GIRL ON TOP

Baring all, our anonymous sex columnist makes a move on a chess player

I shagged a chess player – for all the ‘check mate’ connotations, it brought a whole new meaning to the term 'pawn'. I can't quite remember exactly how we met, but I do remember he was equal parts bizarre and interesting. French Canadian, highly intelligent (verging on the point of madness) and a professional chess player, he spoke six languages fluently. Thinking I had found a geek extraordinaire, I wanted in and wondered if it was possible to transfer IQ through shagging osmosis.

After a dalliance with some vague intellectual chat and a few vats of wine, we pulled up at this apartment block. It had bars on the front door and all the windows – he told me it used to be an old mental asylum. Although, how old I wasn't so sure. After finally unlocking all the bars and locks to his bedroom (a sure sign, no?) we both passed out in a wine-infused haze.

Waking up, I wondered if I had ended up crawling into a science lab – his bedroom was covered in science books, books about theories, spacey objets, chess, you name it. It was akin to waking up in the broom cupboard of University Challenge. If I thought this was a quick kip ‘n’ dash, though, I was wrong. Keen to show me he had moves off the chess board, he literally shagged my brains out. I kid you not, this chess player had some kind of stamina. I barely came up for air in 12 hours. Now, I really like a good shag as much as the next person but this guy was insatiable. Every position, everywhere; upside down, inside out. I was at the mercy of his highly intelligent relentless cock.

I think it’s safe to say he absolutely destroyed me; I was completely covered in love bites on my neck, my tits, my cheek (?) and the rest of my body ached as if I’d done ten rounds with Mike Tyson following the London Marathon.

After I finally begged Mad Max to stop, we lay back and had a cigarette (in the days when I used to smoke menthols). He subsequently picked up a book and started to devour it with the same gusto he’d been shagging me for the past day. "I love books," he mumbled. Yeah, I figured that one Einstein.

"Nothing beats a good book," I awkwardly utter back, “apart from hours of shagging, of course”. "Nah, I'm not really that into sex," he says. WHAT? I could barely walk. I could barely think for all the relentless humping that had unfolded. Absolutely dumbfounded, I figured it was time to set sail from this schizophrenic universe of high IQs, Bunsen burners and pneumatic genitalia. Looking back, I'm still not 100% convinced he wasn't living in a mental asylum. One thing’s for sure, we'd both finally reached check mate.