The Great Sex Experiment - A Work of Pure Fiction

For the benefit of mankind, or indeed my own curiosity, and of course, not least, raging hangover horn (apologies), I decided to conduct a social experiment one sunny Saturday, when as a recently single man with my own pad in Manchester, employment and very few commitments, I had all the time, freedom and means available to me to in order to undertake such work. I wanted to establish if the fairer sex had a similar approach to sex, and if possible, sex drive as myself as a male. I wanted to establish if, like me, they could be easily tempted into almost instantaneous promiscuity, and, that heterosexual sex with a stranger was not only possible, but more exciting and thus better. With regards the latter, this is something I have always found to be the case, and as such this was to be a voyage of discovery into self, as well as social science and sexuality. I often find that I perform better in the company of strangers rather than those who are family or friends. Having discussed this with a family member who has known, and indeed loved me my whole life, her view was that this was because I could be somebody else when in the company of strangers, because they didn’t know anything about who I really was, and that this might not only be invigorating, but also allow for a little fantasy and escapism. However, knowing myself as I do, I know that this is not the case, indeed, it is precisely this kind of miss-judgement which association with strangers allows me to escape, and even if not, it matters far less, for they cannot necessarily know better and are unlikely to know me, or indeed anybody I know beyond one meeting, not only that, but it allows me to be exactly myself, without fear of judgement, for if they do judge, like I say, it matters not; they are a stranger. Indeed, I am less likely to initially be myself in front of family and friends, unless I see them daily or very often. This is for fear of their judgement which has to be taken more seriously, for they will see me again and again for years to come, and it is for this reason that I get nervous ahead of gatherings of, or visits to and from, people I know. It had always been less of a struggle therefore, for me to let go in front of somebody I didn’t know, even invigorating, invigorating to be one’s self rather than someone else. Because, for me, a meeting with a stranger allows for a more care free attitude and thus a confidence just to relax and be oneself, rather than a portrayal of what you think family and sometimes friends want you to be, or indeed expect you to be. I am convinced that this has something to do with why, and particularly in the case of the girls, when we are away from home, for example on holiday, we all suddenly become much more accommodating towards promiscuity. So I started out with just enough money in my pocket from the night before to get a bus to Chorlton; the more cosmopolitan and bohemian of the Manchester suburbs. I had considered walking, just on the off chance I might bump into the beautiful and extremely sexy red head who lived on route, the third to last time I had seen her, I was on route to a friend’s in Trafford and had walked up behind her, she had been wearing a pair of eighties style shiny running shorts which had been incredibly tight fitting, exposing an even tighter derrière. I had heard that red heads were the best, extremely passionate with very high sex drives, this girl was a prime specimen, a master class of porcelain skin, great facial beauty and the sort of long red hair that was rare. However, only weeks later, and still relatively recently, I had seen her walking into town, having been thinking about her regularly since the shorts incident, I thought it might be a sign, then, I thought that it might be last time I see her, and therefore my only chance, so I pulled up dishevelled on my bike and blurted out my name, address and the proposition of a date. She very politely refused, explaining that she had only recently come out of a long term relationship, I daren’t suggest some no strings action, I didn’t have the heart, or more likely the balls. I only ever saw her once more, I was again cycling, this time on the other side of the road, I kept going, although I noticed she recognised me, in hindsight her facial expression had suggested that she had changed her mind, but alas, I had given up too easily and continued on my way. Back to the now, and surely such a beauty would never require my skills, and the chances of seeing her again must be gone, I got onto the bus, there were far more likely opportunities for me on a bus - Top deck, skint, young, hormonally charged and naive, or older, uglier and playing in a lower league. I looked out of the window for red, had I seen her I would have buzzed the bell and jumped off, there was nowt doing on the bus. Upon arrival in Chorlton I dismounted at the library and walked up to the RBS on the corner to get some cash. In central Chorlton there is a cross road with banks on each corner and lots of independent shops, bars and eateries surrounding. Having walked south for twenty or so metres from the bank I came across a