When Cinema quite literally Sucks

More Cock-Hitch than Hitchcock

Sex is great. It is, arguably, just about the most fun it’s possible to have. But there can come a time when, if you’re lucky enough to be getting it sufficiently often, it can start to feel as though it’s losing its edge. Which is to say it’s still wonderful, obviously - an orgasm is rarely not worth your time - but it can start to lose a little of its shine. It becomes just that little bit more predictable. More pedestrian. More, dare I say it, *routine*.

This is when, in my experience, you find yourself starting to explore other means of recapturing the exciting buzz that was initially a default bolt-on to any sexual escapade. You take your first tentative steps - or in my case, jumping in fully, both feet first - into finding a way to regaining the thrill. Specifically seeking out something new and adventurous, rather than just happening upon it.

There are almost innumerable ways to go about it. The number of kinks which exist and are practised in the world are likely as plentiful as the grains of sand on any given beach. Including many which could be partaken in *on* said beach. Over the years I’ve dipped my toe - or indeed fully immersed - myself in many and various of these sometimes disparate, sometimes entwined rock pools of explorative kink (I’ve run out of steam with this metaphor), but my first was one which, I suspect, is shared with many seeking to return some thrill to their sex lives:

Adding risk adds to the thrill. Specifically; the risk of getting *caught*.

I started actively pursuing this elusive thrill toward the end of my first year at university. Which certainly isn’t to say I hadn’t encountered it earlier - For the first six months I was very much making the most of the sexual freedoms University and, specifically, living away from home granted. I had found myself fucking (or things of roughly equally inappropriateness) in many and varied locations, many of which featured a high chance of getting ‘caught’ - Parks, pub toilets, a train, to name but a few. But these instances had all come about from a sense of imminent urgency - a ‘we need to do this right now!’ rush of adrenaline and sheer lust, rather than a calculated and considered plan to do it *because* there was a risk of getting caught.

It’s a subtle but significant difference in intention. And a fascinating one that I could discuss at length. But, fear not. I’ll not indulge myself here. The preamble is over, time to get to the point.

After six or so months of gloriously frivolous fucking, I’d very slightly settled down and got myself a boyfriend. We were having a great time and our sex life was as healthy as any mid-eighteen-year-olds. I.e. We were rampant.

But after a few months, rampant though we still were, I couldn’t help but feel it had started to lose its thrill. The sex itself was still as excellent as it was plentiful, but it was all getting a little predictable. There’s something wonderful about familiarity, but exciting it certainly isn’t. Not that he’d seemed to notice. But that’s, quite literally, another story.

So I decided to do something about. I took a conscious and considered decision to make our sex life more exciting. And I knew immediately how I wanted to do it. The age old equation: Sex+Risk=Thrill. But what I chose *not* to do, was tell him.

We were regular cinema goers. Which is to say we’d had many dates where we’d sit and ignore a movie while just taking the opportunity to get handsy with each other. But we’d always stopped short of ever going further than an exciting grope or a recurring squeeze.

On this occasion we’d rocked up for an afternoon showing. As students we had little to fill our days with - so tended to go during the day when it was quieter. For a 1.15pm screening there’d be rarely more than twenty or so folk in, roughly half of which were usually other students.

We settled into our seats and, as usual, filled the trailer time with the usual kissing and handsy prelude, before settling back to watch the movie itself.

At least *he* did.

I stayed poised and, the moment I saw him relax, I reached over and undid his zip. He looked surprised, but made no attempt to stop me. He did however hesitate when I also undid the button, reached inside, and fully slipped his cock out of his boxers.

Which was when I stopped looking at him and turned back to watch the movie.

Except now I had his cock in my hand. Already feeling it starting to stiffen in my grip.

And for the next 45minutes I didn’t take my eyes off the movie. Nor did I take my hand off his cock. I slowly stroked, teased and twisted, occasionally picking up the pace in time with any action in the film, but managing to judge it well enough that I didn’t tip him over the edge.

At one point he reached over to me, apparently attempting to return the favour, but I smacked his hand away. This was my fun. He’d get his turn eventually.

After 45 minutes - admittedly during which time I’d occasionally been distracted by the movie sufficiently to have lost rhythm and let him go soft. Something easily remedied by some vigorous movement, twisting and a little ball squeeze - I figured I’d teased enough. Both his cock and my hand were wet with pre-cum, and it was time to bring this home. I switched to long, firm, vigorous strokes and soon enough I felt his hand grab my leg. I held the empty box of popcorn in front of his cock and he exploded into it, somehow managing to hold back anything audible beyond a little exhale of breath.

I wiped my hand on his hoody and went back to watching the movie. He had to go to the bathroom for a quick cleanup.

When he got back he tried to make some reciprocating moves on me, but I brushed them off. And I was right to do so. First and foremost because I didn’t want to be distracted from the movie, which I was really quite invested in at this point, and secondly because I knew it would frustrate him.

