My love for Mr E-A died a very definite death at the Beyoncé concert, but he ignited an attraction in me for men of a similar ilk for a short while thereafter. I would find myself eyeing up these little, weedy men with dark eyes and exotic features because they very slightly reminded me of him. One such man was a plastic surgeon whom shall henceforth be known as LPB [Loser Prem Boy] for reasons which will become clear if they have not done so already.
LPB was the poor man’s Mr E-A, make no mistake about this. On the cringe-scale he was a straight 10/10; the kind of person where the ‘ick’ doesn’t develop…it’s a permanent state of being. However, in my defence, my ego had taken a significant hit from Mr E-A and I needed the confidence boost.
Unbeknownst to me, LPB had been watching me from the wings for a while like a little malnourished raven that waits to pick at a flattened carcass when the seagulls and buzzards have taken their fill. My metaphorical shell had been laid out for Mr E-A to feast upon for such a long time I had quite forgotten other men existed so I didn’t notice LPB lurking lecherously to peck at me voraciously when I finally realised Mr E-A wasn’t hungry for my flesh.
Waltzing out of work one day a few months after the Bloody Sunday of Bey-Day I felt a strange presence lolloping behind me. Turning, I spied LPB bringing up the rear, heavy khaki shoulder bag dangling from his dipped left shoulder, pulling his very expensive black suit akimbo as he picked up his limping pace to catch me up. I wondered why he was leaving work using the staff exit – the consultant automobiles were parked in a much more secure area and his black Audi TTS must surely be intimately nestled amongst the Porsche Cayennes and the Aston Martin DB9s that frequented that prestigious area?
Catching up eagerly, he greeted me in a sickeningly sweet salutation; I noted his voice was nasal and his faux-affluent accent made me cringe as he put on airs and graces unnecessary for a girl such as I was. I assumed he was going to ask me to be his Personal Assistant (I was often asked by the surgeons to support them with their administrative duties – Mr E-A being the prime example) and I mentally flitted through the various excuses I could use on the spot if the sum he named was not worth my while. So imagine my surprise when he handed me his business card with a hand scribed ‘call me’ written in black scrawled ink.
Was it a bit desperate? For sure. Was the ‘call me’ on the business card a little bit 80s and sex worker-esque in its approach? 100%. But it made me laugh – he cringed me out to the point I thought he was entertaining. I thanked him for the gesture and made a flirtatious remark about the inevitability that if I texted him he would then have my number, to which he responded, ‘That’s my intention.’ He was totally deadpan when he delivered this and I wondered whether he might be void of a sense of humour…but this just made me find him even funnier with his little satchel and his buttoned up blazer and his gelled hair styled like Ross Gellar. I pondered on the drive home whether he looked a bit like Mr E-A…I felt he did. Did that warrant an initiating message from me thanking him for his business card? I thought not. But the gutsy approach, his enviable status as a plastic surgeon and, most importantly, the fact I had no other male attention at that time were all contributory factors in convincing me to ignore what my eyes and ears told me.
A textual relationship ensued over the following days and I was heartened to learn, when I asked, that he was married but separated and he had no children. This was an extreme rarity for a surgeon of 38 and I fleetingly wondered why no one had pinned such a lucrative and useful gentleman down. I couldn’t say I enjoyed his banter or droll verbal jousting because really, there was none. But he made his intentions towards me quite clear and he was full of compliments which resurrected my flattened self-esteem. I began to feel excited at the prospect of seeing him during his next clinic and made sure I was looking my best for the afternoon session.
Mid-way through the shift there had been multiple occasions where he had brought patients directly to me to assist with their issues and follow up events purely so he could speak to me and this allowed me the advantage of assessing him with a newfound keen interest. He walked with his head at an upward angle as if he was trying to keep his nose as far away from the ground as he possibly could. His posture was rigidly exemplary but he walked as though he had a rope pulling him forth from the naval, giving him a determined march like a Sargent Major. His smile seemed more like a sneer and his voice was a little stomach-churning in its sickly-sweetness BUT I continued to remind myself that he was a plastic surgeon and therefore highly intelligent, skilled and absolutely minted. He did remain, though, a funny little man.
