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The Cozy Spot

6 posts categorized "defloration"

September 18, 2008

Big Brother Virgin Auction: Non Millionaires Should Not Apply

Vvirginbull She's sultry, Italian and claims to be a virgin. She wants to earn money to buy a house and take acting lessons, and the idea of legitimate work hasn't entered her mind. If I am honest, and say that I doubt the virginity of this girl, based on her age and the fact that being a devout 'Catholic' means little in the virginal stakes, then it would be viewed as politically incorrect, but what the hell right?

If I were a zillionaire bidding for this woman's immaculate vagina, I'd require medical examinations from at least two gynecologists, to validate her virginal claim. Then again, what is a virgin? To me, a virgin is someone who is completely naive/innocent/ignorant of most sexual acts, fellatio included. In short, a person that has no awareness of these acts. I don't see how a person can claim to be a virgin if, for example, they've performed a glut of oral sex. The idea of being a virgin based on vaginal penetration is silly to me. A person can have anal sex as a substitute. And it's not really about the acts, it's about the mindset behind the acts, or following sexual desire through. That, to me, is what defines a virgin from a non-virgin. Virginity to me, is more than a hymen.
There are positives and negatives, depending on your ethical stance, behind virginity auctions. The negative, I guess, relates to the outright commercialization of sex. It, regardless of how it is viewed, is a form of prostitution. It can be said that people prostitute themselves in other areas or fields anyway. The idea of earning more than a million dollars for defloration can be a double edged sword. Following the logic: if one can earn so much from sex alone (primarily based on looks, because let's face it, looks are a factor as well as age) then it follows that they can earn more without putting in the hard yards. Then again, it depends on the female. The positive, which probably outweighs the negative, is that the female gets something for getting her cherry popped, and this is a positive change from the 'nothing' that can arise after awkward first times that don't see a relationship blossom at the end of the rainbow.
Lastly, only a careless man would bid for virginity. The fact that this Italian babe is publicising her alleged virginity also means that publicity will follow the bidder, and it doesn't make for a positive image. She expects a million dollars, which means that ordinary blokes cannot apply to bid, but not only this the bidding would have to be conducted via an agent of sorts, and the bidder will have to provide some surety. Imagine accepting a bid, for the winning bidder to be a complete pauper on Social Security? Wouldn't that be ironic? The man bidding for virginity would have to be assured complete privacy, and I doubt that a public figure/millionaire would bid on such a thing. The risk is too high. What would people think of a known 'millionaire' (or billionaire) if they found out he was the winning bidder? Some people would undoubtedly think, 'how desperate' or 'how foolish'. In this day and age, there is no such thing as a completely 'innocent' or 'virginal' person; most female virgins are aware of the birds and the bees, some of them compensate by accepting oral sex as a substitute and others make do with anal sex. In short, they're not full (sexual) virgins.

The idea of an Italian babe saying she's a virgin is hilarious to me, and I don't mean that in a negative way; Europeans are freer with sex. They don't fret about pre-marital sex as much as, say, WASP's do. Sex isn't a stigma or a determinant of personality, values and/or ethics. But if the girl wants the money, hey, why not huh - even if a vagina is just a vagina in the end?

I guess Raffaele Fico is cheaper than a David Hirst shark in formaldehyde, and aesthetically appealing as well.

March 31, 2007

Metamorphosis - V

This is the continuation of Metamorphosis, which is likely to continue for a little while yet. This section is aptly titled, Becoming, and relates a different kind of defloration. The previous parts can be found in the Categories section under Metamorphosis.


The old servant quickly returned to pick up the remnants of her worldly possessions; Meremptah turned, gazing at the wall opposite.

“Return with the instruments,” his voice reverberated.

“I shall.”

Her nakedness did not faze him; anticipation crawled forth from the recess of her mind, to pool at the lowermost portion of her belly. Thorns of fear, curiosity and embarrassment, prickled her skin.

