I seemed to be getting my mojo back. It was the end of February, and after spending the best holiday with my friends, and still no contact with Sugar daddy, my mental health was improving, and my phone was red hot with potential suitors. For the first time, I was wakening up feeling excited to see different names pop up on my screen and no longer felt that gut-wrench dread that he hadn’t text. I was okay, excellent even, but more importantly, I was ready to move on. Until some cunt in China fancied bat fucking soup and BANG, quarantine. My life was locked down entirely unexpected, and so was my vagina.

Surviving single life in lockdown initially felt manageable. There was a sense of security that we singletons were all on the same boat. I even enjoyed getting up at nine am and joined in on the Courtney Black exercise routine, engaged in interactive date nights with single guys actually willing to wait three months to meet me in person. I would clap at my door every Thursday honouring the NHS heroes. I watched countless Netflix seasons and even began to meditate. However, the time of self-isolation was growing longer, and my fanny was growing increasingly hairier. My cute, sweet, social self-hit rock bottom, and I became an utter recluse. I was furloughed and already receiving a sizeable deduction in my wage, which was now purely spent on bills, Pringles, and sex toys. The days when I told my boss I was working from home consisted of me watching porn hub with a spoonful of Nutella hanging out my gob.

I was becoming ragin when people were phoning for a catch up as they were interrupting “fuck the landlord for rent” video, which was now becoming an appealing option.

My life was spiralling, and yet again, desperately, I returned to tinder.

Finding decent images to choose from during a lockdown when downloading the app again felt fraudulent.

I hadn’t worn makeup or tan in months.

I had a twelve O’clock shadow desperate for some dermaplaning, and my waistline had quadrupled in size.  Nevertheless, I hit save anyway. Let’s face it, I would have some sex chat with some random guy and never see them anyway, right?  I was being remarkably picky for an overweight sex addict swiping through my phone in my three-week-old pyjamas that were getting thinner at the thighs with every chaff.  Shit job- nope.  Too posery- nope.  Too pale- nope.  Oh, didn’t like that T-shirt- nope.  Six-pack- oh, yes, please.  

I began speaking to one guy mainly, who seemed genuine.  His name was Chris, he was a great texter, hot as fuck, held down an impressive job and told me consistently how he was only interested in speaking to me.  That alone sealed the deal for this desperate seeking singleton.

He was a pilot and was obviously not working as much as he usually would be due to the pandemic. He didn’t take lots of shirtless images but appeared trim with a nice set of broad shoulders. He had dark brown hair, was six ft, and appeared shy but charming. We began facetiming most nights for some general chit chat and banter. The more the lockdown phases were easing, the more I was determined to cut the carbs and ditch the dildo (well cut it down) in preparation to meet him. We had planned on meeting up as soon as Nicola allowed us too and true to his word, we arranged a date in the City Centre to meet in a beer garden and have a few drinks. Getting ready to meet him made me feel anxious but excited. I hadn’t like anyone this much since my infatuation with Sugar Daddy. I made a couple of jokes about my lockdown weight nervous he thought I was a catfish, but he also admitted not getting to his local gym resulted in his weight going up. I decided to wear the good old jeans and a nice top combo with a pair of chunky heeled boots. My hair was down straight, and I attempted my makeup as best as I could. Instantly tanning my transparent body made me appear healthier, and I began to wonder if I was going to get lucky with my handsome pilot. The messages had been a little suggestive at times, but he had never said anything inappropriate to make me think I was getting some D tonight. However, three razors later, I ditched the five-month lockdown growth and was as smooth as a fucking dolphin. I was taking no chances tonight.

I set out with my mask and sanitizer to make the quick train into town to meet Chris. My stomach was in knots, my palms were sweaty, but my fanny was thirsty.

I arrived at the St Luke’s beer garden and could hear my name being called out from behind me. I turned round to see the most handsome, jaw-dropping, chiselled chinned, tall, sexy pilot.  He was fucking gorgeous.  Immediately my fanny started pulsing.  He politely gave me a kiss on the cheek and whispered nervously, “You look beautiful.” YES! I thought.

