Full Frontal Frottage

Today's post comes courtesy of an anonymous guest blogger. Enjoy!


Frottage: see ‘dry humping’ or any other non-penetration body grinding done with or without clothes* in public or in private.

Unaccustomised as I am to blogging (don’t get me wrong, I’m more than qualified at internet dating – 5 years on and off, and counting), I find myself harangued into sharing a recent first date experience.

Now, I’m not really sure if frottage is a made up word, or whether it’s local to our collective shires, but wherever it’s from it’s certainly not something I expected to experience on a first date at Shoreditch house on a Sarruday night.

The invitation from a rather cute music mogul to a first date at the ‘whoreditch’ was a rather bold move designed solely to impress. I therefore decided to ignore a couple of the gayer photos in his GSM collection and chipped up at the allotted time only to be greeted by a quite effeminate media-darhling who knew everybody and instantly explained the various complexities of the cocktail list to me. Said cocktails were re-examined, appraised and sunk in great detail over a 4-5 hour period, which helped ease my blindness to the effeminate leg crossing, Julia Andrews-esque sweeping hand gestures and emotive kiss and hand to heart salute to his departing best guy friend. All the more surprising then when he invited me over to the sofa area before launching into a swift neck kiss manoeuvre which soon led to a ‘breath of fresh air and cigarette’ around the pool. Yes, pool. It was freezing. So, getting seductively under the blanket,** we started to snog like teenagers. Hands wandered and before I knew it, I was experiencing a serious case of full-frontal frottage by the rooftop pool of da whoreditch. Classy. Briefly stopping to remove his steamed-up glasses ‘muso massif’ turned to me and said . . . so shall we go back to my house? Um, no actually – I don’t do first date sex…I’m a good girl see (more shire speak).

Clearly seriously put out at my refusal to, well, put out, the next thing I knew he had extricated himself from underneath the blanket and was jumping up to arrange me a cab home. Then, just as he was fetching my coat, he turned to me and said, “but, but . . . I touched your vag!?***”

Huh? I couldn’t help but wonder as I weaved my way home (with 3 arse slaps from random men en route - was I putting out some serious pheromones that night??) - does he also think that if he touches my belly button I will get pregnant?

*In this case very definitely with.
*This is physically impossible after a 5hr cocktail bender
**For the purposes of this article some names have been changed he actually used the more formal; vagina