Author: Exhibit A

I had sex recently, and it was good – very good – but I didn’t come. I don’t really know why (Booze? Fatigue? Stress?), and to be honest I don’t really care either: it’s not the first time that’s happened, and I can’t imagine it’ll be the last.

The sex was full of the good stuff. There was kissing – lots of kissing – and dirty talk. There was hair-pulling and shoulder-biting. There was her fingers on my belt, impatiently tugging it loose, and my fingers under her skirt, rolling back and forth over her clit. There was sucking and licking, of lip and neck and nipple and cock. I fucked her mouth for a while – rough, jerky, forceful bumps against the back of her throat, saliva pooling around the base of my cock – and when her eyes started to water and her breathing became ragged, I turned her around and fucked her cunt instead.

But I didn’t come, and neither did she. I got close a couple of times, but for whatever reason my body just couldn’t quite find the catalyst for that final, chain reaction. After a while, we stopped and rearranged ourselves, collecting and adjusting half-discarded clothes with goofy grins on our faces. My hair was damp with sweat and her skin was already starting to colour with the following day’s bruises. My cock was still semi-erect as I zipped up my suit trousers, but I didn’t feel tense or unsatisfied. In fact, while I was tired and a bit tipsy, the casual intimacy of sex with someone I like left me feeling more relaxed than I had done for days.

Orgasms are great. Orgasms are fan-fucking-tastic, in fact, and I’m as greedy for them today as I was at 16, frantically rubbing them out one after the other on my top bunk. There are days when all I want – all I need – is to feel my stomach muscles clenching, my thighs tensing, and my cock throbbing as it sends hot, thick ropes of cum shooting out onto my chest, or onto my partner’s arse, or deep inside her as she thrusts up/down/back to meet me. I crave that moment, when someone hits the pause button and the world around me freezes; and I crave what it does to my brain in the few seconds before and after, when oxytocin comes flooding in, and it feels like my mind is both cloudy and perfectly clear at the same time.

When I think about sex though, orgasm is not what I crave. When I remember the sex I’ve had, or daydream about the sex I want to have, I don’t really think about that final exclamation point – instead it’s the poetry and the prose, the dialogue and the descriptions, all the little pauses and paragraph breaks and punctuation marks that float around my head. It’s the smell of her skin and the noises she made. It’s how she might taste.

One of the more frustrating features of even the best erotica – and regardless of the author’s gender – is how often the male orgasm is used to wrap up a sex scene or story. A guy and a girl fuck; she comes; he comes; the end. It’s the same in porn, but with the ‘she comes’ bit as more of an optional extra. Either way, male orgasm is the focus and, by implication, the point. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with thinking about sex in that way on an individual level. Girl on the Net has written brilliantly about how, for her, feeling (and hearing/seeing/tasting) her partner come often is the point of sex – to the extent that she’s faked orgasms in the past just to trigger his climax.

However, it can be problematic in a wider sense. It diminishes the significance and value of female pleasure, obviously, but it’s also kind of boring and reductive; it paints sex as something that can take many different roads to the same ultimate destination, rather than acknowledging that multiple end-points exist, and that the fun often lies in the journey itself. For whatever reason, some people still can’t get past the notion that sex finishes when the guy comes – and that if it doesn’t happen that way, it can’t have been any good.

I don’t need to come in order to enjoy sex. I don’t even need my partner to come – not every time – though I always feel a lot better about it (and about myself) when she does. Orgasm shouldn’t be seen as a validation of what you’ve just done: its relationship to sexual ability is not non-existent, but neither is it direct or easy to map. I’ve had crap sex with lazy, selfish lovers, and still managed to come hard at the end of it; likewise, I’ve had great sex with fun, filthy, talented partners, where our orgasms have been either incidental or completely absent. If necessary, I can always make myself come later, when we’ve gone our separate ways: what I can’t do on my own is feel someone’s lips on my skin, or their legs wrapped around my waist, or their tits pressed against my chest.

Going back to erotica, I understand the desire for closure. When we read, or write, or watch movies, or play sport, or whatever, most of us want to be able to identify a beginning and a clearly-defined end. We don’t like to leave things just hanging there, ambiguous and unsettled. I suppose I just don’t think sex has to be that way, and certainly not with a regular partner. Sex is something you can pick up, and put down, and play around with in any way you like. It’s fluid and flexible. It doesn’t always need to end with a bang.