We immediately began drinking cocktail after cocktail and clicked immediately. At times our hands brushed by one another, and he would give them a tight squeeze. He spoke about taking me on holiday, and we made plans for our second and third dates. Our two-hour slot flew by, and I didn’t want to leave my new potential husband already. I could tell he felt the same but was unsure what to do about it.

“Do you want to come back for a drink at mine?” I asked casually, “Eh…Are you sure? I mean I’d love too; I just don’t want you thinking I’m only here to go back to your house”. He was blushing, and my fanny was gushing at how cute and sincere he was. “Of course, we can have a couple more drinks, I’m sure.” I smiled and gazed into his ice-blue eyes.  This would be by far the hottest guy I’ve ever pumped if things go to plan.  Apologises in advance Nicola Sturgeon but I was no longer able to comply with your indoor/ outdoor rules.

After a short taxi trip, we arrived at my place. I had luckily cleaned away any reminisce of the five-month shit tip slumber that I had been living, and my home looked warm and inviting. I poured some Gin and Lemonade’s, and it wasn’t long before we’re both pretty drunk. He leaned over towards me between sips of the alcohol, and we both began kissing passionately. Once we had locked lips, I didn’t want him to stop, and I started crawling up the couch towards him like fucking Spiderman to get on top. The kissing turned more passionate, and I was in sync with his soft, wet tongue. He was biting my lip at times, and I could tell this shy boy was just as frustrated at me. “Let’s go to the bedroom,” I whispered in between snogs, and he nodded acceptingly.

I immediately lay on the bed, and watched as he stood at the bottom, pulling off his crisp white polo shirt.

His body was insane.  I felt like I was in a Calvin Klein commercial and was about to pound this Godly man. “Do you want a massage?” He asked.  I wasn’t expecting that, but months of lying around, I want going to refuse. 

“Okay, “I giggled. I knelt up on the bed, and we continued to kiss, he pulled my top off, and without hesitation, my bra was off and lying in the heap of clothes that were accumulating on the floor. I slipped my jeans off, staring directly into his eyes, and turned around on my stomach, allowing him to massage me, only wearing my black lacey thong. His hands were warm and felt huge on my back. With every rub, my fanny was tingling. He started working my shoulders, and I could feel my legs begin to stick together to anticipate what was about to come between them.

He slowly made his way down, teasingly skimming his way past my arse crack and crotch as he was groaning and gently kissing my back. I turned my head to look at the handsome man kneading my arsehole and said, “put it inside me.” I didn’t have to ask that cunt twice. He stood up, unbuttoned his jeans and leaned forward slipping my pants down to my ankles.

I remained on my front eagerly awaiting for the first thrust in months, I felt like a kid at Christmas, but instead I could feel him behind me awkwardly, thumbing about trying to get his dick in. I positioned my body at a more insertive angle, and he began bashing around at the back.

For fuck sake. “Put it in,” I whispered after a few minutes. “It is in, babe,” he was really banging into me too, panting away enjoying himself. It couldn’t be, I thought. I put my hand down underneath me between thrusts like a fucking contortionist, and yes, it certainly was inside of me. I felt nothing. My head began zoning out, thinking of possible reasons for this, but I was interrupted by a sudden grunt, “I’m going to come.” Aye, you’re the only one, pal, I thought. He finished, and I smiled at him politely, and we both lay down. He was sweaty and warm. He gently took my hand and kissed it, “You’re so amazing,” and a few minutes later, he was fast asleep.

How could this happen?

Had I stretched my fanny so much with my ten inch G-spot dildo that I couldn’t feel a thing? Maybe sex would never be the same again?  Perhaps, the massage was just too good that I was too lubricated to feel anything?  My thoughts were interrupted as he turned in his sleep to face me.  I moved the covers slightly to cover my arms and boom.  It wasn’t me at all.  My date was sporting the teeniest little mushroom dick I had ever seen.  Oh. My. God.  It looked inverted. I gasped when I noticed it raising my fingers to my face, and my future with Chris flashed in front of me.

I needed a good old cervical scraping but doubted that this little chipolata would scrape past the fanny lips alone. He was charming, sexy, funny, wealthy, but his dick was one inch at most. I was cheated, infuriated, and disgusted all at the same time. I lay there that night wide-eyed staring at my little drawer of enjoyment in the corner of the room, desperate for an orgasm and a twelve incher!