huge woman sat on a stool at the base of a staircase, which I guessed lead directly up to her flat above one of the shops. It was turning into a hot day, she had her legs wide and her bulky skirt hitched. She was probably in her forties but looked a lot older on account of the weight and lack of grooming. Her legs were bulbous and swollen, like a baboon’s arse, the shadowing shifted from greens to purples to white, to red. Her face was wide and sporadically sprouting with varying fleshy growths and the stumps of thick black hairs. This was a sure bet, perhaps having been successful so early on would mean that my tally for the day would set the bar for some kind of personal record, providing goods results all round! I made my way towards the woman and told her that I found her unusually attractive and that I longed to pleasure her, to meet her every sexual desire and to do so for as long as it took. The woman didn’t even hint at a smile, she became immediately hostile which took me aback; I was surprised as she told me that in no uncertain terms would she ever wish to engage in such a thing. The disgust was written across her face from the squinting of her eyes to the corners of her mouth as she said the word, ‘no.’ I walked on, unperturbed, but surprised at my results. Next I thought I would trawl the bars, but had a little time to kill before a more civilised drinking hour for the ladies. I decided to head back to the cross road and then east, smiling at every possible pedestrian candidate along the way, most didn’t return the gesture, instead staring, almost as if working out whether they were seeing things, probably more than anything it was an annoyance to them, the way anyone feels when you just have far too much to do and the last thing on your mind would be the advances of the opposite sex without the opposite attraction. Whilst driving through Chorlton a few weeks earlier I had clocked that a massage parlour had opened for business above an estate agent, about 25 metres or so from the cross road, it’s no frills, gently lit wooden staircase rising diagonally up the side of the glass fronted show room. The place must be open bloody 24/7, so I popped up to meet the Madame and establish whether this might be a goer, in the unlikely event that a plan B was required. It was a goer alright, the girls were fit, the Madame accommodating, and only £40 a pop, I left on friendly terms and exclaimed that I would be back as I bound back down the stairs. My first pub of call was to be an absolute shocker with the pub benches squashed into its front on the cross road, a bit rough around the edges for a rougher clientele. Funnily enough, on a night out several years earlier I had been propositioned by a very acceptable looking red head whilst having a cigarette outside this pub, she seemed to get cold feet however when I reciprocated, it must have been the level of urgency with which I sought her telephone number and then tried to snog her. Perhaps one day I would get third time lucky with the reds I thought. But for now, the pub was sparsely populated with lone old men nursing their addictions, with the exception of a gothic rock couple sat in one of its many corners. I sat at the bar and had a pint with the charismatic magician serving the beer. So, I tried Lloyds, a hundred metres back down the south arm and past the muckle great woman with whom I had spoken earlier, I looked for her look, so that I could reciprocate with a friendly smile of recognition and apology, she didn’t even recognise me, perhaps she had other things on her mind, sex was clearly the last of them. This particular Lloyds is not one of the chain places that are starting to look a little tatty, it is a big independent pub with an upper floor for functions and a bowling green out back. Sunday lunches and poetry evenings at their best, indeed, I had successfully courted a girl at a poetry evening here previously. I saw her come in just before my set and wrote something about her on the spot, I performed it moments later and she was hooked. Then, there was the intimate meeting with an 18 year old colleague in the disabled toilet whilst out on a farewell drinks do with work, I was on a promise that night but had to leave early to get a lift to Carlisle. I never got the chance again because I was told farewell myself, but without the drinks do not long after! There was none of that today though, no arty types or wanton blondes anywhere to be seen, only groups of couples, all of whom, if not already behaving defensively at my objective, would have to show great distain at the same. It was too early for the suburbs, there was nothing else for it, I would have to make my way to town, to maximise potential and kill time, I decided that the best thing to do would be to head off on foot via Walley Range and Hulme, possibly stopping off in a few pubs on route to see what I found. There was a red light area in Walley Range which might boost the drive, and I had heard that the none working-working classes, of whom there was an abundance in these areas, were so bored, that besides taking drugs and drinking, they did little else but copulate, often with anyone and