Category: Sex

I am not, by nature, an angry person. I can be impatient and crabby and cutting, and all those other words that basically mean ‘a bit of a prick’, but I think I’m too much of a control freak – especially where my emotions are concerned – to succumb to the sort of unfettered rage that seems to consume some people on a regular basis.

However, some days are just so shitty that even though I’m tense and frustrated more than boiling mad, angry sex is the only thing that feels like it would help. Angry sex takes two different forms: there’s the kind where your (probably mutual) anger is directed at the other person, and most of us know how unbearably hot that can be; but there’s also the sort of cathartic, cleansing sex you have when something unrelated to your partner has properly fucked you off. That’s the kind which essentially acts as an alternative to punching a wall or, worse, another person, and it’s the kind I need right now.

What does it involve? Well, in my case it brings out whatever intermittent dominant streak I have. I got changed out of my suit a few minutes ago, and when I slid my belt out through its loops I had a sudden urge to curl it around my hand and give someone a fairly energetic beating. Or, better still, to offer her the prospect of that beating while getting her to crawl over to me on all fours and suck my cock, arse in the air, ready and eager to be turned various shades of scarlet.

When I flung my shirt in the general direction of the laundry bag, I thought about ripping someone’s top up over her shoulders, and roughly squeezing her tits. I’d just pull her bra down, rather than off, and make her wait like that, exposed, desperate to be touched more, lower, harder. I’d want her to be wearing make-up that I could ruin, leaving her lipstick smeared around her mouth and her mascara smudged. I’d make sure that when she left a couple of hours later, there were sooty prints all over the room from it, evidence of where she’d been shoved against a wall, or restrained on all fours with her face pressed into the pillow.

I’m getting more worked-up just typing this, and thinking about the noise that kind of sex makes. The grunts and the moans, and the little sighs of pain or pleasure, yes, but it’s more than that. It’s the smacks and slaps of every description, from the palm of my hand or the leather of my belt on soft, tender skin, to the way our bodies collide forcibly each time she pushes back to meet my urgent, desperate thrusts. Sometimes I’m very quiet during sex, but when I’m feeling angry and aggressive I want to talk, as if channelling that rage into a steady stream of filth will help flush it out of my system more quickly. It’s not the kind of dominance where I want to tease or train my partner; less the dominance of denial than it is the desire to fuck someone into whimpering, mewling submission.

Generally, I’m not a fan of degradation or humiliation, but this is probably as close as I get. There’s still a connection with my partner, but I want it to be clear that her pleasure is entirely at my discretion; it exists as something for me to trigger if I please, but basically the main priority is fucking her so hard that her legs will shake as she walks home afterwards, counting her bruises…

…because that’s what I need. That rough, sweaty, exhausting fuck, which leaves my mind clear and calm. Her role is to respond to my demands, take what I give her, and make sure I’m satisfied at the end of it.

The reason why I’m writing about that kind of sex tonight rather than having it is that you can’t do it with just anyone. It requires trust, and a certain level of intimacy; it’s sex you have with someone you know and like, rather than sex with someone you bring home from a club. Like any D/S activity, you have to be careful to place any aggression or force within a clearly-understood and agreed context – both of you have to know that while you’re not ‘playing’, neither are you actually behaving in a violent way towards the other person. There are limits and boundaries that you both understand and respect.

This evening, I will take out my anger on a good steak and a bottle of red wine, albeit after pacing furiously along the streets of Islington for half an hour. The other thing though – the other thing is fun to think about, at least…

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.

‘I am both narcissistic and self-involved. Fortunately, I am also entertaining.’*

I had my first kiss at the age of 18, underneath a weeping willow after an afternoon screening of The Thomas Crown Affair. Laura was also my first girlfriend, the first woman I shared a bed with, and the first person to break my heart. These days she lives with her husband and two beautiful children in a small town near Munich: I visit regularly.

I’ve written before about losing my virginity. The woman who ‘took’ it, Katy, is now (of all things) an Anglican Minister, happily married for the last nine years to the other guy she was dating when I met her. After Katy came Julia, who I loved intensely, and who left me after 12 wonderful months for a wry, worldly Scotsman. At the time, I wanted to murder him; now I ‘like’ their holiday photos on Facebook.