My phone vibrated and lit up from within the embrace of my Fiorelli handbag and I smirked to see a message pop up from LPB. (As an aside, isn’t it a wonderful feeling when you know all the power lay in your hands!?) When I opened it, my eyeballs nearly fell like golf balls from their widened sockets:
‘You make me quiver. Are you hot between your legs?’
I mean…was he trying to engage in sexting with me? Because I didn’t have a problem with that per-sé but I couldn’t verbalise the number of things wrong with this specific approach. Firstly, who uses the verb ‘quiver’ to convey their sexual excitement? Secondly, was he envisioning me sitting there with a steaming pothole between my thighs? What an absolutely hideous message to receive; I sympathised wholeheartedly with my poor eyeballs for copping the initial heat of that wording before my brain could fumble together the capacity to ascertain the direst intentions.
Still, I looked around the room and saw a number of attractive young women waiting for a slice of LPB’s pie. This guy was single, he looked passably like Mr E-A and he was a fucking plastic surgeon; ‘Get a grip on yourself and get over the vomit balling itself in your diaphragm,’ I told myself. I couldn’t bring myself to text back to his squalid advances so I just left that particular thread to die the death it deserved.
As the days went on, LPB’s momentum increased noticeably. He was now offering to take me to London to a range of lovely restaurants I’d never heard of and then stay at The Sanderson afterwards. He made me laugh with how cringey he was but he still visually repulsed me so I was in quite a predicament on whether I took him up on the offer. I decided to meet him one evening locally for a date so I could make my mind up on whether it would be a waste of my time and his money to go into London.
We timed the date so it could commence when we finished work. He asked me to follow him to his venue of choice, which I found a little odd because I didn’t see the harm in leaving my car at work and sharing a lift. Perhaps he was just private about his personal life though – which I could understand; the gossiping Admin girls on Main Reception watching me totter over to his sleek Audi would have made for quite the lunchtime babble the next day. So I agreed to meet him a little further down the road and followed him as he drove to whatever place he had chosen for us. I was feeling slightly nervous about spending time in-person with him and I was also anxious that he might try to touch me before I was entirely sure I wanted that from a man who walked like he was sniffing the ceiling.
But around five minutes in, LPB started indicating to turn right into a large lay-by. While I’m typing this I have to question what the FUCK I was doing following this man into what was, essentially, a quarry for Windsorian doggers. At the time I was furrow-browed at the strange choice to take a driving break there but queried whether he might suggest I leave my car so we could continue our journey in the throaty confines of his sports car from this point.
Pulling in behind him, I pulled up and awkwardly fumbled around in my car, pretending to be busy until he advised what on earth he was doing. I peeked over to his car and he gestured for me to join him in his TT. So I had been right; we were going to be travelling more stylishly than my Kia Picanto. Climbing into his German Whip, I noted the black leather interior and the embossed seats with his company emblem in matt leather on the headrests. What an arrogant prick, I thought. I admired it.
‘I thought we might have a chat before…’ he uttered, leaving the closing part of the sentence hanging unspoken in the clammy air. Oh God…before what, LPB!? He surely knew I wasn’t putting out on the first date? I didn’t even reply to his question about my molten undercarriage, I wasn’t allowing P-in-the-V.
‘Before dinner?’ I questioned, finishing his sentence hopefully.
‘Quite!’ I didn’t feel like this was a solid enough answer to be reassuring but I was also very aware of the fact that the entire time I had been in his car I had not actually looked at him. I now allowed my eyes to glance over at him, languishing in the driver’s seat with his sneering grin and his cerise pink tie a little off centre. I couldn’t be certain, but I thought I caught a glimpse of a tiny pokey protruding within his suit trousers before he shuffled on the leather seats, squeaking and creaking against the unforgiving material beneath his buttocks.
We chatted through the mundanities of life and it became clear there was never any plan to go out for dinner. He just wanted to sit in his car with me and chew the cud. I couldn’t shake the feeling that he wanted to move in for a kiss but didn’t have the gumption to actually do it – I certainly was not encouraging that. The longer I spent in his presence, the more I felt certain this was not a man I wanted to be around. He was totally harmless – totally, but he was vulgar in a repellent, civilised kind of way.
