Hazel X for Sex

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Never in my wildest dreams did I intend to pen a “kiss and tell”. Except here I am, actually doing it and guess what?

I’m as horny as hell!

Skipping descriptions of my somewhat soggy panties I’ll introduce myself as Hazel X. And don’t waste too much time looking me up in the phone directory. I’m using “X” as a pseudonym, based partly on a person of mystery, mostly on the lovely Xaviera Hollander, who readers of a certain age might recall.

(Clue: she wrote “The Happy Hooker”, a novel that launched a thousand lavish movies . . . or at least three very sexy ones, anyway.)

What more can I reveal about myself? I’m fast approaching thirty but feel like a teenage girl . . . which is a constant state of affairs with me, hee-hee!

I mean who doesn’t like the feel of a teenage girl!!

Physically I can’t complain about God’s gifts. I am a shade over six feet tall, slightly broad-shouldered with a nice chest, a pencil of a waistline and shapely hips. Try as I might I can’t find an ounce of fat on my body and you can take this as gospel: I definitely do not starve myself trying stay slim. I am one of those lucky souls who can eat and drink whatever I like without having to fear the consequences.

Beer, curry, fish and chips, growlers . . . the old West Yorkshire faves are grist to my mill, sometimes one after another on the same day. They make us hardy up here. I can even eat bowls of Lancashire hotpot, even if I do draw the line at tripe.

Tripe, I ask you! I’d rather eat Cockney stinking eel pie!!

Face-wise I could suggest minor improvements (who honestly couldn’t improve herself?) but again, I can’t really complain. I have been compared to Demi Moore, hopefully more because of our eyes than our relative ages. But hey, can’t you think of a billion worse-looking ladies to be compared with?

Younger or not, much taller or not, I’d accept that comparison every time.

Trust me; men are constantly after me, which is sort of ironic. As readers will so soon discover, men play only a small part in my life. That much said (and here’s my first spoiler alert) I have had sex with men. And, as I revisit my halcyon days in the Upper Sixth, I am going to mention certain male/female sex acts. But I’m going to skim over all the gritty details as much as possible. In fact I am only going to mention them to put my true awakening into context.

Awakening, eh? Sounds impressive, doesn’t it?

So let’s jump back in time. Let’s go back to late 2008, shortly after my coming of age.

I’d say happy days indeed, but my happy days were yet to come.

Good gracious . . . weren’t they just!

Chapter One

In the UK “coming of age” means reaching eighteen years, entitling one to vote, purchase alcohol and tobacco and so on. This is of course well after reaching the “age of consent” at sixteen. Somehow . . . don’t ask me how . . . I managed to get to eighteen as a virgin. At my school that made me somewhat unique. Gymslip mums aged fifteen or less weren’t entirely unheard of.

At my school gymslip mums were ten a penny.

With the benefit of hindsight I can see I was unsure of my sexuality. I was raised in a small town in the outskirts of Yorkshire’s largest city. There was a great metropolis just a bus ride away but I wasn’t in a particularly tolerant area. In other words my contact with gay people was exceptionally limited and my inner feelings were hard to understand.

Deep or what!

For the avoidance of doubt, although the Internet wasn’t quite then what it is now, I had watched a lot of porn on my Lenovo laptop, mostly guy/girl stuff, but not exclusively.

At the time I reckoned I was mildly bi-curious. My personal sexual experience was restricted to use of my trusty right hand and a handful of snogging encounters with male schoolmates, at the increasingly frequent school parties, discos and youth clubs.

Yes, I kept telling myself, girl-on-girl looks fun and the actresses all seem to immensely enjoy doing it. But they’re actresses and not part of the real world.

Believe you me, I was very convincing. Eventually, sure I was bound for a lifetime of “straight sex” and nothing more, I decided to further relations with Brian.

Who is Brian? I hear you ask. He was in the Upper Sixth with me, good-looking and a regular partner in some of those snogging encounters I just mentioned.

Our first time was at yet another eighteenth birthday party, this one in a Village Memorial Hall. Drawn together as per usual I boldly asked him if he wanted to go outside, across the nearby football pitch in the direction of “trees and privacy”. I also asked if he had a condom and blushing brightly, he nodded.

Now it’s time to skimp on details. Let’s just say I enjoyed the feel of having him moving on me, in me. I was also thrilled by the steady, complaint motion of our bodies and the occasion as a whole.

Such firsts are memorable occasions. That goes without saying. Yet pleasant or not, I didn’t cum.

