London Calling (Part One)

A fuck-fest of a tour through the city

Jul 04, 2025

I love the idea of charting my city in this way, who I fucked and where, when, and sometimes why. Very much insired by the meme ‘Go and cum in the places you have cried… change the narrative’.

This is both.

Before…

I fell in love with London at sixteen, wide eyes and culturally naive, visiting on a summer tour, the wanning decade giving way to the millennium, on the cusp of something we all felt would be transformative and irreversible. In North London, in the sticky height of a heatwave, I let a boy, probably a little too old for me, hitch my skirt up under the table outside in a pub beer garden. He slid his fingers into my underwear, reaching and fumbling. His cock hard against my thigh, his tongue clumsy in my mouth. He tasted like ale and crisps and cigarettes and I felt worldly and deviant and grown.

South East

In my early twenties, the city claimed me whole. I moved there on the promise of new love and a new life, in the brand new millennium. We moved to apartment block over looking the ancient Thames, the solid mass of it moving under my window. It was my view, three times a week, when my boyfriend would roughly push me up against it, home and needy. He would pull my jeans to my ankles, rip my underwear aside, my hands would steady myself against the windowsill, his breath a mess of whiskey and anger, my hips hitting the sharp edge, him trying to fuck the pain a way. Another failed job interview. Another few too may drinks. Reasons why it was my fault. He would finish quickly. I’d pull up my pants and wonder whether the neighbours saw.

The city didn’t love him at all, he wanted me to leave and for me to come to. I chose the city.

South West

It beckoned me to leafier suburbs in the south west, tennis and rowers on that same river, every morning, and rugby players, thick set and loud in the streets. My new home was surrounded by wisteria, and in the summer the cacophony of fat bottomed bumble bees amuck with pollen would wake me every morning, the light streaming in revealing whoever I had brought home the night before. Sleepy twenty-something boys who were still figuring out how to make women come. Their restless, boring fucking. The breathless questions, while covering me with their slick sweat, fat thumbed and too eager. Well educated boys from good families who were too polite, or too condescending.

There were girls too, after hours, back to mine, too many drugs and tequila shots rushing through our bloodstreams. Laughing into each other, stumbling against door frames, trying not to wake my flatmate. Smoking out the windows, watching the sunrise. The accidental brush of a hand, that leads to the soft feeling of skin, the hurried unbuttoning. The cautiousness - is this ok?- turning into the breathlessness of need, I want to know what you taste like - the soft, sweet sounds - please, oh god, don’t stop. Legs shaking, thighs slick and wet. The next morning, the shy glances, agreeing our incapacitated states excused our wildness. Making coffee and laughing it off. Until it happened again.

Here I met the city broker who liked to fuck me, once a month, often while I was bleeding. His sheets a crime scene, while I smoked his cigars he had brought back from a trip to Cuba with his fiancé. She was too skinny and uptight, but from the right background. A good pedigree. Unlike me. Wild, and up for it and available. I let him tongue my ass while I did fat lines off of his expensive mahogany table, before he’d lay me on top of it, a dusting of snow on my nipples and my clit too. We’d fuck for hours, the sun already climbing over the smart terraces of his neighbourhood. The school run in full swing outside the window. Perfectly blow-dried yoga mums shepherding their muli-lingual children, just meters away from us, his cock buried in my ass, or my cunt or my mouth, thrusting harder and faster trying to chase that elusive cliff until eventually, my pussy swollen and sore, he’d shout - Christ I ..fuck.. I.. fucking LOVE you - as he came. Hot and raw inside me. Last night’s make up smeared on his pristine sofa. A cleaning bill I could never afford, but never made him blink. He would call his driver and I’d be whisked home to my flat-share, no walk of shame required.

It was not love. But it forged something like steel in me

South

London nudged me south to a neighbourhood boasting iconic live music venues and clubs, and twenty four hour parties, vibrant markets and festivals. We all wore glitter mini skirts and ripped band t-shirts, the Indie sleeze era was in full swing. Boys with shaggy hair and northern accents sky rocketing through the charts. Fucking in bathroom stalls, knee high boots propped up on toilet lids. A bass guitarist, his beautifully calloused fingers pulling at my tits, plunging inside me, my underwear twisted around my wrist in a bid to avoid the grimy piss stained floor. His cock already straining against his skinny jeans. Unzipped hastily while someone banged on the door - Hurry up you absolute fucking CUNTS .. and then thrust into me. Hard. Fast. Like its the end of the world. His teeth biting down into my neck. The music almost masking the animal growl he makes as he empties into me, my legs shaking. I open the door and wipe his cum off my thighs with my underwear and toss them in the bin. The band is being called to the stage. My friends shove plastic pint glasses into my hands - Where have you been..?! - London taking us all home on night buses, and in dodgy cabs, singing at the top of lungs.

The boy who was supposed to marry my friend, but who made me come longer and harder than anyone had ever done before. The way he moved the hair from my face, while he moved inside me, the strength of his hands around my neck. Just holding. Just needing an anchor. The girth of him the first time we fucked took my breath away. I can’t quit you… almost a sob, my legs straddling his as I come again and again. The city cold and unforgiving outside. Grey.

I quit south London

West

The summer comes again, I fall in love. The wildness of my youth cooling now. I am yearning for more structure. He is soft and kind, for a time. My career takes off. His does not. We stop sharing a bed. I forget what his arms feel like around me. There is only distance. We try. We think we might make it. The city disagrees.

East

London calls me east this time. Ironic bars and anti-tech bros. My days of glitter skirts behind me now. It’s smarter suits and well tailored trousers. A strong red lip. I meet a man who likes to make me watch, he positions me in front of a mirror. Tells me how he wants me to touch myself, until I am wet enough to take him, on all fours, as he mounts me. My tits swinging in time with every thrust. An architect, an art collector. He never comes inside me. Always on my face. The splash of it, white against red. He kisses me precisely once.

North

When I find myself in North London again, the city is still reeling post the pandemic. I am craving touch, I want to lick the sweat from someone’s face. Feel their dangerous breath on my lips, inhale everything. A flick of the screen and I find apps, and parties and I fall into the scene, reckless and ravenous for it.

I let a fireman bind me with rope, and fuck my face, in a hotel on a Tuesday afternoon, his sweat dripping on my eye lids as he held my head still, my throat filling with his cum.

I vet Doms, and turn down ENM rock climbers, take off for whole weekends with friends who own spanking benches and teach me shibari. There are parties that require masks, or vetted entry or both. A joyful frenzy of leather and latex and late nights. The glitter skirt returns. Paired with corsets, and lace.

And then I met Him.

London Calling Part Two is here…