Back in April, Livvy wrote this epic post about our first sex party. We had to wait another six months for our second, but when it did finally come along it was every bit as wild and hedonistic as we’d both hoped.
The theme was ‘Sexy Time Machine’, and the party took place in a photographic studio near Clapham Common. We went as Doctor Who and the TARDIS, and while we both knew our costumes were unlikely to stay on for long, one of us at least looked little short of spectacular.
As long-time readers of this blog will know, I have a strong aversion to articles, blog posts and advice columns that talk in prescriptive terms about sex and dating, or which make sweeping, universal statements about the way we fuck. It’s not just that they’re often preachy, prudish and judgemental; more fundamentally, human sexuality covers such a broad spectrum of kinks, desires, and interests that the Venn diagram of what I like in bed versus what you like in bed will always contain a healthy amount of symmetric difference.
For that reason, I’ve always tried to avoid using my own sexual experiences as a template for what other people should do or what other people enjoy. That’s occasionally a bit of a balancing act: when I wrote about hand jobs, for example, or about vaginal ‘tightness’, part of my aim was to reassure people who’d been fed damaging messages about what men want from women, so I consciously chose to discuss both subjects in more general terms. However, I consider those posts to be exceptions rather than the rule; I use this space to share stories from my sex life, not to tell my readers what they should do with theirs.
The reason for bringing all of that up now is that I read something on Twitter recently that made me sad. Someone I follow was expressing frustration with her lack of sexual experience, and questioning why men would want her when she is “all enthusiasm but no technique”. It wasn’t quite a lightbulb moment, but the more I thought about it afterwards, the more angry I got with the way mainstream sex advice has created this notion that there is a right and a wrong way to ‘do’ sex – a standard user manual for the human body, which can be studied and applied to each new partner.
It’s two days after Christmas, and she’s getting ready to go back – back to London, back to work, and back to a cold, empty flat at the end of it. My parents’ house is neither cold nor empty; it is quiet though, or maybe just calm and content after a festive period full of life’s most basic pleasures – good food and drink, sleep, comfort, and conversation.
I lift myself out of the mid-afternoon lull (and the armchair in which I’m enjoying it), scoop up my mug of tea, and slip out into the hallway. I pad up the stairs towards my bedroom, tugging at my clothes even before I’ve opened the door. I know she won’t be far behind, so once I’m naked I move quickly. The bag of sex toys has travelled with us from London to Dorset, and now here, but this is the first time I’ve delved inside.
By the time she enters the room I’m under the duvet, with just my head poking out. The mug steams silently on my old chest of drawers – it’ll be cold by the time I pick it up again.
“Take your clothes off and get in here,” I say, and she complies without hesitation, clambering over me before snuggling her perfect, naked body up against mine. I let her get comfortable, pulling her even closer and kissing her neck as her fingers reach for my cock. It takes her no time at all to get me hard; her hand moves with a practised rhythm that I know I’ll soon find almost impossible to resist, especially with the warmth of her skin and the scent of her hair surrounding me.
For nearly 200 years, wreaths have been used to celebrate Christmas and welcome visitors to the house during the festive season.
Traditionally those wreaths are candlelit, but modern technology has intervened in recent years to provide a more convenient (and less flammable) form of illumination.
Still, while fairy lights have their own twinkly charm, they lack the plain heft and solidity of a proper Christmas candle. The welcome they give is bright and charming, but also just a little insubstantial. It carries less weight.
Touch yourself for me
Show me how you do it. Show me how you want it
Yeah, like that. Just like that
Twice now, I’ve published short collections of things I’d been fantasising about over the previous 24 hours. Each post was written at a time when I was struggling to focus on longer, more structured pieces – in part because I was so uncontrollably horny that my brain was just jumping from one hot scenario to the next.
My sex drive seems to have peaked again recently, and that’s coincided with another mini period of writer’s block. My drafts folder contains half a dozen posts that I’ve either abandoned or mothballed, and I have a similar number that haven’t yet made it out of my head. Their time will come, but for now I’m going to offer up another 24-hour snapshot of exactly what’s been keeping me on edge. I hope you enjoy it…
I played hockey yesterday on a pitch that occupied one small corner of a sprawling sports complex, shared with local football and rugby teams. The weather was filthy when we arrived and got steadily worse once the game was underway. The wind whipped across the exposed fields, rain slanted sideways into our faces, and a winter gloom seemed to creep in a little closer with every passing minute.
By the end of the match, I was sore, tired, and ready for the bright and warmth of the opposition’s clubhouse. For pasta bolognese, a pint of beer, and rueful reflection on the defeat we’d just suffered. After some initial uncertainty, I now really like the group of guys I play with, and few things can salve wounded pride better than hearty food and good company.
Even those comforts do little for aching muscles, however. They require scalding hot water – the kind that feels like it might strip the skin from your body – and a proper scrub. After everyone else had left, I went over to the rather austere, chilly shower block and found an empty changing room. Livvy came in with me and took a few photos as I got changed, snapping away until my sweaty kit lay in a messy pile on the floor. I left her sitting on a bench while I waited for the water to heat up, then closed my eyes and let it wash over me.