Juji's Blog

Hi and welcome.

I've been blessed with the task of giving you a little insight into life, love and sex in Australia. Tough job, hey? Not! First thing I decided was that I simply must go out and do some extensive research and get myself a little more...er... 'work experience'. As for the juicy details of that 'research', I might save that and share it with you once I get to know you a little better, but for now let's just say it's been a shitload of fun! In fact, since telling my friends about this little post, it's kinda weird that my male ones have suddenly taken a whole lot more interest in me. They ring me more often, drop cheeky little lines here and there, grin inanely, stare at my tits, salivate, that sort of thing. Given I don't usually fuck my friends, I'm sitting back having a bit of a giggle - and taking notes of course.

A quick bit of housekeeping - please don't think me illiterate when you see words like colour, glamour, tantalise and fantasise. I'm an Aussie and I spell like one. Luckily for us, words like love, relationships, dating, sex, fuck, fucked and fucking offer no spelling variations, so we should pretty much understand each other.

For those of you who haven't travelled to Oz, I just want to dispel a few myths. We don't have kangaroos leaping and hopping all round the place. Our cities are just as kangaroo-free as yours. However, when driving round the more remote areas, if you're really lucky, you might get to see one leaping out in front of you when you're doing 120km's flying down a country highway. (I think you do miles. Forget the maths - it's too hard.) Just know that it's fast and that the impact will most probably kill you.

Very few of us throw shrimps on the barbie at every available opportunity and most of us think Paul Hogan's an idiot. Sure, we do enjoy a barbecue in the sunny months, but shrimps, or actually prawns as we call them, are super expensive, so it's usually snags (read sausages), lots of tomato sauce, and a slab of lamb chop accompanied by a much larger slab of beer.

Few girls greet each other with "g'day mate". The real blokey blokes do, particularly in country areas, but us city dwellers have adopted the much more civilised, European tradition of a single kiss on the cheek. However, it's two kisses, one on each cheek, amongst Italians, and an awkward, mouth and nose-clashing three if you're amongst Lebanese. For the particularly pretentious, it's a no-skin-touching, air-kiss affair. If you haven't got a pretentious bone in your body, or a smattering of self respect, it's a wet pash smack on the mush, tongue an' all, especially if you're a blokey bloke from the bush who's had too many beers at the barbie.

I guess it takes all types to keep life interesting and we've got them all here in Australia. I was at a bar the other night listening to my favourite band. There were the easy, going, comfortable-in-their-own-skin types who are easy and fun to talk to. They generally stood around the bar making it really easy to mingle with them. There were the huddled groups sitting in booths, basically saying we don't want to meet anyone at all and are very content with our own friends thank you very much. Then there were the suits, who always make me very curious about why they constantly have their hands in their pockets. Just what are they doing with them? If any of you guys can enlighten me on this, I'd be grateful. Is it a comfort thing? An insecurity thing? A sneaky way of jiggling one's dick in public?

And then there was this sleazy, much older bloke who suffered from the unfortunate delusion that he was some super-gorgeous Greek god. This Adonis wannabe kept undressing me with his eyes. I mean, where did he get off? He was old enough to be my grandfather and while I've experimented with a healthy spectrum of age groups over my time, this old fart was definitely bordering on antiquity. I'd turn my back on him, but could still feel him boring holes in my now denuded back. He stood there, casually, cockily, very sure of himself, caressing his stubby of beer like it was his limp dick. Most disturbing to say the least. The only way he was gonna get laid was if he paid for it, or if his wife succumbed to the odd duty fuck. I felt like telling him he was simply wasting his fast-depleting testosterone levels on me. In fact, if he's there again tonight and drools anywhere near my direction, I probably will.

So, over to you. What's the oldest guy or gal you've ever screwed? Was it good? Given their experience, do they make for expert lovers and does this make up for the fact that they may be a wee bit wrinkled? At what point would you draw the line?

And, I'm really curious about what you guys and gals think about the land of Oz.

Juji x