I’m 33, and for the first time in 8-10 years I haven’t been to a wedding this summer: everyone’s already married. My Facebook timeline has been turned into a baby beauty pageant, as my friends compete to see whose offspring is most photogenic. My younger sister has married and divorced one man, and is about to buy an apartment with another. At a recent work dinner for people in my department, I was the only one who showed up without a partner. I am not the only single man in London, but sometimes it sure feels like it.

Why is this? Why am I single? Because I suck at relationships.

I’m good at a lot of things. I’m good at flipping beermats, scrambling eggs and playing pool. I’m good at squash, Scrabble and speaking in public. I’m annoyingly good at spelling, endearingly good at making small children laugh, and exceptionally good at choosing (and drinking) wine. I’ve been told I’m pretty good in bed too…

It’s not very British of me, but I don’t think there’s anything wrong with recognising and talking about your strengths…as long as you’re also willing and able to do the same with your weaknesses. For example, I can’t paint or draw to save my life. I can’t change a tyre, or fix a boiler, or put up shelves. I’m terrible at downing shots, and even worse with pints. I’m standoffish around people I don’t know, and frequently tactless or rude with those I do, especially when drunk.

And I suck at relationships.

If that sounds like false modesty, let me tell you now: it’s not. I suppose I was good at them once, but my last few serious relationships have been car crashes of one kind or another, and for that I have no-one but myself to blame. Why? Well…

Fundamentally, I’m a pretty selfish person. Or rather, I’m selectively unselfish, which in some ways is the most selfish position of all. I have a social conscience, I’m a good listener, and I care about people; but I don’t let them get close to me very easily, and I’m quick to put up barriers when I want to focus on my own shit, even if someone else really needs me. I compartmentalise. I can spend two hours talking to someone on the phone, then barely give them a second thought for the next three days.

It all means that as good as I am at physical intimacy, that’s how poor I can be at the emotional side of things, especially in the sort of relationship where communication, openness and dependability are supposed to make up the glue that binds you together. When I was 17, my history teacher told me that I was one of the most gifted students he’d ever taught, but also perhaps the most frustrating.

“Your problem, boy, is that you’re lazy. There’s genius in your work, but it’s not consistent, reliable genius, and that will be what holds you back in the end. You won’t always be able just to pull something out of the bag when you need it, and one day you’ll find yourself failing as a result.”

He was a remarkably perceptive man, that Mr McCullagh. I never did get my academic comeuppance, but his analysis could equally apply to how I approach relationships. It’s not that I’m lazy, but I certainly disengage, and in the past I’ve been guilty of acting as if the odd grand gesture here and there can paper over the cracks left by neglect or lack of consideration.

“Being with you was never dull”, one ex told me, as she gathered up the last of her stuff from my apartment. It wasn’t meant as a compliment. There’s genius in my work, yes, but it’s not consistent, reliable genius, and I am not a consistent, reliable boyfriend.

Then there’s the cheating. I’ve been in five ‘serious’ relationships, and I’ve cheated on my partner in three of them. Two of those were long-distance, but while that sort of mitigates the offence, it doesn’t in any way excuse it. I cheated because I was bored, or because I was angry, or because my self-esteem was low and I knew that sleeping with someone would give it a boost; but mainly I cheated because I could – and because I could get away with it. Sometimes I’d feel guilty about it, but often I wouldn’t, especially in the last couple of relationships; not that I felt any better on those occasions, because when the act itself failed to induce a sense of shame, I’d just feel guilty about my lack of guilt instead.

These days though, I think of the cheating more as symptom than cause. I didn’t suck at relationships because I cheated; I cheated because I sucked at relationships – and because I knew it. That awareness is the main reason why I’m single at the moment. Being single is easy. There are still people I can fail, or let down, or disappoint, but when it comes to love and sex, the only person I’m really accountable to is myself.