I found myself bored rigid in his company and yearning for my usual place on the sofa, cat on my lap and reality TV on the box. I began to curtail the jollities swiftly by providing monosyllabic answers to his pressing questions and assessing the landscape with false interest as a means of distracting myself from the continuous swell of chat he was oozing. He finally took the hint and released me from the grips of his company.
As I left his car, I heard his door slam behind me. Please, Dear God, tell me he wasn’t getting out of the car. I reluctantly turned, already knowing from the tell-tale sound of gravel under brogues that he was indeed lurching around, head held high, to embrace me before we parted. I lingered where I was awkwardly, waiting for the clinch I knew would come. He reached his arms out, one high and one low, blazer swinging open invitingly, and clasped me to himself aggressively. In my awkwardness, I turned my head the wrong way and found we were right cheek to left cheek, both heads turned to the same side – oh the humanity! He followed this up immediately by rubbing his face along my own until his lips slithered down over mine and he pressed me backwards into the TT. The kiss was one of the worst things I’ve ever experienced. His tongue was circling round mine, licking my teeth and my lips as he dribbled down my chin, savouring any part of my face he could lay his mouth muscles on – to say he had no aim would be an understatement….that tongue was flopping around wherever it wanted with a lack of control characteristic of the thirteen year old me who had goldfished Darren’s face all those years before. It was as if his tonsils had picked up his tongue and were just throwing it around willy-nilly, like a slug being thrashed on the pavement by an angry marmoset. He also kept growling as if he was enjoying it which I felt sure he could not have been. He was going at my face like a maniacal predator, opening and closing his mouth and running his tongue in huge circles on a wet-spin that left me concerned about the neck line of my dress; he must have dripped his saliva onto it with all this moisture funnelling into my face!
When we broke off he looked at me with the same milk-drunk face a baby has. I wiped my chin frantically, smiled a closed-mouth grimace of disgust and skedaddled home.
It should have stopped there. I knew in my head, my heart and my labia minora that this guy was an inexperienced creep with very few redeeming features. He had tricked me into going to a dogging site with him so he could assault my face and drown me in his spittle by promising me we were going to a restaurant for a date.
However…I was young and foolish and the thrill of being the bit of fluff on the arm of a top plastic surgeon made me give him a second chance. It’s no excuse but that’s the reason I allowed him to ‘make it up to me’ as he put it. He had chased me for weeks after our liaison in the dogging quarry and I had batted off his every move as if I was impervious to his intentions. It took a significant amount of apologising and double-texting before I would entertain him once again and only when he assured me he would like to take me a Michelin-starred sushi restaurant did I relent.
To cut a long and disappointing story short, I ended up going back to his hotel room with him after sushi. I’d like to say that at this point that I had been brought there on the pretence that this was a Five-Star-Luxury Hotel in London (which it was) and I would never have a chance in my poverty stricken life to see such a decadent and opulent residence again (which, again, is probably true). I was overwhelmed by the splendour and beauty of the room and he seemed attracted by my innocence as I wandered around, lapping up the sheer extravagance. These were not the days where you walked around, phone in hand, capturing every moment for the hate-likes of your insta followers; the room exists in my memory as a place of worship to wealth only.
One thing led to another (mostly I felt awkward about the moment where I would have to tell him he wasn’t going to be thrashing that slug-tongue on my little bean despite paying for my sushi) and we began kissing again. I say ‘we,’…I allowed him to go at my face like a rabid dog chewing a jumbo-sausage while I lay there permitting my thoughts to lead me away on a wave of distraction like flotsam and jetsam in a gentle current. The rest all happened so quickly…
We were laying on the bed, goose feathers crunching in my ears, when he removed my trousers. I accepted this because, well, we’d been kissing for a while and I didn’t really know how to say I didn’t want him to. I can’t even say I didn’t want him to…I was just ambivalent; I didn’t mind if he did but I equally didn’t mind if he didn’t. I think I was more distracted by not drowning in his drool. Clumsily, he started fumbling around my lace thong and walked his fingers reticently towards my unbothered vulva. He gun-fingered me for a maximum of 6 seconds, leaving me deliberating how a 38 year old man could be so completely clueless around the female body; a body he chops up as a job and enhances! I had not even had time to reach downwards to feel what lay beneath the quarantine of his suit trousers before he was clambering atop me and unzipping his flies. He was looking right into my eyes, holding uncomfortable eye contact as he crawled onto me, snarling in his ‘I’m so sexy’ voice which made my cervix evaporate into the nether regions of my body. He actually made my sphincter clench with how much of a cringer he was. I lay there, palpating in confusion over why the fuck I was here and what the fuck he thought he was doing. Had he never entered a woman before!?
