, in turn, reminded me of a particular retail encounter that felt ripe for reminiscing.
Fucking in a shop changing room – because, fuck it, why not?
Liam and I had been dating for a couple of months at most, which is to say that we were still very much in the ‘fuck at any given opportunity’ period of the relationship, long prior to having grown weary of each other’s foilbles. He was an incredibly placid and mild mannered guy, and very much the type who’d be described as a ‘wonderful young man’ by your parents.
But he also had a trigger. And I’m not exaggerating to say that the change was as instantaneous and absolute as flicking a switch.
At the slightest hint of amorous provocation, he turned into an insatiable and unstoppable horn dog. Suddenly the well mannered gentleman became blind to all risk and practicality; his arousal took precedent over everything else, no matter how inappropriate the situation. This lead to all manner of highly enjoyable/entertaining/embarrassing (delete as appropriate) encounters, including being banned from our local cinema, having to ‘borrow’ a dress from a friend’s bedroom during a houseparty due to some staining, and my mother informing me that perhaps he wasn’t such a ‘wonderful young man’ after all.
The situation suited me down to the ground. Having a boyfriend who could be revved up to go with barely the suggestive raise of an eyebrow certainly helped ease the burden of an almost cruelly high functioning sex drive.
The incident in question took place during a shopping trip to acquire a new dress for a friend’s birthday celebration. Quite why Liam had decided to accompany me on this excursion I can’t be sure, but it’s a reasonable guess that he’d simply hoped that by showing some willing he’d be later rewarded. It was either that or the allure of a packet of minstrels which had, naturally, been my first essential purchase.
I’ll save recounting the full details of the retail experience as, quite frankly, watching one man come close to death through the tedium is more than enough, despite the fact he only had himself to blame. Suffice to say many different outlets had been visited, and numerous dresses marked as ‘for consideration’ with the intention that we may return to compare and contrast, ultimately knowing that it wouldn’t happen.
It was clear to even the most disinterest of onlooker that Liam’s patience was close to running out, as to be fair was my own. I’d mentally calculated that our relationship might last one more emporium, but I’d need to buy us another bag of minstrels at the very least if it was to survive any more.
Mercifully, further chocolate wasn’t required. Just prior to breaking point, I found it.
A stunning black halter neck dress that managed to be simultaneously a LBD and a HIAATAMT. A dress so magnificently striking that even Liam brightened up and told me I *had* to try it on.
The changing rooms were located toward the back of the shop and I swear Liam had something of a skip to his step as he escorted me, before plonking himself down on the traditional ‘patient men wait here’ stools located just outside the changing corridor.
And herein lies the first confession. Common decency dictates that when trying on clothes you leave all appropriate undergarments on. In much the same way that you’d not enjoy purchasing a shoe that had featured a passing individual’s sweaty bare foot, or indeed underwear that had not included at least one additional layer between itself and the last curious shopper, nobody but the most determined of pervert wants to buy clothes that have been soiled by contact with the body’s more commonly covered bits and pieces… But the incredibly low cut nature of the dress meant that keeping my bra on would effectively ruin it, and it was too beautiful a creation to kill before it had been given a chance. So, in the confined curtained off security of the cubical I stripped down to my underwear and, whilst climbing into the dress “accidentally” loosened my bra to such a degree that it fell to the floor.
Whoops. Oh dear. Ah well. Since it’s off now anyway, I might as well see what it looks like without…
I don’t wish to sound immodest, but I looked pretty fucking good. But, to be sure, I really needed a second opinion.
And, crucially, here’s where things took a turn.
Normally I’d have strolled out of the cubicle, down the changing corridor and appeared resplendant in front of Liam at the entrance, lighting up his life as he sat waiting patiently on his stool outside.
But I couldn’t. It was so spectacularly obvious that I wasn’t wearing a bra that even the most casual passer by would have noticed and, at the very lest, tutted.
So instead, I shouted for him to come to me. And, with an audible sigh, he duly obliged.
Reader, it’s a rare and precious thing to see a man’s eyes literally dilate at the simple sight of you. His jaw also slackened somewhat and though I swear I could see his mouth trying to formulate a ‘WOW’ sound, what actually emerged from his lips was;
“FUCK!”
“You approve?” I asked with a raised eyebrow, aiming for slyly coy but missing by some distance.
Now logic would dictate that some further conversation happened here, but genuinely the next thing I remember him doing was stepping into the tiny changing cubicle, pressing himself up against me and saying:
“Ever fucked in a changing room?”
