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  • Writer's pictureFrank T Bird

When Kinky Sex Projects Go Wrong

Sure, we all get horny, but is it worth the effort?


A masked man up a drainpipe

About nine years ago, I spent some time with a girl who was into very kinky things.

In the beginning, she just started asking me to give her a light spanking during sex.

But, before long, the spanking had become the main event, and it was no longer to be considered light. Every time we had sex, she would yell, spank me harder, and I would try, but I have a problem with hurting people, so at some stage, I just couldn’t spank harder. I had reached my spanking threshold.


I was also going through some impotence issues at that time, so I had to keep my concentration firmly focused on what was happening (which was hard with all of the spanking requests). My Dad used to spank us when we were kids, so spanking doesn’t have any sexual connections for me at all.


After a few spanking sessions, she asked me to be more forceful with her.

To her, this meant pinning her down and putting my hand over her mouth. I could see where she was getting to, and I knew what was coming next.


I used to sell funeral insurance to unsuspecting old people for a living, so I generally never finished the day feeling randy.


One evening, after dinner, she said it.


I want you to rape me.


I shushed her and looked left and right like she had announced some kind of heist, and there could be people listening in the wardrobe.


I had been dreading this day. To me, I already felt we were kind of sitting on the fence of rape, and it isn’t something I am comfortable with as it is. My method acting isn’t that great, so I always feel somewhat out of place.


I’m the Hugh Grant style of rapist, constantly apologising and faffing around.

I’ve always felt uncomfortable role-playing. Usually, when I reluctantly agree, I stall by doing vocal warm-up exercises, character building and research. If I am playing a doctor, I’ll watch episodes of ER or if I’m a robot, I’ll watch Short Circuit.


Forget all that, silly, she said. I want you to break into my house at night like a burglar and do me.


Oh, is that all? I said sarcastically in my head. I was hoping she was more the wetsuit-in-the-bath kind of gal (AKA the aggressive diver fantasy).


I felt like the burglar thing would be a lot of work, but I loved her, and I wanted her to be happy, so I agreed.


Good, she said. I got you a present.


She reached under the bed and handed me an Army disposals bag.


What’s this? I asked in a slightly higher tone than usual.

Open it.


I pulled out a black woollen ski mask.


It’s for when you break in and do me, she said.


I felt it was getting out of hand, but didn’t want to make her feel weird, so I said fine, like it was all totally normal.


The following evening I finished work and stopped at my house briefly.

I put on a black leather jacket, black tracksuit pants and sneakers. I was thinking about the thieves I used to know back in Manchester and Liverpool. I wanted to be as authentic as possible. I considered various accents before deciding on Russian.


After watching Oceans Eleven for research, I waited for dark and headed around to her house. I stopped at the end of the drive, opened the bag and slipped on the ski mask.

She had a drainpipe that was easy to climb. I felt it would add to the authenticity if I came directly through the window, depending on how it went logistically. I was committed to the part. Fuck the Golden Globe. I was going after the Oscar.


I shimmied up the drainpipe without too much effort and peered into her bedroom. I had expected her to be lying in bed, but she wasn’t there, so I just waited.


My ski mask was itching my face. It must have been some cheap wool blend — possibly nylon or some other terrible artificial fabric. The eye holes were a bit too wide as well — as if it had been designed for a horse — so I could only see out of one eye at a time, and it kept covering my one eye, rendering me blind. I wanted to rip it off but knew I needed to stay in character.


I waited for four or five minutes, and still nothing.

This wasn’t the plan. I didn’t want to burst the illusion, but I pulled out my phone to send her a subtle text.


I had one new message:


Hiya Darling. So sorry I got held up at work, maybe we can do ‘the thing’ a bit later? Lots of love.


I wasn’t sure what to do. Was this part of ‘the kink’? I decided it wasn’t. So I adjusted my ski mask to my right eye and looked down, planning my descent.


The lawn was strangely changing colour from red to blue, and so were my pants. My heart started to do the macarena. I heard the stomach-churning sound of a policeman’s walkie-talkie, something I had grown accustomed to hearing in my youth on the streets of Northern England. Thankfully the policewoman didn’t have her gun out.


Come on down, Mate. Let’s have a bit of a chat, shall we?


That’s how pathetic I was as a robber. Even the cops didn’t see me as a threat. They looked at me and saw Hugh Grant in a ski mask, faffing around on a drainpipe.

Trying to explain the situation to the cops was difficult.


I wasn’t trying to break in. I was trying to rape my girlfriend.


Their eyebrows creased, and they put their hands on their guns.


What I mean is this is my girlfriend’s house, and this was a fantasy of hers.


They called her and straightened everything out.


That night we didn’t finish our role-play because she was too busy laughing.


I've never worn a ski mask since.


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