As orhangazi escort a brief digression I would advise that masturbation had always brought me the ultimate delight. I’d not been limited to fingers, either. Alice, my best friend Amy’s older sister, had given us each a rather large dildo, “souvenirs” she’d brought home with her from university.

What I’m trying to say is I wasn’t exactly intacta. And that I was well-used to bringing myself off with a penis-like device. But even so, Brian couldn’t get me up there . . . or anywhere remotely near.


Over the next month or so I became quite a slut, dragging Brian out of parties another twice, enjoying the physical closeness without ever once peaking. Then, with me and he not being officially an “item”, desperate to explore, I gave myself to a different male schoolmate.

Rod was a year older. He’d flunked his A-levels the previous summer and been allowed to repeat his Upper Sixth year. My logic was “older means wiser” but no, his attentions were pleasant but nowhere near pleasant enough.

Different technique to Brian, same unsatisfactory result!

Maybe a week (or maybe it was only a couple of nights) later I rounded on James, who had a certain reputation amongst the girls. And guess what? He was different again, enjoyable in his own way, but still sadly lacking.

So, I’d had five separate sessions and zero orgasms. And I am not for one moment blaming the guys for being on a hair-trigger or anything like that. Inexperienced as I was, I knew I’d been paid a decent level of attention.

It had worked for the guys, too. After paying me all that decent attention, between them they had filled no less than five rubbers.

And they had moaned and groaned for England as they did so. I’d obviously done for them all of the things they hadn’t quite done for me.

Confession time: at this point I did wonder if it was me who was lacking. I put that to the test via a very early night and simply lashings of solo action. The results were, well . . . interesting.

Solo, my fingers soon achieved the desired rush. So too did Alice’s dildo. Puzzled, I catnapped then decided to try again, this time ignoring the simple physics and fantasising as wildly as I could.

Get your head round this. When I fantasised about men I’d really had sex with nothing happened. Yet when I fantasised about men I would like to have sex with, I came like an express train. Like each and every time without fail!

Furthering my experiment, recalling lesbian videos of yore, I discovered I could still cum that way too. And I could still cum fantasising about real-life females as well; girls and women I saw every day and secretly (or not so secretly) lusted after.

Perhaps my logic was iffy but I concluded that, for me, having actual sex with a bloke took away all of his desirability. In other words that I could fancy a fourth guy or a fifth, but fucking him wouldn’t do the trick.

Which led me to the question of girls: would having sex with a girl have the same effect? Would allure vanish that very first time, replaced by indifference after one not-quite-satisfactory skirmish?

By then it was the early hours of the morning and sleep was fast heading in my direction. Reasonably sure that guys didn’t do it for me, I concluded it was time to try gals.

But where was I going to find a likeminded lady? We had a small handful of lesbian couples at school but they were exactly that: couples. Our code of etiquette was to leave couples alone, be they straight or otherwise. Trying to break up an established couple would be the height of bad form.

Where to look outside of school? I had not really a clue. But I knew someone who just might be better informed.

Smiling to myself . . . I’m sure I was smiling to myself . . . I at last dozed off.

Chapter Two

Amazing as it may sound, I opened my enquiries with a guy. Adrian was “the only gay in the village” as far as our school was concerned. And I mean that most sincerely. Whilst we had admittedly only a few lesbian partnerships, we had precisely no male duos. Or should that be duets?

Excuse me if that offends; it isn’t meant to. What I’m trying to say is back then, a decade ago, there was not a single obvious male couple. Knowing what I know now, I guess we covertly had several . . . and that the relatively sizeable handful of lezzies was merely the tip of a rather large iceberg.

Still, we live and learn, don’t we?

Adrian had (admirably) come out way back in the Fifth Form, although he hadn’t surprised anybody in doing so. As far as schoolmates went he was the oracle when it came to the local gay scene. I’d have been remiss to approach anyone else.

Catching him during the short break between Monday morning lessons . . . hauling him back before he could escape from the dreaded English Lit . . .I sailed straight in, singeing his rather scruffy beard, like Francis Drake intrepidly attacking Cadiz.

‘I’m curious,’ nilüfer escort I began, ‘and I need to know where I can meet like-minded girls.’

‘Do you mean bi-curious?’ he hedged.

‘Yes, and I’m like Alice in Wonderland; I’m getting curiouser and curiouser as minutes tick by.’