London is a big city. A vast, chaotic, sprawling motherfucker of a city, in fact. The London Underground alone serves 270 stations, and to get from Hounslow, out in the suburbs near Heathrow, to Upminster, right over near the Essex border, will take you the best part of an hour and 40 minutes. On a good day. Central London to Bristol by train? An hour and 45. Central London to Lille (in France, for fuck’s sake)? An hour and 20.

Even within Zones 1-3, distance can make dating – and fucking – surprisingly complicated. You have to think about the last Tube across town, or how many night buses it’ll take to get from hers to yours, or whether you really want to go home with someone who chooses to live in Shoreditch. Sometimes, you need a practical alternative, and while the various public parks are appealing in Summer, they’re not always the best bet for a quickie with your Tinder date or the girl you just met on the bus.

No, as with so many problems in life, if you really need somewhere to fuck, and home isn’t an option, you’re best off heading straight for the pub. Whether it’s your spit’n’sawdust local, or the (s)wanky gastrobar outside your office, pubs not only offer the booze that fuels so many impulsive, devil-may-care shags, they also provide doors that lock shut and tissues for post-sex clean-up. In other words, they have toilets.

So how does that actually work? In my experience, the pub fuck doesn’t tend to involve a lot of planning. You’re in a pub, you’re both a bit pissed and super-horny, you grope each other in a corner for a bit, then you disappear into the loos for a quickie. Or maybe you’re out on the street, with no handy alleys or large dumpsters to provide cover, and the pub across the road looks like the warmer option anyway.

That’s all fine – and hey, spontaneity is great – but when the main rule of fucking in pubs is ‘don’t get arrested’, there are some simple principles you should probably bear in mind, in order to ensure that things go smoothly.

Should I look for a particular kind of pub/bar?

Yes. Yes you should. The best candidates will always fall into one of two categories: large and quiet, or small and busy.

Large pubs offer anonymity. Even when they’re practically deserted, you can rely on the staff being too busy clearing tables, washing dishes, stocking the bar and bitching about their manager to notice or care what you’re doing. Their toilets also tend to be further away from the main bar area, making it even less likely that you’ll be rumbled by a nosy employee (more on this later).

No, the only problem with large pubs is all the other bloody people they attract. If you’re aiming not to get caught, then a steady stream of fellow patrons going in and out of the toilets while you try to fuck can be slightly off-putting, and will also have a serious impact on your exit strategy. Best to visit establishments like that during the day, or on quiet nights of the week when there’s no football on the TV; in summer, large pubs with beer gardens are also a good bet, as most customers will be outside enjoying the good weather while you get down to business.

With smaller pubs and bars, it’s completely different. The staff will be more engaged, and will probably have worked there for much longer; they will know the regulars, and you’ll have to work hard to dodge their curiosity if you’re new to their domain. Hustle and bustle can only help with this. They’ll be busy pulling pints and fetching packets of crisps, and you can sneak off down a corridor that will inevitably smell of piss to wherever they’ve hidden the loos. Even on a Friday or Saturday night, if the place is small enough you shouldn’t have to worry too much about being disturbed, though your cubicle choice will be more limited than it would be in, say, the local Wetherspoons.

Beyond size, look for pubs where the toilets are on a different floor to the main bar: basements are ideal, especially when both Men’s and Women’s toilets are located at the bottom of the same flight of stairs. If everything is on the same level, try to make sure the toilets are out near the garden (handy for a quick escape), or even next to the entrance. You’re probably going to have to make your way there separately, so the further you are from the bar staff, the easier it will be to affect a casual, nonchalant manner as you stroll in after your partner.

Which toilets: Men’s or Women’s?

This will depend a bit on the sort of sex you’re having. If you’re two (or more) gentlemen, for example, I wouldn’t recommend bursting into the Ladies’ and going at it up against the tampon machine. As an opposite-sex couple, your options will occasionally be limited by geography (you may find that one toilet door can be seen from the bar and the other can’t) or modernity (yay for unisex!), but for the most part you’ll have to decide for yourselves which door to slip through.

