How do you like your eggs in the morning?
I like mine with a kiss!
It’s now 11 days since I moved in with Livvy and her flatmate, and already it feels like the best decision I’ve made for a long time. There are practical benefits, of course: my rent has halved, we no longer have to endure the Northern Line in order to see each other, and it’s brought an immediate end to all those interminable and dull logistical conversations about where to stay on any given night.
Beyond that though, the whole thing has just made me unbelievably happy – even more so than I was already. I’ve always had a complex relationship with happiness. For a long time, I wasn’t sure I really deserved it, and as a result I was suspicious of anything that felt like a genuine opportunity to better my emotional lot. I sabotaged relationships, shied away from commitment, and maintained a wary distance between my own life and conventional, nuclear, 2.4-children domesticity. These last few years – pretty much covering the lifetime of this blog, in fact – have seen that slowly start to change, and I’m now in a position where I at least believe on some level that I can love and be loved in this way.
Maybe I’ll come back to that another time.
This week’s blog post on facesitting seemed to go down (heh) really well – not least with my girlfriend, who quickly made it clear how we’d be spending much of our weekend. It’s fair to say I had no real objections to her plan…
Ok, the results are in! It’s customary with this kind of contest to begin by emphasising how difficult it was to elevate one entry above the rest, but on this particular occasion that’s almost painfully true. I managed to get it down from 11 to five on the second reading, from five to three on the fourth, and since then…well, that was six hours ago and since then I’ve been pretty much stuck!
It’s a lovely problem to have, of course – testament to the high quality of the writing on show – and I’m happy to say I genuinely enjoyed re-reading all 11 entries, which rarely happens; there was something to admire in each of them, from small, deliciously sexy moments through to their wider, tangible sense of storytelling and eroticism.
The three finalists had both of those qualities in spades, and took them to the next level with creative, exciting interpretations of the prompt – as well as a real freshness and originality. It’s all subjective, I realise, but in each of them I saw something different; something I kept coming back to as I read through them.
Before I get to the (somewhat overdue) judging, I wanted to showcase the contest entries that don’t have a home of their own. Four of the 11 stories were sent to me by fantastic writers who are active elsewhere online or on social media, but who haven’t (yet) dipped their toes into the blogging waters; one of them has asked me to keep her story completely anonymous, but the others all deserve to have their work read by as wide an audience as possible, so here they are!
If you enjoy what you read below, please do show the authors some love in the comments and on Twitter – and for that matter, make sure you check out the other seven stories too! The winner will be announced shortly, so look out for that announcement later tonight or tomorrow. Thanks again to everyone who entered, and to the lovely people at Sh! London for providing a very generous first prize…
One fundamental truth about the language of sex is that some words and expressions are immediately, viscerally hot, while others are really, really not. Tell me to touch your cunt, for example, and a knot of desire somewhere in the pit of my stomach will twist just a little bit tighter at the sound of that hard ‘c’ and the tight, spitting ‘t’ that follows. Say it to the next guy whose hand is between your legs and it may have no effect whatsoever. It may even turn him off.
I’ve written before about one of the phrases that does it for me, and actually I only need to think about those four words again now – and about some of the scenarios connected to them – to feel myself starting to get hard here at my desk. The one I have in mind this morning has been going round my head for the last few days, ever since a Whatsapp chat with another blogger. We’d both read this really terrible post [EDIT: subsequently deleted], and after I’d joked that I might write a response with the title ‘5 reasons why feminists are better in bed’ we started brainstorming ideas:
‘Feminists will sit on your face with wild abandon.’ They will sit on your face.
Stairs have become a bit of a sex cliché. Whether it’s the (super-hot) scene from The Thomas Crown Affair or the starting point for any number of late-night drunken hook-ups that have finally made their way back to someone’s apartment, stairs and shagging are both a wonderfully impractical combination and just kinda…wonderful.
My flat is a 2nd/3rd floor walk-up, and over the last two-and-a-bit years I’ve had a lot of fun on its various staircases and landings – plus the balcony, of course. It’s one of many things I’ll miss, so this week I took the opportunity to enjoy it for the final time…
I spent this afternoon packing up my apartment, ready for the big move next weekend. It was tiring, thirsty work, and by the time I reached a natural stopping-point I was both hot and sweaty. My flatmate was out, so I decided to relax properly with a glass of wine, and reflect on the 2+ years I’ve spent living here. I’ll be doing a lot more of that over the next few days, I’m sure, and I’ll probably write about it at some point: the ups and the downs, the filthy highlights, what I’ll miss…and of course what comes next.
For today though, I was happy just to raise my glass and silently celebrate the end of an era. Cheers everyone…