So, a certain feminist psychoanalyst on whom I had a huge crush (unrelated) was launching a book at SOAS, and since Charlie’s place was just around the corner, he could be easily persuaded to go. I’d been sitting at the foot of his bed for most of the afternoon, my legs stretched out in front of me with my laptop on top of them, and I was revising a story which an editor friend had gently assured me amounted to five thousand words of turgid garbage. Though I don’t really remember what had happened earlier in the day, the likelihood is that we had done one or the other of the things we usually did together, which were sneering at the work of writers we had met and detested in person, or having anal sex.
Author: itsonlycharlotte
There once was a slutty girl from London…[FM]
You might think that poetry was a strange profession for a man who treated my arsehole like it was just another room of his house, but what can I say? That was Charlie.
He’d just had a poem published in a collection edited by James Fenton or somebody, and we were celebrating in pretty much the only way we knew how: we were drinking a supermarket-brand knockoff of Southern Comfort and making an unholy mess of my bedsheets. He fucked me til we were both rattling the glass in the windows, splattered with each other’s fluids, and would likely be walking funny for a few days.
Once both of us had chalked up an orgasm or two, and I’d replenished our glasses with Midwestern Discomfort and ice cubes squeezed from a pink, heart-shaped mould from Ikea (yes, I know that they are, therefore, not cubes), one or the other of us proposed a game: the first person too incapacitated with pleasure to complete the requisite five lines of a limerick was the loser. All words had to be sounded coherently with good, Anglo-Saxon diction, and whoever won could, presumably, exert whatever disgusting sexual whims they pleased over the other.
The World Drifts By: The Threesome that Wasn’t [FFM][F]
*n.b. Please don’t do what I did in this story. It’s extremely stupid and either you or one of your friends will probably drown.*
My second year of university drew to a close and, as I remember it, I was in a perpetual bad mood. I’m sure that I was no longer mired in self-loathing over how things had ended with [Lucy](https://old.reddit.com/user/itsonlycharlotte/comments/i3qb94/the_lucy_links/) by now, but I liked studying and disliked long summers, and no doubt I was fed up over some other romantic or sexual entanglement which had gone south.
I had been sharing a house with three other people; two of them had already left for the summer, and only Rosie and I remained. Rosie was—and remains—an exceptionally lovely person, by far my favourite of my housemates. She was a fellow English student with an earnest love for Harry Potter, an infectious smile, and a mild demeanour which people often mistook for shyness, but was more of a genuine, polite-to-a-fault fascination with others and what they had to say. And, I suppose, for the purpose of this story I might as well add that she’s very pretty in an understated way, a kind of soft-skinned, wavy-haired and (she wouldn’t mind me saying this, I’m sure) chubby cuteness, with smooth and gentle curves which, more often than not, she kept hidden.
End of Lockdown; I got Cocked Down [FM]
In theory, I know, I’ve had the opportunity for a while here in the UK. But I’m a naturally nervous person, and I’ve been feeling jittery about most of my social interactions over the last few months. So I was still very much in two minds when, this weekend, I got home from a couple of weeks of munching on vegetables in the secluded countryside which, no, is not a euphemism.
But a friend of some considerable regard and renown, who has been teasing me mercilessly about my nunnish tendencies, was passing through London the day I returned, and we agreed that enough was enough. It was time for my first post-lockdown fuck, and we both looked forward to finding out whether or not my vagina had sealed itself shut in the intervening months.
*A regrettable, necessary digression; I asked the friend involved for permission to write, here, about our encounter, and he agreed, under the condition that he be entitled to a pseudonym. He also had a helpful suggestion as to what that pseudonym be, and that suggestion was…sigh.*
*Nigel.*
*Hi, Nigel! You’re a cunt.*
Alright, I’ll try to persevere.
Nipples, Bastards and Broken Things [FF]
I had about four hours to kill at JFK, and they had really dragged. I sat on an un-ergonomic metal chair and read fifty pages of Knausgård, until my tailbone and the upper flesh of my arse started to ache and I had to get up and walk around for a while. I read a display which told me that Terminal 8 is the largest passenger terminal at the airport. ‘To have an idea,’ the sign said, ‘is twice the size of Madison Square Garden, in NYC.’ The missing words and the weird diction made me screw my face up, my tired brain rereading it four or five times. Bland marketing spiel by Google Translate.
I went to the bathroom to pee, and only realised once I got there that I had already done so twenty minutes earlier. I sat in the harshly-lit stall with my pants down and thumbed through messages on my phone, again telling myself that I would reply to my agent tomorrow, deleting the latest obscene message from my ex-boyfriend Ash without really reading it, just dimly acknowledging that he wanted to do things which, if he knew how close my vagina was to a cold and plasticky airport toilet seat, he would reconsider.
5. Lucy, finished. [FF]
[Part 1](https://old.reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/i19kdz/1_ignorance_brings_chaos_not_knowledge_or_the/)
[Part 2](https://old.reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/i1qyla/2_how_i_learned_to_stop_worrying_and_love_getting/)
[Part 3](https://old.reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/i2b6bb/3_learning_is_always_a_painful_process_ff/)
[Part 4](https://old.reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/i2zdek/4_im_out_of_smart_titles_lucy_peed_on_me_once_ff/)
As is normal, right and proper, time passed and I began to think of Lucy less and less. There was no ‘one last time’ sex; nor did we go out of our way rekindle our friendship either. We saw each other in university corridors every now and then, we said hi with neither great enthusiasm nor great apathy. We graduated: I heard that she had moved to the south coast somewhere with her girlfriend; I moved to London to do a Master’s, coveted the bookish boys in my classes, had brief relationships with one or two of them, drank too much instant coffee and carved out something like a life for myself.