He pulled my pants to one side, growling in my face as a small warthog might roar over grubs, and tried to thumb himself inside me. I was a little creeped out to note he was already wearing a condom which was presumptuous although sensible. I was, unsurprisingly, less lubricated than I would have liked, being double-digit fingered for five quick thrusts doesn’t really get a girl’s juices flowing and I suspect my vagina was thinking more clearly than I was as it clamped itself against his malingering, sickeningly warm helmet. Were it not for the pre-lubrication of the condom, I doubt he would have even got his poking little corona in. Alas, after an uncomfortable amount of fumbling, he pushed a very fractional centimetre or two into my reluctant flute and I felt him tense on top of me as he tried to enter himself more deeply. He just froze there rigid with his mouth open. I looked up awkwardly, spotting a couple of fillings on those back molars he exposed as he posed atop me, statuesque. I panicked. I assumed I had clamped up, dry as a bone, against his little penis and it had somehow cut off the circulation to his brain.
He rolled over, slamming down into the pillows beside me with his eyes shut. Oh my god, what was he going to say? Was my vag some kind of fortress that refused to let him inside (if so, I would thank her later with a masturbatory session worthy of Sex and the City’s Samantha)? Had he peeped his teeny head inside just enough to know it was an inhospitable environment up there? Was my flute vile, voluminous and verminous?
‘That was more snug than I expected.’
Sorry…what the actual fuck? I turned to look at him, incredulous, as he lay there with his eyes shut and a sneer of cold consummation on his face. I sat bolt upright thinking maybe the rush of blood to my head would help me fathom what the shit had just gone down. Snug!? What did he expect? I was a young woman with a flappy little goblet that had been unclaimed for many years – it was hardly likely I was going to be sporting a flume you could ride a yaught down!
‘Have you come!?’ I demanded. And then I saw it. His little flaccid penis was hanging out of his fly, enveloped in the cling-film wrapping of a pearlescent condom and there, in the apex of the packaging, was a collection of white juice. I was flabbergasted. Worse than that, I was mortified for this guy. It must be a real low moment for him; he had barely even touched me and had squirted his load. Poor little man…poor, sad little man with his condom already on and his nose perpetually pointed skywards.
‘Yes!’ he breathed. Did I detect pride in his voice? Surely not! He must be trying to front this out; act like it wasn’t a big deal. Fine – I’ll play along and pretend it’s not the most humiliating thing that has ever happened to him.
I got up and pretended to go to the toilet – I needed some space to compose myself and get away from his proud/shame dichotomy. I mean, part of me wanted to congratulate myself on being that hot and that good in bed that I had made a plastic surgeon come in a nanosecond but I knew I couldn’t legitimately take much credit for that; this was an inexperienced loser of the highest accord. I wanted to go home now. He needed to pull himself together, wipe his helmet and drive me back to Windsor. I mustered up my most assertive self, unlocked the bathroom door and sauntered out, locating my trousers but not establishing LPB’s whereabouts. He was most likely hiding behind the curtains in disgrace.
Fumbling around to pick my jeans up from the foot of the bed, I didn’t notice him sneaking up behind me until it was too late. The touch of his hot, clammy hand on my shoulder made my skin crawl as he reached around my neck and pulled my jaw backwards and up towards his own face. I sensed he was now naked as he began licking my cheeks. I’m not exaggerating; he was licking me like a cat cleaning itself. I think he may have been trying to probe his tongue into my mouth but he was woefully off-piste.
‘Ready for Round Two?’ he whispered excitedly.
‘Not in any way, shape or form.’ I responded.
