Tossed off by a Ginger Tosser

Steph recently posted about awkward moments during sex, and cited one of her worst, when she called out another man's name. Squillions of other people dished their most disgusting malodorous experiences, and you would be a fool not to check them out, because if nothing else you will find out what queefing is (who says blogging isn't educational?)


An infamous awkward sex moment. Daniel discovers Bridget's granny panties and ridicules her for wearing them.

All of which led me to thinking about my most humiliating sexual experiences. There have been many occasions when I have done things that may have been construed as embarrassing, but I simply don't get embarrassed by sex stuff. For example, there are quite a few times in the following story that I suppose you could say I embarrassed myself. But hey ho, it will amuse you if nothing else. Here goes:

I was twenty-eight, living in a block of flats in Central London. I'd just been for a walk and had come home and, feeling rather hot, had stripped to my underwear. I was also writing an erotic novel which was heavy going. I was bored.

The doorbell went. Usually I never answered the door if I didn't know who it was. This time I did.

A very youthful man is standing there. He sees me in my bra and goes red. He then composes himself and tells me he is from national broadsheet, can he chat to me about a politician living in the block? What my opinion of him is?

I said, "Well, I've only ever said hello to him in the lift."

"Sorry, is this a bad time?" he said, gesturing at my underwear.

"No, it's okay, I was just bored." That was the thing. I was bored and intrigued or I would never have moved the conversation forward. For God's sake, he was a journalist. A slimy journalist, as if there is any other kind.

"Listen. I'm going to doorstep a few more people in the block and then I'll come back, you can put some clothes on and we'll go for a drink. I can put it on expenses."

Like most things, it came down to those four magic words: put it on expenses. I was putty in his hand. While I put my clothes on, I was a little bit angry. I was pleased that I had just had a mysterious encounter with a reasonably attractive young man (I later found out he was twenty-four). I was just pissed off that he had ginger hair. Well, really, it was more auburn, but why couldn't he have looked like Alain Delon or Colin Farrell or .... anyway, I was not about to look a free drink in the mouth.

Long story short, we ended up drinking (on expenses) for about twelve hours. He fell madly in love, with himself. Oh yes, it had been a long and very passionate affair. He told me about how he had become a journalist at seven and got stories into the local paper, and then all about his journalistic triumphs for the past seventeen years. He was a trainee on this broadsheet and told me, "The editor told me not to come back until I get some scandal on that famous politician who lives in your flats."

At this point I was three sheets to the wind. "Oh," I said. "So you want scandal on him! Well, why didn't you say so? As it happens, I do know something." I did, as it happened.

"Oh really?" said Ginger Tosser. "If you could tell me I'd be awfully grateful."

So I gave him the story. Well, what would you have done? He'd bought me a dozen drinks. Then we both had fish and chips and he ended up staying at my flat. Not in my bed I might add, just because he hadn't inflamed my loins. This was during my phase when I was obsessed with having a kid, and yes if you must ask I did ask him, "By the way, you're reasonably bright, do you fancy fathering my child? I don't really want the kid to have red hair though, do you think my brown hair might cancel yours out?"

Now that's embarrassing, isn't it? Although I wasn't embarrassed to ask. I seem to remember he said he was keen to give me his genetic material, but would want to see the kid after its birth. I said I really just wanted the material, but that we could talk about it.

The next morning, I had completely forgotten that I'd given Ginger Tosser the story (plus a letter that backed up the story). I was distracted by a letter I had just received in the post from this erotic publisher to whom I had submitted a manuscript.

"This says that many of my sex scenes are unrealistic!" I read out to Ginger Tosser. "The editor says the manuscript had too many scenes of intercourse where the female protagonist climaxed with little or no clitoral stimulation! Like it's realistic to have sex with a new person every three pages? Realism! Can you believe she wants clitoral realism?"

Ginger Tosser looked a bit embarrassed. At the time I was thinking, I wonder if he even knows what to do with a clitoris? It later transpired that he did, but I'm getting ahead of myself.

When Ginger Tosser had pushed off, I did start to recall that I'd given him that story, but frankly, I thought, they're not going to print that are they? Is that really a hot enough scandal?

Well of course they did run the story, with much fabrication and bias added. Long story short, GT told me later that I kick started his career. Because firstly, he arrived at the newspaper offices with stubble and yesterday's clothes on, and could brag to everyone that he'd stayed overnight with a slattern who'd provided him with a news scoop. He'd hit the big time.

Anyway, we met up a few days later and I cooked him dinner and after dinner he said, "Have you ever had anyone do oral sex on you for an hour?"

Well, no I hadn't but, well, let's just say I was interested in exploring the possibility. I was out of my knickers sharpish, and then, guess what, he teased and tormented me with his fingers we such skill that I actually forgot about that promised hour's worth of tonguing. We didn't get round to it, or else it was a line to get women to part with their knicks, and a damned good one if anyone wants to use it! He was surprisingly good in all other ways in the sack, even though he looked like a schoolboy. Which proves that you can't always judge a book by its cover, sex wise. Still, he was also a snake in the grass, I reckon, luring me to divulge my news story with the promise of free drinks.

Thing is, I didn't even hate that politician. But the politician was running for office at the time and didn't get in and sometimes I wonder whether my story had a part in his downfall. Or maybe I just felt a bit, well, used. If you're reading this Ginger Tosser, you owe me one.

All of which leads me to ask for any and all embarrassing stuff you said while you were drunk, although embarrassing sex stories are also very welcome.