Category: Sex

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.

It’s 7am and the campsite is starting to wake up around me. My festival buddy has already left for an early morning yoga class, so I’m snuggled up against the side of the tent, warm in my sleeping bag despite the buffeting wind and pitter-patter of raindrops on the canvas above.

Honestly, I’m in no hurry to move. I could hover like this, somewhere between sleep and full consciousness, for hours, and this morning’s weather forecast is bad enough to make me burrow down further into my bedding every time I think about it.

I’m not the only one enjoying a lie-in. It takes a few minutes, but gradually I pick out a very familiar rhythm from the general swirl of noise surrounding my tent – at which point it becomes all I can hear. They become all I can hear. Neither muffled nor self-conscious, each moan and hard, staccato thrust cuts right through the wind and rain. There’s a pop to it – like highlighted text, it jumps right off the page.

It’s 6am and sunlight is streaming in through the window that will soon be covered by curtains I’ll help to hang. My mouth is dry, my skull feels like it’s being prised open from the inside, and looking down at me with her fingers curled around my hard cock is the woman who’s spent the last three months finding creative ways to turn every working day into a living hell. The woman who holds not just my dick, but my future at this small management consultancy in her pale, freckled hands.

What do I do? What do you think I do? I pull her up till she’s straddling my face, and I start to lick…

—

Three hours later, I slink into the office in yesterday’s clothes and make a beeline for the kettle. In my head I’m already composing the email I’ll send Emma once my hangover has worn off and I’m capable of staring at the screen for long enough to type it.

“I’m sorry,” I’ll say. “That was a mistake. I’m so embarrassed. We should probably forget the whole thing.”

I thought about it again yesterday afternoon – about fucking another woman while you watch. I don’t know what put it back in my head, but once it was there I couldn’t get it out. Even as the sweat-soaked shirt clung to my back, and my thighs squeezed with a weird mix of agitation and arousal, any sense of self-preservation resolutely refused to kick in.

Perhaps it’s the novelty. This is a new fantasy for me, after all. The MFF vault in my mental wank bank has always been pretty empty, and on the rare occasions I do think about sex with two women, they’re usually the ones in charge. They’re teasing and conspiratorial. Maybe even a little cruel. Not you though.

With you it would be different, in a way I find almost shockingly exciting. I want you to have zero control over what happens in front of you – this isn’t about fucking someone together (though trust me, we’ll get round to that…). I know that’s the way you want it too, but more to the point I trust you to tell me what you don’t want – the things that would spoil it for you, or turn cunt-clenching, stomach-churning lust into corrosive jealousy.

I briefly found myself in a Twitter conversation yesterday about sending nudes – and specifically, about sending them before you’ve actually been on a date with someone (or, by extension, been to bed with them). Unsurprisingly, my position on this is pretty relaxed: do it if you both want to do it, don’t do it if you don’t, and at all times make sure you’re not pushing onto the other person something they’d rather not see.

Not everyone holds that view, of course, and that’s absolutely fine. Plenty of the reasons people have for not doing it make perfect sense, whether they involve a reluctance to sexualise something too early, concern about privacy/security, or simply a lack of interest in looking at that kind of image. However, there’s one argument against sharing naked photos that’s always bothered me, and I’d never really stopped to think why until it got rolled out again yesterday.

Mystery.