He chuckled a little and carried on licking my cheek and ear. I stiffened my neck to move away from his lippy assault and pulled my head awayto face forwards, bending over and stepping one foot into my jeans. As I did so, my thonged bum very slightly brushed against his pelvis and I felt the wiry spikes of his pubes against my buttock. He suddenly made a strange noise and grabbed hold of my hips intensely. I tried to ignore he was even there, continuing determinedly to pull my trousers back on while he squeezed the fat on my hips harder and harder…was he shaking? Could I hear teeth grinding…?
It was only when I felt the warm, moist head of his semi sliding down the back of my thigh as it flopped to its downward degradation and hot liquid dribbling down my hip, bum cheek and leg that I realised he had just prematurely ejaculated all over me in thin, white globules that splattered to the floor. Was he serious? Once wasn’t really excusable even if I liked/fancied the man. But twice…within minutes? Total loser! Chancing a glance at the mahogany floor below, it looked a little like ectoplasm – the ghostly residue of any shred of humility that man had left. I did not actually see him from that point on; he had pelted to the bathroom as soon as his legs stopped ‘quivering’ with the inertia of spraying his little LPBs all over me and locked himself in. I heard him turn on the shower and watched in mortification as steam began wafting from beneath the door. I swiftly dressed myself, ordered a taxi, and left him there with his shame, his spray and his semen.
By chance, a nurse LPB worked closely with was moaning about him audibly the following week, saying he had been very rude to her. As women are like to do when slighted, they go in extra hard on the offence spectrum. Amongst the smorgasbord of insults, some fair and some not, I heard her mention ‘how his wife puts up with him.’ I snapped to attention immediately.
‘Wife…? I thought he was separated?’ I was dumbfounded but feigned innocent interest; I had told no one of our spermy séance in the hotel in the preceding week and, thankfully, had not had the misfortune of bumping into him since. I was disgusted by how he had been from start to end and felt no pride in confessing to having allowed that man to slip his digits into my knickers. The only momento of his ejaculatory moment was a cursory ‘You’ve left…?’ text from LPB ten minutes into my taxi journey home that went unanswered and the remnants of a white smear on the inside of my jeans (which I proceeded to boil wash).
‘Oh God no, love! He’s married like the rest of them…he’s got two lovely daughters as well.’
Firstly, I was horrified and sickened at myself for unknowingly, naively, being party to a husband cheating on his wife and potentially breaking up his family. I was furious that he had lied to me, and even more furious that I had fallen for his sinister trickery. But most of all, I felt deepest pity and commiserations for his wife. I wondered whether she knew she was married to a man who tricked girls young enough to be his daughter into compromising positions, while being wedded to her, and felt it was justifiable to prematurely ejaculate twice, defending himself by saying your vagina was tighter than he expected. Surely no one would knowingly nuptially tie themselves to such a sick little loser.
The possible confrontations all scrolled through my mind as I brooded on the shattering information. I contemplated texting him to tell him I knew his dirty little secret, but I didn’t want to open a dialogue with him again. I thought about challenging him the next time he had a clinic but the idea of facing him after he had watched himself come all over my leg like a rutting dog made me want to stab myself in the jugular to forget the trauma. There was nothing for it but to ride the proverbial wave, ignore his existence and any advances he made and chalk this one up to experience.
I’m genuinely still surprised to tell you that he never ever seemed to feel embarrassed for prematurely ejaculating not once, but twice, on me. Every now and again he will still rear his upward pointing head in the industry I work though he knows better than to try to speak to me. I don’t think about him ever, except when I see a uncooked egg-white and I fleetingly wonder whether his wife has divorced him and taken his LPB ass to the cleaners. I certainly hope so.
LPB – total fetid stain of a married man, you will forever be known as the loser who can create ‘Designer Vaginas’ but doesn’t have the first idea about the inner workings of a woman. So the moral of the story is this: you can tell a lot about a man by the way he kisses you. If he goes at your face like a caveman who has never before felt the feminine touch, DO NOT let that man anywhere near your clitoris. At best, he will need significant training because he won’t know your labia from your lobes. At worst, as I can testify, he will enjoy your ‘snugness’ so much he won’t be able to contain himself and then he will pour the entire contents of his testicles down the backs of your knees.

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