everyone, and if you watch Jeremy Kyle, it would seem that this occurs whether they are in relationships or not, and not only that, but with other people also within relationships, their best friends, sisters, bothers, mothers, you name it! Seemed perfect, they were no relatives of mine. So I set off, and between Chorlton and Walley Range there was a traffic jam in both directions. I took full advantage of this, no longer did I look like some weirdo stalking the pubs, I had purpose, I was going somewhere, and nobody had to know where, they could conjure something up in their own imagination. I was in my best gear and I would hope that back in the day I might have had a little something, something that might still be lingering, something that in fact began to grow with every attractive female driver I passed who returned my smile whilst already checking me out. These women were in control, they were quite literally in the driving seat and in charge of the power that could prevent me getting anywhere near them. With that, must come a level of confidence, a freedom to express, a freedom from inhibition, and crucially, I was a stranger to them. I would suggest that this cauldron of ingredients heats up and bubbles over into a playful display of sexuality, but unfortunately, not in sex, which is the catch 22, for it this display would unlikely happen if sex was to be the foregone conclusion. Whilst there were no prostitutes to be seen in Walley Range, (it was probably too early in the day), I did stop at a convenience store in Hulme for a drink. There was a girl in there who looked to be in her early thirties and thus probably in her late twenties, she had obviously come down from the flats above to buy supplies, hence her slippers, and the slack Helley Hanson tracksuit bottoms easing over her slinky hips. She had a body in far better condition than her face, something which has never ever been a problem for me, after all, the head is only 10% of the fun, and they all look the same upside down. She was aware of me and didn’t seem annoyed by my attention, she worked it in fact, hopefully I made her feel sexy with the glint in my eye, it certainly brought out the best in her. Unfortunately, once outside, I soon established through her tilted giggle, squinted smiling and enquiring eyes that the supplies were not only for her. Eventually I made it into Piccadilly Gardens, having decided upon the strategy of trying the cheap city centre pubs, those often being frequented by easier women for someone like me, easier because of their social status and drunken disposition; the louder more undesirable woman, and importantly, in higher numbers. In fact what I found outside my first pub was an exceptional poet selling dreams on scraps of card, he wore fingerless gloves and talked of his mental health difficulties amongst philosophy and an awful lot else. Our conversation became so enthralled that it gained the attention of many of the people smoking outside the pub. As is often the case with this type of place, most of the clientele were smokers and by the time I had finished my own cigarette, most of the people around us had become animated and involved in the conversation. Upon now knowing most of the people in the pub, it did not somehow seem appropriate to try it on with any of them! I did however join them in a few more pints, it killed time and built courage, although, the alcohol and the spirited companionship did somewhat numb my hangover filth drive and as the people induced vibe embraced me with merriment, my objective seemed to smack with somewhat sinister undertones, acting as a catalyst for re-evaluation and a moral dilemma. I had to then consider Long Leg’s lap dancing bar in China Town to rectify this. It wouldn’t be long now before the darkness began to fall, and with that, I knew a new breed of slapper would shortly follow. Where better to head them off than Yates Wine Lodge on Deansgate, (pronounced Yahtay’s for fun). Indeed, as I sat and mulled over a few pints of my favourite Abbot’s Ale with a bag of dry roasted nuts in situ, the lighting changed, the eating dispersed and some of Primark’s shortest adorned some of Manchester’s most eclectic - short, tall, fat, thin, old, young, ancient, those who should know better and those who know nothing at all; milf’s, gilf’s and tilf’s. I had lost my sinister motives, the drink, the music and the atmosphere had seen to that, and the lone wolf was gone, imperative if I was to have any success now, for my objective remained the same. Besides a snog with a woman old enough to be my mother and short enough to blow me whilst standing up, (something that she drew my attention to by the way), I spent most of my time chatting up a relatively curvaceous but particularly sexy girl with dyed bright red hair in her early twenties. She was rough around the edges, but had that raw sex appeal that can only ever come hand in hand with that. She was also pretty smart however, this no doubt explained her companion, a geeky American student of a similar age. I laid it on pretty thick and gave it my all, brought out all of my best lines and most charming counter balances; she was having none of