I’m not going to pretend that’s an admirable position, or even a particularly desirable one. It has obvious upsides, of course. It means I can see a couple of people on a regular basis, but it also means I can go to Eroticon and hook up with someone in the hotel toilets. It means I can fly across an ocean for a dirty weekend with a woman I’ve never met. It means I can go on dates with Guardian journalists and BBC presenters and award-winning authors (especially when they all happen to be the same person). It means freedom, and adventure, and excitement, and all that good shit, but it also means a nagging sense of failure, inadequacy and emptiness. Relationships aren’t meant to be easy, but they are meant to be something to which we can all commit with a minimal amount of drama or fuss. To admit that I can’t – or that I won’t – is to lay the selfish, dysfunctional side of me out there for the world to see.

My lack of success with relationships is one of the reasons why I write about sex. Sex is easy and I’m good at it. I’m in my comfort zone, and while that doesn’t mean I don’t still have hang-ups and worries, I can largely focus on all the positive stuff, rather than being dragged down by the demons swirling around my feet. It’s also why I admire the people who can write about sex, and sexuality, and love, while also maintaining happy, well-rounded relationships with their partner or partners. In Olympic diving, competitors are scored on the difficulty of the dive, as well as the execution: some of the blogs I read are pulling off inward 4½ somersaults with pike, while my writing more closely resembles a running bomb into the deep end of the local council pool. It’s still effective, but I’m not exactly pushing myself with my choice of subject matter.

When I was 18, and I kissed Laura under that willow tree, I wanted to get married, have kids, and live happily ever after. Part of me still wants that. Yes, I’m single by choice, but that choice is informed by the knowledge that right now I’m not the best person I can be, especially when it comes to relationships. One day that will change, I’m sure.

For now, I will continue to sit on my island and nibble on the low-hanging blogging fruit. Whether or not it’s good for me, it tastes delicious.

—

*Quotation stolen from a brilliant friend of mine. Thanks, brilliant friend!

So tonight I did the ZSL ‘Streak for Tigers’ run, and it was…well, it was surprisingly sweet. I rocked up late (damn you, stupid meeting!) and without mobile battery (damn you, stupid phone!), so I already felt pretty naked, even with my work suit still on.

It didn’t help that I had to walk through a sizeable crowd of my fellow streakers in order to reach the registration desk. They milled around in their masks, and their foil blankets, and their body paint – but most of all, they milled around stark (bollock) naked, and happy with it, while I sweated and apologised my way between them.

I got undressed upstairs in the pavilion, quickly and with more apprehension than I’d anticipated. Did I then nip to the loos and have a few stern words with my cock, to make sure it understood its responsibilities? I couldn’t possibly say.

I’ve run marathons, and half marathons, and fun runs of various lengths, and they all follow the same initial formula: get changed, stuff your kit into a drawstring bag, hand it in to a cheery young attendant, pace nervously around a designated warm-up area…and tonight was no different. The changing area was suitably soulless and the structural integrity of the drawstring bags did not inspire confidence, but the ZSL staff members were incredibly professional, friendly and non-judgemental; they made me and (I suspect) a lot of other people feel more welcome and less absurd than they might have done.

The same was true of my fellow runners. In fact, between the free shots, the gingerbread cookies, the music and the camera phones, the mood was pretty demob-happy by the time I wandered back down and joined the throng. And that’s when it hit me…

Go into a pub. Go into a bar. Go into a posh members-only restaurant, or a working-men’s club. Go into a leisure centre or a private gym. A supermarket, a department store. A hairdresser’s. A bookie’s. Your local chippy.

Go into all those places, and you won’t find as diverse a group of people as I found today. Old, middle-aged, young; tall, short; skinny, athletic, average, chubby, fat; able-bodied, disabled; male, female. Different classes, different ethnicities, and everywhere I looked, just a tremendous amount of goodwill. Nudity is a great equalizer, but in a more relaxed and less juvenile way than a lot of people assume, which is why I quickly realised that I was among friends.

By the time they ushered us down to the start line, and encouraged us to get rid of our foil blankets, I was completely at ease. People were taking photos on their phones, dancing around arm-in-arm, laughing and joking: it was as if we’d all forgotten that we were naked, and just wanted to get out there and run.

The ‘course’ was 350m long. I did four laps. Some people did more – a lot more. I spoke to one chap, midway through my third circuit, who had done 12 laps the year before, and when I looked down on the zoo afterwards from the balcony, fully clothed, I saw him still trotting around, waving at what was left of the crowd.

