Oh...My...God

I just spent £30 on my first bunch of sex toys and aids. I cannot believe I suddenly had the balls to do it, I guess it's because I am feeling ultra turned on right now. My masturbation routine has been so boring, and pretty much the same since I first started it, as I haven't got any toys, so I got to the point where enough was enough and decided I might get a few.
Just bought a Rabbit vibrator, on the recommendations of pretty much every woman "in touch with her body", lube, because I've been having a few intimate problems regarding that sort of thing, and lots and lots of batteries, which according to the reviews on the dildo, are essential.
I'm really excited about my secret little parcel. The company assures customers it uses the most discreet packaging. I'm not only rehearsing uninteresting answers to my housemates' curiosity when it arrives, but also imagining what a turn-on it will be that only I know what's inside. Also thinking about a very good hiding place for it. Anyone got any suggestions?
So, so thrilled, and nervous. University has been a real sexual liberation for me, what with the recent Brazilian, the navel piercing, first purchases of sexy underwear, the casual fucking which has allowed me to find out what I really, really like, and taking responsibility for my sexual health. I can really indulge my sexual side when I'm here, which is a pretty big part of me! Also looking foward to showing off the very beginnings of my sexual arsenal to some lucky fella. Although, it might just scare him away.
Ooooh, I'm positively squealing inside with excitement. I'll let you know the moment it drops on the doormat, and also my thoughts the morning after the night before!

Lemmy closing time, carnage, and there we all were, in the yellow of the street lighting, sitting on a ledge by the grass. Talking to randoms, about everything, those drunken conversations where you half argue, in fits of giggles about really silly things. And we started chatting to some dickhead from halls last year, and when I turned to guffaw into my sleeve I saw his friend standing on the grass behind the ledge, playing with a double-headed daisy, looking so so gorgeous.
The introduction wasn't the stuff these great romantic movie scenes are made of. It was me; in my rolled up denim, flat gold pumps glittering as I drunkenly and coquettishly swung my foot back and forth; I turned and did the classless but so appropriate for Lemmy closing time, "Who's he, he's fit." thing.
And encouraged by dickhead, he swings off the ledge, and he's next his friend, shaking my hand in that mocking way you do when you are drunk. He looks yellow all over, but he's so gorgeous. So suave, knows how to do this sort of thing.
I giggle and guffaw again, like an awkward cider-swilling teenage girl, perched on some street corner, ringed and framed by screeching joyriders. I missed this when I was of cider-swilling age, meeting dashing men who only wanted a last minute shag but I felt wanted me and so much more.
"Do you find me attractive?" I ask half jokingly, and also genuinely, after all, he's gorgeous, and I'm, well, well I don't attract that sort normally. "I find you very attractive." he replies, but I wonder in what sense.
My girlfriends, amid this bustling chaos, have lept off the ledge and are trotting off down the path. They call me, holding hands out. Like anyone with their friends, I follow suit, making giggly excuses, playing the coquette, goodbyes said with come-hither eyes. I realise who he is. Someone a friend pulled before. I consort the well-thumbed "Friends and Men" part of the morals textbook in my mind, the pages creamily whirring, that deep sound. Surely that isn't allowed.
"Walk with me." he's calling, holding his hand out. Which hand do I run to?
My friends wink and tell me to go for it. My guts churning with that sense of "wrongness" I do it. He's gorgeous. And his hand is lovely. We walk along, chatting idly, up stairs, past the row at the fast food outlet. We giggle about his housemate, Dickhead. As is want to happen in the post-lemmy walk home, everyone has split a million ways like when a glass hits the floor. Some are chatting to faces they know from somewhere vague. Like in the dining hall last year, when you make accidental eye contact with someone over the sandwiches. Some are just wandering in twos, arms interlinked, whispering, or muttering shared thoughts on god knows what.

My stomach is still turning, he's walked past his turning. Have I crossed a line? I worry about my girlfriends. I don't want to be the friend too concerned with her pussy to have no sense of principle. They walk ahead, but are still chatting away. But I'm filled with lead, my head feels like someone's put a balloon inside and it's ready to burst, the thin rubber lining pressing against flesh. There's a lump in my throat. I'm absent mindedly answering him, monosyllabics. We are nearing my house, past all those familiar little landmarks, like a familiar car glowing eerily in the yellow colour of streets at night.

Despite the issue of friendship, I can't help feeling so full of lust. I want him, I want to lie underneath him on my bed, pressed down into the mattress under his bulk. Flesh touching flesh and kisses.

We arrive at my doorstep, my friends move on, insistant I should go for it, they don't care. And off they clatter into the night, getting smaller down a street whose sides point inwards, getting sharper and sharper to a razor point. The horizion is dotted with yellow sulphur. The big city, the world. I take a breath and the giantness of the world scares me. Sometimes, when I see and feel all the different layers of the world at one time, I am overwhelmed to tears. Here I am in this fabric, and all that gradiates around me. You don't want the little seconds like that to ever end. You want to pause them.

Things have moved up a notch. I stand at the front of my path, on the raised part and our heights are equal now. He has big blue eyes. I'm too shy to notice eyes for a long time when I first meet someone. I take a little glance and look down, trying to supress a shy grin. He, full of confidence, after all he is gorgeous, grins. Whispers.
"Am I coming in?"
And here's where it splits. My real response, and the sexy, confident alter-ego whom everyone loves, her response as well.
"Part of me wants to say no, after all, I feel so disloyal, I just feel, so, bad. [But the rest of me just wants to drag you inside and let you make love to me." and in we chase, leaning up against every available surface, kissing so urgently, and rubbing hands against those sensitive spots of pleasure, exhaling in delight.] We step inside in silence, him cracking a few jokes about our lovely neat and tidy house. In we go to my room, me fumbling and muttering idly as I tidy the room of anything incriminating. You know, anything that might make me look "sad". 'Cause he's gorgeous.
We sit on the bed and he tells me to relax as he pulls me into him and starts to expertly remove my clothing. I giggle, talk about my lack of experience, am rigid to his touch. Nervous kissing, foreplay with a verbal introduction and apologies.
[As he fumbles, I knock him on to his back, kiss him, strip to my gorgeous underwear set. And let the foreplay commence.]

In the morning the pillow he rested on smells divine. I bury my face in it, inhale greedily, and let out a groan. It's the smell of pleasure, experience, someone who takes a look at you and you know he will promise you a dirty, filthy night. That smell takes you back to the yellow tinged night. To that ledge. To all that Lemmy stuff. To meeting him. After all, he was gorgeous.

Why do I feel so odd? Why can't I got for ten minutes without feeling that in the very near future my world is going to change, and I'm going to be lonely and scared and everyone else will be out having the party of their lives, making the most of the final hedonistic year of university?

Why do I feel that despite how much I sometimes hate it here, I really don't want to leave, because everything is basked in such a lovely light, everything in the past. Walking up and down Vic Street, house parties, halls-where it was always sunny, or that beautiful type of dusk, and night, when you are so happy. Of course sometimes it wasn't like that, but you always remember it that way. And Walkabout and Warehouse, those twilight evenings, in our glad rags, off to dance, the place bustling with faces you knew and ones you wanted to know.

And The Lemmy, from that first uninitiated wander around, to today, when I can't get through a weekend without it! The darkness, and the seediness of it. Throwing out time, when everyone is so friendly. People you see and chat to outside, who you wish you'd chatted to inside.


But why do I feel I'm not living with the right people? And so threatened by my friendship group? That there's gonna be people trying to squeeze me out, that people will forget about me?