it. Her mate was though; she was the sort of girl that in hindsight would have had all the passion in the world, no doubt as unkempt around the edges as her friend was rough, but probably a lot more fun in the sack and ripe for the picking. I failed to see this until it was very bluntly pointed out to me by the object of my relentless pursuit whilst her American friend went to the toilet. However, I thought this might be some kind of test which I must pass if I was to get to sleep with the red head. My view at the time being, that girls don’t just want a quick fix, they want commitment, and that was what I would have to demonstrate here if I wanted the quick fix with this sexy bright headed girl. What can I say, Abbot Ale is a strong beer, and in a desperate attempt to prove my theory, I had gone against my theory and therein lurked a ghastly paradox. As the beer flowed, so too did my confidence, thus raising my expectations and numbing my desperate urgency, I raised the bar and hit it rather than just walking underneath it. I walked away from the ride that I would have been mad for earlier in the day. Not only that, but on my way out I refused to dance with the little lady and walked away from that BJ. Drink, mood and hormones do extraordinary things within their life cycles, even in men, and especially when combined; hindsight can show us that consciousness is rarely dominant. So, I went next door. To the more ‘upmarket’ bars, where surfaces are harsher, clientele selected, beers served on napkins, and therefore prices greatly inflated. Whilst the outfits adorned were just as colourful and revealing, they too will no doubt have been more expensive, and the clientele whilst very pleased with themselves and therefore rather challenging to engage, offered very little more in the way of class, they are not however aware of this, after all, the first such place had a piano. I amused myself for a long while in these bars, whilst many of the women almost looked comical as a result of their unnatural efforts, I would have happily fucked them all. It was whilst jostling at the bar at one of these places that I inadvertently pushed in front of a short impeccably groomed Persian looking male of maybe late thirties early forties, although I could be wrong because he was clearly dripping with cash and had no doubt benefitted a great deal from it. I was reminded very courteously by his taller companion that this shorter fellow was there. I was immediate and polite in my response, moving back and apologising with sincerity and warmth, I had all the time in the world and was intrigued to let these gentlemen by so I could observe. The taller fellow, though mild mannered and extremely subtle in his approach, also had an aura that demanded undivided attention and respect, his patience was unnerving; there was a serene calmness, suggestive of either a discipline capable of severe punishment, or a psychotic temper that could go without warning. There was little doubt that this was a long-term bodyguard and good friend to his master, no doubt having been on many such nights out, probably all over the world. He clearly cared deeply for the boss’s wellbeing and enjoyment, like a father or brother. I watched this beautifully mannered professional order the drinks at the bar before turning and offering me one without asking what, I gratefully accepted and the drinks were paid for from a thick fold of fifties. I had several more with these chaps at their table, they told me that the shorter gentleman was a Prince, which could explain the women that soon came to join us, the very best I’d seen all night, there was one thing for sure, the Prince was a stranger to these women, and them to him, but he was going to get whatever action he liked with them that night, alas, these girls were providing a professional service, whether they admitted that to themselves or not, and thus not relevant to my enquiries. I did however meet Kym Marsh, but unfortunately, having really hit it off with her, a miss-guided line to suggest that I was a more attractive proposition than her slightly podgy and absent husband did not bode well. I can no longer watch Corrie on the basis of what might have been, I got the impression hubby had been in the dog house and she was feeling pretty disillusioned and vulnerable that night, or at least I did when some of her friends told me that was the case. I eventually left and went on to the next generic up market bar next door. I was feeling the effects of the alcohol and was really starting to loosen up now. I stood on the end of a table of two women and started to fantasise, pretending to be soave and sophisticated, acting as if there was something purposeful and mysterious about me, maybe I was a spy, maybe I was staying overnight on business in Manchester, I most certainly wasn’t some lone letch from down the road after a shag. One of the women, women being the operative word, was particularly attractive and had scrubbed up well, the other looked a lot older, but quite similar. I had chatted up and danced a little with the fit one, and then when she went off to the powdering room, asked the other lady if she was her mother, this