It had all started with an innocent comment to her blogspot account; I had forgot to sign it anonymously, but thought nothing of it, and left it at that. Two Asian girls from the Labour Club later, and of course I'm checking my Nexus Email for comments on the blog, rugbyladwitha sensitivesideandabigdickatoxford.blogspot.com, and there was an email from her. You know, the girl who goes around shagging boys and writing blogs about it. Her. The enigmatic and untraceable vixen of the Oxford and Cambride sex blog universe: sexathertfordcollegestaircasetwelve.blogspot.com. Her email was headed "Hey there"; I knew 'there' meant genitals. Lad.
She had sent the email from her University account too, and I was shocked to learn that her college was only a minute away from mine. All this time, all this sex, happening at one university, so close together? Who'd have thought nineteen years old got up to so much, y'know? I said "Woah, I had assumed you were at Cambridge" and she said like no way. I said "I thought I was the only one taking someone home on a Tuesday night after Bridge." She said maybe I was; she never gets further than Hassan's without falling prey to a roaming, eager penis. We were like Gods among men, and we were about to shake the heavens. (Except she was a lady God. A Goddette, if you will.)
She asked me to keep her college location a secret, so I won't reveal much, other than that did you know you need a keycard to get along the Bridge of Sighs? I sure didn't. I think I know why they call it that. 30 years ago, or whenever it was built, some prophetic bridge-builder-guy (do they teach bridge-building at Oxford? Probably not, he was probably from Brookes) thought "One day, there will be an Oxford sex diarist" - this is before the Internet existed, no doubt(!) - "and she will set the paper-blogosphere on fire with her carnal lusts. Or, her pen, writing about them."
Boy did she. She had some bad chat. She was really clever. She insisted I wear two condoms, so she'd be 196% safe. We were really noisy, I couldn't help myself, I screamed "We're having sex we're having sex we're both at Oxford or possibly Cambridge and we're having sex" and those geeks next door in All Souls were no doubt extremely jealous; when was the last time a rich academic ever had sex, no? With his wife, you get it, am I right? (I'm right.) Somewhere between all the loud proclamations of sex (she was screaming "Oh yeah this sex is so good, I'm having sex, I'm SO EMPOWERED by this sex that we are having, here, in Staircase Twelve" that I was only in there for a couple of seconds before -- like the fates stepping in, between our thriving fiery over-sexed genitaliases (genitalie-i?) (we both have lots of sex) to push her sweaty labia away - and the condoms both popped off, and I came, and it was messy. But she said no worry, she was thinking of a new mystery blog anyway "Teen mother with a pram at Oxbridge." I said, if I'm sterile, perhaps she could be Gonorrhoea at Oxbridge (I left her the number for my doctor).
"Oh, one thing, Belle," I said, when leaving the room.
"What's that, you big sexy man" (that's what she said, eagerly scanning me for a nationality she could write about as a distinguishing feature)
"I thought we were double safe?"
"Yeah, but what if it's triplets?"
And as I was leaving I thought "I think I'm gonna marry this girl."
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