10 March 2010
Sex with an Oxford Cowgirl
A friend of mine once remarked that of the two things in the world that smelled of fish he preferred the varieties that were trawled up from the North Sea. For my part I have nothing against the other kind and although I am not addicted to the art of muff diving, I do find it rewarding when the lady in question starts to scream like a banshee, since it makes me feel that all my efforts have been worthwhile.
However, in the Oxford of paper thin college walls and over enthusiastic Oxford Cowgirls, that screaming can be a problem. The Ox & Cow, or the Oxford and Country Secretarial College to give it the full name that nobody ever used, closed its doors at 34 St Giles' Street in 1999. It merged with another secretarial college, acquired an even more pompous name, and presumably still carries on helping the intellectually challenged daughters of home counties daddies to find husbands.
The cowgirl that I was busily undressing that afternoon was under the impression that she was in The Ruskin School of Art instead of Ruskin College, and kept prattling on about the Pre-Raphaelites, presumably having had a half hour course on art at the Ox & Cow. I didn't want to overtax her poor mind with the intricacies of why Oxford had two colleges named after the same man, besides I was more interested in getting her knickers down. That I duly did with a minimum off fuss and a maximum of squealing. The dress went the same way as did her bra, but for some reason I let the girl keep her shoes on. You never know, there might have been a fire or something.
Having completed the preliminaries I grabbed a good handful of bouncer and proceeded on my merry way down below. The moment my tongue had parted her labia the little darling let out a yell that I was sure had woken the dead or at least the members of my college which probably amounted to the same thing. Not being a man easily put off his stride I turned my head to the right so that my lips ran parallel with hers, as it were, and then I just let my tongue enter her body before moving it up and down in a side to side motion. I will never forget that she bucked like a bronco - come on, men, it's great when they lose control like that, isn't it?
Sex followed in due course, and the screams continued unabated. Not just screams, but what my little cowgirl obviously thought of as cries that would spur me on to greater feats. Thus I was treated to "golly," and "this is jolly good," to say nothing of "oh gracious," all at higher and higher volume as the poke rhythm quickened to the killing velocity.
Some time later I was drinking coffee in the television room when the Welshman who lived two doors down on my corridor commented: "Made a bit of noise, didn't she?"
"An Oxford Cowgirl," I replied.
"Thought as much," he said.
Coming up next Wednesday: Poking in an Oxford punt!