Once home we had the best sex we’d had in weeks.

It had been a success.

Which is why we decided to repeat it. Many times. Almost to the point, perhaps ironically, where it became its own strange routine.

Sometimes I’d do him. Sometimes he’d do me - albeit not very often as the angles weren’t in his favour. Cinema seats aren’t designed to make for particularly accessible female orgasms. Who knew?

And, of course, as things became routine, they inevitably escalated. Hands switched to mouths. By which, obviously, I mean my hands switched to my mouth. While I’m certain he’d have at the very least attempted to reciprocate, it’s just not possible without climbing out of his seat and somehow positioning in the tiny aisle.

It started with my using my hand for the majority of the experience, switching to my mouth when I felt that familiar hand squeeze my leg. I’d lean over, take him in my mouth, and swallow every drop. If nothing else, it saved us having to buy overpriced popcorn for the sake of having a spunk receptacle.

But now mouths had been added to equation, perhaps understandably, hands felt like being short changed. He wanted my mouth doing all the work. I argued this would result in me missing far more of the movie, which he conceded.

His solution was to book a movie he knew I’d have no interested in. Sneaky bastard.

It was not the first blowjob I’ve delivered out of pure boredom, but it was one of the more fun.

However, the thing about sitting in a cinema being bent over the person sat beside you is that it’s considerably more noticeable than just casually having a hand in your partners lap. A hand is discrete enough to fly largely under the radar to all but the most enthusiastic pervert craning their neck looking for action. But apparently a full head in a lap is the equivalent of waving a glow stick and shouting “something’s afoot here!”

The first time I have no idea who the hell saw us. There were relatively few in the cinema and certainly no one sat anywhere near us. But as we were leaving at the end of the film an incredibly embarrassed looking cinema employee pulled us to one side and told us that there had been a report of ‘inappropriate behaviour’ - and my god he actually used visible air quotes - and that if it happened again further action would be taken. He then turned away and fled at speed almost unable to contain his shame at having clearly been told to speak to us.

Suitably chastised we returned home and had wonderfully angry sex picturing ourselves doing it right in front of whichever miserable sexless buzzkill had felt it prudent to ‘have a word’.

Needless to say the very next week we were back and doing precisely the same thing again. Only this time, in our minds at least, we were being far more subtle. I waited until further into the movie to make my move, hoping any would-be joyless cockwombles would be too engrossed to cast their gaze in our direction. We also positioned ourselves in the very back corner to eliminate as many viewing angles as we could.

And all for naught.

Fewer than three minutes after I took his cock in my mouth, just as I was getting into a slow but steady rhythm of movement, my tongue doing - even if I say so myself - some sterling work, than I feel him tap me on the shoulder and try to push me away. Whether someone had again reported us, or whether we’d just been placed on some form of watch list I haven’t the faintest idea, but he’d spotted a cinema employee walk in and look squarely in our direction.

He’d gone by the time I’d got myself upright and we were quickly and quietly trying to decide whether we should just switch seats and sit somewhere else to confuse them, or even consider making a run for it when a different employee appeared.

And worse, it was someone we knew.

A fellow student silently beckoned us down and, with a barely contained smirk, lead us outside.

“Two strikes and you’re out. Sorry. You’ve managed to get yourself banned.”

I can’t decide whether the fact he could barely keep a straight face as he told us this made it easier or infinitely worse.

“You could have at least let us finish first!” was the best reply I could muster.

“They thought you might try. That’s why they sent me.” he said with a grin. “In case I had to pull you two apart!”

We trudged downstairs somewhat deflated. Risk is fun. Getting caught, as it turns out, isn’t. I like to win and this felt like victory had been snatched from us.

As we walked out I casually mentioned I needed the toilet and was all set to launch into a tirade about how if I wasn’t allowed to use the facilities it would be a denial of human rights or something. As it turned out this wasn’t necessary. He’d had his fun. We were free to leave of our own accord.

But in truth I’m absolutely sure he left us at that point because he’d seen the glint in my eye and knew damn well what I was going to do.

I went to one of the disabled toilets, and I brought my boyfriend in with me.

Within moments our underwear was by our ankles, I was bent over the sink and he slid into me from behind.

The sex, it has to be said, was fucking awful. But it didn’t matter. This wasn’t about fucking. It was about saying fuck you.

There was a tiny part of me that wanted us to finish with him cumming on my face, just so I could feel the satisfaction of walking out past the staff with visual evidence of having claimed a final victory.

But then I told myself that was stupid as it would then be a further fifteen minute walk home, and ultimately it would be a massive inconvenience for a largely hollow gesture.

Instead he came in my mouth. The bitter sweet taste of victory.

We walked out of the cinema with our heads held high.

I was back within the year, albeit with a different guy. Apparently the bans didn’t stick.

And it proved to be one of the rare instances where the sequel eclipsed the original.