“You won’t be needing any robes,” he turned, and glanced at his servant.

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September 10, 2006



I expected people to step aside, such was his presence and a couple of people did, which blew my mind. His eyes casually eyed my bended form. My hands busied themselves retrieving warm glasses, and the rising water vapor shortly clouded my vision. ‘You’re new here…’ his voice shot over the counter. He didn’t wait for a reply to his statement, and shoved his hand into his pocket. I stood, hopelessly asking the universe for him to make an exit. The big hand barely scraped past the seventh hour, and he stood, ignoring the fact that I needed to wash and dry two trays of dirty glasses. His eyes didn’t smile, they didn’t need to. Each iridescently green orb inspected the array of glass before him. ‘Ugh, you better put this one through again,’ he said, bending down toward the counter. I followed his gaze, through the glass as it were, and saw the offending stain of lipstick on the rim. ‘What can I get you?’ I couldn’t tear my eyes away, and he knew it or had to have known it. How many fell under his spell, I wondered? A Scotch and Coke isn’t exciting, and it’s foolish to evaluate people based on beverages. I sampled many, often drowned in my curiosity, but my beverage choice didn’t accurately reflect my personality or my inner needs. He drank, and offered to buy me a drink. I blushed, thanking him, but declined his offer. ‘I’m working, and I’m not allowed.’ ‘No one will know,’ he said, removing a twenty dollar bill from his wallet. Most of my friends viewed this gesture as a sign of a male’s interest, but I suspected that they were relieved that they didn’t have to pay for an overpriced drink. ‘No thank you,’ I politely declined, and this surprised him for his eyes widened so that they absorbed more light. I’d describe his eyes as translucent green, in the light, even if such a colour didn’t exist. I couldn’t stop myself. My eyes inspected his from an angle; even though I’m sure he knew or sensed my curiosity. He enjoyed every minute. Thus began my fascination, and before long or by the end of that week, I knew that I had to get in deeper, right up close to this person whatever the price. What are good looks but that which we elevate? This is what I think, and thought, but when the impact is seen then it has to be believed.

He returned on the Saturday, just after nine. The young, eager females, in the immediate area couldn’t take their eyes off him. Some tried to stand near him, in the hope that he’d talk to them but he was only interested in his drink, and his new conquest. I didn’t think of myself as a conquest, and didn’t think he’d be interested in me. Many hovered around him. A person’s interest increases when they meet an adversary of sorts. I was adverse to his obvious flirtation, even though I creamed myself on the inside. He didn’t know, he couldn’t see nor could he shove his hand up my pants to test my waters but sure enough, I felt the dampness transform into a pool throughout. He’d finally leave, for me to deeply inhale, and hope for the night to reach a rapid end so I could go home, and frantically rub myself to orgasm.

The more they wanted him, the less interest he showed. I thought him insane but at a later point, I saw the logic. When something is easily acquired, it loses its magic or value. He’d often leave with a girl, and glance at me in passing, as if to gauge my reaction. I had no interest in being his girl for the night, I didn’t know what I wanted but I sure as hell didn’t see myself as a passing fancy for anyone, and yet I couldn’t imagine being tied to anyone at that point. I had too many years in front of me, and besides, I didn’t know the rules of conduct.

Each girl took turns to brush past him. I tried to contain myself, and relented when I asked him why he was being so difficult.
‘So?’ he said, lighting up another cigarette.
I shrugged my shoulders and carried on with work, serving other patrons in between drying freshly washed glassware.
At the night’s end, he asked me on a proper date. Elation hit me like a truck. My mistake? He saw my excitement, and I, in my elated dizziness couldn’t predict the outcome.


A date was something that people did. They planned an evening, and they spent time together. This was what I thought, and it pretty much sums up the basic date. We sat in a smoky tavern that was drowned out by live music. He ate, and drank. I sat, watched the band and thought of things to ask him.

How long had he been here?
Was he thinking of residency?
Did he like it?
What the fuck am I thinking?