The guy was clever as well as full of bravado. He also seemed to recognize bravado in me. ‘You can forget all the bars in town for a start off,’ he replied kindly. ‘The few places there are rather insular, the sort where if your face doesn’t already fit, that’s it. I’m afraid you’ll need to go into Leeds, if you dare.’

‘I thought you’d say that. And I dare. So where should I aim for?’

My friend’s eyes became calculating. For an instant I wondered just how well I really knew him. Very openly gay in a climate where macho Yorkies ruled the roost . . . could he have axes to grind?

Yet he was as astute as anyone I’d ever known. And he loved “To Kill a Mockingbird” almost as much as I did.

Dumbly or nay, I trusted him . . . and rightly so, as it turned out.

‘There are several boozers that cater for LGBT,’ he said. ‘Most head for The New Penny, believing it’s the longest-running gay bar in the UK, which it very probably is. But I don’t see there as quite you. Are you going to Donna’s eighteenth on Friday?’

‘Of course I am.’

‘Then get yourself in The Sun. Not only is it only just a few hundred yards from Donna’s venue, it’s as lesbian as any girl could hope for. I’d say it is seventy/thirty female. And you’ll go down a treat. You’ll get more like ninety per cent attention, because all the bi-curious guys will show interest . . . together with every last woman in the place.’

His eyes did that calculating thing again. ‘Friday will be good for you,’ he assured me. ‘I’ve seen a lot of our good buddies in there, including some you’d never credit. I will bet you that, with Donna’s party just a step down the road, this Friday will be mega in The Sun. I’ll bet you’ll see couples that astound you.’

‘Go on,’ I urged, ‘give me a clue.’

Adrian laughed but didn’t oblige. ‘I’m sworn to secrecy,’ he said, ‘but you have got a functional pair of eyes, haven’t you? Be there or be square!’


I don’t know how you have taken to me as the new girl on the block. Maybe I’ve seemed to be a little cocksure (feel free to substitute a word excluding “cock”). If I have I sincerely apologise. Despite my soggy panties I am a human being with all of the associated sensitivities . . . honest I am!

To prove my credentials, let’s run quickly through that Monday to Friday. I openly admit I was keen to see what The Sun . . . a genuine lesbian bar . . . was like. I also openly admit I hadn’t a clue if I was a true lezzie. Fantasising and masturbating aside, I had never as much as kissed a girl. Well, okay, so I had done air-kisses and girly hugs, but none with any real intent.

Far as I was concerned, my very limited sex experience was all male-related.

I know Monday mid-morning to Friday evening is less than five days. But believe you me; that “week” lasted longer than a life sentence in a high security prison.

Dartmoor, Wakefield, Belmarsh . . .

Colditz . . .

Okay, okay. So I’m being overdramatic. But that wait for Friday stretched out seemingly forever. And I did still have to deal with Amy.

When it came to socialising, me and Amy did everything together. We were inseparable; always had been.

For the avoidance of doubt I did truly love Amy like a sister. I was an only child and Amy’s real sister was lots older than her. I believed the sentiment was mutual . . . but she simply would not understand about me wanting to frequent a lesbian bar.

And she might get other ideas if I tried to persuade her to join me; ideas about the way I had felt about her over the years.

If the truth be told, I had dreamed about shagging with her. But we’d been friends forever and nothing had ever happened, not even accidentally. As far as I was concerned that was the perfect status quo; the way we should be for evermore.

If only Friday night wasn’t on the horizon!

As it transpired I did the decent thing and lied to her. No, saving my blushes, let’s make that “fibbed”.

‘We should get to Donna’s do early,’ I declared brightly. ‘Have a couple before we get there. The city is bustling, as I understand it.’

At that point in our lives Amy was happy I had finally (at last!) taken a couple of male lovers. Probably thinking I wanted to be out hunting fresh “masculine talent”, she instantly agreed.

Probably wanting me to quickly make up on what I’d been “missing” . . .

So off we went on the bus, unreasonably early, hitting the city centre at least an hour before Donna’s do was due to begin.

‘This looks like a good one,’ I said cunningly, indicating The Sun, the nearest boozer to the bus stop I had just as cunningly decamped us at.

The pub was late-ish Victorian; a noticeably türbanlı escort larger edifice amidst a long terrace of retail outlets with a few offices thrown in for good luck. Unlike a lot of the city and its surroundings, these buildings were made of Yorkshire stone rather than red brick.

These buildings were made to last ages or aeons, not mere minutes.

Familiar with such structures, I wondered what we’d find inside. You could boldly march into a rather grand-looking edifice only to find yourself in a poky dive. Crossing my fingers, hoping for the best, I went in through stylish swing doors.

