Whinging

Back in my twenties I was living in Sydney and working as an Aerobic Instructor. I was fit, healthy, young and for me at least, kind of pretty. As a result I receive a fair amount of attention from good looking guys which resulted, from time to time in, some decent shagging. Not that I was the village bike or anything, that was Sevens job, but I was certainly reasonably "popular". I had met someone the night before and had enjoyed an evenings entertainment. As usual, my friends and I met up at Morgans around 11 to enjoy breakfast and compare war stories. Someone, Gary I think, commented that I had disappeared early the evening before, so of course I was mercilessly teased into giving details. I am always careful not to kiss and tell, partially out of a sense of honor but mostly because I like kissing too much. As a result I wasn't prepared to divulge too much that I felt would be identifying detail. I did however tell them that the gentleman in particular, while very keen for me to fuck him, complained A LOT during the process. "Put it in, but not too far", "not like that", "ouch, slower", that sort of thing. I don't usually get much in the way of complaints so it was a bit off putting. I guess I would refer to him as a whinging bottom. At this point Garys' eye lit up and he grabbed his phone. He dialed, waited a moment and asked it "did you sleep with Robert Miller last night?" pause, "thought so", and he hung up. Everyone at the table was goggling at him, particularly me. He looked at me and said "Jason Davies� , lion tattoo‡ on his left shoulder blade. Right?". Stunned I nodded. At this point Gary smirked, he loved these games, and "There is no better way to describe him than "whinging bottom" � not his real name ‡ not his real tattoo