I have mentioned before, it wasn’t all about devouring 100 dicks but more a journey to find ‘The One’ (yes even sluts dream this dream). Thus it may come as some surprise that I abstained from sex for a period of two years. Sex of course for me being defined by vaginal penetration – anal and oral sex were fine. The reason I decided on this course of abstinence I shall divulge another time, but what’s important is that I was going through a ‘no sex’ phase until I deemed a dick worthy of being my boyfriend (or potentially ‘the one’).

With all the good will in the world though, my iron will did not mean my sex drive in any way diminished but I could at least control it. Continuing low self esteem though meant any attention showered on me I continually lapped up.

At this period of my life I lived at the Young Women’s Christian Association, which is conveniently located opposite the British Museum, a five minute walk from Tottenham Court Road station. Being the YWCA the rooms were very cheap, clean and the location was great, so scoring a room (under the guise that I was living in a bedsit with a violent drug seller and needed safer accommodation) was no mean feat. At that point they did in-still strong Christian values. Residents couldn’t have visitors after 10pm and if you wanted a guest to stay the night you had to pay for the privilege and notify the manager 2 days in advance. If, like me, you are a girl whose sex life is comprised of endless one night stands, these particular guidelines did not suit the lifestyle.

However the night reception staff were all male, paid a pittance and with the right amount of fluttering of eyelashes could be counted on to turn a blind eye on some occasions.

Now there’s obviously something in my demeanour that screams cheap slut because very often when walking through the West End after work (I worked nights in a theatre) I would have random strangers come and approach me asking if I wanted to have sex – not in a paid prostitute way, more as in taking their chances. It could just have been that in the West End after 11pm most men in Soho are drunk, horny, beer goggled up and willing to try it on with anything with a pulse.

As I began to saunter up to Centre Point, wearing (it has to be said) some funky but very casual cargo pants and a green converse top with a massive star on it a giant of a man stopped me in my tracks and asked if I wanted to go for a drink. Even though I felt under-dressed for Bar 101, his approach was so brazen and forthright I was impressed and found myself agreeing to go for a drink. He was paying after all and turned out to be a Canadian tourist so I wanted to be a good ambassador for London.

I can’t say the conversation was sparkling – after all he asked if I was a sportswoman given my attire (I still don’t know if he was genuine with that posited question). Given how overweight I was I couldn’t fathom what on earth made him ask it but seemingly a Converse t-shirt says Olympic athlete…perhaps he though I was a hammer thrower or in the shot putt….maybe though because he was 6’4 and almost excessively broad and muscular, I looked tiny in his eyes and he thought I was a figure ice skater. Maybe….

After the ‘What sports was I involved in’ and Olympic reference I knew he wasn’t ‘The One’ and sex was out of the question. I thought I’d cut my losses and go (there was a kebab with my name written on it on the walk home) until he asked if I fancied sharing a spliff.

If I’m not having sex, I’m substituting it for something else – food, alcohol, drugs. The offer of a free fat dooby pushed the kebab to the back of my mind. I found myself telling him I lived down the road and we could go back to mine for a puff.

Fate smiled at me that night and the night receptionist smiled and nodded as I pointed at my Canadian gargantuan and mouthed a silent ‘can I bring him in?’. We went up to my room and I played the good host.

Blown away by my CD collection – extending to about 500 at that time – he leafed through endless mammoth travel cases of my CDs picking out his favourites. I found favour with him by having Canadian artist Amanda Marshall in my collection. He plucked out her most recent album, an obscure expensive purchase it had taken me ages to locate in London (and this was when Virgin Mega-store and Tower Records still reigned supreme).

As he rolled the joint, I began playing his respective CD choices from the small stack of my CDs he’d piled up. In a haze of marijuana I relaxed a little and lay on the bed chatting. I like to think I was being eloquent, witty and knowledgeable but I was probably talking shit. Inevitably things were to take a sexual turn. How could they not with Madonna warbling Justify My Love?

It was a little difficult dropping the bombshell that I was refraining from sex, but both being gently stoned it wasn’t greeted with anger or disappointment. Rather he enquired as to whether or not I’d be up for some mutual masturbation. It seemed a reasonable offer so I didn’t decline it – after all it wouldn’t involve any vaginal penetration.