And my first impulse was to gasp. No way was this a dive. This was heaven on earth. Well-kept décor and carpets, a big bar boasting a shiny polished wood top, hand pumps and smiling barmaids . . .

Oh yes, it was heaven alright.

Amy clearly didn’t agree. I had to grab her hand to keep her from swooning, like some old-fashioned maid, offended by horses defecating out there in the street.

Or doing something even worse!

Not that there were any horses in view, although there were a lot of girl-on-girl couples grinding away on the dance floor, currently enjoying I Kissed a Girl as it blared out from the juke box. Then the music changed to the significantly older Constant Craving and the number of dancing couples doubled, just like that.

Never mind heaven, it felt like a homecoming.

And stuff Amy. Ignoring her I marched up to the bar and ordered two large whites. Wincing inwardly at the mere handful of change from my tenner, I merrily bumped glasses with my goggling companion.

‘Frigging ace in here,’ I said, ‘isn’t it?’

‘Jaysus girl,’ she replied, ‘look around you! There isn’t a man to be seen!’

That wasn’t entirely true but wasn’t totally inaccurate. Adrian’s estimate had understated the swarm of girls. I guestimated right then girl power was running at around ninety per cent.

And wasn’t that just fine!

‘Who needs men?’ I replied with a grin.

Chapter Three

There wasn’t any available table and most of the floor-space was, to say the least, cramped. Amy at my side I went over to the juke box and sipped my vino.

‘What’s this all about?’ Amy persisted. ‘Those pairs of girls over there are up close and personal and it’s barely seven o’clock. This place has to be a . . . a . . . oh my God I don’t believe it. That’s Maxi and Liz, isn’t it? Standing across at the bar?’

Maxi and Liz were one of our school’s (supposedly) few lesbian partnerships. And of course Amy was correct. The two of them were at the bar, holding hands and giggling together, looking our way.

‘Stuff me,’ said Amy, ‘our reputations are trashed!’

I waved to our schoolmates and, still giggling, they waved back. ‘I think they’ll keep schtum,’ I said. ‘Is there not a certain code of conduct amongst kindred spirits?’

‘I’m not a fucking kindred fucking spirit. I’m just in the wrong fucking pub.’

(That’s as accurate a quote as I can remember, but I suspect I’ve missed out a couple of eff words.)

‘Chill,’ I told Amy. ‘We’re seeing how the other half lives. Nothing wrong with that, is there?’

‘You fucking knew,’ Amy countered. ‘You brought me in here on purpose.’ Then, her eyes widening, ‘I reckon you’re coming out of the closet. I reckon . . .’

I was saved by the arrival of another schoolmate, Wendy. She had an utterly gorgeous blonde in tow and was grinning from ear to ear.

Excuse me a brief amplification. Until that moment I’d assumed Wendy was straight. I’d also assumed that every male in the Sixth Form had masturbated with her at the centre of their thoughts. Yes, every male and a fair few females too. I certainly had!

Wendy was as tall as me with hair that seemed red in some lighting, auburn in others. Her face was a delight and her body was, to say the least, Rubenesque . . . but not overly so. She was shapely, not at all fat. And seeing her in The Sun was a shock. I had always believed she was straight because she’d had any number of guys. Truthfully, she could take her pick and nobody was ever going to say no.

Yet here she was in a gay bar . . . no, a lesbian bar . . . practically hand-in-hand with the sexiest babe on the planet. Well, the sexiest apart from herself. Here she was, delighted with herself, grinning like a Cheshire Cat.

‘Girls, girls, girls,’ she said in greeting, ‘what a pleasure is this! I’d had my hopes, naturally, but I never really expected them to come true.’

‘They haven’t,’ Amy said ungraciously, ‘we simply picked the wrong effing boozer.’

‘No we did not,’ I countered, ‘we got off the bus with here in mind. Leastways I did. Amy’s the innocent party, not me.’

At that point the juke box clicked off . . . like audibly, right behind me . . . and a DJ took over.

‘Welcome yet again my lovely girlfriends,’ she cried via her microphone. ‘And welcome to all the lovely new faces too. New faces are always refreshing. With any luck you’ll soon all be familiar as well. Now, without further ado, let’s see what Joan Armatrading has to say for herself.’

The opening chords of The Weakness in Me prompted lowered overhead lights and another big influx onto the dance floor. It also prompted the gorgeous blonde to speak for the first time.

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