The Adventures of Naughty Miss Jones

'cos naughty miss jones knows vibrators. Visit me at


Sometimes I wish my life was a romantic comedy, and I was just going through the usual ups and downs of your typical female protagonist on the path to a cute, quirky ending, complete with a sound track involving the beach boys (cos no story of my life would be complete without the beach boys).

And very recently, I had a bit of a ‘meet cute’ that would make the perfect opening scenes…..

So anyway, I was approached by a girl at one of my sex toy talks in August this year who, after confirming my name, relayed the message ‘Jimmy says hi’. I smiled and nodded, not sure who this Jimmy was. The next day, I received a message from ‘Jimmy’ following up to an alleged meeting on New Years Eve and apologizing for losing my number (the message came via the ‘contact us’ section of my site).

I still had no friggin’ clue who he was. Noting it had been NYE, however, I figured we had either shared a cheeky dance floor pash, or he had just been super impressed by my way-too-many-wines induced dance moves (no, the latter has never actually happened, but a girl can dream).

He suggested a meeting from the outset which I tactfully avoided. I didn’t remember him, it was 8 whole months ago, and when you met on a night that ended with 15 people in my tiny apartment at 4am, playing scattergories and polishing off my home made spiced rum (I had to throw that in to impress y’all with my domestic skills), I figure the impression I had given him couldn’t have been that great anyway. That, and the fact I still didn’t have a clue who he was, and I just wasn’t prepared to waste a perfectly good evening on a total stranger when I could be at home watching Beauty and the Geek.

But young Jimmy was persistent, so I figured I could at least give him the decency of a good old Facebook stalk.

Physically, he wasn’t my usual type. In his pics he looked short, somewhat ‘boyish’ and wore deep v-neck t-shirts, not things I’d usually go for.

That said, he did have a nice face and an apparent cheekiness (which I figured may have been used to his advantage in commandeering a dance floor pash) so I decided after a reasonable amount of music montage-esque procrastination I should at least go have one drink with the poor boy. At the least, he deserved an ending to his harrowing now 10 month long search. And, while it’s true that I’m a sexual creature, I’m also a bit of a romantic one, and the thought of this young man’s desperate hunt for the mysterious women he met on New Years Eve, undoubtedly involving many a long, sorrow filled night staring off into the distance, created too many a romantic image to resist.

We met the day after Melbourne Cup, so it’s fair to say I wasn’t my best sparkly self. Having only the intention of one quick drink so poor Jimmy could finally find ‘closure’, in truth I hadn’t even bothered to wash my hair.

Which would have been fine, only Jimmy turned out to be a lot cuter in real life than his pics had made out, 6 foot, and with no deep v-neck t-shirt in sight. He was also an apparent gentlemen, buying a nice bottle of red and asking lots of questions. About 2 glasses of red in, I decided Jimmy deserved my honesty.

I’m sorry Jimmy, but I don’t actually a remember the night we met“. There. I’d said it. Twelve little words. But by the look on Jimmy’s face, what I’d actually done was a kill a kitten before his eyes. He hung his head in his hands in sorrow, before gazing up at me “seriously?”, he questioned. Man, that must have been one hell of a dance floor pash.

Yes, I’m sorry, but if you just remind me, I might remember? … It was some time ago

Now, here’s where things get interesting. Turns out ‘I’ had met Jimmy at 2am, at a bus stop in the north of Sydney, before heading back to his place for 12 hours of kinky times, including ‘me’ telling him all about my little sex toy business. The same 12 hours actual me had been playing scattergories, setting up make-shift beds for my 14 new housemates and telling all and sundry of my ‘secret ingredient’ charred orange rind.

Jimmy had the wrong girl. Turns out somewhere out there is a girl who looks like me, has the same profession, the same age and the same first name but who, unlike me, bangs boys she meets at bus stops. In the movie, our parts would undoubtedly be played by the same actress, a la Lindsay Lohan in Parent Trap.

But it must be you” he pined “missy, sex toys, from the south, blonde… I looked at your Facebook pics and it looks like you

Nope. Sorry sweets. Just pass me another kitten.

To his credit, Jimmy didn’t get up and leave immediately. There was still half a bottle of red, and I was wearing a very boobie dress (to distract from the dirty hair, obviously), so I guess there was reason enough for him to stay.

In fact, he ended up staying another 3 hours, during which time I introduced Jimmy to the wonders of spiced rum (though it’s nowhere near as good as my home made stuff), and also discovered we had been at the same primary school for a year, had played for the same soccer club, and came from the same area, ending our 4 hour ‘closure session’ with a cheeky pash on a busy street corner.

As y’all know, I go on lots of dates, but like few of them. I don’t know if it was the fact our meeting sounded like something from a romantic comedy, or that he was just fun, but wrong girl aside, I wanted to see young Jimmy again.

Which I did, and had a ball of a time.

At this stage, I’m not sure if this romantic comedy will ever be made. Someone tell Rachel McAdams to sit tight on the script for now. Let’s just say we have hit that road block that’s an essential part of the story-arch in our journey to being Drew Barrymore and the wedding singer, friends with benefits, Harry and Sally style buddies with unresolved sexual tension, or whatever it is we’re meant to be. So far (so you can play the scenes out in your head), that road block has involved a confession of sorts, an overreaction from yours truly (cos what leading lady doesn’t deserve to overreact a little?), a 7am drunken declaration of feelings while he was allegedly cuddled up to a guy named ‘poof’, and some words of wisdom from my male friend Rooster, whose basic message was to ‘stop being a dickhead missy’ (Thanks Roo).

I’ll be sure to keep y’all posted for Part 2.

Naughty Miss Jones xx

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