did not go down as badly as it should have done, she explained they worked together and were from Preston, having booked a hotel to have a night out in Manchester. I got the impression that the fit one was spoken for, but I hung around because they were talking to me and I didn’t look like some sex pest in the corner. Where one girl has accepted you, others tend to follow, the only interest I ever seem to get from girls is when I have one hooked already. It must be a beacon to other women that you have something to give, and that it isn’t an STD. It was then that I saw her, or rather her eyes, her eyes were bigger than anything I’d ever seen in a human, almost alien, she had bone structure a little like an alien too, she wore a long red cashmere coat and was all wrapped up, it was the nearest thing I’d seen to a young Michelle Pfeiffer in the flesh, she was beautiful, she was different, and she was looking at me, she too was alone. The next few hours were a whirlwind of joy. My beautiful companion was Russian, but she had found fame in one of the more recent European countries that I cannot recall, despite having been told several times. She had more recently reached the final of the equivalent of Strictly Come Dancing in that country and had decided to take some time out and work at a friend’s business in their UK offices selling what I recall to be something very innovative and cutting edge, but nothing more, it may well have been holographic projection equipment, but now I have written that I know it was not. Her main objective appeared to be to learn better English and hopefully get some acting work. She was living with her new bosses family whilst she found her feet, and although they all had fun, she exclaimed to be dreadfully lonely, so in stepped me therefore art though! We started with a drink, closely followed by a cigarette, whilst smoking the cigarette in the posh fag pit outside we were approached by a Magician, Nathan Newcastle. Newcastle was a wizard, no doubt about it. He’d dropped out of Uni unbeknown to his parents and was pursuing his lifelong dream of becoming a professional magician. He was already there if you ask me, his tricks woke me up and inspired my spirit into overspill, my generosity with pound coins reflected this and encouraged him all the more, we got half a set’s worth and parted as great friends, I kept his card and hoped one day to use it. I told and showed my dream girl all the venues containing all the names she would need to know in order to make it in the great white Manc as an actress. We drank beer in my favourite city pubs and I took her to the proper posh bars for proper drinks, like dirty Martini’s on the 28th floor and more dirty Martini’s at the Free Trade Hall. Flying on the great beauty and wonder of my companion we hit the exciting bars of the Northern Quarter and headed for the dance floors of the infamous Canal Street. It was whilst on route to Canal Street that I was caught by police urinating in a back alley behind some bins. They had pulled up in a van out of nowhere, the male officer was short and on a massive power trip, his WPC was clearly getting off on it all, they goaded me for minutes, I pulled myself together and apologised with the upmost sincerity and eloquence, they goaded me some more, I apologised again and complimented their role in society, they goaded me some more, I apologised beautifully, without sarcasm and then began to negatively evaluate myself and pledged what I intended to do about it. They goaded me again, so I apologised once more, differently each time, and then suggested what I too did for society, as a member of the same general side. I knew what they wanted say to me, how they wanted to feel, what they wanted to hear, how I had to say it, and I’d said it, avoiding the £100 fine. £100 not lost is £100 gained, so we celebrated in style. We ended up dancing the night away in Mojo’s, a characterful little late night club above a coffee shop in the city centre just off Bridge Street, famed for playing a good mix of classic tracks, allowing free entry and being open all night. Even the bar man who was normally always horrible to me was handing us out free drinks. It was a wild whirlwind of a night, until I bundled one very happy sightseer into a taxi at 4 am. I did not ask her for anything more than she’d given, it would have achieved nothing, other than to spoil what had been serene. I caught the night bus home, which was pretty full, so I stood at the front next to a skinny dark haired girl, she looked as if her young life had been a hard one, but her youth had not allowed it to completely ravage her, instead she maybe looked a little older than her character and pert little body would suggest. As she allowed herself to come up against me with the movement of the bus unbeknown to anybody else, I started to feel a tingling down below and hoped that my trousers were sufficiently rigid, and generally up to keeping things hidden. She sensed my position and started talking to me, rather brazenly, could it be that I was not only going to prove my theory, but actually be the victim of a female version of what I had been doing, all at the same time! The answer was of course, no, she gave me a pricelist and told me that I could get off the bus with her at a certain stop where she knew a place that we could go. ‘What about STD’s?’ I asked, ‘I have condoms’ she replied. ‘What about crabs?’ I asked, ‘I’m shaven she replied.’ Ah, what the hell I thought, indeed the very thought of it, nubile, youthful and shaven, her blackening front teeth didn’t even warrant consideration. We jumped off the bus and I followed her down a lane and into the back of a housing estate, then down behind some garages. She launched straight in, up against a bin, going straight for my flies, bringing me out, wrapping me up quick smart and then vigorously motioning up and down with a hand, her mouth placed around my end, just holding me, purely for aesthetic effect, it was not a BJ. Just as I started to get hard, she was gone, vanished into the night with my twenty. So, there I was, for 14 hours straight I’d been conducting my experiment. I finished off on the tarmac, the unsatisfying bolt that had driven the day wasted alone in the cold. The next morning, I woke hot with regret, the time and money wasted, the anxiety swimming through my thoughts and the acid rising in my oesophagus. Between the intermittent pangs of pain and the heavy woollen feeling of hangover, I was quite sure that I could feel prickles, or maybe itches, especially where they shouldn’t be. The more I worried about this, the more I itched, the more I itched, the more I studied my skin and found tiny red blemishes and marks. I knew that both had a minimum of two weeks gestation, never the less, it was either scabies or crabs, maybe both, oh no. The beautiful day almost gone, the whole of the small waking part of it fraught with paranoid concern, then came the text message, from my ex-girlfriend, the text that for the past few months I had secretly longed for. She wanted to meet that night, perhaps come back to mine afterwards to ‘talk,’ she’d missed me. At last sex was on the cards, but alas, only if I wanted to risk it, I wouldn’t, I could not possibly take the chance of infecting her, but not only that, risk what I now knew to be my only chance of sex outside of a business transaction, i.e. a relationship. Thus, certainly as far as I was concerned, in my day in age - I either get it within a relationship, or I pay for it. You see, on the whole, and this is only a generalisation, for it presumes I am very handsome, I would submit that the female is more powerful. Whereas more often than not, despite my findings, I cannot doubt that they have anything but a similar sex drive to men, but they are stronger than their counterparts. Most women seem to have an ability to suppress their animalistic instincts for long enough to gain the advantage, despite these similar sexual urges and temptations, whereas we guys generally cannot. Not only that, but women tend to stick together on this, and most of them try not to tread on a sister’s tail by putting it out infront. Ultimately, life comes down to sex and food, and therein lies the power of women over men, women can use this sexual power, this ability to abstain for longer in order to harness the lesser powers of man, for instance superior physical strength, but also to gain love and respect, to get jobs done, to have some serious fun, achieve a desirable lifestyle, simply earn cash, or all of those things. They are the fairer sex, but what does that mean? I would suggest only this; smaller, silkier and prettier, for they’ve got us sussed and in hand. I cannot imagine Eve being tempted by an apple, unless she was very very hungry, which I doubt was the case in the Garden of Eden with only two people on earth, whereas I can imagine Adam being tempted by Eve, perhaps Eve was herself the temptation therefore, and her sexuality the forbidden fruit. However, such a sweeping conclusion does not allow for the set of circumstances whereby, whilst having a man or several men under her spell, a lady could be getting her satisfaction elsewhere. It also does not account for the variable whereby there is a raw and instant attraction that makes the smitten party or parties, male or female, lose all control in any event. Further, women most often than not would prefer a relationship as opposed to a brief one off sexual liaison, and the old stigma of being found to sleep around does not bode well for this, especially when dealing with the fragility of a man. So, having effectively proved nothing, but having given the matter a great deal of thought, my conclusion came to this - there is nothing more confusing, and; natural disaster, war, famine and health aside, very little else of greater importance than the complexities of courting. I would however also hazard to conclude that generally women do not have a similar approach to sex as men, unless ofcourse they are doing it. I would say that the majority of woman, whilst ofcousre having a similar sex drive as men, being the same species, with the same genetically driven need to re-create, could not be easily tempted into almost instantaneous promiscuity. But I can also say this, I feel certain that singletons are all missing out as a result.