His tongue was in my mouth and his hands firmly squeezing my arse having already reached under the dress before I had opportunity to answer.
I could and indeed probably should have stopped him there. Made it a little thrill that could be built upon later. The shop was after all quite busy, and I knew for a fact that at least two of the other cubicles were currently occupied. But in all honesty my first thought was ‘No I haven’t fucked in a shop changing room. And this will make a damn good anecdote’. So, while he kissed and groped, I reached behind him and pulled the curtains shut.
Quickies are unique beasts that often defy all the rules of other, longer, sexual experiences. They are fuelled entirely by two factors; urgency and intensity. There’s simply no time – or in this instance, the space – for the usual build up of foreplay, back and forth, teasing, or indeed much in the way of communication at all. They exist purely on the impulse of the ‘let’s fuck here and now’ that, if questioned or dwelled upon, would quickly disintegrate.
Which is why, ultimately, not a second was wasted. Liam went from firmly squeezing my arse to hurriedly pulling down my underwear in much the same motion. He’d also hiked the hem of the dress up to my waist in the merest blinking of an eye.
During these fleeting seconds, I’d also reached down and unzipped and unbuttoned his trousers, a firm yank managing to remove both the jeans and his boxer shorts in one motion.
It was a testament to both our skill or familiarity with each other that we’d both managed these feats without visual aid, or indeed breaking from the kiss.
His cock was already well en route to hardening and it took almost embarrassingly few seconds of his basic manhandling and finger probing for me to realise that I too was almost surprisingly wet.
Seemingly satisfied with what his fingers had found, Liam broke the kiss and spun me round to face the mirrored wall. I must confess to having started grinning all over again at just how gorgeous the dress looked, even as it was now somewhat bunched up around my waist. I also noted with delight the clear look of furious intensity in Liam’s eyes. I knew that look well.
He pushed my upper body forward, bending me over as far as the limited space would allow without me literally pressing my face against the mirror, then wordlessly took hold of his cock and plunged it into me.
I’ve never been much of a fan of watching myself having sex – the sweaty, panting, often red faced mess that I imagine I appear may be a pleasing visual image for some, but it does nothing for me. As such, I’d anticipated having a mirrored wall in front of me for the duration to be distracting at best, but in fact I barely noticed myself at all. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from Liam’s intense face as I watched him on his emotional journey through the experience, nearly laughing out loud when I saw his squinty eyed ‘fuck I’m going to cum soon like this, do I keep going or slow down?’ moment of hesitation.
The sex itself was fairly standard quickie faire – fun and intense if not, ultimately, satisfying in the moment. There’s only so much you can do in a limited space with very limited time, only one position and an awareness that you can’t be too loud. Twice we’d found we’d had to somewhat lower the pace when we became painfully aware that the impact of his thighs against my arse was making an audible ‘clap’.
When Liam’s grunting turned into him attempting to hold his breath, I knew the end was nigh. I didn’t want him finishing inside me as the drippy after-effects would make for an uncomfortable journey home, plus there was a risk of staining the dress. Instead I slid off him and span around dropping to my knees, intending to finish him with my mouth.
However, thanks to poor communication and the awkwardness of lowering myself to my knees in the limited space, I somewhat misjudged the the timing. The first jet of cum erupted flying wide of me and hitting the mirror behind. I moved with perhaps the greatest speed I’ve summoned in my life to wrap my lips around his cock before the second shot misfired and inevitably stained the dress. Thankfully I was successful, and the second, third and fourth spurts/dribbles all landed safely on my tongue.
With no time to bask in the afterglow, a panic then ensued as I attempted to dress as quickly as possible while he used some tissues to try to clean up the evidence now dripping down the mirror. He succeeded in making the streaking infinitely worse and I managed to dress at perhaps a tenth of the pace than if I’d been dressing normally.
We stepped out of the changing cubicle somewhat sheepishly, painfully aware that we’d been anything but subtle. The member of staff stood looking stern at the end of the corridor confirmed our fears.
Unbearably awkward for everyone involved, as we passed her she only said one thing to us.
“You’d better be buying that.”
Needless to say; I did.
I still have that dress to this day.
And, perhaps unsurprisingly, this debacle isn’t its only anecdotal adventure.
A good dress has a story to tell. An *excellent* dress deserves many.
(A very Happy anniversary to the dress. I still own it and, somehow, it still works like magic!)
Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/wabqbp/try_before_you_buy_fucking_in_a_public_fitting
Can we see the dress :p