How do you do that? Well, there are three elements you need to consider:

• The implications of getting caught. As a woman, getting caught in the Gents’ is embarrassing. As a man, being discovered in the Ladies’ is the sort of thing that could quickly lead to a criminal record; at the very least, you’re likely to scare the shit out of anyone who sees you there, so you’ll need to be extra careful.
• Men are pretty filthy at the best of times. Men who’ve drunk six pints of Fosters and eaten half a dodgy kebab from the van behind the pub car park are particularly filthy and, guess what, not very good at aiming. In the last 15 years I’ve been in some toilet cubicles that have made me want to scrub the inside of my nose with bleach afterwards, and even if you’re only after a quick shag, there really is a limit to what the libido can endure. Believe me.
• Especially in smaller, older London boozers, the Gents’ will often only have one cubicle. If you’re unlucky, you could find yourselves trapped in there together while the landlord stands outside with a copy of The Sun under his arm, waiting for the door to open. In the Ladies’, the cubicles are generally wider, cleaner, and (crucially) more numerous.

There’s no right answer here. I tend to make a beeline for the Ladies’, unless I’m in a pub where I know the Gents’ resemble something other than an open cesspit, but on this one you’ll just have to decide where your priorities lie.

Is it acceptable to nip into the Disabled?

This depends very much on the situation, and if you do it you’ll certainly need to exercise caution. If there’s a Disabled toilet, you’re probably in either a hotel bar or a large chain pub, and if there are lots of people around then it can be very tempting to go down that road. If you pull it off, you’ll probably be rewarded with a nice, wide sink unit, a rail next to the toilet, and plenty of space in which to spread out and play. However, just be aware that you’re giving yourselves absolutely no room for manoeuvre if someone else does come along; it’s also pretty selfish to occupy the Disabled loo if you’re perfectly capable of using less accessible options.

What’s the best way to, y’know, actually fuck?

Ok, so you’ve picked your locations, the coast is clear outside, and one of you has done a quick recce to check that none of the cubicles are occupied. What next? Here you have a few basic options, largely dependent on how far you want to incorporate the toilet itself.

If the idea of touching, sitting on, or being bent over the seat while you shag is a major turn-off, then you’ll probably want to use the cubicle door in some way instead: either for one of you to brace against as you’re fucked from behind, or as support for your back while your partner gets down on his/her knees and gives you oral.

If you’re a bit less fussy about where you plant your hands (or various other body parts), the loo seat opens up several other possibilities, especially if there are three of you in there. Either way, toilet sex is best done doggy-style, and if you’re into anal, there’s something deliciously filthy about taking someone hard up the arse in a dingy basement cubicle, especially if you walk off and leave them like that when you’re done: sweaty and trembling, with cheeks marked by stinging red welts from your hand and sticky, viscous pools of cum.

Mm.

How do we leave the toilets without being caught?

This one’s pretty straightforward, but it’s also really important that you get it right. If you’re an opposite-sex couple in the Gents’, the man leaves first, while the woman waits in the cubicle. He pauses at the door to the toilets, scans the room or corridor outside, and gives his partner the nod if the coast is clear. He then stands guard outside the door while she hurries out, in case someone appears in the time it takes her to cross the room. If you’re in the Ladies’, those roles get reversed. The key is to make sure that you’re not both out in the wash area at the same time; until one of you has checked that it’s safe to leave, the other should remain behind the cubicle door, safely hidden.

Great, now I know how to fuck in a pub: where should I go for a trial run?

Reader, I’m glad you asked. Sex in a pub toilet should be quick, hot, hard, and in most cases quiet, and should leave you with matching goofy grins for hours afterwards – or at least until you’ve gone back and finished your pints. I’ve fucked in various pubs and bars over the years, some in London, some much further afield, so it only feels right to share some of the knowledge I’ve built up. This is by no means a definitive list, but each of the establishments listed below* should offer the horny couple-about-town a relatively risk-free fuck. You’re welcome…

1. B*r S*ho (basement toilets; busy bar staff; seedy vibe)
2. The V*nt*y (basement toilets with staircases at either end of the building; cavernous and generally empty; pretty clean)
3. Pr*nce of W*l*s F**th*rs (toilets two floors above the main bar; drinking lounge on level between bar and toilets)
4. The D*ck*ns (basement toilets; next to Paddington, so high customer turnover)
5. W*ne Wh*rf (decent-sized cubicles; toilets on the top level, not visible from the bar)

(And please, please don’t tell them I sent you.)

