Category: Sex

A few weeks ago, I started a new series of posts, documenting some of the one-night stands I’ve had over the years. To read the background (and vol. 1), click here.

Lily

Confession: I knew sex was on the table from your very first DM:

“Upon hearing whispers of your notorious reputation I did think you were a bit of a dick for a while, but I’m starting to warm to you now. Keep up the good work…x”

I don’t have a sixth sense for these things, exactly, but time and experience teach you any number of valuable lessons, especially when it comes to fucking. Something in your tone – direct and just a little provocative – immediately grabbed my attention. It’s not the way most people introduce themselves to total strangers, even on the Internet. What were you warming to, I wondered, but didn’t ask.

A few weeks ago, the lovely people at Satisfyer emailed me to ask whether I’d like to test and review their new penis toy, ‘Satisfyer Men’. Liv and I already own several of their clitoral vibes, and I’ve seen first-hand how effective they can be, so I replied immediately to accept their generous offer.

Fast-forward to last night, when we arrived home to find a large box waiting for us in the hallway outside our flat. Bit excessive for one toy, I thought – and a bit heavy too, once I lifted it up to take inside.

It was only when we opened the box that I discovered the extent of Satisfyer’s generosity. They’d sent me not one, not two, not three…this could take a while…not 10, but 11 (ELEVEN) sex toys from across their range! The stack of mini-boxes came with a short note:

“This parcel contains our brand new Satisfyer Family products. Please feel free to use your samples to share the fun with your friends, or as a giveaway for your followers.”

So that’s exactly what I’m going to do.

Last week I posed the following question on Twitter:

“If you asked all your current and former sexual partners what the best things about fucking you are, what do you think they’d say?”

I got so many interesting responses that I’m going to work them up into a blog post at some point very soon. Before that though, I want to share a wonderfully detailed answer I received from someone who wishes to be known only as The Anonymous Linguist…for reasons that will rapidly become clear…

“They’d say I’m unequivocally excellent at blow jobs, and this I put down to French A Level and 100% enthusiasm in how brilliant penises are.”

Let’s say I spent ten years utterly terrified by penises, which I did. I didn’t become a cock-hungry slut until my late twenties, and I couldn’t tell you how or why, only that it felt like all of a sudden I craved it like nothing else.

It was as if I had only now begun to value my tongue and mouth. I had used them only for talking, singing, eating and brief kisses for so long, it was a revelation that they wished to pursue pleasure on a grander yet far more intimate scale.

All at once I became aware of my pink, flexible tongue – its particular skill in navigating foreign languages – and I remembered something that happened almost a decade before.

I loved languages at school. A painfully saved-for family holiday to France when I was six had instilled in me the beauty of foreign tongues, and maybe just a little of the self-importance that comes with being multilingual. Unfortunately due to crippling shyness, I would stubbornly refuse to speak any of these languages I excelled at as soon as we arrived at Calais. My parents despaired, but I continued with French (GCSE A*), adding German (GCSE A) before ultimately sticking with the devil I knew and only keeping French when I started my A levels (I regret this now, but at the time the idea of being the only person taking German A level was horrifying).

Nevertheless, it was still a shock when I was told I’d be getting the foreign languages award at school prize-giving.

Due to the start dates of my first university term I was already in the wilds of Yorkshire when the ceremony took place, but I am assured that when my award was announced, my French mistress took to the podium to wax lyrical on my ‘excellent oral skills’.

All through my penis fear those words stuck with me. I have oral skills. I nearly took Dutch as my first elective but chickened out to the safety of an arts based module. I liked the way my tongue moved when I tried to manipulate my awkward eighteen year old self into continental sexiness, breathing French phrases to my suitably impressed boyfriend at the time.

Once, on a social media platform long-since relegated to the graveyard of teenage fancy, a stranger told me I had a beautiful mouth. At the moment we are experiencing the longest fucking winter on record so my pout is dry and a little lacklustre, but my lips are full and a muddy pink, with two rows of even, attractive teeth between. These days I draw attention to my beautiful mouth, delicately flicking out my tongue and tracing the outer edges with my finger ‘absent mindedly’.

When I suck cock I remember my French lessons, German lessons. I repeat the alphabet in exaggerated motions over my lover’s erection, which is beautiful, a work of art. Incredulous I ever thought they were universal implements of torture. How is the skin so soft and malleable yet the flesh beneath hardens at my touch, as though I’m willing it into existence. I never feel so powerful as when I’m knelt before him, tasked with his release.

So now, I adore cock. I feel as though provision of oral sex may be the most important task my beautiful mouth was created for.

Even now as I write, I realise my mouth is open, in that cute yet slightly awkward way, my tongue folding and flickering over itself, thinking about how I could be spending my morning were I not alone today. Aware of my lithe, wicked tongue and all the ways I would employ it to make you shudder and gasp.

I went to a great session (one of many) at Eroticon last Sunday, run by queer anthropologist Jamie Lawson. At one point he flashed up on screen this thought-provoking question, which I quickly tweeted out to my followers.

The answers were really interesting, and got me thinking about my own history with one-night stands. A couple of days later, I dug out my sex spreadsheet and ticked off the partners I’d only seen once – 28% of the total, which in my case adds up to a fair few people.

I started to make a few notes about one of them and it turned into the post below. I enjoyed writing it so much that I quickly decided this was something I didn’t want to end up as a one-off – that the appropriate way to do justice to those brief encounters was to capture here as many as I can remember in sufficient detail.

I got my first mobile phone when I was 22 – and not by choice. I spent the last few months of my gap year between Oxford and Durham running the summer social programme at a language school; among other things, my role involved coordinating day trips, leading activities around Oxford, and contacting host families, so it was no surprise when my boss insisted on giving me a Samsung flip-phone to use for all official business.

Of course this was mid-2003 – as far as I was concerned, there wasn’t much else I could use it for. Twitter and Facebook didn’t exist, nor did mobile Email, IM functionality, live video streaming, and all the other apps we now take for granted. Web browsing was much quicker on an actual PC, my car stereo and bedroom HiFi played all the music I needed, and if I wanted to take a photo, I just used my camera. My new toy meant that I could text my friends, rather than calling them from a landline, but in those first few weeks, that was about the limit of its value.

And then I met someone.

I’ve been sleeping naked for over 22 years. I know it’s been that long because until the age of 14, I wore pyjamas – and never once considered that there might be an alternative. It was only in the summer of 1995, when I belatedly discovered masturbation – and by extension, my own body – that going to bed at night without exchanging one set of clothes for another began to seem not just appealing but essential.

It’s no coincidence that the two developments occurred in parallel. I sleep naked these days out of habit and because, ultimately, it’s more comfortable, but there’s always been a sexual aspect to it as well, which I guess is why I’m writing about it here. Right from the start, on those sticky, sweaty, school holiday nights, I’d lie face-down and grind my cock against the cool bedsheet, seeking relief from both the nocturnal heat and my own raging hormones. Or I’d grip the duvet between my thighs and squeeze tight, till I could feel myself throb with a desire that I was still only just beginning to understand.