It had been years, probably, since I thought of Lucy. Then I had an uncanny experience and she was propelled back into my mind for a while.
I was on my way to meet someone at the British Library. It was earlyish in the morning, and Liverpool Street station was thick with commuters as I changed Tube lines. I was walking up the escalator from the Central line platforms when I stopped dead, a line of harrumphing men in suits nearly colliding with me as I clung to the left-side handrail for a moment.
4. I’m out of smart titles. Lucy peed on me once. [FF]
[Part 1](https://old.reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/i19kdz/1_ignorance_brings_chaos_not_knowledge_or_the/)
[Part 2](https://old.reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/i1qyla/2_how_i_learned_to_stop_worrying_and_love_getting/)
[Part 3](https://old.reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/i2b6bb/3_learning_is_always_a_painful_process_ff/)
Whatever I had with Lucy, brief as it was, came to a swift and sudden end. Variously wounded, jealous, angry and racked with guilt, we retreated into our own social circles, consciously avoided each other wherever we went, and we didn’t talk for over a year. Lucy’s hard exterior was reset; she swanned around campus looking ready to bite the head off anyone who got in her way, and when I saw her from a distance it was with a pang of regret that I would no longer see her naked, touch her body or sleep in her bed.
A long time later, by chance, we met in a pub for the birthday of a mutual friend whom we hadn’t realised was a mutual friend. We had a long, air-clearing conversation. Typically, stubbornly, Lucy insisted that I hadn’t done anything wrong, mainly in order that she wouldn’t have to accept my apology. I tried anyway. She told me she had, once, really liked me. It might sound like she was saying this just to be cruel—to emphasise the fact that, now, she didn’t like me at all—but I knew she didn’t mean it that way. We realised, quickly enough, that all the hard feelings between us had gone, but a lot of the tender feelings had gone with them, and we both knew that there was no going back to what we had.
3. Learning is Always a Painful Process [FF]
[Part 1](https://old.reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/i19kdz/1_ignorance_brings_chaos_not_knowledge_or_the/)
[Part 2](https://old.reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/i1qyla/2_how_i_learned_to_stop_worrying_and_love_getting/)
Things didn’t exactly end happily—if they ended at all, or if indeed there was anything to end—between me and Lucy, but for a couple of months we carried on in much the same vein. Though we never showed any affection in public, everybody knew we were fucking: Lucy’s flatmates heard me pleading and whining, my own flatmates saw Lucy stalk in and out of the building and wanted to know just what I saw in that sulky bitch, and one of our lecturers once alluded to us as a couple. I thought this would drive Lucy insane, but she didn’t seem to care.
For whatever reason, I went on craving Lucy’s approval, doing her bidding, becoming a little unhealthily dependent on those small scraps of tenderness she offered me. I came to trust that, whatever Lucy wanted to subject me to, I would begin to like it sooner or later, and that the worst I would have to endure was her ‘told you so’ expression. I wasn’t really sure what I anticipated the most: it might have been the orgasms, which surged through me like electricity, lighting up my nerves to the tips of my fingers and toes and which, in all of my nineteen years, I had never realised could be so powerful; it might, though, have been the flashes of affection which broke occasionally through her icy exterior, the aloof kisses, the careful stroking of my hair, the overt words of approval like ‘good girl’, ‘that’s nice’ and ‘don’t stop’. In a twist that will surprise nobody, I only came to realise how much she longed for the same from me once it was already too late to do anything about it.
2. How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Getting Fucked in the Ass [FF]
[Part 1](https://old.reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/i19kdz/1_ignorance_brings_chaos_not_knowledge_or_the/)
Given her unsmiling disposition, it always surprised me how calm and cosy Lucy’s room was. Her mattress was as uncomfortable as anybody else’s (I once fucked a guy who had a memory foam mattress topper, and that just felt wrong as hell), but her sheets were weighty and soft, and always smelled like they had dried on a summer’s day, fluttering on the breeze as they hung on a line by a grove of lemon trees. The floor was the same hard-wearing, sedge green carpet as in all the other rooms, but she had hidden most of it artfully underneath a rug. Her underwear—in all of its wild variety of fabric, colour and cut—was folded neatly and obsessively into the drawer by her bed. And here and there, on square black ceramic dishes, she had trios of little tealight candles from Ikea, which filled the room with dessert-like smells of raspberry and vanilla.
1. Ignorance brings chaos, not knowledge: Or, the average person uses only 10% of their ass capacity [FM] [FF]
‘Christ, Lottie,’ Charlie asked me once. ‘Where did you even learn to do that?’
The ‘that’ in question, on this occasion, was being fucked in the ass. It’s not exactly a thing I’m always desperate for—I have gone long periods without it, and I can confirm that no major problems, mental or physical, ensue when this is the case—but, ever since I had impulsively asked Charlie to put his cock in there the first time we hooked up, it had become somewhat of a signature act of our relationship, whatever exactly that relationship was.
Anyway, it wasn’t as though there was nothing in it for me. If I was already pretty fond of that sensation of the first entry, that ‘oh my god, that’s my smallest and tightest hole, and it feels like someone’s shoving their whole arm in there’ feeling, it came to be something that I craved more than anything else; just thinking about the way Charlie would slowly tease my asshole with the tip of his cock, letting me feel that same feeling over and over again before he entered me fully, would have me sitting in a warm puddle at the most inopportune of moments. It got to be the case that only those deep-lying, shuddering orgasms would really satisfy me, and I liked the eagerness with which Charlie responded when I told him, matter-of-factly, that fifteen minutes of him licking my asshole, his fingers digging into and splaying the flesh of my ass, his tongue penetrating to the very core of me, was the price of entry.