I only thought of sleeping with him, wanted to know how his lips would feel and whether the sex would be so significant, to leave me breathless to the point where I’d desire no one else. The signs were there, I just blinked them away. He made a point of me needing to go down a dress size. I wanted to move away, but his arm enclosed my shoulders. His seductive voice explained the logic of his comment. I put it down to the fact that he was a petite man, devilishly attractive, but a little on the shorter side. These days I’d attribute it to small man’s syndrome, where certain males are like pesky terriers that chase and bark at larger canines like, but I still viewed him as one of the most arresting males I’d met. Looks have a way of muting the realities.

‘It’s a shame, because you’re so pretty…’
‘It would really make a difference…’

And I submissively nodded all the way through.

In the wee hours, upon our return to the house I was sharing, I realized that I forgot my key. One of my housemates, a friend of his, was fast asleep, and the other girl was out partying. The sun, yet to streak through the sky, slowly rose to illuminate the horizon and he found a half-open window. Once inside, he made his way to the spare room, and lay down. I silently returned to my room, frightfully nervous. Each minute ticked by, and my inexperience slapped me hard. There he was, lying in the bed and here I was standing in the middle of my room. My girlfriend’s tales of sex resurfaced, and I sorted through each experience I filed away. I couldn’t find any experienced that matched my predicament. Just as I changed into my pajamas, I heard his voice drift through the hallway.

I walked toward the room, and stood at the door. He folded his arms under his head and asked me to come closer. His face didn’t bear the brunt of the evening, and his vivid green eyes requested my presence. I walked toward him in the same manner one does when one’s visiting a sick friend. He asked me to lie next to him, so I did, and then it all transformed into something else, something I could label as sex but couldn’t as it didn’t dance to my idea of what it ought to have been.

His hand roughly unbuttoned my top, his lips covered mine and we briefly kissed before he pulled away and focused on my left breast. It’s funny what you remember. His teeth gently gnawed at the hardening tip for a few moments, before surprising me with his mouth and its suction. I moaned out of surprise more than anything else, and he eased himself between my legs and penetrated me. His startled eyes regarded me briefly, as he pushed through. It wasn’t an easy feat for both of us. He may have been hard, but exhausted from the long evening and I was yet to experience men in their full, hard capacity. The moment stretched out, because I felt stretched and once inside, his exhaustion or the alcohol, man’s worst enemy where sex is concerned, impeded his notions of virility. I lay on my back, and he lay over me. My hand blindly stroked his back, and my disappointment overrode the initial thrill. After a short while, he got up, and left.


I like dominance, but there are varying degrees of dominance. More often, women misinterpret insecurity for dominance. He began to play games, and I switched off or gave up. I don’t remember. What I do remember is that I saw myself in the same way as the others who clamored around him. My eyes hungrily sought him out at work. Each time he’d arrive, I’d always take time to look at him, even if he sat at a distant table with his friends, or a new date. It wasn’t a question of jealousy, but confusion. He’d then rise to leave, and upon passing my section, he’d smile and that smile essentially outlined his plans for the evening, of him leaving and adding another cunt to his collection. Sadly enough, my infatuation didn’t wane but things got uglier still.

He didn’t like it when others showed interest.
‘They only want to fuck you!’ he’d say, while nursing a drink.
‘That’s something you’d know about,’ I’d reply, and his beautiful green eyes glared at me with fury. He’d slam his empty glass against the counter and leave, only to return after midnight with red-rimmed eyes, not from crying but from countless shots of whisky.

I felt relieved and somewhat disappointed in myself. I didn’t know why. Surely he must have had something special for them all to want him so, and that didn’t include his average sized cock. I just didn’t see it, or didn’t have the opportunity to see it, and desired this unknown quantity even more.


Our first few months together were far removed from relationship bliss. I moved house again, like the gypsy that I was, and ended up sharing another house that included him. I knew the rules, and accepted them easily enough. We had nothing going, and it was easy to follow the rule instituted by his older brother.