In our registration packs, we were sent tiger masks and told that it was fine to wear them, but of the 150-200 runners, I’d say that fewer than half decided to exercise that option – I certainly didn’t. Instead, once the curtain opened, we just ran: ran, and walked, and chatted, as we might have done in another park, on another summer’s day, in running shorts and vest.

Because in the end, that’s how absurd our attitude to nudity can be. We allow small patches of material – a bikini, a pair of boxers – to dictate how we feel about the human body, and to assuage our shame about seeing…or being seen. Sure, it’s context-dependent – what’s appropriate in a members’ gym might not be in a school changing room – but it’s also more universal than most people are willing to acknowledge, and tonight reminded me of that. From an early age, we’re taught that nudity is bad, and I would love, LOVE for that to change.

Tonight I walked, and ran, and smiled my way around London Zoo for, ooh, about ten minutes, and I’d have happily spent another two hours just hanging out, chatting to my fellow streakers. I wish we could have had a few beers together while naked, or gone to see the tiger cubs without getting dressed first.

We did get dressed though, and most of us did it with adrenaline still pumping through our bodies. I was surprised at first by how many people I met who took part in the same event last year; by the time I left the Zoo, I was already looking forward to my next naked visit. I hope to see a bunch of you there next time too.

At various points over the last few days, I’ve sat down at my laptop with the intention of finishing a story, only to get distracted by all the other shiny things the internet has to offer. And porn, obvs. Anyway, while I may be struggling for focus, I’m certainly not short of ideas, mental images, and general erotic inspiration right now. These are some of the things I’ve been thinking about in the last 24 hours:

• Why I’d never tried whipping someone with the belt from my suit trousers before, and when I might be able to do it again. What else I might use to turn her arse bright red. Setting her a task that I know – and she knows – she’ll fail, and punishing her for it. Because apparently I do have an inner sadist after all.
• The growing appeal of an MFF threesome, especially if it involves being tied up, blindfolded, and forced to guess who’s doing what to me. Tasting them both. The exhaustion afterwards.
• Threesomes in general. Logistics, positions, power exchange. The little details: the noises, the way they’d look at each other, and the way they’d look at me. That moment when I feel the head of his cock push inside me for the first time.
• Squalid, public fucking. Fucking behind the dumpster in the alleyway outside the pub. Fucking in the toilets – any toilets, as long as they smell of piss and the tiles are stained and broken. Fucking somewhere I shouldn’t, because it’s bad and wrong and dirty, and so so good.
• The Marketing Manager at work, with her big eyes, big tits, and cut-glass voice. The soft-spoken cashier at Sainsbury’s the other night. The woman I sat opposite on the tube this morning. Women I’ve fucked. Women I’m fucking. Women – and men – I want to fuck. People I shouldn’t be thinking about…
• Pressing her up against the hotel window, naked, with her tits on display to the workmen taking a break in the street below. How it made her feel. How wet she was when I pushed her down on the bed and forced her legs apart.
• The look of surprise and delight – and hunger – that has always spread across a partner’s face the first time she’s tightened the strap-on harness around her waist and looked down at the cock between her legs. The eagerness with which they’ve all fucked me. How silly it is that my own grunts and moans turn me on, when my face is pressed down into the pillow.
• Being naked, and being watched. A life drawing class. On stage, in a play. At a party, forced to touch myself for the amusement of the guests. They’re a bit older, female, fully-clothed. Some of them want to fuck me – I can see it in the way their eyes wander over my body – and I know I’ll be passed around between them in the weeks to come.
• The squeeze of her cunt around my cock when she’s just about to come. Pushing it in slowly: she’s so fucking tight and she thinks I’m teasing her, thinks I’m being cruel, but really I’m just greedy for her heat and her wetness, gliding over my skin. I don’t want to miss that. There’ll be plenty of time later for hard and rough, I promise.
• Because sometimes that’s the best bit. I think about kissing a lot.

Part of me wishes I could channel some of that into stories, and blog posts, and all the rest of it. At some point this week, I’m sure I will. Hopefully it will be worth the wait…