With Madonna on repeat, I re-enacted the Like a Virgin bed masturbation scene from her Blond Ambition World Tour on my single bed, as he arranged the armchair opposite the bed for a better view and began to undo his jeans.

What flopped out of his baggy boxers had my abstinence pact with myself in serious question.

One has to understand the average cock size is between 5 ½ to 6 ¼ inches. Now put the average penis onto someone who is significantly above average in height and even though it’s a perfectly nice penis it looks like a tiddler. Put the same average sized penis on someone more vertically challenged and it looks like they are carrying the tackle of a beast from the equine family. Mr Canada however had a penis in-proportion with his 6’4 frame and I was indeed looking excitedly as if I’d somehow been transported to a stable and was in a scene from Equus.

Watching his hand slowly move up and down his thick fleshy pole and seeing it grow longer and wider had me transfixed. Could I really pass up a cock that big? Did I really want to miss the experience of playing Mountie to that stallion?

Turns out I could…up to a point. My will began to crumble and when he politely requested permission to come closer and get on the bed to finish himself off, I head my voice eagerly inviting him on the bed. Worse still I found myself responding to his huge hands manipulating me onto all fours – his hands reaching between my legs and moving expertly from my wet cunt and stroking my soft belly, as if in fact I was the mare being tamed. My body began to give way as his donkey cock slid between my vulva and began pressing at the entrance to that warm tight hole, but somewhere in the recesses of my mind the reason for my celibacy marched to its forefront and I slid forward on the bed (rather like a cat stretching when it wakes) to avoid any accidental penetration. I mumbled that I really couldn’t have sex with him.

As forthright as his initial invitation to got for a drink he asked if I’d mind him cumming over my buttocks. Seeing he’d been so good natured about my conflicting words and behaviour I told him to go ahead and from his massive cock a small pot of yoghurt ejaculated all over my peachy bottom.

I was faced with an immediate conundrum, being a good host and ambassador for London it seemed only right that I walk the intrepid traveller back to the tube station so he could get his bearings and find his way home. Being a good catholic girl and very hygienic it didn’t really seem appropriate that I go out in public with dried spunk on my dairy air. I grabbed my favourite large blue towel and said I’d pop into the shower quickly then take him to the station. As I opened the door to head to the communal showers my eyes caught the light reflecting off the shiny stack of CDs he’d chosen as the soundtrack for the night. I opened my mouth to say ‘Don’t pinch any of my CD’s’ but worried it would sound rude and accusatory, casting some dispersion over his character. My brain filtered the thought so this half hearted warning was never voiced. He’d been perfectly polite, generous with his goods so there was no reason to make the throwaway comment. It may be misinterpreted and given his stature I didn’t want to risk the wrath of his anger.

After a quick jump in the shower and towel down, I flung on my clothes, nodded to the night receptionist appreciatively and, taking him by the hand, walked him to Tottenham Court Road tube station. We had a peck on the cheek and with his holiday visa status there seemed no obligation to go through any façade of exchanging numbers or making promises to hook up again. Cordiality and civility were the order of the farewell and we left on good terms.

On a high (from the sexual play and the spliff) and with a serious case of the munchies I decided to pick up the kebab I’d foregone in the frenzy of public flattery. When I got home and opened up the doner, splashed some lea & perrins over the chips I could finally relax. Almost. I still had to put the CDs back into their books – I was a little OCD in relation to this and my music collection was my pride and joy. As Madonna and various artists were assigned there place in a plastic sleeve with their respective CD booklet I noticed one particular artist was glaringly absent from the book.

Amanda Marshall – Canadian singer/songwriter – unknown to most British people

She was nowhere to be seen. I checked to see if she was still in the CD player, got on my hands and knees to see if the CD had fallen to the floor (or under the bed or behind a shelf), retraced the inserts to see if I’d inadvertently put 2 CDs into the one sleeve but there was no sign of her. The £23 CD that had taken me three years to purchase was gone. I don’t like to point any fingers but I suspect she was in a discman waiting to be played on the long return flight from Heathrow to Ontario.