‘It makes things less complicated,’ he’d said.
I agreed, but it got more complicated.

Where are my clothes?
What the fuck do you do all day while I work?
Look at yourself. You know what you look like? Followed by the usual put-downs.

He was worthy of more or accustomed to a superior type of female, even though he was an import who couldn’t order a cappuccino without an English translator, worked as a kitchen hand and was conversationally challenged due to his refusal to learn the most basic language of all.

‘If my mother could learn to read and write then you can too,’ I’d say.
‘Well she wasn’t so smart to have you,’ he’d return.

Some classified him as dominant. It was part of the culture, they’d say, but he’d bully me whenever he had the chance. Words became weapons, and the smallest incident, like a finished toilet roll, was enough to ignite his tirades. He’d request a rebuttal, ‘Why don’t you answer back? What the fuck is wrong with you?’

I didn’t want to stoop down to his level.

Why can’t you organize my wardrobe?
You didn’t wash this properly?
Where are my shoes?
This tastes like shit.

A true chameleon, who’d incite my ire. He’d sweetly smile at everyone else, and address them with courtesy. No one else saw his belligerent side during the day, I’d return to work, relieved to stand for the next eight or so hours, happy to serve every other deadbeat who’d use me as a sounding board:

‘My wife’s such a bitch.She'll bankrupt me…’
‘How about it? Are you single?’
‘What are you doing after work?’

Anything was better than listening to his yelling, and then the tide changed when he unexpectedly arrived and noticed a new arrival stealing his thunder.

‘Who’s he? What’s he doing talking to you? I saw the way he looked at you,’ he’d say.
‘We’re not married. I’m not your wife.’
‘Who’d want you?’
Ηe’d storm off.
Our standard routine, until it all peaked, until things became too dangerous and one of his male buddies called one day to say hello, or so I thought.

‘You tell him, from me that if I see him I’ll fucking kill him!’
No man appreciates their best friend fucking their wife within the shadows. I didn’t appreciate it either, considering she was a friend of mine, who’d always listen to my problems who’d tell me to be patient with him and not worry so much.
‘He just doesn’t know how to express himself, and finds it difficult now that the house rules have changed. Give him time…’ a skank like no other, who’d choose a cock over her offspring.

Easter arrived, the party was in full swing, and I walked outside, gladly tipsy from the vast array of alcohol, only to see them both whispering in the far corner of the yard. He turned, and asked me what I was doing. Her startled brown eyes retreated, and eyed the concrete.

‘I know what’s going on,’ I said. She pretended not to hear, but he strode toward me.
I nodded toward her, ‘You heard. I know…’

His hand, surprisingly, wrapped around my shoulder, and it took me a couple of seconds to see his forearm fold into my neck. The pressure increased, and although my hand gripped his arm, he pressed on.

‘What did you say? Are you going to repeat it?’ he kept on pressing, and my breath waned. My vocal chords, paralyzed, fought to get a couple of words out, and he applied more pressure, until my cheeks were damp from salty tears. My head continually screamed, I can’t breathe, and she simply stood there, sucking on her cigarette quietly with her scarlet lips, evaluating the moment until he suddenly let go and I hungrily sucked at the air.

The whore inhaled and exhaled smoke, satisfied that her secret remained hidden or so she thought. She couldn’t see that far ahead, and neither could I. She didn’t anticipate servicing so many men for a price (her husband didn't pay enough maintenance, and a lifetime of homemaking couldn't earn her enough money so she went on the game), all the while waiting for him to knuckle down and get serious when all he did was take a flight home, years after, discarding her like a used condom. Karma can be a sadistic bitch, but way back then the weak sapling was just taking hold, rooting around in the soil of their fatalistic union.