* If you’re after a less traditional location, I can also recommend the Paramount’s Viewing Gallery bar on the 33^rd floor of the Centre Point building. Not ideal for toilet sex, and always busy at night, but perfect during the daytime for a spectacular blowjob with equally spectacular views.)

Earlier this week I had a couple of pints with an old colleague, who also now works in London. I probably see him every six months or so, either in the pub for a catch-up, or at someone’s birthday drinks/engagement party/networking event/etc. He’s a lovely man: my age, bright, creative, sharp, sporty, and enviably fresh-faced. He’s also extremely well-hung.

By and large, I manage to avoid thinking about that last bit whenever we get together. However, from time-to-time – and usually after a few drinks – I find myself losing focus on the conversation and thinking back to our weekly squash games, at the slightly dingy sports centre on the outskirts of Oxford. To the way his cock would bounce and press against the fabric of his shorts, as if there wasn’t really enough room in there for it to sit comfortably. And most of all, I think back to the cramped, stuffy changing room afterwards, where we’d both strip off our sweaty gym kit and stand opposite each other in the communal showers.

—

For years, I didn’t enjoy showering with other guys. Or rather, it made me very uncomfortable. I was a small kid, and stayed that way till I was almost 16. After school PE lessons, and certainly after hockey matches with the local men’s club, I would usually just spray myself with deodorant, splash water on my hair, and towel down without bothering to remove my boxers. I’d always leave my stuff in the corner of the changing room, and quietly slip back into my clothes as quickly as possible; I didn’t want people to notice me, because if they didn’t notice me, they couldn’t make fun of my lack of body hair, or my skinny arms and legs, or my small, circumcised penis.

Over time, that changed. I grew up, filled out, and became more confident in my body. I also got away from the jeering, towel-whipping terror that was the school showers, and started to play more sport with actual grown-ups. Men who just went about their business after a game of hockey or a session at the gym. Men who walked around naked as if it was the most natural thing in the world, and chatted to each other in the shower without blushing. Slowly, I became one of those men. I stopped putting my boxers back on under a towel. I didn’t hide any more. I actually prioritised getting clean after sport over getting into my clothes as quickly as possible.

Organised sport has many health benefits – physical and mental – and it’s something about which I think I’ll always be passionate. It’s only in the last few years though that I’ve realised what a positive effect it had on my body confidence; and how badly served young women are in that respect. Participation rates in organised sport – especially post-high school – are skewed dramatically in favour of men, and although I only have anecdotal evidence to back this up, I think that contributes to the greater discomfort that a lot of women have about being naked in front of each other. Sport breaks down barriers between people – in the clubs I’ve been a part of, at least – and it can also help erode a lot of the damage done to self-image by media nonsense, social conservatism, and institutional sexism.*

—

Anyway, back to my friend. He wasn’t ripped or anything – like me, he’s a sportsman, not a gym bunny – but he had a flat stomach and strong thighs, and oh, that cock. That long, thick, beautiful cock. I would try not to look; not very hard, admittedly, but I would try. And then he’d close his eyes and lean back to run his fingers through his hair, pushing his hips out towards me. Or he’d casually wrap one soaped-up hand around the shaft – leaving at least half of his length still uncovered – and clean it with short, quick strokes, till foamy water streamed down off the head. I don’t think I ever actually drooled at the sight of that, but I definitely came close.

The best – or worst – moments came when his cock would start to stiffen in his hand. I never saw him fully hard, but once or twice he got close enough to make it fairly obvious exactly how much he was packing. On those occasions, I left the sports centre on slightly trembly legs, and not as a result of the squash game. We used to catch the bus back into town together, then part ways halfway down Little Clarendon Street. I’d wander back towards my flat, in need of another (cold) shower, and he’d make the short walk over to the house he shared with his boyfriend, Tom. Nice guy, Tom. Apparently at university they called him The Tripod. Sadly he never joined us for a game…

—

*Maybe I’ll get hammered for that last point, and if anyone does disagree strongly, I’d love to hear from them. Sport probably can’t help everyone in that respect, but it helped me a lot.