Our relationship, after the party, continued to blossom like the most grotesque flower, until I stealthily packed, and slipped out the door like an assassin, after one too many arguments. No one else witnessed the real reason behind my revulsion. He sickened me, and I was a stranger to myself. I’ll see her on occasion. It’s been eighteen years. She’ll board a bus, queue outside the bank or struggle with her grocery bags; her gaunt face marks each time she opened her legs for petty cash, and her loneliness. Once upon a time she left everything behind, including a child, so she could embrace the cock that I stupidly thought would be mine.

You never forget your first…
Encounter with serendipity.

Image: Getty

May 15, 2005

Defloration VS Tampax

Using a tampon for that very first time can become an experience to remember - forever - if one hails from a culture that treasures virginity and uses virginity as the yardstick to measure morality, family values and parental role models. There is a taboo element associated with menstruation. Eons ago women were considered a mystery or a potential evil because males couldn’t understand how women could bleed without dying.


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May 11, 2005

Post Defloration, That First Year

What comes (pardon the pun) or what follows defloration or that first penetration? No matter how great or how dismal, the gates of curiosity are opened or closed, depending on the attitude of the person. I suppose this is the shadow that surrounds sex before marriage.
“Once you experience it you will desire it all the more.”
Is a common epithet, sometimes it’s a generic attitude within certain cultures. Funnily enough in mainstream cultures it is not a huge issue but in cultures where virginity is likened to the Magna Carta it’s common to fall into the Scarlet Letter type of attitude.
I would have to say, and this dates back to the late Eighties, that my girlfriends and I were way ahead of other females our age at that time. This was way before Sex in the City hit television screens and I suppose this is why I laugh at such shows being a ‘big deal’. Makes me wonder whether the Nineties meant a complete ‘backtrack’ or whether they signify this lost sexual era. Maybe it was the Prozac of the decade?
In any case the anticipation of defloration is individual albeit short lived and what follows is this wide array of possibility. There are new tastes and smells to explore, sexual positions and practices one would not have experienced that very first time. One of these, which greets the new sexual traveller, would have to be fellatio (or cunnilingus, whichever one prefers). After that first time, after that come down period, a person can feel a bit let down or uncertain. They may wonder where it all leads, which is why it’s a bad thing to expect a long term relationship from the outset, and if it leads to nowhere then some people are downcast, thinking that this somehow reflects on their morality. I didn’t jump into the sexual roller coaster that first year. My mind definitely entertained many possibilities but I wasn’t sure whether I was really cut out for the no strings sex. There was uncertainty about the issue of monogamy as well. While I had issues integrating with the casual aspect, that men around me preferred, I couldn’t imagine being with one person for the term of my natural life and there are times even now where I can’t imagine this. It has nothing to do with sex or the desire to experience different flesh at this point, at 33, but I really don’t know how I can actually live in a relationship setting. I have been single, as in not have that intimate live-in relationship, for six years now and while I have danced the sexual dance, things have never naturally progressed toward that exclusive monogamous relationship.


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May 06, 2005

Big Fat Defloration, Marriage Not Necessary

      In the big ‘fat’ scheme of all things micro cultural, sex is a sensitive matter and it ideally takes place after the cementing of the forever kind of relationship. It’s not nice, or rather, nice girls don’t just fuck for emotional expression. Their libido often doesn’t count and I suppose it’s really funny to watch wide release films that portray the modern Hellenic way, but the nice factor is a myth even though the idyllic values continue to exist, which is probably why I decided to be up front and be deflowered by a male of my own cultural persuasion. The fact that he had no idea of my virgin status - for if I told him he would have avoided the ‘risk’ of attachment - is beside the point, the point is that I chose not to hide the sexual beast within me and live a double life. The double life of course involves showing a virginal face in one’s own cultural realm while fucking like a show pony in ‘another world’ even though we all live in the same realm.
The fantasy of ever-after continually flaps in the wind of one’s life or within one’s family.
At age five, had to marry that ‘nice’ boy who shared the creed and spoke the same language (other than English).


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